Monday, December 22, 2014

Who Can Resist

We’re expecting! The whole family—we’re so excited—expecting, again.

Gas or no, who can resist an infant’s smile? And coo…, they’re so vulnerable and sweet. Their skin smells so…, like a baby.

I know, I know, the nightly news is bad. The newspapers run red with murder and war. Sometimes you hate the idea of bringing a kid into a world that’s crazy.

But we’re expecting! Right now—soon.

What? Angels sing?

“Glory to the newborn King. Peace on earth, and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled!”

Yes. Who can resist?

Monday, December 15, 2014

Father Christmas Smiles Gray

Another Poem. Season's Greetings!

This is the view from my window. What's yours—physically or emotionally?

Father Christmas Smiles Gray

The river, she is busy today.
Roiled and irritated
runs ahead of the storm,
a grab for the Gulf and warmer climes.

Dry leaves chatter, "Foul,"
to the southern blow.
"Make up your mind, it's December,
we've given all."

The neighbor's awkward palms
planted out of place, 
wave their fronds
like silly schoolgirls—cry, "Bully."

Swaying on the banks,
naked cypress wag
lacy Spanish moss north or south
harlots to any passing gusts.

Red vinca hold fast their bed;
snap like a matador's cape,
"Bring it ON,"
they taunt the North wind.

Now tears of rain splash dance
cold across the surface.
Father Christmas Smiles Gray
in Southwest Louisiana.

Monday, December 8, 2014

Winter Thanks

In winter I lean toward melancholy. I tend to leech happiness from nature's color.  
Today I wrote a poem and wanted to share. 


Winter Thanks

The gold and copper jewels
lay scattered brown across the lawn.    
A week ago their glitter
shimmered in the breezes.

Bare branches beseech the sky,
or is it praise?
Upstretched thanks for the rest.
Sap’s down with a winter nap.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Morning Murmurations

Driving home from an early morning workout at the local gym, I saw it. A huge flock of birds dancing and dipping in the sky. A black ribbon of feathers, dancing to the beat of some music I wasn't hearing. 

Last fall was the first time I had spotted this phenomena called murmuration. The dictionary attributes this to a flock of starlings. I had originally thought these birds were migrating, but I don't believe starlings are migratory, so maybe they're just showing off for the ones flying South. God has a sense of humor.

Check out the video from England. Many more birds than I saw.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Justice For All

I sit on the Board for The Open Door Prison and Re-Entry Ministry, a non-profit, faith-based organization. The Open Door’s purpose is to help incarcerated women find hope through classes and mentoring. Upon release from jail, we continue the bond of trust and offer guidance through the difficult period of transition into the community. I volunteer, going into the local jail weekly to help with the Literacy program.

Yesterday, I visited our offices and had an opportunity to reconnect with a client from Literacy who was recently released. Her family had finally scraped together her bond. She had been jailed and held for the past six months without formal charges and without legal counsel. Just prior to release, she was given a court appointed attorney who was a civil lawyer, unversed in criminal law. Unfortunately, this isn’t a unique situation. Louisiana’s legal and penal systems are broken.

I’d like to state: not everyone in jail is guilty no matter what the news reports. If you don’t have the cash to hire a lawyer, it’s a maze of injustice. The system is set up for the poor to fail and be jailed on technicalities.

Failure to appear - but the court date was changed and you weren't contacted.
No excuse, show up to court or you’re in violation.
A bench warrant is issued for your arrest.
Can’t afford $75 per month Probation costs because you can’t get a job.
No excuse, write a warrant.
No wonder Louisiana has the HIGHEST rate of incarceration in the world.

If you're fortunate enough to have money – It’s a good-ol’-boy system with plenty of hoops that only a speaker of legalese can maneuver. There’s no such thing as innocent until proven guilty.

I’ve mentored women who sat on the inside for months even years, worrying about their parent’s health or children’s welfare with no solid legal information coming from their appointed attorneys until just days before trial. The court system is out of step with the twenty-first century and unwilling or able to spend revenue to update and link computer systems. The misspelling of a name can leave someone in jail until a family member straightens out the error.

Public defenders are assigned hundreds of cases each. They end up working with the D.A. in order to push cases through the courts. To save political face the system offers the jail-weary a plea bargain for time served. Men and women reach for the straw that’s offered desperate to get out, leaving the guilty as well as the innocent a record that haunts them, a ghost on every job and apartment application.

Society has turned a blind eye. Few will hire someone with a record. Gripped by media driven fear, we pass mileage for more deputies, more equipment, and more jail space, when we need justice with grace. Precious dollars spent on education and public programs to enrich life would offer encouragement, rather than a slap at every right turn. We need change. I don’t know the answers, but I know God is just.

