Sarah Martin Byrd's Blog, page 10

Books for Sale

On August 31, 2009 I wrote the first words of The Color of My Heart. On October 19, 2010 it was finished. Only fourteen months to create a novel. So why did it take until November 7, 2012 for me to hold the first published copy?

 

Let’s start with editing. For several months after the first draft I self-edited, when I thought I’d done everything possible to make it the very best novel I could I turned it over to my editor, Jo Martin. She kept it a couple of months, and then returned it to me and I made revisions. Then I gave it back to her for the final edit. She kept it a couple more months and then I did the final revisions.

 

What then? Submit, submit, and submit. Over one year ago on October 11, 2011 I started submitting The Color of My Heart to agents and publishing companies. One hundred eight agents and nineteen publishers later The Color of My Heart was picked up by Ambassador International of Greenville, South Carolina. Obviously the publishing world liked my work much more than the literary agencies.

 

In April of this year when I received an email from Ambassador saying they were interested in my manuscript I was elated. At that point I had been working on Color for almost three years. Its birth was long over due. Now that the baby has arrived what do I do with it?

 

Sell, sell, and sell! Color arrived about 1 p.m. on Wednesday and by bedtime the next day friends and neighbors who had been patiently waiting had snatched up over sixty copies. Now the real work must begin. Press releases have to be sent. There are bookstores, libraries, radio stations, newspaper offices and trade magazines to contact, and, last, but not least festivals to attend. This is the fun part because I get to interact with people. Being a writer is a very lonely job. We write. And to write we must have solitude, or I do anyway. So it’s fun to get out in the world.

 

The Color of My Heart is a story of acceptance. Do you see the color of someone’s skin or the color of his or her heart? God does not judge us based on our race, skin, beauty or lack of. He judges us by the condition of our hearts. Not our wealth, color, or position in life. So the color of ones heart matters more than the color of skin. I can only hope that this novel will change lives. That after you read it you’ll look at your fellow man in a different light.

 

You can order The Color of My Heart via my website at: www.SarahMartinByrd.com and at most online bookstores. If you’re local you can even stop by my house and I’ll be glad to sign a copy for you. I’ll also be at the Clingman Community Center in Clingman, North Carolina this Saturday, November 17th, from 8 – 3 for their Christmas in Clingman Celebration. Then on Saturday, December 8th, from 12:30 – 6:30 I’ll be at The Fairfield Inn on CC Camp Road, Elkin, North Carolina for their Holiday Open House.

Don’t forget, Christmas is just around the corner. The Color of My Heart would make a great gift.

 

 

 

 

Strike Out, or Home Run?

Last week blew in some mighty powerful winds here at the foothills of the Blue Ridge. Hurricane Sandy has tousled branches, blew trashcans off porches and whisked shingles off roofs. These are only minor things compared to the devastation it has caused in the Northeast. In my lifetime I have never seen a storm this powerful and widespread. Sandy will go down in the history books as one of the most detrimental hurricanes of all times.

 

When natural disasters like Hurricane Sandy happen it reminds me that there are very few things that we really have control over. We can exercise and eat right, but that does not guarantee us that an artery won’t clog or a cancer cell won’t flourish inside our body and rob us of life.

 

Another thing we have no control over is people. Sure when our children and grandchildren are young we dictate what goes on in their lives. What about when they go off to college. Can we control them then? No. All we can do is hope and pray that the things we have taught them over ride peer pressure and worldly values.

 

What about fear? Can we control that emotion? Fear of the unknown? Fear of what may or may not be? With the upcoming launch of my new novel, The Color of My Heart, (which by the way was delayed because of the hurricane) I have a certain amount of fear shadowing my every thought. What will you, my reader’s think of this new novel? Will you feel the emotions that went into writing it? Will you understand it’s meaning?

 

Releasing a new novel is sort of like playing softball. You show up for the game. You equip yourself with the tools you’ll need to win, glove, bat, ball, and cleats. You get up to bat and wait for the pitch. Here comes the ball. You grip the bat tightly. Your concentration is intense. You lift your right arm so you can put more power into your swing then whoosh you miss the ball. Not! You hit a line drive down third base line and you sail around first, then second, then third. The base coach is signaling for you to head for home plate. You’re not sure, but go for it anyway.

