A few words of thanks . . .

I've been having a really tough time with my writing.

I thought writing the second Whimsey would be a snap.

oh ho ho, have I ever been dealt a reality check.

Easy?  Pffft.

No.

far from it.

And then I had a little conversation with a friend who said she had moved to a different project because she was having a difficult time writing the sequel to her first novel.  I replied that I was having the same issues and for the very first time admitted I was worried I wouldn't be able to maintain the same level of magic I had for Whimsey #1 (as it's come to be called here at home).

And it's actually the first time I've admitted it to myself.

Because, honestly, I didn't even realize I was fighting with those feelings.

An honest chat with a trusted friend is priceless, isn't it?

Once admitted, and shared, another friend popped in to tell me that what I was feeling was normal to probably everyone writing their second novel. 

I cannot begin to explain how liberating all this has been. 

I feel like the walls around my writing have been knocked to the ground.  And yesterday was the first truly decent day of writing I've had since starting Whimsey #2.

HUGE thanks (along with a lot of hugs!) to my friends Dee Phelps (whose first novel will be released in September) and Beth Anderson (a deliciously grand writer of long standing).  You gave me what I needed when I didn't even know I needed it. 

And then - wow - then this lovely review pops up at amazon from  Elaine Drennon Little (who, I hear, has her own book out.  Just released - "A Southern Place.") - - -  

"Whimsey--Harper Collins /Webster's Dictionary defines it as " a sudden passing fancy." In Whimsey, a novel by Kaye Wilkinson Barley, it refers to a mystical island off the coast of the Carolinas, serving as a nirvana-like home for artists and artisans of the visual, spiritual, and creative arts. My first question, as I began to devour this lovely piece of southern Americana, was of course "does such a place exist?" I wanted to go there, to mingle among the natives, absorb their culture, and then hopefully become one with this magical pseudo-family of the gifted and talented.

I've read about many artists colonies; I've even applied and been rejected from a few, but this one seemed altogether different from the rest. On the positive side, the residents all spoke my language--a sweet, dipthonged drawl served best with sweet tea, shrimp salad sandwiches and desserts that made me drool as I read. They also welcomed stronger drink--from mimosas and mint juleps to wine, bourbon, and punch bowls full of happy liquids that invite all to share the laughter.

On the downside, there were fairies, pixies, spirits of "the other kind" and regular, normal people (who could converse with fairies and shed an effervescent glittery substance wherever they went!) There were also a few family ghosts who favored verandas and porches and told a decent story, when prompted to do so.

Aside from Dickens's A Christmas Carol and a few isolated Stephen King books, I don't naturally cotton to speaking with the dead or with non-human entities, yet I couldn't seem to put this book down. Barley makes these mystical creatures as easy to converse with as my cat on a cold night. The only thing I DIDN'T like was that I can't visit this place--the author was simply too greedy to share the isle of Whimsey's whereabouts, email, or dot com address.

She does, however, share several authentically scrumptious-looking recipes for southern and low country food.

Don't let the ghosts and pixies scare you away. If you're in need of a short vacation for talented, mystical artists like yourself, whisk yourself away to the magic of Whimsey. If we can't really GO there, at least we can pretend... "
 
Thank You, Elaine!

Friends.  I cannot imagine my life without my friends. 

And now I have a whole new group of people who I feel as though I need to include in this group.  And those are people like Elaine who I've never met and don't know other than through this lovely review she wrote after somehow hearing about WHIMSEY: A NOVEL.  And taking a chance on it, and surprisingly enough, enjoying it enough to take the time to review it. 

The reviews for Whimsey have knocked me off my feet.  I never expected to read such lovely words from people I don't know.  I thought Whimsey would get bought and read by friends and family and I hoped they would enjoy it enough to help spread the word.  What I've gotten is magic in the purest sense.  I'm humbled and grateful and totally gobsmacked. 

and all I have to give back are simple words -

Thank you.

but they come from so deep . . . oh, my - so deep.