What’s your experience? 

Friday, November 14, 2014

It's the South

A new building has been going up on the edge of town. The joke is,  It's another dollar store. 

  • Population of our little hamlet? - 4600, give or take. 
  • Number of dollar stores? - 4.
  • Our newest business? -Another dollar store.

I stopped to take this picture and a woman ambled out to my car with a smile, "Do you need something?" 

"No, I wanted to post on my blog that we now have 5 dollar stores." 

She waved her hand. "Oh, we moved. That store down the block is closed. Have you been inside? We have groceries." She gestured come hither, "Check it out." 

I went in and looked around. Nice store. Nice people.

Hospitality in the face of adversity. It's the SouthI love it. And my new dollar store.

Monday, November 3, 2014

The Promise of a Good Read

Last week at the monthly meeting of the Pulpwood Queens of Southwest Louisiana, I had the pleasure to meet Ann Weisgarber, author of The Promise. An intriguing historical fiction, it personifies the 1900 hurricane that devastated Galveston, Texas and weaves the reality of social class, and the power of the human spirit to survive into a superb tale of love and loss on multiple levels.

Ann, a delight herself, chose to attend our meeting rather than Skype. We enjoyed her enthusiasm and description of her writing process. She graciously agreed to share her writing method and journey to publication.


How did the idea for The Promise evolve? 

After I finished my first novel, The Personal History of Rachel DuPree, but before I found a publisher, I freelanced for The Islander, a magazine published in Galveston, Texas.  My assignment was to write articles about people who had unusual jobs.  For one article, I interviewed a brother and sister who owned and managed a small independent grocery story on the west end of the island.  Their father bought the store in 1963 when this part of the island was sparsely populated.        
The interview was fascinating.  Tap water wasn’t safe to drink, the electricity went out frequently, and there were more rattlesnakes than children.  If that was the west end in 1963, what was it like at the time of The 1900 Storm, the worst U.S. natural disaster where at least 6,000 people perished?  Did anyone live there?  If so, who were they?  How did the hurricane impact them?
Curious, I read everything I could find about Galveston.  I learned that dairy farmers, cattle ranchers, fishermen, and their families lived down the island, as the rural end was called then.  Much had been written about the hurricane’s impact on Galveston’s densely populated East End but almost nothing about the people who lived outside of the city limits.  They’d been forgotten and that felt like an injustice.  Their lives mattered. 
When my first book was published, I was offered a contract for the next two books.  I immediately knew I would write about rural Galvestonians and the storm.  Although my characters were not actual people, The Promise is my way of honoring the memories of the victims and the courageous survivors.   

You said last night that you aren’t creative but use research to move your story. Could you elaborate? 

Some writers such as J. K. Rowlings and Stephen King spin wonderful, creative worlds only they could imagine.  I don’t have that gift since my practical nature keeps me grounded to the real world.  I begin with a one-page rough outline and then turn to research to help me fill in the blanks.  As an example, during the very early days of The Promise, I took a cemetery tour conducted by the Galveston Historical Foundation.  I went simply to learn more about Galveston.  Long after the tour ended, I kept thinking about the cemetery and its possible role in the novel.  Months later, I wrote a scene where three of the main characters gather around a headstone in the cemetery.  If I had not taken the tour, this scene would not exist.         

Is The Promise your first novel?

It’s my second.  The first one, The Personal History of Rachel DuPree, takes place in the South Dakota Badlands during 1917, and is a story about ranchers.  It was inspired by an unlabeled photograph of a woman and by a sod dugout I saw while on vacation at Badlands National Park.  At the time, I taught sociology at Wharton County Junior College in Texas and didn’t think of myself as a writer.  Haunted by the photograph, though, I felt compelled to write a short story about the woman whose name had been lost to history.  I was three pages in when I realized I didn’t know how to write fiction.  I took non-credit creative writing classes from Houston’s Inprint and during the first four years, publication was not my goal.  That was liberating since I don’t worry about critics. Instead, I focused on doing the best job possible to give the woman in the photograph a voice.   
Things changed when an Inprint instructor suggested I consider publication.  Three years later, it was published first in the UK by Pan Macmillan, then in France by Belfond Editions, and next in the U.S. by Viking. 
Since I had a contract for the second novel, The Promise was a different writing process.  My UK editors never pushed but I felt internal pressure to perform and imagined critics saying the second book didn’t live up to expectations.  A writer friend, Thomas Cobb, told me the second book is often much harder to write than the first one.  This eased the pressure.  Other writers had struggled with their second novels and had survived.  So would I. 

