Western North Carolina Women Writers

I am tickled pink to be able to share some fun news. Four anthologies from Western North Carolina Women Writers are now available in Kindle format:

It's All Relative: Tales from the Tree: from 50 WNC Women Writers, 

Women's Spaces Women's Places: from 50 WNC Women Writers, 

Clothes Lines: from 75 western North Carolina women writers, and 

Christmas Presence: from 45 western North Carolina women writers. 

All four were edited by the awesome and uber talented Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham.  I love these women.

I am proud to be a part of three of the anthologies. 

Clothes Lines will always hold a special place in my heart as it was my first time being published. And to be published between the covers of the same book with the likes of former NC Poet Laureate Kathryn Stripling Byer, Isabel Zuber, Joan Medlicott and so many other accomplished writers still knocks me over. 

I hope you'll buy every one of them and fall in love with some of the talented women of Western North Carolina.

Where I'll be . . .

On Sunday, February 28 at 3:00, I'll be joining Nancy Dillingham, Celia Miles (editors and contributors) along with other contributors to the latest anthology from women authors of Western North Carolina.

If you're in the Asheville, NC area, I hope you'll drop by Malaprop's Books to help us celebrate the release of "It's All Relative: Tales from the Tree."

Rob Neufeld writes in the Citizen-Times “there’s a shadowy, down-to-earth and at times magical quality to the telling that makes the collection striking and significant.”

From Celia's webpage:

It’s All Relative: Tales from the Tree

Pundits have a penchant for comparing families to food…

Best-selling author, columnist, and Pulitzer Prize winner Anna Quindlen proclaims:

“In the family sandwich the older people and the younger ones can recognize one another as the bread. Those in the middle are, for a time, the meat.”

Journalist and social activist Letty Collin Pogrebin says:

“If the family were a fruit, it would be an orange, a circle of sections, held together but inseparable—each segment distinct.”

An old Chinese proverb cautions: “Govern a family as you would cook a fish—very gently.”

Another puts it more succinctly: “Family are like fudge— mostly sweet with a few nuts.”

In this smorgasbord of family stories, essays, and poems, you can nibble on a nugget, munch on a morsel, or gobble down a whole meal.


Celia H. Miles and Nancy Dillingham have edited three previous anthologies of regional women writers: Christmas Presences from 45 WNC Women Writers, Clothes Lines from 75 WNC Women Writers and Women’s Spaces Women’s Places from 50 WNC Women Writers.

If you're interested in buying "It's All Relative," or any of the earlier anthologies, click here.  

Aunt Peep and Uncle Leo

Here's my short story that was included in the latest anthology edited by Celia Miles and Nan Dillingham, IT'S ALL RELATIVE, Tales from the Tree from 50 Western North Carolina Women Writers.

Enjoy!

Aunt Peep and Uncle Leo

When I was a little girl there was nothing I loved better than going to the beach to visit my Aunt Peep and Uncle Leo.  They were a hoot!

I would always go down and stay about a month.  The visits were usually supposed to be two week visits, but somehow lasted longer.  Aunt Peep would beg almost as loudly to my mom and dad as I would.

Peep and Leo owned a little restaurant right on The Boardwalk.  It was a treat for me to be able to run in and out of that restaurant like a little wild child, coke in one hand, hotdog in the other.

I would roam Ocean City with summer friends, with a freedom today’s children don’t know, nor would they understand.

I was sent out the door after breakfast and the only rule was that I be back at the restaurant for supper.  At that time it would be decided if Aunt Peep was going home, or if she’d stay at the restaurant.  If she was free to go, I’d go with her.  I just never could get enough time with my Aunt Peep.

The last summer I went down to stay with them, things were different.  Aunt Peep wasn’t going to the restaurant as much.  And my Uncle Leo didn’t seem to come home as much as he used to.  

And when he did, there were arguments.  Loud, mean arguments.  And when I would hide in my room, I was scared that some of the noises I could hear might be hitting.