Denalidawg to the Rescue by Beth Anderson

Beth Anderson is the author of seven novels; Harlequin Superromance--Count On Me, followed by a mainstream mystery at Dorchester titled Diamonds, then All That Glitters at Ballantine/Ivy, three more mainstream mysteries at Amber Quill Press: Second Generation, Murder Online and Night Sounds. Last (so far) another mainstream mystery, Raven Talks Back from Krill Press in June 2012. Beth recently moved to the upper northwest (Washington state) where she is currently unpacking AND mulling over a new mainstream novel, this time taking place in a wine dynasty in Washington state where she quite enjoys her research. She swears she's writing another mainstream murder mystery, but she keeps laughing at her characters who are appearing one by one, peeking around and through the grapevines and smiling at her, so we'll see who they really are. The photo is of Beth and her son in law, Chris Cary, at a winemakers' dinner party. It's all research, folks. Honest. It is. ;-) 



DENALIDAWG TO THE RESCUE

by Beth Anderson

We all hear stories about animals being rescued. This time, one animal went way past the extra mile for another animal of a different species.

This all happened at my youngest daughter’s home in Las Vegas while she was entertaining visitors, one of whom happened to be our family dog, Denalidawg. Side note: I added the dawg to his original name, Denali, partly because it seemed to fit him so well, being the laid back good ol’ southern boy he always appeared to be, and partly because, let’s face it, I see the funny or quirky side of just about everything. Anyhow, a bowl of his favorite kibbles, clean water, pats and hugs and kisses galore from every available human in the area, and he’s good to go. He a bit slower now, though, since this happened years ago.

A little background.  My daughter and her two daughters rescued Denali from a kennel in southern Illinois where they were about to do the unspeakable until, looking for a dog to replace their old one who had died a while back, one of the girls said to this new dog, who was sniffing around and looking lost, “If you’re going to come home with us, you’d better say so.”  Denali, never one to miss a trick (or a meal) walked over to her and put his paws up on her shoulders and gave her several very wet kisses. Of course that was all it took. Denali had his new family firmly wrapped around his paws. He had settled it. He went home with them. 

A few years later my oldest granddaughter Kristen took him with while she traveled around the country preparing with several jobs for med school. She was spending a summer in Las Vegas working for some medical place and living with my youngest daughter Beth Lyn for that time. And of course, Denali went with Kris and made himself right at home. Beth Lyn had, at the time, three Basset Hounds, one parrot, and God knows how many cats, so what was one more dog? Fortunately, Denali got along famously with all of them as he does everywhere because by this time he had been just about everywhere and done just about everything a dog could do.

Then came the afternoon he became famous, at least in Beth Lyn’s town. Their neighborhood was pretty much an open world, where people visited and partied with each other all the time and no doors were ever closed.  Kids, dogs, cats ran around playing all the time and that was fine.

However, one day while Denali was taking his afternoon nap, Sleepy, one of Beth Lyn’s cats happened to go outside at just the wrong time and one of their neighbor’s new dogs got loose, grabbed Sleepy and started shaking him. Hard. Nobody could get the cat away from the dog and they all thought Sleepy was a goner.

Eventually, the dog got tired of his game and dropped Sleepy, who shot back into the house and ran under a bed. My daughter thought he went under the bed to die. He wouldn’t come out and  nobody could get to him until Denali came into the room, somehow made himself small enough to get under the bed, and went to Sleepy, who was in shock, covered with dirt and mud, his own urine and feces, and bleeding.

Denali started cleaning him. Lick by lick, it took him a couple of hours, but eventually he got Sleepy clean. Denali stayed right there with him, periodically licking him all over, basically forcing him to keep breathing. Denali didn’t move from his side. Dinnertime came and went. Denali skipped one of the things he loves most, his dinner, and stayed under the bed with Sleepy all night.

The next morning both Sleepy and Denali crawled back out from under the bed, and from that day on, as long as Denali was there, Sleepy was his closest bud. They were inseparable.

Soon it was time for Kris and Denali to move on. Kris went to Israel where she entered Columbia’s Ben Gurion University, specializing in international womens’ medical issues, and Denali moved back home with Barb. Time moved on, Kris graduated, Barb remarried, and Denali moved here and there with whoever in the family could take him while all this moving and changing was going on.

