family – Sharon M. Scarborough-Author

Breathtaking

Just when I think I’ve sort of got a handle on finding out what is really important in life, someone, in this case Maxx, makes me see that I don’t have a clue.

I’ve been rushing around trying to finish the next book and Mother Nature hits us with a winter freeze. Now, what those two things have in common (the book and frigid weather) is that many people are affected by this weather, and no one is affected if my book doesn’t make it to Amazon immediately.

The result is I have slowed to consider front and back matter in the book. I actually meditated today. And Maxx has chased the ball a lot but will do more tomorrow.

What happened—it’s those big brown eyes that shows a dog does have empathy, and he does need attention, and he gives big returns on love.

Librarians

Just because I love books…..

I just re-read about the horsewomen of Kentucky who worked for the WPA delivering library books on horseback to remote towns and homes. Part of the article from Atlas Obscura (8/31/17) follows:

“They were known as the “book women.” They would saddle up, usually at dawn, to pick their way along snowy hillsides and through muddy creeks with a simple goal: to deliver reading material to Kentucky’s isolated mountain communities.

The Pack Horse Library initiative was part of President Franklin Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration (WPA), created to help lift America out of the Great Depression, during which, by 1933, unemployment had risen to 40 percent in Appalachia. Roving horseback libraries weren’t entirely new to Kentucky, but this initiative was an opportunity to boost both employment and literacy at the same time.”

The article is amazing.

Exercising

I read this week that exercising helps prevent dementia and generally helps keep us happier. My question is: does exercising as slow as I go help?

It seems I’ve reached the magic age (might as well think of it as magic) when everything I do is slower. I used to exercise at a good pace. Now I am more methodical. (Notice I didn’t say plod.)

I used to be limber. I could do splits and sit-ups. Now, to do a sit-up I have to hook my feet under a table. Forget those modern crunches. And forget the splits.

This is to segue into the fact that I learned this week that my paternal grandfather loved to dance. He lived to be ninety-nine. Maybe I can dance and be ninety-nine, also. Photo from Unsplash

Edits

I’m working on edits of the next Nightingale novel. I hesitate to mention this because there will be many, many, more go rounds of this process because I want it to be done well, to be professional, and enjoyable for a reader. I strive to have no errors in the final book.

In a workshop this past week one of the attendees said she was really disappointed in the errors in the books she had bought on line. That’s what I want to avoid. That’s why I pay an editor and proofreader and cover designer. Why would anyone ever buy another book with my name on it if the first one he/she bought is full of errors?

So, that’s my story. . . it’s in progress, but Nightingale and Garrick are restless to get busy. Stay tuned.

Songs

I’ve been shuffling papers lately, working on the new manuscript, throwing out old bills, re-stacking some stacks of items I want to re-read. It seems the bane of my existence is reading. Of course, I mean that in a good way. Reading has always sheltered me from some storms and delivered me from others.

One of the things I’ve found was a copy of the lyrics of “Make Someone Happy.” Essentially, the song says, “Make just one heart the heart you sing to.” And, if you devote yourself to that one person, you’ll make someone happy, “And you will be happy too.”

Reading those lyrics made me smile—in the midst of taxes, rainy days, and a stubborn manuscript—I smiled. Look the song up, it might make you smile too.

New Nightingale

Photo from Unsplash

I’m into the first draft of the second Nightingale novel. Believe it or not, everything is new to me. I don’t know if other writers feel the beginning of a new book as a crisp, exciting adventure, but I do. I must confess that I have other manuscripts hidden in various nooks and crannies. They will never see the light of day, so they don’t count.

I’m talking about a fresh manuscript that will be the best quality I can produce at the time. This will take time. A few months (I dare not guess how many), but I am excited and determined to make this a really good read. Keep fingers crossed for me.

Logline for new Nightingale:

“For years Imogene and Portia have tried to be a family to Nightingale but he has worked and resisted their attempts at family ties. After a young man is murdered at their new house, Nightingale must investigate the death and realizes that he needs family more than he ever knew.”

