EditorialLee Speaking

As I write this, it's April Fool's Day. It appears winter finally gave up its hold on us yesterday, but one day of lamb-like weather at the end of March further convinces me global warming is a hoax perpetrated by a few people who wanted to get rich at the expense of the rest of us. The Braves lost yesterday on Opening Day, and the latest fad among Braves' players appears to be elbow surgery. My favorite time of year (March Madness) has ended disgustingly with nobody in the Final Four that makes me want to root, root, root. The deadline for entry to our workshop in June draws closer. 

And I'm not writing about any of those things. Okay, the last one about the workshop holds some relevance to the success stories I'm about to mention, but that the deadline nears isn't my focus here. Success is that focus.

Sheila Hudson was at St. Simons when I first attended the Southeastern Writers Workshop in 2001 and has been there every year since then. She's served in various capacities (including President) on the Board of Directors for our writers-helping-writers group. Now, after years of faithful effort, she has landed a book deal. More than just a one-book deal -- a potential series with another thirteen decisions coming up for her next title! And more than just a series, a series bringing help with life's lessons. The title of the first is Thirteen Decisions That Will Change Your Life. Check it out here: http://sh5633.wix.com/13decisions. Among Sheila's other writing projects: a blog called "Bright Ideas." Check it out here: http://sheilasewellhudson.wordpress.com/

Emily Sue Harvey was also at that first workshop I attended. Like Sheila, she's faithfully attended workshop classes and served her time on the Board of Directors (including a two-year term as President). After years of fighting the battle to get published and facing rejection after rejection, in 2011 she hit the jackpot and now has five novels in print. Her Amazon.com page lists them all along with some biographical information: http://www.amazon.com/Emily-Sue-Harvey/e/B008UV2CX4. Her personal website is: http://emilysueharvey.com/

Buzz Bernard first came to SWA several years ago (he wasn't here on my first visit in 2001). However, like Sheila and Emily Sue, he has been a Godsend to SWA. He now holds the title of Vice President on the Board of Directors. Oh, yeah, SWA has been a Godsend to him. Buzz has had success as a novelist, beginning with Eyewall in 2011, which became ame an e-book bestseller on Amazon Kindle. He's since followed up with two other novels, which have garnered recognition for excellence (Plague is my favorite...I'm currently reading Supercell). And yet when he first came to SWA, he was unpublished as a novelist. I remember the happiness he let show when SWA novel instructor Brian Jay Corrigan told him, "You're ready to play with the big boys." Here's a link to Buzz's Facebook page:  https://www.facebook.com/pages/H-W-Buzz-Bernard-author/314813731901133

Oh, Buzz doesn't just write about weather; as a former employee of The Weather Channel, he's a self-admitted "weather junkie." And his upcoming fourth novel, Blizzard, will be his third weather-related book.

These are not the only success stories from SWA, but they are three that hit close to my heart. I have worked closely with all three on the SWA Board and also gotten to know them well as friends. I see several things in common beyond the fact that they've all had success:

• They've been attending SWA for years, honing their crafts and understanding the marketplace as a result.
• They've all won awards (at SWA and elsewhere) for poetry, humor or short stories, fiction or non-fiction.
• They've all served on the SWA Board of Directors. That in itself doesn't guarantee anything. But it does show that those willing to step up and help others frequently are the ones who succeed.
• None of them are (sorry, guys) young in years. Young at heart, perhaps, but all have found their success through perseverance that has carried them to success late in life.

Buzz still serves on the board, and Sheila is working as an auxiliary board member. Both will be at the workshop in June. If your career as a writer seems to be going nowhere, talk to them. I'm sure they have had times they felt their writing careers were going nowhere also.

And while Emily Sue, with her busy promotion schedule, probably won't be there, I venture to say she'd answer any questions a fledgling unpublished wannabee might throw at her via Facebook, Linked-in or the contact form on her web page (link at her personal website).

We have a lot more success stories that have grown from SWA, far too many to list in one column. If you're interested in adding your name to the list of successful SWA-workshop grads, the first step is to sign up for this year's June workshop. Just follow this link and you'll be on your way: http://www.southeasternwriters.org/Writers_Workshop.html

~~ Lee Clevenger

Lee is the current President of SWA, an author and co-founder of ThomasMax Publishing in Atlanta, GA.