Doors would slam.

Peep would cry.

I was afraid.

When my two week visit was over, I went home.

I didn’t beg to stay.  Aunt Peep cried, but said it was best if I went on home.

It was not long after that that I came home from playing with friends down the street to find my mother sitting in the kitchen crying.

Aunt Peep was dead.

Nobody would tell me what had happened.  An accident.  That’s what I was told.

I asked my mom if the bruises I had seen on Aunt Peep’s arms had caused her to die, but I was told to  hush.

When I heard my mom and dad talking about going to the funeral and that they planned to leave me home because I was too young, I pitched what could only be called a hissy fit.

The fit didn’t win – it never did with my parents.  But the fact that my heart was broken did.

We went to the funeral home for the viewing as soon as we got to Ocean City.  I had heard my parents talking in the car on the way.  They were wondering if the casket would be open or closed.

Seeing as how this was my first funeral and my first viewing, I was of two different minds about this casket being open thing.

I didn’t want to see a dead person, especially not one I loved so much.

But, at the same time, I wanted to say goodbye and wasn’t sure how to do that if I couldn’t see her face.

And, there was that horrible childhood morbid curiosity.

The casket was closed, and it turned out that my stomach quit hurting when I saw that.  I guess my stomach knew better than I did that I didn’t really want to see Aunt Peep dead.

I waited until there wasn’t anyone standing near the casket when I walked over and whispered my goodbye to my aunt, along with an “I love you.” 

And I just stood there, by myself, remembering how she would take me to the beach on her days off and race me into the waves.  And how we’d share fried chicken on our beach towels.  And talk about books.

I learned my love of books from Peep.  She took me to the Ocean City library each summer to renew my library card and I would spend some time visiting with the librarians that I hadn’t seen since the summer before.

They all had recommendations – lots of recommendations, and I was never without books to read while I was there.

While standing next to the casket, I thought I heard a voice.  Very soft.

I froze.

And I heard it again.

“Katy?  Katy, are you still there, honey?”

I turned around so my back was to the rest of the room and looked at the casket.

“Aunt Peep?”

“Yes, honey, it’s me.”

“Aunt Peep, aren’t you dead?”

“Oh, yes, child.  I’m dead.”

“Are you sure?”

I recognized Aunt Peep’s soft laugh and that’s when I started crying.  How could I go the rest of my life without hearing that laugh?  Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to after all.  I mean, here she was laughing . . .

“Katy, don’t cry.  Please, don’t cry.  I can’t stand it.”

I sniffled loudly.  “Aunt Peep.  Want me to go get somebody?  My mom, or Uncle Leo?”

“NO!”

She spoke so loudly, I jumped.  Then peeked over my shoulder to see if anyone else heard.

“No, child.  I don’t need anybody.  But I wanted to tell you something, okay?”

I nodded my head.

“After the funeral tomorrow, I want you to do me a favor.”

I nodded again.

“I want you to say hello to Mrs. Mitchell.”

“Aunt Peep, I don’t like Mrs. Mitchell.”

“I know you don’t, Katy.  Me neither.  But just do me this favor and I’ll be able to rest easy.  Okay, honey?”

“Okay.”

“When you say hello, it would be best if there were a lot of people around, especially your Mom and Dad.”

I nodded.

“And look and see if Mrs. Mitchell is wearing a bracelet.  A gold bracelet with cameos.  Can you do that?”

“That sounds like your bracelet, Aunt Peep.  You wear that bracelet every day.  Even swimming!  I remember.”

“It is my bracelet, Katy.  You be sure and ask Hortense Mitchell what she’s doing wearing my bracelet.  The bracelet that belonged to my mother, and to her mother.  The bracelet that I wore every day – even swimming.  You ask her, Katy.  And make sure there’s a gracious plenty of folks around to hear her answer.  Especially your good for nothing Uncle Leo.”

Revisiting the Home of My Heart

Below is one of the very early, original versions of a piece I wrote a few years ago.


