Christmas as a kid in Cambridge. to my dad.

I love Christmas.

I always have.

I remember Christmas at our house when I was growing up, of course. What I remember most - more than anything - was that it was always a time of laughter. My dad loved to laugh, and always seemed to find the humor in any situation. But for some reason, Christmas day was especially joyous to him.

He may have laughed so much 'cause I was a bit of a clown . . .



Or I may have been a bit of clown simply because I enjoyed making him laugh.

I can remember his laughter vividly - it boomed. And when he laughed, you just couldn't help but laugh along.

I still hear that wonderful laughter in my heart, and not a Christmas day has gone by since he died that I don't share a chuckle and a tear with him.

I also remember there were two very different types of gifts under the tree. Looking back, I can easily figure out which were from "Mother Santa" and which were from "Father Santa."



Now.

What do you think?

See those drums?

What mother is going to give her only daughter a set of drums for Christmas? Not mine, I can assure you. Know what I remember most about those drums? The big drum ended up with a big hole in it on Christmas day 'cause somebody played the foot pedal too hard. big sigh. I cried and cried.

And those dolls. See those dolls?

I never ever understood the whole doll thing.

They didn't talk. They didn't play. They didn't do anything but sit. Cute and Mute. But no one seemed to notice that I wasn't fond of them and I kept getting more dolls. Every year for my birthday and Christmas I would get dolls. Little bitty dolls. Big stuffed dolls. Dolls dressed to the nines and wearing high heels. I've since asked my mother if I didn't ever just say I didn't like dolls, 'cause even back then I had a tendency to speak whatever was on my mind. She says she doesn't think I did, but they did notice that they didn't get picked up and played with too often. well - that's not exactly true. The ugly homemade dolls did, and the stuffed dolls did. If it was ugly, it won a place in my heart. If it was a soft, stuffed doll, I'd drag it around everywhere. But it if was a pretty little doll, I just couldn't care less. Instead I just played with my imaginary friend that no one else could see, but they all knew about. That friend stayed around for more years than was probably healthy, actually.

THAT is another story for another day. Back to the dolls . . .

I remember trading one doll with a girlfriend for a book. Even then I was a lover of books.









































Mother is one who has "pack-rat" tendencies. It's a trait I inherited in spades. She's gotten better about not saving every old ribbon and bow off our gift packages, but she used to save everything. Old report cards, old pictures (thank goodness!), old favorite dresses, and old toys. So it ended up being up to me to get rid of some of those things that had no value other than sentimental. She could not bring herself to do it, so she handed over all my "stuff" and said "do with it what you will." It was easy as pie for me to get rid of those dolls, I gotta tell you. Once they came out of the attic and into my possession, it didn't take long at all. I advertised them in the Atlanta Journal and they were sold within a few days to someone with a doll collection. He was tickled to death to get them, and could not believe what great shape they were in. Some were still safely tucked in their original boxes. I'm not sure, but I think I probably used that little windfall to buy books.

I had Tiny Tears













And I had one of these gorgeous American Beauty Toni dolls


This gal was still wearing a little pearl ring when I sold her. AND high heel shoes.

One of the dolls I did really love though was my Howdy Doody Doll.

He was fun!

I'm sure he talked to me.

sure of it.

and I had a Howdy Doody puppet.


I just loved Howdy Doody.

One year Mother dressed me up as Howdy Doody for Halloween. Actually, it wasn't much of a stretch seeing as how my hair was short and red and I had freckles and I was skinny.

Anyhoooooo . . . .

back to Christmas in Cambridge when I was a kid.

Besides receiving a lot of dolls for Christmas, the other memories that jump to mind immediately are how beautifully the town of Cambridge was decorated.

Even our fire department pulled out all the stops -


Right across the street from our apartment was Phillips Hardware, which had a huge front window. Every year Santa Claus would sit in a big comfy chair in that window and the kiddies would line up to sit on his knee to tell him what they wanted for Christmas.

And every year I'd be one of those kiddies standing in that line.

And then, when it was my turn to sit on Santa's knee I would start crying. Bawling to beat the band and flatly refused to climb up on that strange man's lap. Oddly enough, I wasn't quite that careful about men as I grew older. Oops - ANOTHER story for another time . . . . .