Flavors Of Life

I love to write happy endings. Yet, my stories deal with real life issues and emotions so, in their telling, I cannot avoid unpleasantness.  Seems life doles out lots of hassle along the way. It is indiscriminate and rampant and causes darkness to fall upon…whomever.  Whenever. The Bible says that even God Himself is “no respecter of persons.” And I remember a time, after the death of my adolescent child, when an uninvited visitor came to call. 

His name was Grief. And he was, at first, so in my face I would smother and despair and cry forlornly. I could be walking in clean fragrant spring air, soaking up peace when he would suddenly appear and block out the sunshine, overwhelm my space, and take from me the tranquility I had painstakingly gleaned through prayer and meditation. He would take the mellow music that soothed and make it tinny and dissonant to my ear.  He would cause everything, even pleasant, entreating voices to rattle my nerves. 

He was, at times, obnoxiously intrusive.

Grief’s flavor is a mixed bouquet of carnations and bitter weeds. The sweet carnation flavor is like a siren’s song, enticing one to linger in thick, drowning melancholy, while the bitter taste reminds one to quickly seek escape. 

I learned that enduring Grief was necessary. In small, brief doses, he helps us heal as we struggle through darkness.

So, at times, I will grieve for what might have been, for what no longer is.  But Grief will not be allowed to move in and take up residence. He would devour me. 

I cannot permit that. Life is too good.

In Flavors, Sadie Ann Melton, too, faces moments of grief, for what life is not. At others, she grieves for what life is. Her twelve years have not prepared her for the reality she faces during that 1950 summer at the Melton Farm. She sees death up close and personal. She encounters cruelty and inhumanity. Gentle-hearted Sadie Ann uses flavors to label the different experiences and epiphanies. It renders them bearable and coats them for easier swallowing.  This way, she can cope and move forward.

Still, Grief shows up and despairs over the hidden funny paper and cries over the dead puppies. He is really in Sadie Ann’s freckled face and under her skin, grating her nerves. He makes her feel useless and isolated. Homeless.

But, like me, Sadie Ann refuses to keep company with this intrusive, uninvited visitor. He is tolerated only for short increments of time. She even shares with him, on occasion, an introspective moment or two. But she is too “in the moment” to linger and smolder in self-pity for unfortunate happenings.  Somehow, inherently, her spirit knows that life is too short to waste.

So Sadie Ann cries at times and she doesn’t cry at others. She laughs a lot but soon learns when not to laugh. She loves to exult over and talk about things she enjoys but she learns also when to keep silent. Like the child in all of us, she learns many things through difficult experiences. Like us, she learns that when Grief appears, sometimes he just comes along for the ride.  He isn’t the driver. It’s our call. 

Grief teaches Sadie Ann to love others unconditionally.  It stretches her to new dimensions of awareness and compassion. It draws her to adult peers who love and guide her into adulthood.

My goal is to write stories that impact all readers, universally. That once, having read my stories, they will feel unalterably changed, in good ways.

In my mainstream fiction novels, I don’t garnish my stories with pretty paper and ribbons. I strive for reality. I want readers to span the darkness with my characters, weep with them and struggle with them as they grope their way to light. Remember what one little candle can do in a dark world.  I use this same Darkness/Light contrast in my novel, Song of Renewal, to symbolize the three Wakefields’ struggles toward enlightenment and renewal. 

Once the reader enters into these characters’ world, only then can they truly appreciate the fact that, when they emerge from that dark odyssey into light, the glow will be glorious to behold!  

Aah. Life is sweet.

 ~~ Emily Sue Harvey

Emily Sue has published 6 books, including Cocoon and Unto These Hills.  She is a life member of SWA and a former president. Visit Emily Sue's website.

ReBlogs: Where’s the Chicken?

Note from Emily Sue: "Happy holidays to you! I know Thanksgiving's past but this story [relates to] the yuletide season as well!"

Thanksgiving Day loomed ominously close. Ominously because the clock kept ticking and the hacking, debilitating cough I’d had for five weeks refused to turn loose. Late afternoons found me stretched out on the sofa, exhausted and limp as a noodle.

“It will just have to run its course,” droned Dr. Brunson.

“But—I have to cook for Thanksgiving. My family is all coming in,” I sputtered, they being my three offspring, their spouses, and eight grandchildren, a total of sixteen.

