Tag Archives: novels

I need your help. Seriously.

Posted on by
11

No matter your walk in life, we have all been affected by racial diversity. Some find it threatening. Others find is socially and culturally mesmerizing and exhilarating. For the purpose I am pursuing, let’s narrow it down to the white and African American culture.

While starting my new novel, my fear is the voice inside my head. It says,”How can you, a white woman, write about the African American experience in 1963? How could you possibly understand?”

Here’s my goal. To write an entertaining novel for all age groups but especially for young adults who may not know important historical facts about the Civil Rights Movement- which I will weave into the novel. I want the reader to take pause, reflect, and think about their actions going forward.

Big goal, huh? But I sincerely believe that understanding the past will put us in a better position for the future.

Here’s the premise to the novel:

In 1963, while staying with the unhinged friend of her deceased grandmother, a 14 yr old white girl from Texas meets a teenaged “Negro” boy from Alabama and learns first hand about racial injustice.

 

I am doing tons and tons of research. I have read “Black Like Me” by John Howard Griffin and The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin.

So here’s how you can, hopefully, help me.

  1. Is this a reasonable goal?
  2. What suggestions do you have for reading material that may help my accuracy?
  3. What experiences have you had that led you to a racial awareness/enlightenment?

I appreciate any and all suggestions!

Thank you for reading and responding!

Carolyn

Oh, and if you decide to write on this topic, MAKE SURE YOU LET ME KNOW. I promise to reblog unless it is offensive to humanity.

I’m ashamed, and shocked

Posted on by
16

Emmett_Till.jpg

… but I don’t take full responsible for my ignorance. As you, my blogger friends and followers know, I have very little patience for the intolerance in our world. My belief system stands firmly planted to the principles of social justice, civil rights and equality. So, why did I just recently learn about Emmett Till? I’m curious. Have you heard of him?

I am currently living in 1963. While working on my new manuscript, I am researching various aspects of life in the 1960’s. Presently titled Olvie and Chicken Coop, teenager Grace Cooper tries to befriend a “Negro” boy who’s visiting from Alabama, but can’t understand why he is so stand-offish. (Not the whole premise of the novel but I’ll tell you more about that another time.) But my particular story line was set when research introduced me to Emmett Till. (I must have missed Bob Dylan’s 1962 song, The Death of Emmett Till)

I know about the Woolworth sit-in, Rosa Parks and the bus, the Freedom Fighters, etc.  I didn’t realize, but now know, that many African American’s moved from the south to Chicago to distance themselves from the John Crow laws — Chicago where they could walk with their heads held high.

I was shocked to learn that this fourteen-year-old boy, who travelled from Chicago to Mississippi in 1955 to visit relatives, never made it back home and the mortifying reasons why.

This boisterous, self-assured young man, didn’t know the “rules” of the south at the time. In some disputed way, either by words or by wolf-whistling at a married white woman, Emmett Till was hunted down by the man’s wife and his half-brother for flirting with a white woman. After being terribly brutalized, Emmett’s body was discovered in the river. The murders were acquitted and set free.

God Bless You, Emmett Till, a kid with only candy in his pockets.

And, ironically, just over a month ago, Emmett Till’s accuser admits she lied. Time to clear her conscience?

For more about Emmett read here.

 

 

 

 

The three-legged way of looking at life

Posted on by
Reply

screenshot-2016-08-02-08-55-26

The Great Gatsby stands and walks toward me. I back up and wonder where his slingshot is. “We won’t bother with a real handshake,” he says. “Just give me the damn hooch, and we’ll call it a deal.”

I hand over the Mason jar. He unscrews the lid and takes a big gulp.

“Damn, this is the Real McCoy.” He takes another swig. “Why’s your dog got three legs?”

I tell him. Three years ago, Daddy took Choppers into town. Choppers wasn’t full grown yet, so he didn’t think twice about biting the tire of a delivery truck filled with sacks of grain. When he got run over, Doc Dennis took off one of his back legs. A month later, when he acted normal again, I’d asked Daddy why Choppers had the guts to forget losing something so important as a leg. “Because, Jellybean, he got used to the change.” Daddy had pointed to his temple. “He adapted. Choppers knew that, even with three legs, he still had plenty of life to live and enjoy.”

“I don’t think he remembers it’s missing,” I tell Frank.

“Wish humans could do the same,” he says. “Speaking of, why’d your Mama leave?”

I look away and stare into the thicket. I’d rather talk about Choppers.

“Aunt Sissy left me too. By dying. ’Yes sir, that’s my baby, No sir, don’t mean maybe yes, sir, that’s my Baby now,’” he sings.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket (1928)

c7d97a0843ad85fd5968f209e32e5e6fce3e3e67.jpg

photo credit

 

 

 

The Madam’s Worry

Posted on by
Reply

lit-lantern-on-black.jpg

Another one-two-three whiskey slam, and Reba retired to her room. The house quiet, I poured another shot, placed the poker chips back in their slots, and settled my weary bones in the parlor.