Christmas remained my family's favorite time of the year. Even after I moved away from Cambridge, I would still go home for the holiday. There was only one Christmas in my life that I wasn't with my mom and dad.

Now, of course, I'm all grown up, married to Donald and we share our home with Harley the Wonder Corgi. and Mother comes to our house for Christmas. and we still laugh. lots. and loudly. Dad would be proud.

A Room of One's Own by Gillian Roberts

Gillian Roberts is a figment who employs Judy Greber (the author of four mainstream novels in which people die, but nobody cares whodunit ) to ghostwrite for her. “Gillian” titles include two mysteries set in Marin County, Time and Trouble and Whatever Doesn’t Kill You, a how-to, You Can Write a Mystery, a short story collection and the fourteen books in the Anthony Award winning Amanda Pepper series.

Judy’s taught writing at College of Marin and Book Passage, and was adjunct faculty in USF’s MFA in Writing Program for a dozen years.

Currently, Judy is working on a ridiculously-difficult-to-research historical mystery. What Gillian’s been doing these past few decades remains a mystery.



A Room of One's Own
by Gillian Roberts and Judy Greber

Virginia Woolf famously said “a woman must have a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” She also said she must have money, an (inherited, she meant) income.

Nonetheless, I wrote my first book, Caught Dead in Philadelphia, without a room of my own, and my income was a (small) paycheck for teaching an overloaded roster at a private school. When I could steal an hour from my crowded life, I wrote at a small desk in a corner of the bedroom.

This worked well enough, but only when nobody else was around. Family members--well-meaning, loving though they be--have an unconscious need to take remedial action when they notice that you are totally happy without them. This is inborn--infants instinctively know how to do it. (Ask any mother what happens when she makes a phone call. If needs be, the formerly contented child will smash his own body parts if that’s what it takes to get her full attention back.)

So there I’d be, totally happy in my stolen moments with only the Selectric and the pictures in my mind, which should have set up a red flag. Because too often, a child would wander, as if in a trance, into the room and turn the typewriter off because...well, he wasn’t sure why. And one infamous sunny Saturday afternoon, when I was writing, the bedroom door opened and in came my husband and our two sons--plus a deflated basketball and a bicycle pump. The trio seated themselves cheerfully on the bed and proceeded to pump up the ball.

After I had regained the ability to speak (okay, the ability to screech) I asked, “WHY? WHY INSIDE? WHY IN HERE?” Their reactions were straight out of a cartoon. Mouths agape, eyes popping, they looked at each other, at me, at the basketball, at their surroundings, even more bewildered than I was.

We worked on that and reached a shaky peace, but naturally, when we moved again, I was thrilled to acquire a room of my own, even if it wasn’t quite a room yet. My office began life as a diminutive deck off the kitchen. The next owner turned it into her pottery workshop, but it was a peculiar half-inside, half-outside sort of place as if she couldn’t commit to clay vs. porch. The walls were brown shingles, the original exterior sliding glass separated me from the hallway, and an enormous window looked into the kitchen. It is a weirdly uncomfortable experience to do your thing in a room with three glass walls, unless you’re a guppy.


Over the years, we removed the shingles, made the kitchen dividing wall solid, put down wood floors, and created a normal interior doorway. To cap it off, and my husband built me my (enormous) dream desk. The former porch has no subflooring, so it’s the hottest place in the house in summer, the coldest in winter. And the desk apparently isn’t sufficiently enormous to avoid being cluttered 99% of the time. Doesn’t matter. It’s mine.

I’d always heard that a writer should face a blank wall in a spartan room in order to avoid distractions, but I’d rather eat glass than stare at a blank wall all day. Bad enough I stare at a blank screen and try not to think about my blank brain--adding to that emptiness would be masochistic overkill.

I therefore work in an absence of blankness. In back, glass doors face a garden bursting with life. And even if that were not so, I’ve filled the room with a medley of chatchkes and treasures. Above my desk, a poster of Georgia O’Keeffe scowls down at me. I look up at her amazing weathered face and I hear her saying, “I’m ninety and can barely see, but I’m still painting. How are you using your time, Missy?” Pinned to the poster is a tin angel that quotes James Michener with the words, “I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.” On the bookshelves across the room, I can see my past work, and on my bulletin board, a book-shaped milagro. I’m therefore surrounded by all the varieties of help I can find--nagging, encouragement, a reminder that I can do it (or at least, could), and most definitely, miracles.