And son-in-law, Bubba, whose prowess in the kitchen challenged mine.

“Why don’t you let them take care of you this year?” my physician suggested so calmly that, had I had the strength, I’d have taken his office apart, board by board.  He, like my husband, Lee, remained clueless to the fact that my “great cook” reputation wobbled on the line here.

Finally, Thanksgiving Day dawned. I loaded up on decongestants and antibiotics, got an early start and by noon, completed part of my desserts, tea, and endless tedious things which comprise cooking.

“Slow down, honey. You’re making enough for an army,” Lee murmured in passing, snatching goody samples and dodging my swats. Yeh, I thought, feeling particularly nasty, but you have no compunctions about dipping in.

Men just don’t get it with the cooking thing.

Every female alive knows that cooking and feeding folks is affection in its most noble form. Not cook?

“No way Jose’,” I snapped at Lee, who’d again suggested KFC or something equally blasphemous. “Our kids and grandkids want to eat Mimi’s buttermilk biscuits and strawberry jam. What about Chicken Bog? No restaurant around here offers anything that even remotely resembles it.”

Chicken Bog is a tradition at our house..  Each holiday, the low-country Chicken-rice-smoked sausage dish dazzles alongside potato salad, cranberry sauce, dressing/gravy, sweet potato pie, and a dozen other entrees.

Anyway, my Chicken Bog and homemade buttermilk biscuits are the only foods on earth that are not Bubba-specialties. Master chef Bubba juggles grilling tools, spices, and roasting meat with one hand and stirs up incredible gourmet veggie dishes with the other as effortlessly as suppressing a yawn.

Anything short of splendid on my part today would be catastrophic.

“Why don’t you cut down this time since you’re not feeling well?”

“You’re talking to a perfectionist over-doer, remember?” I joked listlessly.

Lee swiped a chunk of smoked sausage and when I didn’t react, murmured, “you really are sick, aren’t you?”

“Yeh. And Pam, Bubba, and the girls will be here soon.” The room began it’s afternoon spin but I groped the counter, took deep breaths, then managed to get the chicken for the bog stewing in pots.

“I’ll watch these,” Lee said as I tumbled onto the sofa and spiraled downward into a short comatose snooze.

“This chicken seems done,” Lee’s voice tugged me from fuzzy Netherlands and onto unsteady feet.  I fork-tested for tenderness. Perfect. He tong-lifted the meat to bowls.

“I’ll put these here in the freezer section to cool before I debone and dice the meat.” I did so and whisked cooled potato cubes from the fridge to transform into potato salad.

An hour to go. Measure broth into large pot and season to taste. Add sautéed onions, smoked sausage, then bring to boil. Add rice, cover, steam twenty minutes. Done. More creamy and moist than usual. That’s good. Pot doesn’t look quite as full but there’s plenty.

Buzzer. Pie is golden done. Lee measures coffee into coffeemaker.

Shower. Dress. Cars pulling in driveway. Hugs. Kisses. Laughter.

Shouts of glee—Oooh, Mama’s Chicken Bog! Mmm…. You outdid yourself Mama…Mimi, did you bake biscuits? May I have one now? Hands clasped, blessing said…

Everything seemed swathed in a heavy mist.  I blinked away the darned haze. I did it, by George, despite being so danged sick.  Fulfillment, thick and sweet, stirred inside me. I settled down to pick at my food, eyes heavy-lidded and watery, waiting for the compliments to continue.

“Great Chicken Bog, Mimi,” said Bubba. A comet—with Pride emblazoning it–flashed across my horizon. Then his forehead creased into puzzlement. “May I ask you a question”

“Sure,” I said, honored that Chef Bubba queried me.

“Where’s the chicken?” 

Silence dropped like a thick fog.

All around the table, heads lowered and forks pushed rice around in search of meat. “Oh, no,” I croaked, arose and zigzagged to the upright freezer. Sure enough, there they perched–bowls of cooling chicken, now half frozen.

“Anybody for Rice-a-la-Chicken-Mode?” I slurred, weaving a bit.

Everybody cracked up. “Naw, Mimi,” roared Bubba, having the time of his life. . “Heck, this Bog’s good jus’ like it is!”

We had our first meatless Thanksgiving feast and by far the funniest one.