Finally it was my turn. Barb and her new husband had to move to Washington and couldn’t take Denali because they were going to be living in an apartment for a few months while they house searched and got settled. Denali moved in with me and became Denalidawg. More time passed while he put up with me, until I got ready to move to Washington. At this point, Denalidawg was quite old and one leg was getting crippled with arthritis. Not in good shape at all, we knew he could not make the trip by plane and survive.

By that time, Beth Lyn and Co. had moved from Las Vegas to Indiana, so it was decided that Bethie’s was the only logical place for Denali to go. Shortly before I left Beth Lyn came and got him, packed up all his toys and bankies and food and took him to live with her in her apartment.

When they walked in her door, Sleepy ran straight to Denali and they had a huge reunion, kissing each other hello. As you can see in the photo, they take their naps together and sleep pretty close to each other all the time.  

Denalidawg has the eyes of an Old Soul, and there’s not a doubt in my mind that’s exactly what he is. His eyes are the eyes of a person who has seen and heard it all, and he probably has because you cannot fool him. Ever. You’d swear, when he looks at you, that he’s reading your mind and I believe he is. You know how you look at one of your kids when they do something goofy…well, he’s done that to me more than once, and caused me to re-evaluate things. He has that effect on everyone. I know a lot of people believe their animals are human, or have been human, or something of that nature. I believe that about Denali, and I also believe it’s a good thing he was up on his own medical schooling when he was in Las Vegas and saved Sleepy.

Grandma's Swimming Pool by Beth Anderson

Beth Anderson is a multi-published, award winning author in several genres including romance and  mainstream crime fiction. A full time author, she now lives in Washington state. She has appeared on Chicago's WGN Morning Show, The ABC Evening News, as well as numerous other radio and cable television shows, and has guest lectured at Purdue University and Moraine Valley College, as well as many libraries and writers' conferences. She loves music, particularly jazz and blues. Her website and blog are at http://www.bethanderson-hotclue.com .

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RAVEN TALKS BACK by Beth Anderson

Krill Press, ISBN 978-0-9821443-9-8

Beautiful Valdez, Alaska. Home of twenty-three-inch snow in the wintertime, but in the summertime, gorgeous mountain scenery where the early morning fog rolls down the mountainside, bringing soft whispers of the past with it. And this year...murder.

Valdez Chief of Police Jack O'Banion's take:

Voices.  Visions.  A sadistic killer running loose, a hysterical woman, two teenagers on the verge of home-grown terrorism, everybody including the Alaska State Troopers and out-of-town media driving him crazy twenty-four hours a day. And now Raven wants him to arrest someone, anyone, because she thinks her husband is about to be charged with murder and she just can’t face it.

Raven Morressey's take:

She knows nothing she's saying to Jack makes any sense to him because it doesn't to her, either. After all, it's not every day a newly murdered, tattooed, headless and handless body is dug up in your back yard, and then you start hearing voices of your dead ancestors and seeing things that never happened-- yet. She only wants to keep her home together, at first. She's not trying to butt in and solve the murders in Valdez. She just can't help it.

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Links:

Website:  http://www.bethanderson-hotclue.com

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/bethanderson43

Available at: http://www.amazon.com/Beth-Anderson/e/B000APMRR4/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Available at: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Raven-Talks-Back/Beth-Anderson/e/2940012515407/?itm=1&USRI=beth+anderson#MeetTheWriter

Also, last but definitely not least, available at your favorite independent bookstores nationwide.

Grandma’s Swimming Pool

by

Beth Anderson

When we look back in time we tend to see things through a prism fading into darkness at the edges, as though we’re looking at a faint light through a long tunnel. I’ve seen edges surrounding my daydreams, blurring into nothingness except for the centers, still somewhat colorful although hazy, as if they were very old family photos turned brown over time.

But there’s one special daydream-memory that I see with complete clarity. Nothing is left out. The edges are clearly defined.  Sound, smell, touch, feelings—they’re all still alive and well within the little girl who played in her grandma’s ditch after a rainstorm.

My grandparents on my father’s side were poor farm people. I found out only later in life that my grandfather didn’t really own his farm, he only had use of some of the land.