There were many. A better version - much better - (edited by the incomparable Celia Miles and Nan Dillingham) was published in the regional anthology WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES. It's a wonderful collection from a group of extraordinary women. I'm proud to be included.

(isn't the cover wonderful?! It was done by Karen Hollingsworth. You can see more of her work at her webpage)





I republish this piece here from time to time, often when I feel a little homesick. And tonight I'm feeling homesick. So, it's time.


An old friend from home, Patti Lucas Hopkins, has become an accomplished artist. Her work features local scenes from the Eastern Shore, a place she loves. Her love of place shines through, and it touches my heart.

You can see some of it here - http://pattilucashopkins.com/about-artist.html

When I learned about a show Patti's having at The Trumpeter Swan Gallery in Easton, MD, I mentioned it to a new friend, David Magayna, who also lives on the Eastern Shore.

He went to Easton this evening to the opening and met Patti.

There's something pretty special about when your old friends and your new friends meet.


Oh, my. How I would have loved to have been able to be standing in this picture with the two of them.




And I wonder if I'll ever stop being homesick for the Eastern Shore?






Here's a piece of my soul, along with my heart - enjoy.


HOME OF MY HEART

As much as I dearly love these mountains and our life here, my heart often gets a longing for my childhood home.  I grew up in a small town on the water and it’s essential to my very soul to get back to it when I can.  Back to where I learned how to ride a bike.  Learned how to drive a car.  Kissed my first boyfriend.  And even learned what it meant to have my heart broken by a best girlfriend.  Back home to stand on a riverbank and stare out into the expanse of forever where the sky and sea become one, in a small town named Cambridge, on the eastern shore of Maryland.  A land of charming, gracious living.

I feel its pull, and know its tug at my roots; calling me home.  I feel that need to cross bridges over huge expanses of water.  To watch white sails skimming elegantly across sun speckled azure seas like ballerinas on-stage.  When I mention this urgent need for water to Donald he points out that we have a creek, and we have a pond - a pond chock full of rainbow trout, by golly.  True enough.  And quite lovely.  But.  Not big enough for need of a bridge, and certainly not big enough that I'll ever see a sailboat out there.   I need to smell marshy smells.  Need to eat crabs that have recently been blissfully swimming along minding their own business.   I need to spend a little time with friends who have known me since we were kids.  People I can just be myself with; letting down all walls and defenses. So off I scoot to where I’m safe in the knowledge that lifelong friends will open their arms and their hearts yet again and give me back my sense of home.  Where I can feel salty air cling to my skin.

I get to cross my bridges over huge sweeps of water, and, just as lovely – smaller ones.  The Chesapeake Bay Bridge makes my heart swell.  The Choptank River Bridge into Cambridge makes me cry buckets. 

Once I’ve crossed that bridge, there’s an almost indefinable pervasive sense of wholeness that wraps me in a hug.  A sense of peace not easily explained, but effortlessly understood by anyone who has experienced the joy of returning “home.”

From the time I was 3 months old until I was 17 we lived in a grand, if somewhat bedraggled, old apartment in The Arcade. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and dining room had immense bay windows.  Those two rooms opened into one another through an archway. The kitchen was huge with a separate pantry and our stove was an old timey thing on high legs.

This kitchen was “the” place to be.  Many an hour was spent sitting at the kitchen table looking out the windows.  One window overlooked a big grassy lawn, which sadly, after a few years, became a parking lot.  Sad for me as a kid ‘cause there went my back yard.  Fun for me as I got older, however, and enjoyed observing some of the goings-on that took place when folks didn’t realize there were eyes above them.  Oh my – the tales this girl could have told! 

From the other kitchen window we would watch the rear door of Woolworth’s and see who was coming and going.  Thus began my love of people watching.