Near Ms. O’Keeffe, there’s a photograph I bought at a street market in Argentina. It shows a well-groomed member of the public looking down at a seated lump of a man, his beard unkempt and his pathetic possessions in a shopping cart topped by a hand lettered sign that says, in Spanish, “Poetry for Sale.” They didn’t have one that said, “Mysteries for Sale,” but I feel a kinship with that guy and am also afraid of becoming him, so he’s another prompt to get to work.

There are lots of things that amuse me. Frogs of many shapes and materials. Souvenirs from trips, gifts received and treasured. A charcoal drawing I did of my husband. The girl and boy bookends that were in my nursery, several millennia ago. A clock with no numbers. Instead, in place of the 12, it says, “read a book, ” and “read another book” at 12:15, and “read yet another book” at half past the hour and “buy more books” at a quarter of anything.


And then, there’s my waste paper basket. When I sold my first book, I spread my world-class collection of rejection slips out, chose only one per publication and glued them to an industrial-sized basket. For the twenty-nine years since then, I’ve looked at the collage: J. B. Lippincott, Young Family, The Saturday Evening Post, Atheneum, Girl Talk, McCall’s--so many others--where are you now? Maybe if you’d published me...? Probably not, but it still gives me pleasure to use it for my rejects.


One caveat: it isn’t truly a room of my own. I share it with an aged, ill-tempered tabby cat, Mehitabel, who keeps me company while I write. I am sure she does this is out of love and literary interests, not because I have a heating pad on ‘her’ chair. She’s named after the wild, sluttish tabby in the terrific Archie and Mehitabel books, which I hope you already knew. If not--highly recommended. I, of course, am Archie, the typing cockroach. I think of her as my muse. She thinks of me as her amusement. It works.

Virginia and all the writing experts would disapprove of what I’ve done with my room. They’d see a small, cluttered space with too many distractions, and they’d be right. But I see a room truly made my own. And I see stories everywhere around me--the stories of my life.

Virginia Woolf was a genius, but still a bit wrong about the necessity of a room of one’s own (let alone the income.) It is indeed lovely to have one (lovelier to have both), but the truth is, despite all the distractions around me, at those miraculous times when a brand-new story takes shape in my imagination, I barely notice the walls and shelves. Not even the wastepaper basket.

Sunday Ramblings - Giving Some Thanks AND Giving Away a Great Book

Jill is the winner of BURIED LIES. We've been in touch and Jill knows the book will be winging its way to her.

I wish I had copies to send everyone who dropped by. Even though I don't - I feel pretty good about being able to tell you about a book you might enjoy, but may not have heard about. I hope you'll give it a try.

Sometime next month, I'll be hosting another give-away, so keep watching. I'm not sure what it'll be, but I'll find something that will, hopefully, appeal to many of you.

In the meantime - many thanks for your support, and I wish you all the Happiest of Holidays!



Are you all still in the Thanksgiving spirit?

Still giving thanks for the blessings in your life?

Or has it already been replaced by the hustle and bustle of trying to get ready for Christmas?

If you're getting stressed about Christmas, I suggest you take a deep breath and back up from it all. Just a bit. Back up to a little over a week ago when you were giving thanks for family, friends, loved ones and the good things in your life.

Last week I did a long photo post giving thanks to Harley. That was certainly not to mean I wasn't (and still) giving thanks for the two most important people in my life.

My Mom - -




Is she not just the cutest?!

I love her to bits (and so does Harley Doodle Barley).

AND so does her son-in-law.

My mom is 83 and as feisty as she was when she was a new mom of 22 (my dad will love hearing this. He's no longer with us, but since I chat with him in my mind most days, I know he also reads my blog). Even at age 83 she remembers everything (unlike her daughter). If there's anything she might ever forget, it's that Donald is her son-in-law and not a son she gave birth to. The two of them couldn't possibly love one another any more if they really were mother/son. They're the best of buddies and are able to laugh together and tease one another unmercifully. And for that I am thankful. (notice the weaving loom in this picture? more on this in a minute.).