 

I did everything I could to prepare myself for the release of my new novel. I did the research. I wrote from the heart. I proofread and edited. I found a wonderful publishing company, and now I’m waiting on the pitch. Will The Color of My Heart be a home run? A best seller? It might not make it to the New York Times best sellers list, but as long as it touches lives and changes hearts then I’ve done all I can to make it to home base.

 

Yes, writing is just like getting up to bat. With each pitch or new novel or story you never know what the outcome will be. But one thing is for sure. You’ll never hit that home run unless you get up to bat.

 

Another dream of mine has come true. Tomorrow I will be holding my second published novel in my hand. The Color of My Heart is now available for purchase. You can order it via my website at www.SarahMartinByrd.com or from most online stores like Amazon or Barnes & Noble. If your local bookstore doesn’t stock it ask them to please order The Color of My Heart.

 

The last excerpt before the release of The Color of My Heart.

 

A Few Years Later

Lakin also picked up the pen. She wrote a beautiful series of children’s stories. While getting her degree in creative writing, she met a wonderful young man. Love overcame all the hurts from the past. Lakin learned from Laura that love can overcome anything, if there’s forgiveness. Lakin discovered the difference between true love and youthful desires. Yet she could only dream of holding another baby.

In the afternoon on a cold, windy day in late February, Me-maw called everyone to her bedside. Laura, Tam, Lakin and her new husband Ty, and Lila were all there.

“Laura, when I’m gone, make sure you contact the attorney who handled Nelda’s affairs. There should be enough money in my special account to cover publishing all the books you and Lakin want to write.

“Lila, thank you for what you’re going to do for your sister. I don’t understand how it will all happen, but it will, for I’ve seen everything. In my last days ‘the feeling’ has come back to me stronger than ever.”

Me-maw was one hundred and five years old. Her senses had weakened, but she was certain of one thing: Lakin would one day have her very own baby girl to hold and love with her new husband.

Lila had no idea what Me-maw was talking about, not right then, anyway.

“Open the top dresser drawer and bring me the volume,” Inesta said.

Lakin took the black bound book inscribed Volume 10 out from the pile of socks and delivered it to her great-great-grandmother. Inesta took the book and ran her fingers over the binding, the place where the name would someday be engraved.

“Lakin, you will put the name of your baby girl here. She will carry on the tradition. She will tell the world of the miracle of her birth.”

Lakin rolled the book over in her hand, looking at the binder with no name yet imprinted on it. She then looked up at her mother with a blank look on her face, thinking Me-maw had finally lost her sensibilities. Old age had at last stolen her mind.

“Thank you, Me-maw,” Lakin said. It was sad to know that what her me-maw spoke would never happen.

 

 

Elevator Pitch

In today’s world we are a busy bunch of swarming bees. We don’t have time for lengthy encounters with others who simply want to waste our time. Those people often come to us via the telephone.

 

Who among us actually participate in phone surveys? Most of the time I don’t, but every once in awhile I’m in a generous mood and answer the poor telemarketers questions. Nine times out of ten they want to sell me something.

 

What do they have to do to catch my attention, to make me stay on the line? They need to tell me something right off the bat that makes me want to listen. Something in their first few words must appeal to me.

 

An author experiences the same thing while on the road trying to peddle his or her wares. I have attended lots of festivals over the past two years. Many times a person will walk up to the table where my novel is perched and the first thing they say is, “Tell me about your book.”

 

Do you think they want to stand for an hour listening as I recite a chapter-by-chapter account? No. They. Do. Not! You should be able to pitch your product in less than two minutes. That’s where the term, elevator pitch came from. Your listener should be sold in the amount of time it would take to travel a couple of floors with them in an elevator.

 

I admit when I was new at this game I didn’t have a clue, but over a period of time I began to understand that less is better. I started thinking about single words that would summarize my story. For instance: Guardian Spirit is filled with Native American themes, so I ask the potential book buyer if they like stories about Indians and their culture? You’d be surprised at how many are hooked by this single question. Or I might tell them that the story is set in a nearby town, or a special place of interest to them.