This was not Eloise at the Plaza. This was small town living. We were not wealthy people; not by any stretch of the imagination. There was no private entrance into our apartment. There was a downstairs lobby, and in the lobby was the entrance to the Arcade Movie Theater. If we had been out and arrived home before the movie started, it meant socializing, mixing and mingling with the folks buying tickets to see a movie. Since everyone knew everyone, it sometimes took awhile to get through all the "Hi, How are you’s?" to get up those stairs. 

None of us had a key to the apartment, which meant it was never locked.  Which also meant we never knew who might be there waiting for us.  Rest assured, there was always someone. It might be one of my aunts, uncles or cousins - there was a gracious plenty of them. Or it might be one of dad's cronies, or one of mother's girlfriends, or friends from school. Amazingly enough, as odd as it might now sound to some, it was never cause for concern back then. That apartment was, as my mom often said, "Grand Central Station."   And the kitchen was the hub where everyone gathered.  Even if we weren’t there.

That wonderful old kitchen was where we had most of our meals.  The dining room was for “special occasions.”   We had, of course, that ubiquitous chrome and leatherette table and chairs; a set I’d surely love to have today.

This was where we sat for conversation and gossip over a cup of coffee.  Hot chocolate for the kids.

And it’s where I sat and watched my mom and dad cut a rug.

There was a radio that sat right inside the kitchen door.  I have the most delightful memories of my dad scootin’ through that door, turning up the radio and leading my mom into a vigorous jitterbug all over that room.  Oh my.  Could they dance!

I remember a lot of laughter around that table, one day in particular . . .

(Laws, I hope my dad forgives me for telling this one!)

When I was growing up there were a couple of "stag" bars in Cambridge. No women. I don't know if they specifically ever said "No Women," or if women just wouldn't be caught dead in them. There was one not far from our apartment called the DD Bar. It was owned by a friend of Dad's, and it was a wonderful little place. I adored it.  The DD Bar was one of those grown-up "No Kids Allowed" places I would sneak into under the guise of “needing to see my dad.”  Then acting all stunned and bewildered about why I had to leave when my mom showed up at the door to retrieve me.  It was a long, narrow, and dark.  With a charm that only bars from that era can possess, without a smidgen of artifice. There were maybe 4 booths in the front, along with a long mahogany bar with a brass foot rail. There were also pinball tables, a shuffleboard table and a dart board.  Nary a fern to be seen; plastic or otherwise.

If Daddy needed to work for a couple hours on Saturday afternoons, he thought it was a great way to make some extra money.  Where else could he earn a few extra dollars while hanging out with his buddies laughing and watching a ball game on TV?

We had a local radio station and on Saturdays the DJ, Ed Brigham, would make a phone call to give away a free prize to someone if they could answer the question of the day. 

On this particular Saturday, Mother and I were home, in the kitchen, and the radio was on, of course. We heard Mr. Brigham announce that the question of the day phone call was about to be made.  We crossed our fingers hoping it would be our phone to ring. Well, it didn't, but we did hear a very familiar voice over the radio say "DD Bar, Al speaking." 

How fun!  My dad!!!! 

Mr. Brigham said "Hey Al, this is Ed Brigham, how ya' doin'?" After a few minutes of small talk exchanging some "how's the family" kinda stuff, Mr. Brigham told Dad he would win two free tickets to the Arcade Movie Theater if he could answer the question of the day. 

You could hear all the local Cambridge bar flies talking and hollering and laughing in the background, along with the TV blaring and pinball machines ping-pinging.  Dad told everyone to quiet down 'cause Ed had a question. 

The question was "How long is a decade?" 

Well, Mother and I laughed and she said she guessed she and Dad would be going downstairs to see a free movie soon. 

Then we heard dad over the radio yelling to the guys in the bar "Ed wants to know how long is a duck egg?" 

WHAAAT?!? 

Mother and I just about fell in the floor screaming we were laughing so hard.

A DUCK EGG?! 

You could hear all these men saying stuff like, "a Duck Egg? Hell, I don't know, Jim Bob - what do you think?" Answers like "2 inches, 3 inches - oh hell no, an inch and a half," and things like "Who even cares??"  “Is that a real question??” were all loud and clear over the radio. This went on for awhile and finally dad stopped laughing long enough to say "Well, Ed, we think maybe an inch and a half." 