You mentioned to our group both books were published first in the UK.  Why?

It took a year to find a literary agent who was willing to represent The Personal History of Rachel DuPree.  She helped me with the ending and I’ll always be grateful to her for that.  She showed the manuscript to editors in the U.S. and they turned it down.  The agent lost interest and we ended the relationship.   Months later, I read in Poets & Writers about Will Atkins, an editor with Pan Macmillan who was willing to look at manuscripts not represented by agents.  I dusted off the manuscript and sent it to him figuring I had nothing to lose.  Eleven weeks later, Will offered me a contract. 
Rachel DuPree was nominated for several literary prizes in the UK, and Will offered a contract for two more books.  Although it didn’t win either prize in the UK, the nominations sparked interest in the U.S and Viking published it a year later.  The Promise was also published first in the UK and a year later in the U.S. by Skyhorse. 
Will Atkins gave me a break that changed my life.  The Promise is dedicated to him.

Any advice for new writers?

            Writing is hard work.  It requires dedication and calls for making hard choices about how to use your time.  Having said that, write your heart out.  Ignore the people who say you’re wasting your time and you’ll never be published.  Keep writing but find a writing critique group that gives honest feedback.  Listen to what your fellow writers have to say about your work.  It can hurt but we writers are hardy and we can take it.  Consider that these critiques might be valid.  If so, make edits, throw out pages, and start again. 
            I’ve been meeting with my writing critique group every Friday for four hours for ten years.  They’ve seen me through both books and they aren’t shy about pointing out mistakes.  They make me a better writer, and I hope my feedback about their work helps them.  I’m counting on the group to see me through the next book.   

Have you started the next book?

I’m in the rough-draft stage and I do mean rough in every sense of the word!  It takes place during the winter of 1887 in Utah’s canyon country which is now Capitol Reef National Park.  The narrator is a woman whose husband disappears while mining silver.  The federal government has cracked down on polygamy and men with plural wives are arrested and often imprisoned for years.  Some of them try to evade arrest and hide in the canyons.  The narrator is one of the people who helps them. 

            That’s what the story is as of today.  It could change tomorrow.   

To find out more about Ann Weisgarber go to 

Wednesday, October 15, 2014


I mentioned in my post last week that I found my "gratitude meter". Thankfulness raised the volume on my awareness that all we have in this life is gift. This in mind, I finished Bill Hybels' book, The Power of a Whisper, and got a shout. 

This week, I have seen the beauty of a tree whipped in a windstorm, sunlight sparkle the face of the river, a full moon melt the darkness, and a baby's cooing antics. Rev. Hybels talks about not just hearing God but responding. When we receive a gift from a friend, our desire is to respond. Sometimes all that's required is a simple thank you, but if the friend needs something, it would be harsh to smile and say, "Have a good day." 

I'm active in prison ministry, going into the jail every week. I see the plight of the underdog and abused, the just and the unjust, both by family and the judicial system. I've been resting in the knowledge of my role as volunteer, patting myself on the back. But in the book of Matthew (25:14-23), Jesus tells us to those who have been handed a small amount, more will be given. A BIG SHOUT HERE: he's not talking about more money, but more responsibilities. God is nudging me to get up and serve. 
For those who have guts, let them readThe Power of a

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Humming My Frequency

Last week I publicly challenged myself to ask God daily to whisper in my ear. Asking Almighty God to speak to me everyday seems a bit presumptuous or needy. Of course I know we all need God in our daily lives, but I'm no Isaiah, and frankly, I don’t want the job. Prophets are unpopular and never make the bestsellers list.

Reading Bill Hybels’ book, The Power of a Whisper, he suggests that God wants a personal everyday relationship where we dialogue with God and expect to be answered. Being more in tune this week, I realized, I received whispers, but I left my gratitude meter in the closet. I hauled it out and dusted it off. To my surprise, the volume rose as my attitude took a one-eighty to the right. Looking at my circumstances through grateful eyes makes every day a blessing. Even in the hard places, the Rock sings to me.

My Mom grew up when telephones were uncommon and required party lines and an operator to transmit. Around the age of ten, I received a transistor radio for Christmas. This little miracle (about the size of 3 decks of cards and weighing a pound) could be held right in the palm of your hand. Mom was fascinated.

I remember a conversation with her after the advent of microwaves and satellite TV, she marveled at the idea of invisible waves that transmit so many different technologies we take for granted. “Think of all the invisible waves that pass by unseen to our eyes.” She was right.