 

With the upcoming launch of my next novel, The Color of My Heart I’ve started wondering about my pitch for it. What will it take to draw the reader in and close the sell? First of all I must catch their attention. A really good cover is the first step, then it’s all about the content that lies between that front and back cover.

 

It will probably take time to critique the perfect technique to pitch this new novel, but let me try: Would you like to know what happened to the captives of the last slave ship that landed at Jekyll Island? And feel the pain of the souls aboard who were rationed only moldy bread and warm water for six entire weeks? Will the description of a baby’s toes that have been gnawed off by a rat appall you? Will you feel a kinsmanship with the strong lady who sleeps every night with her little girl’s toes tucked between her legs so the same thing will not happen to her child? And then what happens to Lucia and her daughter, Zessia once they’ve landed in America?

 

Hope I’ve captured your attention. The Color of My Heart is due to arrive on my doorstep November 2nd. Hopefully my pitch has captivated you and you are anxiously waiting to read the rest of the story.

 

An excerpt from, The Color of My Heart.

 

November 1858

Jekyll Island, Georgia

 Lucia

 

My little Zessia is waking up. I’m not sure I slept at all last night. But that isn’t anything new. Most nights by the time little Zessia has been asleep for a few hours, my body feels the need to stretch and unfold from this ball I’m always curled up in. But I don’t dare leave little Zessia’s fingers and toes out in the open for the rats to have for supper. No, I’ll be fine. I can stand anything as long as Zessia is not harmed. 

The uncertainty of what will happen to us now that we have landed in this new world is twirling in my head. My mind is as the monsoons that whirl in my homeland of Africa. Will I be separated from my baby? Will they find out she is a girl? And then what will they do? I know what will happen, for I’ve seen the shape some of the other children have been in when the mean men throw them back down into the pit of the ship. I know all right, and I will die before I will let that happen to my Zessia.

 

 

Have You Ever Really Been Hungry?

According to 2010 statistics it was reported that the number of malnourished people in the world exceeded 1 billion people, about a sixth of the world’s total population. Six million children die of starvation every year. Approximately every 6 seconds one kid dies of hunger. According to estimates by the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations there were 925 million undernourished people in the world in 2010.

October is World Hunger Month. Ever since I can remember my home church has taken up an offering for world hunger. My first memories of this are of an elderly member of our church, almost one-hundred-year old Odessa Luffman. Rising from her seat on the first Sunday of October she would slowly walk to the front of the church and make her plea for funds to feed the poor and hungry. Odessa’s never ceasing love for people instilled in me a longing to help others. This gentlewoman now lies in a Hospice bed but the memory of her and her dedication to the Lord and His people will live on eternally through those of us who strive to carry on her good work.

Have I ever been hungry? Oh, I might think so, but real hunger is something that I will more than likely never experience. After prepping for a recent colonoscopy I went without solid food for 32 hours. The stuff I had to drink made me sick and I couldn’t even keep down Jello, so yes I was hungry. But not the kind of hunger that delivers death

I beg of you to open your eyes to the needs around you. The hungry are not just in foreign lands. They are right under our nose. In 2010, 17.2 million households, 14.5 percent (approximately one in seven), were food insecure, the highest number ever recorded in the United States.

You may ask. What can I do? First you have to really care. Think about your blessings and then hold your hand out and share. I dare to say that almost every town has a food bank, a place for a single mother to go and find food for her children. Or an elderly person to supplement their cabinets because their medication bills have drained their bank accounts. Contribute to your local church. Most participate in the World Hunger Month project that sends funds to local and worldwide mission efforts to feed the hungry.

There really is no excuse not to help. The world already produces enough food to feed everyone — 6 billion people — and could feed double — 12 billion people. So the food is there. All that’s lacking are the hands to serve it.

An excerpt from “The Color of My Heart.”