So.

Here we are a week later (and I'm another year older - oy! Sixty-one years old. HOW did that happen?!)

And I have a cold.

ugh.

I'm thankful I didn't have it the week of Thanksgiving.

There were just too many delightful things happening that week to slow down long enough to have a cold.

Mother and I shopped the day before Thanksgiving for Christmas gifts. We used to shop all year. Now, however, we've become more practical, AND because of the economy, don't seem to have as much disposable cash, so we've cut back on our gifting. And, again, because of the state of the economy, good sales are readily available if you have the time to look for them.

Thursday we ate and celebrated my birthday.

Friday Donald and I put up the tree (teeny tree!), and decorated the house (less than in previous years).

Saturday I wrapped gifts (fewer than in years past).

Sunday I baked -- I baked fifty-nine (59 ! !) little mini-bundt cakes for Donald and I to share with co-workers. They were adorable and why I didn't take pictures I have no idea! I used a recipe from one of my all-time favorite little cookbooks - Bibb Jordan's "The Pound Cake Cookbook." I did Bittersweet Chocolate-Orange cakes. Delish and a highly recommended recipe.

And while we were having a productive, but fun and relaxing long holiday weekend, Donald did some weaving.

Y'all.

I am SO impressed with how Donald has taken to this whole weaving thing like a duck to water. Lookie here - here's that other very important person in my life I give thanks for -


My Donald - -




and here's what he's already done as his learning piece -




unbelievable.

I'm over the moon proud of my Donald. Always.

One of the things I love most about him is his unending curiosity. About everything. And when he's curious, he'll delve into whatever is tickling his brain to learn everything there is to learn. And then - like this weaving thing; he'll just, by golly, do it. I love that.

hmmmm - - -

and now I've meandered into one of those corners I have no idea how to get myself out of other than just jump.

So.

Jumping back to my cold.

(You knew I'd have to come back and whine about my cold didn't you?!)

I have the worst cold ever. THE worst. You think YOU'VE had bad colds?! Pfft! Never as bad as this one I'm sure. (insert evil imp right here).

o.k.

I've whined about my cold - I feel better now.

And here's what I've been thankful for while battling the damn thing -




do you guys have favorite comfort foods when fighting a cold? and what might they be?

It's jello and good ol' Campbell's tomato soup for this gal.

And now I'm going to finish up my Sunday ramble with a give-away, with a brief little story behind it.

Peter Rennebohm is an author. A quite talented one. I "met" Peter at DorothyL. He is, without a doubt, one of the most gracious people on God's green earth. A few years ago, he offered DorothyL readers an opportunity that a reader just cannot resist. A free book.



But, there was a catch. He would send you a copy of his book "Blue Springs," OR a copy of his "French Creek" if you would promise to "pay it forward." Read it, send it along to someone who might enjoy it, and ask that they do the same. Greedy me asked for both. Lucky me received them. Even luckier was the friendship I received. A friend by the name of Peter Rennebohm. Who also happens to be a VERY talented writer. I passed along "Blue Springs," and I passed along "French Creek" and I kinda held my breath till they got back home where they belonged. They did and I was happy. Peter sent me an autographed ARC of "Buried Lies" when it came out last year and, not surprisingly, I loved it.

I haven't chatted with Peter in awhile, and he's not much for blogs, but I'm going to give him a little nudge in hopes he'll know that even though we don't talk often, I'm thankful for him, his talent, and his generosity.

Here's a picture of the cover of "Buried Lies" - isn't it great?!

And so is the book itself - It is terrific! An old fashioned treasure hunt, along with a puzzle mystery, AND a dash of romance. Full of interesting, well-drawn, believable characters AND one of the coolest covers ever. I enjoyed it tremendously.

And so did another of my favorite authors - William Kent Krueger - Here's what he has to say about it: "Buried Lies is one big scavenger hunt of a book. Crossing both territory and time, the story is built around a couple of engaging puzzles. One is literal, with plenty of intriguing clues. The other, quite simply, is the mystery of the human heart. Author Peter Rennebohm tackles both puzzles with great gusto. The result is a thrill ride of a read that you'd be a fool to miss."