New Produce

Our memories from childhood are the things that often resurface when we get older. I have a vivid memory of biting into a fresh tomato, still warm from being on the vine in the garden and the juice running down my face onto the front of my top. Then, of course, I added salt to the ripened red fruit. Disclaimer—scientifically a tomato is a fruit; to me it’s still a vegetable. And there was nothing better tasting to me. I have not found a tomato to match that taste in several decades.

The problem is that in my memory nothing can match that atmosphere of sitting on the front porch and eating tomatoes.

Unless it was sitting on the porch and eating watermelon. Now that was really a treat. My grandparents didn’t grow watermelons. They were smart and admitted their limitations. Grandmother was magic in the garden, but she never mastered watermelons. Truth be told, it took a certain soil to raise good watermelons.

At any rate, Granddaddy usually was the picker. After looking over a truckload of melons and thumping and looking at the field spot (you know, that flattened yellow spot where the melon sat and grew, soaking up moisture and sunshine slowly, getting sweeter and juicer each day) he would commit to a purchase. Then, after a trip home, the melon got rolled under the bed on the linoleum in the coolest room and left there for at least a day to be as cool as possible before cutting.

Sadly, most melons and tomatoes today don’t taste as good as they used to. I think that’s due to memories setting the goal so high, but also to the rush. Farmers are rushed to get produce to market. And you know what happens when you mess with (rush) Mother Nature.

One of my girls is going to have a raised garden next year. It will be hard, hot work, but she’s excited to get to it. I know my grandmother will be there in spirit, cheering her on.

“You should write because you love the shape of stories and sentences and the creation of different words on a page. Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.”

-Annie Proulx

Sense of Wonder

The most popular books and movies of all time all have one thing in common: They transport audiences better than other books and movies in their genre….. David Farland in his advice to writer’s column.

The sense of wonder is an amazing thing. I was reminded of this when I went through some books that my grandson was giving away in an effort to clear off his book shelves. Many of the books were about magic and new worlds.

The point I’m making is that really enjoyable books transport the reader to another place. That is done by appealing to one’s emotions. A reader is pulled deep into a book or movie and the reader feels the increased heartbeat, the rush of adrenaline, the hurry through the words to find out what happens to the characters. But, wait, these are not ordinary characters. These people are friends and family—we know them, we care about them.

That’s what I’ve been trying to create in the last scenes of the next Nightingale book. That’s also the reason why I have so many readers when I write about food.

People who read about Southern cooking remember their own meals and family and special moments.

Right now, I’m hungry for cream of wheat (or oatmeal) with brown sugar or maple syrup. That was often the breakfast before going out to get on a cold school bus. The house was cold because the fireplace couldn’t warm up quickly. But with my belly full of warm food and surrounded by love, I could conquer the world—at least for a few minutes.

Photo from Unsplash by Patrick Fore

Home

When do we start calling a place home? I started calling the different house “home” the first night I slept there. We (I’m including Maxx in this because he whines when we get near home) were eager to get into new digs. Photo from Unsplash by Annie Spratt

Maxx has already settled into home by napping in the sunshine or running after a squirrel. I began being more at home after unpacking a few boxes and setting up the computer for writing. I have been pretty good at writing something everyday since we’ve moved.

Sometimes I only get a few sentences done, but I try to not be too hard on myself. I’m still learning and will continue to learn about this craft called writing as I settle into a new home.

New Digs

I am moving from an apartment to a house. In one way I hate moving because it is really hard work. In another way, I love it because it makes me get rid of junk. In the last move I gave away work clothes, furniture, books, and dishes. I’ll be doing that again but to a smaller extent. It’s a freeing experience but also one filled with memories.

What I enjoyed today was finding some books I had forgotten. One, titled Daughters and Mothers was a gift from one of my daughters. Another one was All Over But the Shoutin’ by Rick Bragg. With each of them I stopped packing and read, remembering when I received the book or, in the case of Bragg’s book, why I bought it. It’s a delightful way to change the experience of moving.

Photo from Unsplash