Lucia

Today the ship stopped sailing. I can still hear the slapping of the ocean weight on her sides. But now, instead of the boat traveling along with the current, the water finds resistance against the ship’s motionless sides. The mast creaks as like an old lady’s joints. Grinding… bone against bone, splinter against splinter.

It is now morning. I can see light through the cracks in the dungeon’s ceiling. We have been pulled up since late yesterday. Zessia sleeps with her head in my lap. She has fared well on the journey, for I have shared my food with her as most of the other mommas have done. Some have died; lots are sick and malnourished. Others like me are skinny but well. The sickness of our bodies can be healed, but some have developed a disease of the spirit that I fear will never mend. There is much noise coming from up above. The ship’s workers have our men on deck. I can hear the weight of them as they stumble about.

The guards say we are at a place called Jekyll Island in the state of Georgia, United States of America. My mind goes back to the round ball Mr. Jonathan called a globe. I not only feel thousands of miles from my Roland… I know that I am! I close my eyes so I can see him. I need him near, for I know our lives are about to be changed forever.

To Tweet or Not to Tweet?

To Tweet or not to Tweet that is the question I asked myself two years ago when my first novel, Guardian Spirit launched. Every week the marketing director at my former publishing company would meet with me via Skype. She’d instruct me on all the different ways I could promote my novel using Social Media. Honestly at the time I didn’t even know what Social Media was.

I was convinced that Facebook was a much-needed tool in my plight to get my new novel seen by thousands of people. I understood the concept of Facebook and there was not a maximum of 140-character count hanging over my head. I didn’t know how to Tweet. I only knew how to write stories and stories have about a zillion more characters than Twitter would allow.

I did however sign up for Twitter and I would occasionally tweet, but two years later I had less than one hundred followers. I didn’t think much about it. I had well over 2000 friends on Facebook, who needed Twitter?

After finishing Michael Hyatt’s book titled, Platform, Get Noticed In A Noisy World I realized I did need Twitter. I still don’t understand all there is to know about posting, retweeting, hashtags, landing pages and automating the delivery of my tweets, but I’m learning. And, I am really enjoying the experience.

Last week I diligently started tweeting at least a couple of times a day. I made a list of catchy little sayings and posted a few. Then I started reading other peoples tweets and responding to them. Before I knew it I had ten new people a day following me. Last week I added sixty-seven followers and I have Michael Hyatt to thank.

It’s really not that complicated. Simply tweet something useful, inspirational, funny or share a link. Be nice and reach out. If you tweet them, they will come.

***

On a much more serious note I had a friend ask me last week if I’d write a children’s bedtime story that he could share with his adopted son. My friend has not told his four year old that he is adopted and is having a hard time trying to figure out how to do it. Someone suggested a story and that’s where I came in.

I wrote the first draft this weekend, but would love to have your input on this. If your child was adopted how did you tell them, and at what age?

I deal with adoption in my next novel, The Color of My Heart. My main character, forty-year-old Laura Carter has known all her life that she was adopted, and it was never a big deal because her adoptive parents smothered her in love and affection. I truly believe that my friend’s little boy will be fine once he’s told because I know he is loved very, very much.

If anyone would like to share his or her experience please contact me via my website: www.sarahmartinbyrd.com

Or email me at: sbyrd@embarqmail.com

An excerpt from, The Color of My Heart.

Laura knew she’d been adopted. Rusty and Clair Brown had never tried to keep it a secret, but they were not allowed to give Laura any details about her birth parents. That was part of the adoption agreement between herself and the Browns. She knew Laura had occasionally tried to find out about her biological parents, but Nelda would not let the authorities respond with any information. The girl was better off not knowing, wasn’t she?

As part of their agreement, the Browns sent Nelda pictures every year on Laura’s birthday. She had each one hidden in her room in the cedar trunk. She never showed them to anyone, not even Me-maw. She knew her grandmother hadn’t approved of her giving the baby up, so instead of sharing what little she knew of her daughter’s life, she kept it all to herself. She saw no use in dragging up a decision she made in the past. It would only upset Me-maw to see the pictures year after year.