I flicked off the chandelier and closed the curtains, indications the bordello was closed for business. Now, only a small flame flickered from the lantern beside my settee. A beautiful house, a beautiful room. The thought of being forced out terrified me and left me queasy. Perhaps the whiskey was talking, making me somber and heavy-hearted. What if city officials dropped my grand establishment from the city’s Blue Book, and Madam Volvino’s House of Disgust remained open?

The room, empty of anyone with predetermined Expectations of me, I slouched on the red velvet settee and took another sip. I remembered that one perfect night with John and then dismissed the memory. Years ago, others saved me. This time, I’d do it on my own.

Excerpt from The Last Bordello

 

 

Well, look who showed up.

Posted on by
Reply

Halfway through our first lesson, the door opens in the back of the room. Miss Primrose stops talking about grammar. “Frank, I’m glad to see you made it to school,” she says.

 I hear the whispers before I turn. When I do, my chin drops. This time, I see him in the light. The boy from the thicket. He’s wearing dark circles under his green eyes and the same muddy Keds from last night. But his hair is combed now, parted on the side.

“Students, I would like to introduce you to our newest member of Hilltop School, Frank Sanders.”

 He still has that look. The one where no one can touch him. Like no one’s smarter or braver than him. I know better. He’s scared of dogs—even the three-legged kind.

 He sticks his thumbs in the straps of the suspenders that hold up his Clean breeches then nods to the class like he’s Jesus come to turn sour milk into fresh lemonade.

“Frank lives here now. So let’s make him feel welcome. How old are you, Frank?”

“Almost fourteen, Miss Primrose,” he says like he’s President of Confidence World.

“You may sit down, Frank.”

Frank-Gatsby-Thicket Boy limps to a desk. Without the twisted ankle, he’d sure-fire swagger to his spot like Wild Bill Hickok after catching bandits.

screenshot-2016-08-02-08-55-26

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

photo credit

 

 

 

A Kindle Ad reminder

Posted on by
4

As a kid, I hated to read. Nothing stuck. Everything around me had more meaning than written words inside a book. Then came To Kill a Mockingbird. At age 14, this was the first book I read cover to cover. “So, some books are good?” I thought. This one was proof.

I always liked writing but, many, many years passed before I became an avid reader. Maybe it’s because my mind could finally focus on words I didn’t write, words that enticed me to enter new worlds such as:

ancient Egypt in River God by Wilbur Smith

1975 India in A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry

the Depression-era Ireland in Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt

inside the memories of a man from a very dysfunctional family in The Prince of Tide by Pat Conroy

And many more, of course.

Still, I am very selective of the books I read. Many times, a book is over before I finish it. And no, I don’t feel guilty for closing it prematurely as some do. I just grab another and hope others don’t do the same with my novels!  🙂

Read to your child when they are young!

IMG_5220 (1).jpg

Two pills and a Bible

Posted on by
3

                              images.jpegimages-1

It had started off on a bad note or rather a bad sore throat. I guess I’d lived there long enough to pick up Temple germs from the Junior High. My throat hurt something awful and I thought I’d surely come down with Scarlet Fever like Delma had that time.

            A kid in one of my classes told me about a doctor within walking distance from my house that I should go see. He also gave me a bible. “What’s this?”

            “It’s a Bible.”

            “I can see that. Why’re ye handin’ it to me?”

            “Just thought you’d like ta have it, you know to read.”

            “I don’t wanna take yer Bible.”

            “Well, it’s not really mine. I work at the Baptist Church and I can get them anytime I want.”

            “Okay then,” I said, taking the Bible he’d stolen from his church.

            “I’ll pray for your throat, Cono.”

            “OK,” I hoarsed out of my throat, thinking, “Yeah and praise the Lord too.”

         I took him up on his advice and right after school I went straight to that doctor’s office. He told me to come back tomorrow morning and not to eat anything. So that’s what I did.

         The next morning the doctor handed me two little Yellow pills and said, “Here’s your breakfast.” Then he left me in a chair that leaned back. I waited there until my head started to feel fuzzy, like I was sitting at the bottom of a well looking up towards the light of the sky.

            “Cono, are you ready?” I stared up through the well and saw the long-nosed face of the man talking to me, the man in the white coat who made a little loop out of some kind of wire and pulled one, then two tonsils from the back of my throat. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he decided that my adenoids weren’t doing me any good, so he yanked them out too. Fuzzy or not, I felt every damn bit of it.

            He laid a pack of ice on my neck for a while and told me to go home and get some rest. I did. I rested for a whole week because I got sicker than a dog and not because I forgot to cover up my hiney. I got a bad fever and thought for sure I was gonna die. That’s when I picked up that Bible. I remembered Ma saying, “Cono, thar ain’t nothin’ wrong with readin’ the Bible.” Plus, I thought that if I was about to die, I might as well find out who was going to open up the Pearly Gates to let me in.

            Once I got through all that “beggetting” stuff, it wasn’t a bad read. I didn’t understand much of it since there were so many people to keep up with. I got the gist of most of it though. But I was still trying to figure out why it said “an eye for an eye” one minute and “turn the other cheek” the next.

            During that week, Delma came in once with a pot on her head and stared at me sober as a judge.