Why doubt Mom now? I’m convicted. I need to create the right device inside me, to receive God’s wavelength. Prayer and gratitude are the starting point. How about you?  

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

God Whispers

I'm reading a book called, The Power of a Whisper, by Bill Hybels, a well known pastor and author of a plethora of inspirational texts. This powerful book cultivates the idea that the Christian God is personal and wants to be involved in every aspect of our lives. Bill gives extensive examples how God communicates to us in a variety of ways when we daily stop, ask, and listen.

The idea of God talking to me is not news. I've been on his wave length more than once in my life. The notion of hearing God is a strange concept for my husband of forty years. He glances over the rim of his glasses with a wary look when I assure him that the thought I awoke with was inspired, or the niggling to call someone I haven't talked to in twenty years is a God thing. However, the concept of daily asking God to speak and intentionally listening is a fresh thought for me.

My first faith teaching came from my mom. Her story of a middle-of-the-night visit from God filled me with wonder. After ten years of marriage, she had not conceived and was devastated. Mom loved to tell how God spoke as my father snored. "Don't be downhearted, Lois, you're going to have children." Nine months later my brother was born. I never doubted Mom.

Many times I've wanted a clear voice to pierce the darkness, but I've never experienced anything so dramatic. Like the Bible story of Elijah on the mountain (1 Kings 19), God usually comes to me as "a still small voice", one that needs to be discerned as His or the cacophony in my head. Many times God whispers to me through scripture reading, an inaudible ah-ah thought, and several times he's revealed himself through dreams.

How about you? Has God whispered a word of assurance, a word of warning, or nudged you into action? I'm going to take the next few weeks to cultivate some quiet space and ask God to whisper to me. I'll be sharing my experience along with more about Bill Hybels', The Power of a

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Celebrating Life

It’s been awhile since I indulged my blog. This past summer, I visited family in Michigan and Arizona. July was busy with a Leisure Learning writing course at McNeese State that spurred my creative juices. In between I researched markets and contests, learning Duotrope idiosyncrasies and submitting some short fiction pieces.

I’ve written before that I’m time challenged. For those of you who have an orderly mind, it’s a gift. For the rest of us, time is slippery. Today, as I wrote the date in my journal—Aug. 20th, it hit me in the face. It’s our son, Clay’s, birthday. He would be thirty-seven.

I do remember that hot August in ’77. My mom and mother-in-law both traveled from Michigan to take care of our three-year-old son and me after the baby’s birth. There was a huge rain storm that week, and I recall watching a man paddle a canoe down our street while I stood at the window and watched, cradling Clay. Our first flood together.

There were other storms: twenty-some stitches down an arm after scaling a chain link fence, broken down cars, no date for the prom, the only grade below A in typing, normal life with a sensitive over-achiever.

Twenty-three-years old, Clay lived and worked in Houston for only a few months before the city was devastated by a massive flood. I remember anxiously watching scenes on TV of highway underpasses clogged with water. A familiar ten lane freeway reduced to a drainage ditch. Clay survived the high water, but a few weeks later we were summoned to Houston for another storm.

Encephalitis was the diagnosis, but with no known cause. The doctors treated the symptoms for 2 ½ months before we were forced to concede. His flood was over.

It’s been 13 years – where does time go? Many good memories packed away, many life experiences richer. Thank you, Clay. Happy Birthday. 

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Cuban Missile Crisis

Where were you October 1962? I was in the third grade - almost 9 years old when Kennedy went toe to toe with Russia's Prime Minister Khrushchev. A few nights ago, I watched a PBS presentation, The Man Who Saved The World. It seems a Russian submarine commander refused to go along with his comrades. It took three keys to program and fire a nuclear missile aboard the subs prowling the waters off the coast of Cuba. The commander spurned the idea. 

It would be many years before the truth concerning the sub’s nuclear capabilities were acknowledged by the Russians. Loaded for bear with atomic warheads the Russians were ready to do battle, while the oblivious American Navy threw depth charges trying to force the subs into submission. One missile would have taken out the U.S. Naval fleet poised in the Gulf. This act of war would have Kennedy launch atomic weapons pointed toward Russia and visa-verse. 

I admit I can't remember much. My poor memory necessitates my being a fiction writer. We lie. However, I do remember the "fall-out shelter" born in our shallow basement as fear melded my mother's heart. Each week a few cans and provisions were added to the larder in our cellar. A first aid kit, jugs of water, but what set our bomb-shelter apart, we had a Geiger counter. 