Sharecropping, we call it. The man who owned the farm would get half the crop as payment, and my grandfather would bring the rest home for my grandma to put up in glass jars for us to eat when the land lay fallow during the winter months.

Life was simple and safe at Grandma’s house. During my childhood I spent most of my summers there, and at one time of particular upheaval in my own family, I spent three years there while I was in kindergarten through second grade. At Grandma’s house it was always a time of peace and contentment, with only occasional  boredom when my best friend was gone for a few days.

But it was never boring when it rained. Those were my favorite times, because Grandma had a large ditch between her front yard and the street.

When I lived there the street was simply dirt and rocks with spurts of grass leading down to the ditch. When I went back and saw it again as an adult, the ditch was nothing more than an almost non-existent indentation in the land next to a busy, paved street that had appeared like some kind of magic, as had the tennis courts across the street from Grandma’s house, where I drew pictures with pieces of charcoal on those lazy summer afternoons. Eventually, the tennis courts turned into a baseball field, then into a much larger one with bleachers and a hot dog stand.

Progress, they said. But I saw it differently. Their progress had destroyed the best swimming pool in the world.

Back in those days there were no swimming pools outside of those we kids in farm towns saw only in magazines. If we wanted to play in water, our folks had to haul out a big tub, which got most of its action on Saturday bath night, and also in the back yard on Mondays. Whenever I think of that tub I have to shake my head in amazement because every Monday, no matter what the weather, my grandmother would stand out back scrubbing clothes on a corrugated scrub board (you can find them in museums today) with bars of lye soap she made herself every fall.

But every once in a while we’d have a real rainstorm big enough to fill Grandma’s ditch. Neighbor kids by the dozens would flock there to pretend-swim, since none of us really knew how until we were bigger and could sneak down to the river, where someone would toss us in, and we learned fast.

When I close my eyes, I can still smell the sharp cleanliness of the air in between raindrops, the musky, deep scent of the surrounding wet ground, droplets of cold rain sliding off the fresh green leaves and falling onto our uplifted faces, and the wonder of all that water just waiting for us to play in.

I can still feel the mud, slick on the sides of the ditch so that half the time we slid in, and I still laugh at myself for feeling so superior because I was old enough and big enough to run across the yard past my grandmother’s watchful eyes, and fly into the ditch, splashing kids too small to go in.

I can still hear myself screaming with dramatic terror when the boys would find crawdads, which suddenly appeared with the rain, and hold them, wiggling, up to our shrieking faces. Even then, little girls were aware that it wasn’t ladylike to pick one up and hold it out to the boys to scare them. It just wasn’t done.

How things have changed.

When Thomas Wolfe said “You can’t go home again” he must have had a ditch somewhere in mind. Or maybe a house he grew up in, because sooner or later we all have to realize that over time, everything changes.

I wish I could have included a photograph of that ditch, but the last time I went back, Grandma had been gone for many years and the house, to my deep sorrow, was gone also, its space filled with someone’s trailer, which almost filled the whole yard.

My mind still cannot fathom how such a big house could have been built in such a narrow space. And yet she raised six children in it, and not only that, there was a barn with a couple of cows and chickens in the back yard and an outhouse at the far end of the yard. On top of all that, she had a huge flower garden and multiple rows of corn and all kinds of vegetables in the back yard. How did all those things, which seemed so huge to me then, fit in there?

I don’t know, but they did. I saw them and I still see them in full, vivid color. I still smell those rows of corn, damp and pungent-green in the early mornings, tall pink Hollyhocks and soft blue Morning Glories with their own scents flowing out in all directions to attract the hummingbirds who hovered in the shimmering hot air, drinking of their nectar.

Today, I cry silent tears every time I pass a yard full of flowers growing every which way, because I can still see my grandmother standing alone out back every evening to look at her flowers. She never picked them and she would never allow anyone else to pick them. She let them grow because they were beautiful, almost certainly one of the few really beautiful things she ever owned.

Her life was so limited and hard, raising six children in that tiny Illinois town, that by the time she was fifty she looked very old and weather-worn, simply because she was. But she sure knew how to manage a great swimming pool.