AND another favorite writer, and very good friend, Shane Gericke (whose third crime thriller "Torn Apart" will be published in July) says this: "The X marks certain death in this very special treasure hunt. Buried Lies is a ripping good mix of hot action, cool characters, and compelling drama. Highly recommended."

I'm not giving away my signed ARC, but I'm quite proud to offer one of you a first edition copy of "Buried Lies." It was one I "paid forward," so it has been gently read. VERY gently. I doubt any of you could ever tell it's been read. The dust cover appears to have been removed each time it was read and has been very respectfully cared for.

Just leave a comment along with your email address and next weekend I'll draw a name and one of you will become the owner of this lovely book. Check back here next Sunday to see if you're the lucky winner.

Doesn't Everyone Love Getting a Book for Christmas?!

Well, of course they do!

At least, it's a darn good bet that all of you do.

And 'tis the season for all us bloggers to tell you what we recommend, right?!

And you pay very close attention to what we say, right?!

We're the experts, right?!

Well, some are - but not me.

In my case - although no expert, I am fairly opinionated (yes, yes, yes - I know you know that by now).

I've read a ton of books this year, and many of them made a strong enough impression that I'm able to easily and fondly remember them months later. For someone like me who has a hard time remembering last night's supper, this is a true test. Some of my favorites this year were by writers on my "auto-buy authors list." Some were by some new kids on the block, and some were by "new to me" authors. Here's the thing. While reading my favorite blogs over the past week or two, what I saw were recommendations for mystery/crime fiction novels that I would also recommend (which tells me all those other blogger people have terrific taste! Right?!). So. Instead of repeating what all those other ultra smart blogging friends of mine are saying, I'm going to recommend only one book.

Not a mystery.

Not a thriller.

Not even in the crime fiction genre.

Not even fiction.

But it's a book I am SO proud of I cannot shut up about it.

Have you figured it out yet?


Let me tell you what some other people are saying . . .


Julie Parker, Western North Carolina Woman Magazine - - " . . . We are so excited about this book because it is, like WNC WOMAN, a superb vehicle for collecting and sharing tales of the strength, wisdom and grace of the women of these beautiful mountains." (WNC Woman also reprinted several of the pieces from the book - including mine! What an honor, and a huge thrill. Yay, me!!!)

The Laurel of Asheville gives Clothes Lines a half page ad! "Wheeeeee" says one of our editors. And rightly so!

From Rob Neufeld, The Read on WNC - - "To see all these writers well represented in a single volume is a treat and a service."

Former North Carolina Poet Laureate and contributor to Clothes Lines - Kathryn Stripling Byer at her blog "Here, Where I Am", - - - ". . . This anthology of work about clothes and how we women get tangled up in them has just been published and its cover looks like a writer's shawl, don't you think? One she'd throw around her shoulders before heading out for the cafe, the salon, the bookstore, the poetry reading! The 75 western North Carolina women in this book would probably love to fling such a shawl round themselves and head out to make the literary scene in style."

Radine Trees Nehring, Author of the "Something to Die For" mystery series wrote this at the well known, long lived, much loved, on-line mystery forum; DorothyL - - - "Just finished CLOTHES LINES, edited by Celia H. Miles and Nancy Dillingham. WOW, every woman here on DL should read this, though it is not a mystery. It's a collection of essays, little stories (true) and poetry by 75 women from western North Carolina. Kaye Barley is one of the authors, with her "Needing a Little Something Red in My Life." I loved Kaye's thoughtful opinion piece and tell-all about wearing red (and indeed, it seems wearing red, especially red shoes, cheers many women here and in the general population). I think all female readers will find many things that cause them (sure caused me) to click their tongues, smile, and say "Yesssss!" A couple other favorites of mine were "Let's Talk Bras" by Nancy Purcell, and "Sixty-Something," a poem by Janice Townley Moore. And...oh shoot, I loved it all. Poignant, funny, REAL. Enjoy!"