Purchased through a magazine offer, the 10" square box had a plastic hose running from one side with a metal wand supposedly used to detect radiation. The face of the box sported a V-shaped window. When the switch was on a red pointer flipped from one side and back, indicating the battery was good. No one knew exactly how to use it. Of course, there was no way to test, and if it didn't work, there was no getting your money back. For the longest time we weren't allowed to touch "the box". But as I got older, I remember sneaking down the cellar with friends, pointing the wand and making guttural sounds, going crazy with radiation beams wafting from the lone window, and falling down convulsively. Poor Mom.
I wonder how her fears affected a third grader, and then I remember my report card from 4th grade. It showed I gained 60 lbs. in one year. That's another whole kid.
Bun candy bars aside, I think it was the radiation.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

At the Blog Hop

Sounds like a 50's tune with a millennium twist. Thanks goes to my friend Linda Todd, "Incurable Itch of LF Todd", who tagged me to answer some questions that burn in the minds of my readers...


1.  What am I working on? 

I'm putting together a query package for a children's book I wrote a few years ago and just recently revised, Al-lee Alligator and the Big Fat Lie. This is a step away from novel writing which is what I wanted. Short fiction seems like a relief after writing two novels. In this process my creative juices have spawned some fresh poetry and a flash fiction idea.

2.  How does my work differ from others in my genre?

That's a trick question. I attempt to write my thoughts, my voice. As writers we're told over and over to be unique, but publishers really don't want too different. It's a tightrope that I'm trying to learn while juggling quirky. Unfortunately, my chartreuse tights keep falling to my cankles.

3.  Why do I write what I do?

It is impossible for me NOT to write. It is what makes me happy, solid, human. Writing is a gift, and I follow my heart.

4.  What is my writing process?

The process differs depending on the genre. I love poetry. It usually surfaces when I'm at my most creative. Always in longhand first. Short story ideas I write down the bones longhand, then head to the word processor to fill out, cut and paste. Novels are another world. Lots of Post-its and scratch paper before I get out the newsprint sketch pad. I plot scenes and organize while I jot character dialogue longhand. I'm trying to learn to write fast and revise after, but I'm a sick perfectionist that has a hard time ignoring even the red lined spelling errors. I'm hoping the third time is the charm. There's a mystery jangling around my head, or is that the ice cream truck?

Sorry for my slow response. I'm in the process of creating a new website!
Improvements are forthcoming as I figure out where I left my tights.

Next on the BLOG HOP check out another member of the Bayou Writer Group - Peggy Borel at "Aspire to Inspire."

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Frozen Kingdom

Recently, freezing rain shocked our south Louisiana sensibilities. As I sat warm in my living room, I watched some brown finches duck under a leafy green bush near the porch to escape the icy drizzle. While I pondered the small birds plight, white accumulated on the wood planks of our wharf. Mist rose from the chilled river in buffs that scurried across the ripples from the North Wind's breath.
Twice in sunny weather, I've spotted a bald eagle taking flight from the trees on the far bank. It prompted me to write this poem:

Frozen Kingdom

Where is the eagle?
Where does he roost in an unlikely storm?
The sparrow hops beneath the evergreen,
but not his majesty.
No cover for the king, whose wings require space.
Free to rise above his realm—
glide the frozen pathways of the wind.

Around 10am, hoping to glean some warmth through osmosis and a familiar laugh, I called my aunt in Phoenix. As we spoke I looked out the window and perched on a dead pine, 150 feet in the air sat my eagle. I ran to get the binoculars. This is my third sighting and the first time I've seen him perched. His backside towards me, he glance over his shoulder to reveal that magestic white head and hooked beak, and I saw his eye close. From this direction, I'm not sure if he was blinking or if that was a wink, but with that he took wing and was gone.
What a writing prompt—what motivates you?

Monday, January 27, 2014


fresh paper, like fresh meat
a ravenous appetite
to touch the lined sheet
tear nourishment from my pen
rip the fear
calm the hunger pangs

Friday, January 10, 2014

Starting Anew

In mid-2013 I wrote about setting goals and professed that I would write a blog per week. But alas – life happens.
I’ve been trying to organize my office space, files, and catch up on emails. My old friend, Jack Odell, is a pastor who writes a popular blog I follow called: midweek Manna. One of his recent posts, We Need More of These Things, talks about having more stuff, but needing MORE generosity, kindness, tolerance, and prayer in our lives.
This resonated with me, and I’ve decided it makes a terrific New Year’s Resolution. I want to start anew with more generosity, being kinder and more tolerant of my fellow man and myself. This is all possible because 2014, I will strive to center myself in prayer. Thanks Jack.