            “Delma, ye need te get yerself a better lookin’ hat.” She laughed and left the room probably thinking she made me feel better. I guess in a way she did.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

 

 

Writers, DON’T GIVE UP!

Posted on by
11

After my first attempt at sending out my latest novel, the agent’s letter came back: Screen Shot 2017-01-13 at 2.13.52 PM.png

So, how many agents should I send my MS to? Am I  Capable of receiving more rejection letters?

Hell, yeah, I am.

Kathryn Stockett’s book, The Help, was rejected 60 times.

Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell was rejected 38 times before it was published.

Carrie by Stephen King was rejected 30 times before it was published.

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle was rejected 26 times before it was published.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was rejected 12 times and J. K. Rowling was told “not to quit her day job.”

Lord of the Flies by William Golding was rejected 20 times before it was published.

Not giving up, nope, not giving up.

‘Cause I got High Hopes (excerpt)

Next time your found, with your chin on the ground
There a lot to be learned, so look around
Just what makes that little old ant
Think he’ll move that rubber tree plant
Anyone knows an ant, can’t
Move a rubber tree plant
But he’s got high hopes, he’s got high hopes
He’s got high apple pie, in the sky hopes
So any time your gettin’ low
‘stead of lettin’ go
Just remember that ant
Oops there goes another rubber tree plant

-music by Jimmy Van Heusen and lyrics by Sammy Cahn.

 

 

 

 

Franken-Farter

Posted on by
Reply

I set down my lunch sack, take off my Mary Janes, and step over a railroad tie that borders the sandbox. “Hey, Scoot,” I say.

“Emmy!” he says without looking up from the hole he’s already made. “Dig for gold?”

“How deep’s it buried?” I ask.

“To the island,” he says, loud enough for others to look over.

If Miss Primrose is in sight, the bullies shut their traps and don’t make fun of him for the way he talks, or the way he likes his blond hair cut into a burr but makes his Mama leave the three red patches an inch longer. “Strawberries patches,” he calls them.

Seven-year-old Janie clambers over and says, “I want to find an island.”

Me too. I want to find an island. Anywhere but here in the Hilltop school yard. Stupid name, Hilltop. We no more sit on a hill than Mama’s home cooking chicken and dumplings.

Janie and Scooter start chattering, so I dig my toes further into the sand and imagine pulling Mama out between my toes. That’s all the treasure I need.

A shadow hovers over me, but I don’t turn when it says, “Playing with retards?”

Scooter pays no mind to the comment and keeps digging for gold.

I look behind me. Frank’s hands are in his pockets. He’s pushing himself up and down by his toes.

“Don’t know how tall you are?” I say.

Frank looks at me like I have an ostrich head. “Huh?”

“You keep bouncing on your toes. You wanna be a ballerina Someday?”

“You gonna play in a sandbox all your life? Even when you’re all grown up?”

“You’re not grown either, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I’m older than you. So, you’re that girl whose Ma disappeared.” He’s not nice when he says it. “And your daddy’s missing.”

I look toward the seesaw for help. The top hairs of Rachael’s red bob take turns bouncing up and down with Carla’s blond ones. They don’t pay me any mind.

“You’re stupider than you look,” I say. “Daddy’s at work.”

Scooter stops digging and looks up into Frank’s face. “Can’t disappear. Houdini died!”

I love how Scooter accents the words that are important to him. It’s his way of saying something important without having to string a bunch of words together to make a proper sentence. Scooter’s world is filled with magic, and not just because he loved Houdini.

Frank shakes his head and looks at me. “This dimwit your friend?”

“At least you got one part right.”

He puzzle-faces.

“Who’s stupid now?”

“Keep playing in the sandbox, Enema,” he says.

I go back to digging trying my best not to stand up and claw out his eyes. I hear him spit and stomp off.

I want to speed through time so Miss Primrose can ring the dismissal bell. Nothing’s the same, and now it’s worse since Frank-furter entered my life. I think I’ll call him that. No, even better. I’ll call him Franken-Farter. I smile and yell the name inside my head and reach for my lunch sack. It’s gone.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

Featured image photo credit

 

Like a Rodeo Bull

Posted on by
2

From The Last Bordello (1901). Madam Fannie Porter talks to Reba, her best friend and co-worker.

 

th-7

Miss Reba (as I picture her)

Reba’s voice brought me out of my doldrums.

She stood just inside the kitchen, her hip holding open the screen door. “Freshness growing from the ground up. Picked and served like He made possible.”

“You woke up from your nap.”

“Thought I died of a soft underbelly?”

“You? Hell, you might be eleven years older than me, but you’ve got more vim and Vigor than a rodeo bull. Just as stubborn, too.”

“Speakin’ a that. Tell ’em, Fannie. You don’t wants to beat a path around that ponderin’ bush. They needs to know.”

I followed her motion to come back inside. “You’re right, Rebie. We’ll tell them when they come down to eat.”

“We tells ’em? Ain’t no we about it. No, ma’am. That jawin’ session be yours.”

This time, it wouldn’t be a regular house meeting that consisted of reminders about chores that needed doing, client appointments, and Reba’s nagging them to douche and keep their pee-shes clean. This powwow would be different.