And with permission from the authors, I offer you these little samples of the loveliness to be found between the covers of "Clothes Lines, from 75 western North Carolina women writers." (Catawba Publishing Company, ISBN 978-1-59712-355-6)

"Too-Tight, Just-Right Jeans"
by Gwendie Camp

It has been a long time since I tried to put on a tight pair of jeans (I value comfort way too much), but, from what I remember, here's how it's done. You start by carefully inserting each of your legs a little way into the appropriate pants leg, and then you need to immediately lie down, preferably on a soft bed, because otherwise the rest of this will hurt.

Keep one hand on the waistband so the jeans don’t fall off onto the floor, because then you’d have to start over, and once you start this, there’s no going back.

OK, now you’ve got yourself lying on the bed, holding on for dear life to these too-tight, just-right jeans. Slowly start inching the waistband up your legs, covering up more and more skin. This part should be easy, otherwise you’re never gonna get these suckers on. And I’m assuming you’ve already got your underpants on, if you wear underpants, that is. Underpants can leave a tell-tale line when you’re done, but your crotch will thank you for them.

Now, you’re lying there wiggling and tossing and turning and inching those jeans up toward your waist. Everything is going good until you get to your crotch. Here you might want to pause and reconnoiter. You need to have every inch of your legs inside those jean legs, or else this is not gonna work. In fact, if you can pull the pants legs up a little bit onto your bottom, so much the better. You’re gonna to need every inch of fabric you can get.

Here comes the hard part. You’ve got both legs in the jeans. You’re lying on your back. Now you push your heels down into the mattress and raise your fanny off the bed a few inches—if you can. If you can’t, you can’t wear these jeans.

And then, as fast as you can, you snake that fabric up as far as it will go. Then you collapse for a minute until you get your strength and your breath back. I forgot to mention that you’d probably be holding your breath through this last part, and it can get pretty tiring in a hurry.

If you are in luck, the jeans are up near your waist, but they aren’t zipped or buttoned. I hope you thought ahead and got jeans that zip, because you you're never going to get them buttoned.

So now you’ve rested up a bit. For the coup de grace, you take in a big breath, blow it out as hard as you can, and suck that belly in farther than you’ve ever done before. And AT THE SAME TIME (this is the tricky part) you pull like crazy on that little zipper tab. You may have to get some help here if you’re not real strong.

Let’s say you got the zipper most of the way to the top. Now you stand up—on the floor, not the bed - and you jump up and down a few times. Again, at the SAME TIME you suck in that gut and inch the zipper up. Whew, it’s done.

But now there’s this roll of skin at the top. Looks like you’re wearing one of those kiddie swimming rings. So to get rid of that, you bend over and try to touch your toes about a million times, attempting to stretch out the fabric. If that doesn’t work, you can do a bunch of deep knee bends. You might want to hold onto the side of the bed for that. By this time if you aren’t zipped up and mostly covered by those jeans, it's not going to happen.

The last step is to ask your beloved “Do these jeans make my butt look big?”

"Finding Our Line"
by Nancy Dillingham

Every day
we shape our clay
from the inside out
giving it cachet

But sometimes
it's the clothes we wear
that give us away
that give us away

Curves, straight lines
diagonals, in-your-face style
au courant, de rigueur
faux, retro

Similarly
we define ourselves as writers
shape our style

The curve of the plot
the turn of the phrase
the tone of the prose--
it's the pattern of patter
that matters

We preen, we pose
give color to character
and landscape
decorate and align

weaving a provocative story
stitching a tall tale
spinning a yarn
threading a thrme

piecing a poem
with precision and panache
punctuating with élan
finding our line

"Sixty-Something"
by Janice Townley Moore

As I bronze with gel
my veiny feet, slide them
into the glittery cages
of flip-flops, showing off
plum brulee polish on nails
topped with sequins -
I see my grandmother
at my age, her stockings
rolled down around her ankles
sturdy above the black oxfords
she wore through summer's swelter.
Now she stretches to pin
a basketful of clothes
on the ropey line.
Her seersucker dress
drags its hem in the red dust.
She never dreams the joy
of bending over to flaunt
a purple thong and a graceful
monarch settled forever
above the dimple
on the right buttock.



There you go. Little teasers from a terrific book. Check back, 'cause I may be adding more.




