When Margaret Maron introduces you as a writer

This is hard for me to tell.

Hard for me to write.  Which is usually a bit easier for me than telling.


And many of you will "get it."  Oh, yes.  



By now you've read my piece about the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame event we attended this past Sunday.


Can I tell you a personal highlight?


It was when Margaret Maron, friend and personal literary icon, introduced me to a friend of hers saying, "This is Kaye Barley.  Kaye's a friend of mine.  She's a writer."


I will always puff up like a banty rooster when Margaret refers to me as a friend.  I'm that proud.


But, do you have any idea how this might have felt to a person who is, frankly, unable to refer to herself as "a writer?"


To be introduced to someone.


By Margaret Maron.


As a writer.



Did I cry?  Almost.  (well,yes, okay, I did get a wee bit teary . . . ).  But I didn't burst into sobs.  I would have if Margaret and I had not been standing there, holding hands, while talking to her friend.  'Cause I would have run off to some private little place and boo-hooed.  Probably loudly.  And since I've never been able to cry "pretty," it would have been nasty.

And then?


Then, riding home I was browsing through Facebook and saw a picture that Bob Witchger had taken.

A picture of me with Sarah Shaber, Katy Munger, Brenda Witchger aka Brynn Bonner, and Diane Chamberlain.


Most of you will recognize these women - writers, all.


Excellent writers.


Known writers.

Brynn had posted it on her FB page and said this, "On this beautiful sunny day in North Carolina I was privileged to be with writer friends at Weymouth in Southern Pines to see our good friend, Margaret Maron, inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame. Lovely ceremony and a well-deserved honor."

And I started to cry a little.  (Again! for God's sake).

Donald looked over and said, "Miss Kaye?  (yes, he does sometimes really call me Miss Kaye), what's wrong?"

And I sobbed, "nothing."

This is when husbands have, I think, a hard time deciding whether to laugh, or roll their eyes, or pat you on the leg a little while muttering those little nothings meant to be soothing, or say, as Donald did, "Nothing.  Really?  Nothing.  Well, okay then."

Knowing full well that I would spit it out.

And, so I did.

And he listened.

And then he said, "I don't understand why you can't call yourself a writer.  This is the first I've heard of this.  I tell people you're a writer.  Why can't you tell them you're a writer?"

More tears.

"I don't know," I wailed.

And, of course, I do know.

Sorta.  Even though it sounds silly.  Especially in this day and time, I think.

And.

It's very hard to admit.

But, I did.  Finally.  For the first time, maybe.

I told Donald that it comes from all the years of self-published writers being the red-headed step children of the writing community.

And we talked about this.

But then, bless his ever-lovin' sweet soul, he took the time to remind me that my "Whimsey" had gotten some awfully nice reviews.  Reviews from people who did not know me from Adam's house cat and did not know I don't (can't) call myself a writer.

And he took the time to remind me I've had a few juried pieces accepted in magazines and anthologies.  

And, reminded me about how excited I'd been when I heard about being a finalist at Southern Writers Magazine.

No.  Of course I had not forgotten these things.  Of course not, but still - it is nice to be reminded of them.

Y'all?

Suffice to say, it was an emotional day.

It was also a day of creative motivation for me.

I don't know, truthfully, that I will ever be able to refer to myself as a writer when someone says to me, "What do you do?"  The best I've been able to do, so far, is say, "I write a little."

But, today?

Today,

I wrote.

Taking the bad with the good, making lemonade out of . . whatEVAH

If you know me, you know I try not to whine.  

I may rant and shout like a sailor.

But I don't "think" I do too much whining.

Well, honeys, this is a whine of a sort to make up for all those past un-whines.

Skip it if, like me, you're pretty turned off by the noises made by a constant whiner.

Pitiful is just not my thing.

And I do not mean this to sound as though it's directed at those of you who have very legitimate complaints.

There are, after all, real reasons for complaints and then there are those who feel as though if they don't "suffer" a drama a day they're not going to get the attention they so need.

THOSE are the people I'm talking about here.



But enough about them - this is gonna be all about me.



All about me whining . . .


Being pitiful . . .


I hope I've made that perfectly clear.  (insert little winking emoticon here)


So.


I was suffering a bad case of the blues about this week.


Thanksgiving.  My birthday.  Happening this week without my mom.


My answer to combating this week of the blues is the same as it is for so many other things.


A week at the beach.


Now, as you may have figured out over time, the beach, the ocean, any big expanse of water meeting the sky is a balm to my soul.


It's not something I simply enjoy.


It's something I truly need.


Need from the very bottom of my feet to the very depths of my heart.


If I had known my ties to the water were so strong I doubt I could have ever left Cambridge where every drive I ever took was, sooner or later, going to have me going across a bridge.  Or have me within just a head's turn to see the water.  Cambridge Creek.  The Choptank River.  I get emotional by only thinking about them.  


But.  Had I never left Cambridge, what are the chances I would have ever met Don Barley?


Or many of the other people I've met on this life journey.  People I'm privileged to call "friend?"


So.  There's my making lemonade out of lemons.  


Oh, hell - enough of that.  


I am here to whine, I tell you!



We were able, on very short notice, to rent a house at Topsail Island.  Our favorite "go to" beach of the past many years.


The house was perfect.


Dog friendly.  Ocean front.  Large deck facing the ocean.  A sunroom in case the weather was a bit too nippy for early morning/late night coffee times.  As long as I can see, hear, or even sense those ocean waves, I am a contented woman.


And there was going to be a bonus this trip.


Because we pass closely to my friends Margaret and Joe's place we sometimes get to visit with them on this trip to the beach.  I was hoping to meet them for lunch today on our way.


But, as chance would have it - that couldn't happen this time because Margaret was already planning a trip to Topsail and would already be there.


Long story short  -  plans were made for me to get together with her for dinner this evening.  The dinner was to also include some of her writing group - The Weymouth 7.  The Weymouth 7 includes Margaret Maron, Sarah Shaber, Diane Chamberlain, Mary Kay Andrews, Brenn Bonner Witchger, Katy Munger and Alexandra Sokoloff.  Pretty stellar group, huh?


While all seven were not part of this week's writing retreat at Topsail, Margaret, Sarah, Diane, Mary Kay and Brenn were.  


And my beach bonus was to include dinner with those who were there.  Except Brenn who ended up not feeling well.


Oddly enough, she apparently was pretty contagious with vertigo which she passed along to me.  (is that even possible?!  I don't think so . . .  but I need to place blame on someone and Brenn gets to be it).

<insert another winking emoticon right here>


So.


Not only are we not spending this week at the beach.


I am not having dinner with Margaret, Sarah, Diane and Mary Kay.


Insert every four letter bad word you have ever heard uttered in your entire life right here.


And now do it again with greater emphasis.


More gusto, please!


Believe me, you're not even coming close to expressing the disappointment I feel.



Except for Mary Kay, I know these women.   I was looking forward to meeting Mary Kay because I've been a long time fan.  Loooong time fan.  I lived in the area she used to write about under the name Kathy Hogan Trocheck in her Callahan Garrity series.  And I love the books she's writing now.


So.  A group of women, most of whom I'm lucky enough to know.  Women I admire.  Read.  Women whose work I read for heaven's sake - how cool is that?!   How could I not be sad and disappointed.


I demand a "do over!"  (and Brenn joins me in this demand).


In the meantime, today I'm picking up my copy of Diane Chamberlain's newest book, "Pretending to Dance."  I'll read it and about 6:00 this evening I'll lift my glass in a toast to the women at Topsail who I'll be missing.


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