Ed Brigham was hysterical and said "Al. Hazel is going to kill you. NOT a Duck Egg! A DECADE!!!!!!!!" 

Dead silence on Dad's end. Then he started laughing really hard and had to tell the guys he'd made a mistake.  When he told them what the question really was we could hear them hootin’, hollerin’, shoutin’ and a brayin’ – mass hysteria.

For years, when we went out to eat or went shopping downtown, someone would holler "Hey Al! How long's a Duck Egg?!" 

We all share a common bond of memories of “home.”  Those special moments which make our homes unique and special. 

I have a beezillion of them. 

There was a little mini-community besides the movie theater in the Arcade lobby.  There was a jewelry store, a beauty shop, an insurance company, and the gas company. I was in and out of those places like I owned them. I don't know why those people put up with me. If some poor woman was having her hair washed, I'd just march right over while she had her head in the sink and strike up a conversation. 

The three of us were also piling into the car for a weekend away every so often; usually to the beach and boardwalk in Ocean City.  One particular weekend while we were off doing who knows what, one of my uncles was going to paint our dining room.  Mom & Dad bought the paint and said it should be enough to cover the walls well enough if he was careful. 

Our dining room was a big room with a big bay window.  The sun would shine through that window seems like all the time.  Well, that ol’ sun told some tales on those painters. 

When we got home on Sunday evening, everyone was really pleased about how terrific the room looked with its new paint.  Mother was pleased as punch. 

The next day was a whole different story, let me tell you.  Wheweee. 

Seems my uncle, who was quite the artist, invited a friend to help him.  Adult beverages were involved.  Artistic tendencies arose.  From the muses came pictures of Mickey Mouse and all his pals on our dining room walls.  The painters, at some point, realized this was not what my folks had in mind when they asked to have the walls painted, so they painted over the Disney guys.  But, not well enough.  With the sun streaming into the windows, those images showed right through the paint. 

Its made for hilarious stories since, but things were a little tense around the apartment for awhile.  They did put up another coat of paint and it did help, but even years later, if you knew where to look, you could find a shadow of Mickey's face.  Or Goofy's.  And, honestly?  It was a fun and lovely thing.  What is lovelier, after all, than a home that possesses a bit of whimsy and can make you smile?  That is, after all, what makes it "home."

Waking up to good news

Don't you love it when you wake up, check your email and find some nice news?

It was fun seeing this review, and fun seeing my name included.

The dark

Let’s talk about witches. If you’re thinking about fairy tale or Satanic characterizations, you’re missing the granny for the grimace.

There’s a long history of strong mountain women being feared as Baba Yagas.

Kaye Barley tells a story, “Aunt Peep and Uncle Leo,” that starts off as a girl’s fond recollection of summertime visits with her aunt and turns into something else after she overhears arguments and then gets news of Aunt Peep’s death.

At the funeral, Aunt Peep has a message for her niece that’s intended to not let the truth about Leo die.

Face it, writers love reading nice things about their work.

Especially when those writers make little or nothing in the way of a paycheck for their work.  Those kind words come to represent a sort of payment - much appreciated payment.

So - this - kind words for a group of some of the most talented women I've come to know and am quite proud to be a part of.  Herded together by the amazingly giving Celia Miles, along with poet extraordinaire Nancy Dillingham.  They've put their own writing aside, again, to edit the fourth anthology featuring Western North Carolina women writers.

Here's what Rob Neufeld has to say about the latest, "It's All Relative."

http://www.citizen-times.com/story/life/2015/11/01/neufeld-books-family-life-viewed-wnc-authors/75003400/

The High Country Festival of the Book

This past weekend I participated in the High Country Festival of the Book in my own little corner of the world - Boone, North Carolina.
 
 
 

 

 
And this is the woman who has been the force behind the first two festivals.  Suzanne Thompson.  She is a Wonder Woman!
 