"Clothes Lines" is available from Celia Miles at celiamiles@fastmail.fm for $22.00 including postage.

When a Favorite Book Gets a New Life by Diane Chamberlain

People often ask me "Which of your books is your favorite?" That's a little like asking a parent "Which of your children do you love best?" It's impossible to answer, at least not without a good deal of explanation.

Each of my nineteen novels is my baby and each contains some of my heart and soul. I can't deny it, though: I do have favorites and my latest novel, the reissued Breaking the Silence, is one of them. I write complex stories, and this is one of my most complex. One reviewer wrote that "it has something for everyone," and that may be one reason why I love it.







It's the story of:

• a mysterious deathbed request

• an elderly woman with Alzheimer's

• a mute little girl

• the CIA mind control experiments that took place in the 1950s

• a hot air balloon pilot

• a journalist who does something really crazy!

• and the female astronomer who pulls all those threads together

Whew! I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

And here's a bonus: In spite of all the rough stuff I put my characters through, the story has a happy ending--or at least, a satisfying one. That's a promise I always make to my reader and to myself. Happiness is much sweeter when we have to struggle to get there. I don't mind finishing a book with a tear in my eye as long as I'm also wearing a smile on my face, however poignant that smile may be.

The idea for Breaking the Silence came to me in the stacks of the library. I love walking through the nonfiction stacks, skimming the spines of books to see what jumps out at me. One day, I spotted a book called Journey into Madness by Gordon Thomas. The former psychotherapist in me had to pull the book down from the shelf, which is when I saw the subheading: The True Story of Secret CIA Mind Control and Medical Abuse. I was living in the Washington, DC area at the time, and some of my closest friends (and, okay, my then-husband as well) worked for the CIA, so how could I resist? I found a comfortable chair in the corner of the library and lost myself in the horrific account of government sanctioned experimentation on unwitting psychiatric patients during the cold war years. I knew I had to write about this experimentation in a novel. However, my audience primarily reads women's fiction, so I needed to find a way to write about something as gritty as mind control experiments in a way that would appeal to my readership. I also was intensely fascinated by the way the staff at the Allan Memorial Institute in Montreal, Canada (the psychiatric hospital where much of the program took place and which I fictionalized in Breaking the Silence) went along with the outrageous practices.

To meet these challenges, I created a dual storyline. Laura Brandon is an acclaimed astronomer. On her father's deathbed, he asks her to take care of an elderly woman named Sarah Tolley, someone Laura has never heard him mention before. She visits Sarah, only to learn that the elderly woman has Alzheimer's and has no memory of Laura's father. She does, however, remember a great deal about her distant past, which she gradually reveals to Laura. I decided to make Sarah a nurse involved in the mind control experiments rather than a patient, so that I could explore how someone might come to believe that the maltreatment of patients was good and necessary.

Meanwhile, Laura's husband kills himself, her little daughter stops talking, and she falls in love with a hot air balloon pilot. It all ties together eventually. Honest! Here I am during the cut-and-paste outlining phase of one of my books. Writing a book as complicated as Breaking the Silence truly does require an outline . . . even if I end up throwing it away once the characters take over.

In the summer of 2008, my novel The Secret Life of CeeCee Wilkes was selected by Target as their BookClub pick. This was a huge honor and enabled me to reach tens of thousands of new readers. I've heard from so many of them who are hungry to find my backlist, so I was thrilled when my publisher told me they planned to reissue some of my earlier books, spiffed up with great new covers and all in trade paperback format. I love that Breaking the Silence is one of those books and will now be available to my readers. I'll be posting more about the challenges of writing and researching this book on my own blog during December (you don't want to miss the story of my harrowing hot air balloon ride!), and you can read an excerpt and find discussion questions for reading groups at my website.

Would you like to win a copy of Breaking the Silence? On December 10th, I'll randomly select one of the commenters to this post and I'll mail a personalized copy of the book to the winner in time for him or her to give it (or keep it) as a holiday gift.

Thank you, Kaye, for your entertaining blog and for giving so many writers the opportunity to share their writing journeys with your blog readers. Happy Holidays to everyone, from my two writing companions, Jet and Keeper, and me.

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