This, too, shall pass, with Mimi’s spotless reputation restored? Right?

 Not on your life.

That holiday is etched in infamy, spawning a special commemoration. Each Thanksgiving now, when we sit down, Bubba grins like possum road-kill and bellows, “Where’s the chicken?”

~~ Emily Sue Harvey

Emily Sue has published 6 books, including Cocoon and Unto These Hills.  She is a life member of SWA and a former president. Read other blogs by Emily Sue on The Story Plant.

ReBlogs: Mystical Melodies

 “Would you consider taking the position of club music reporter this year?” asked the president of the exclusive Blue Flower literary club to which I belong.

“Uh—let me think about it,” I said, more than a little spooked facing this new frontier because tastes in music cover an infinite eclectic range, right?

I much preferred something more familiar and safe. Like doing literary reports but that position was already filled by a very qualified member. So, determined to be a conscientious, contributing associate I agreed.

But where would I begin? I stewed over it for days, because thrown into my complex hard-wiring is a tangled strain of perfectionism. I say tangled because it is so difficult to unravel and allow me to just—flow. To narrow my choices down to two reports a month would take—for me– some real thinking and planning. I knew right away that along with reading background on both composer and inspiration behind compositions, I wanted to play my CD selections for enjoyment.

Music listeners emit sentiments that run the gamut from Kin Hubbard’s “classical music is the kind we keep thinking will turn into a tune,” and Jimmy Durante’s, “I hate music. Especially when it’s played” to George Elliot’s eloquent “I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with music.”

And I definitely fall into the latter category.

I was raised in a music- filled home while my husband was not. I rhapsodize over “Ebb Tide”, actually inhaling the salty air and hearing the ocean’s roar, while his eyes glaze over and his mind wanders to bank statements or what’s in the fridge. Now, I have to say that “Wake Up Little Susie” does perk him up, as does anything with a heavy beat snappy enough to twang his senses.

So it was with bated breath that I decided to begin my series of reports with my favorite classical masterpiece, Debussy’s “Claire de Lune.” At the meeting, I briefly shared highlights from Debussy’s life, the inspiration behind the composition, and then played a beautiful full orchestral arrangement on my newly purchased CD player. When the responses were enthusiastic and dreamy-eyed, I was emboldened to simply let go and enjoy my new assignment.

Wow.

Music is magic. It takes me places. Yes, it does. And the places and times vary as widely as dream-travels. It moves me beyond what words can express.  When I write novels, inserting familiar songs is an essential to move moments and take readers there.

“Sentimental Journey” takes me to my grandparents’ tiny mill hill house when my daddy was off fighting in WWII. As a toddler I would sprawl on the floor and press my ear to the cabinet radio’s hidden speaker, listening to the mellow blend of instruments that, even then, moved me in mystifying ways. It conjures up memories of my lovely mother’s tears and later, the joy of Daddy’s homecoming.

“Claire de Lune”, my aforementioned favorite, transports me to early years when a young mother (me) floated through otherwise mundane housework, experiencing the magic of moonlit European sites. At other times and moods, I was certain that Heaven’s portals held this very music for the engagement of the angels.

Ahh, and the Cole Porter creations push infinite buttons in me, taking me back to childhood and strawberry teen years, when “Dancing in the Dark” had me spot light dancing with Fred Astaire and “Night and Day” ushered in my first real life romance. Never mind that Cole Porter once said that his sole inspiration was a telephone call from a producer. That revelation didn’t dull my adulation in the least.  The source of inspiration is inconsequential as long as one embraces it.  Porter’s musical genius remains, to me, solid and unchallenged.

Gershwin’s music never fails to enchant, bedazzle, and rescue me from any moment’s angst. And not only his, but a host of others because you see, I’m a hopeless, captive music lover. I love anything—from church hymns to marching tunes to be bop–as long as each is done well.  Al Jareau’s “Mornin’” moves me to ecstasy and Gladys Knight’s “You’re the Best Thing That’s Ever Happened to Me” reduces me to maudling tears.  Yeh, I’m incurable.

(Read the remainder of Mystical Melodies and other blogs by Emily Sue on The Story Plant)

~~ Emily Sue Harvey

Emily Sue is the Author of the Month on The Story Plant and has published 6 books, including Cocoon and Unto These Hills.  She is a life member of SWA and a former president.