 

 


She managed to get Rita Mae Brown to come as the headliner for the first festival last year, and Sharyn McCrumb for this year.  Pretty cool, huh?
 

 Sharyn McCrumb

It's the first event I've participated in since I published "Whimsey."
 

 

And, let me just answer this question right off the bat - No, it was not a profitable day for me personally monetarily.  But, I had just as much fun as I knew I would.  Book events are just fun.  At least they are if you're a lover of books.  It doesn't matter if you read them, write them, publish them or all of the above - books and book people are just fun.  And that's every bit as important to me as selling Whimsey was this particular day.
 
I got to chat with book people, I got to have lots of books signed, I got to buy some new books and I got to lust after a few rare books that I couldn't afford.
 
 

 

I mentioned in an earlier post that I had finally met an author I have read and admired for years, Phillip DePoy, at Malice.  Well, he was a participating author at the High Country Festival of the Book and I was able to spend some time with him.  I now have this enormous crush on him (although I'm sure he never noticed the stars in my eyes - surely not).  The man is funny, smarter than your average bear, has done a lot of cool and extraordinary things, lived all over the world, is kind, a gentleman in the truest sense of the word, and just plain, in my honest opinion, sexy as all hell.  And did everyone here know he's an Edgar winner?  All this, and he is as down to earth and as unassuming as anyone I've ever met.  If you haven't discovered his work yet, I urge you to get on with it!
 
 

 

 

 

 

here's a few photos of the festival - Enjoy!

 

 

Jamie Mason and Susan Tekulve

 

 

 

me and Ann Hite

 

 

 

 Phillip DePoy, me, and Larissa Reinhart

 

 

 

 Me and Erika Marks

 

 

Phillip DePoy, Gayle Trent, Larissa Reinhart and Maggie Bishop doing one of the best panels I ever attended

 

 

 

 me and Gayle Trent

 

 

 

 

 

There was a super children's program

 

 

 

Two local heroes - Mr. Jack Pyle and Mr. Taylor Reese 

 

 

 

and finally - my own personal hero.

 

Celia Miles

 

 

She's going to kill me for putting her in the spotlight, but no one has done more for women writers in North Carolina than Dr. Miles. 

 

Her own writing (which is divine!) oftentimes takes a back seat to her mentoring of others. 

 

Including me. 

 

My first published  piece was in an anthology Celia and Nan Dillingham (a brilliant North Carolina poet) edited.  Clothes Lines.  I am prouder of that piece and that anthology of almost anything in my life.  To be included with the talent that is in that book isn't anything I'll ever forget.  And then, by golly, she let me do it again in Women's Spaces Woman's Places.

 

Whimsey would never have happened without a few people who encouraged me - Celia Miles is one of those.

 

I'll never forget and I'll always be indebted.

 

 

 She helped me know in my heart that for some of us it really is all about the writing, not all about the publishing. 

She helps me every "writing day" of my life (not that she knows that) and she helps me every day of my "promoting life" (I never told her about the blog who refused to let me promote my Whimsey with them because it's self-published.  Sadly, a lot of the people with this particular blog had been guests right here at Meanderings and Muses.).  She would never ever understand that sort of thing. 

Here's to Celia Miles - the most gracious, generous person I have ever had the honor of knowing.

Why I've Decided to Self-Publish

For those of you who have asked about my decision to publish my novel myself rather than attempting to go the traditional route.  This is why I think self-publishing is for ME - not for everyone, of course, but for me.

I'm in the midst of making a few final revisions which I should have done by the end of this week or next. After a LOT of soul searching and pondering I've decided to forego the agent querying thing and go for self-publishing.

Had it not been for Celia Miles, Judy Greber and Earl Staggs I doubt I ever would have even thought about writing a novel - and I thank them for having the faith in me that I didn't have.  They're my angels walking the earth disguised as just plain ol' regular human beings.  and I love 'em to bits.

 I learned a lot about myself during the novel writing. I loved writing it. Loved it! I hate rewriting and revisions. I know a lot of people love it. Not me. And the more I do it, the more I tend to not want to do it, which has shown me in bright brilliant lights that I am not one of those "I HAVE to write every single day!" writers.

You all know how I feel about writers - they're my rock stars.  I admire and respect them greatly.  I'm not one of them.  I'm just not and I know it.   I don't possess the talent or the pure need and stamina to write as well as my friends Louise Penny, Margaret Maron, Judy Greber, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Deborah Crombie and so many others. 

That's not meant as false modesty - I do think I'm a fairly decent writer.

My decision has nothing to do with what others do or want to do, and it certainly doesn't reflect how I feel about traditional publishing.  These are, to me, all separate issues.

I have no desire to be a career writer. And if I were, my choice would not be fiction - as much as I dearly love it.  And you all know how very much I love a good novel.

I, myself, am at my happiest writing memoir pieces for my blog.  And the pieces I wrote which were accepted for two anthologies edited by Celia Miles and Nan Dillingham which I remain immensely proud of. That seems to be the type of work that fills my heart and soothes my soul.

What I decided during the holidays while we were busy driving here and there for Christmas festivites and a lovely wedding in Meridian is that truthfully, even if I were one of the lucky ones to find a good agent who was able to sell my work, I don't want to wait two or three years to 'see' my novel. I want to see it now. I feel like I've worked hard and now I want to see the end result out there. 

The feeling isn't based on impatience - I've never had any illusions about making a big splash and making a lot of money - I just wanted to write a novel. Now I'm done and honestly - just want to move on. I don't want to write a book every year, I don't want to have to travel around doing promotion, and I don't want to lose control of my own writing - the writing I've done or the writing I might still do. I just want to do it for "me." Just for me. 

I've written the novel I wanted to write. It's not everyone's cup of tea and that's okay. It has magic and best girlfriends. There's pretty clothes and great food. There's laughter and love. Art and a perfect gallery on a lovely little idyllic island in the Lowcountry. There's a ghost or two and a pixie named Earlene who happens to be partial to Christian Louboutins.  It's impossible to put a tag on - kinda like the most interesting people I know who refuse to be placed in a single category. Eccentric and flawed. and fun.

The next novel, when and if it happens, may be a sequel or it may be something a bit more serious concerning the Freedom Riders who came to my hometown of Cambridge, Maryland in 1962 when I was a teenager. That was a time that helped mold me to be who I am today. My 64 year old self who now just wants (as I've said so many times) to spread my wings and try a whole world of new things.

I want to continue practicing and improving my photography, I have bags of needlepoint and knitting which I've missed working on the past couple years while I've been writing "Whimsey" - there's just a whole wealth of things I want to do. Pottery. I really want to try my hand (again) at pottery. Maybe paint a little.

There are still lots of experiences I want to have along my road to Ithaca (and my thanks to my friend Hank Phillippi Ryan for introducing me to this perfect poem).

Ithaka

When you set out for Ithaka
ask that your way be long,
full of adventure, full of instruction.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - do not fear them:
such as these you will never find
as long as your thought is lofty, as long as a rare
emotion touch your spirit and your body.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - you will not meet them
unless you carry them in your soul,
unless your soul raise them up before you.

Ask that your way be long.
At many a Summer dawn to enter
with what gratitude, what joy -
ports seen for the first time;
to stop at Phoenician trading centres,
and to buy good merchandise,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensuous perfumes of every kind,
sensuous perfumes as lavishly as you can;
to visit many Egyptian cities,
to gather stores of knowledge from the learned.

Have Ithaka always in your mind.
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But don't in the least hurry the journey.
Better it last for years,
so that when you reach the island you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.
Ithaka gave you a splendid journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She hasn't anything else to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka hasn't deceived you.
So wise you have become, of such experience,
that already you'll have understood what these Ithakas mean.

Constantine P. Cavafy