What would Laura think now if Nelda contacted her? Would Laura hate her for giving her away? Or would she understand and be thankful? It was too much to think about. Maybe the right thing would be to just have her attorney contact Laura when Nelda was deceased. Me-maw would be settled in at the home by then. Laura could choose to get to know Me-maw or not. Either way, Me-maw would be taken care of, but would she be loved?

Creekside Memories

I grew up on a twelve-acre plot of ground on a rise above the Big Elkin Creek in Elkin, North Carolina. To this day you can look out the kitchen window of my childhood home and follow the flow of that creek as it makes its way southeast toward Carter Falls and Jolly Mill. When the sun reflects off the water from up above it glistens and shimmers like fine crystal. Many precious memories of my days living along side that creek are stored deep inside me. Never to be forgotten, treasured as a family heirloom.

Elkin Creek was a place of solace when things got crazy at my house, a spot for a young girl to run away to. To hide, think and write down her thoughts. I did some of my first serious writing sitting on a broken tree limb beside that creek. As the water toppled over rocks, words to poems and stories flowed from me. It wasn’t unusual for the sound of blasting to intrude my thoughts. The revenuers were known to blow up more than one still down in the swamps alongside the creek. Even though my Daddy was questioned about the operation of one of those stills he never made any whiskey. He only drank it.

The creek was also a favorite spot for my friends and I to go and cool off in the summer. We’d wade through the rapids and splash water on each other. Some days we’d venture on down to Carter Falls and slide down the rocks. One specific memory is of a good friend of mine, Debbie Wall. In grammar school we often spent the night with one another and if it was the weekend we’d end up down at the creek. Our favorite spot to play was on Walker and Odessa Luffman’s land above the bridge, on dirt road number 2042.

It’s funny how life comes full circle sometimes. That good friend who roamed the banks of Elkin Creek with me went her way after school and I went mine. A reunion at her mother’s funeral a couple of years ago refueled our friendship. I found out she is a great artist. And guess what? I needed someone to illustrate my children’s picture book. Now we’re working together, old friends who once tromped the riverbanks are now creating a children’s book together.

Other memories of Elkin Creek take me back to the days when Jolly Mill was in operation. My daddy would take corn to the mill to have ground for hog mash. Ed Jolly would always treat us children like royalty. He’d take us on tours of the mill and give us Indian corn in the fall to hang up for decoration. I believe he even shared a ghost story or two with us. It was a sad day when the mill, which was built in 1896, ceased operation.

Since then the mill has wore many different hats. It sat lonesome and deserted for a long time. Then someone had a vision and turned it into a restaurant. Now it is a residence that houses the new owners. On the slope of the hill facing the mill are rows and rows of grape vines. And on past the mill a short distance is the tasting room and restaurant at Elkin Creek Vineyard.

Up the creek from the mill stand four quaint little cabins. You can rent these by the night, weekend or week. They front the Elkin Creek. You can sit on the porch in a swing and listen to the sound of water rolling down stream. If you can’t find peace while listening to the sound of a river you probably never will.

From the cabins you can take a stroll to the waterfall and on down to the tasting room for a sip of one of Elkin Creek Vineyards wines. I am so proud of what the new owners have done to the old Jolly Mill. They have turned this place by the river into a little spec of heaven. I am honored to be their neighbor and share the creek with them.

You can also let Elkin Creek Vineyard help plan your wedding. What better place to start your life together than at the union of Grassy and Elkin Creeks. This charming place by the creek offers what the staff calls, “A Total Experience.” And I for one must agree.

To learn more about my new neighbors down at Elkin Creek Vineyard visit their website at: www.elkincreekvineyard.com

Elkin Creek Vineyard, Restaurant, and Cabins

318 Elkin Creek Mill Road

Elkin, NC 28621

336-526-5119

For wedding planning information call or email Jennifer White at: jennifer@elkincreek.com

1-702-808-8468

An excerpt from my new novel, The Color of My Heart.

“Grab one of those buckets, Lila, and we’ll get some spring water.”

They walked behind the house and down a still accessible but overgrown path. When the trail started down the hill, Nelda and Inesta stopped.

“We’d better stay up here,” Inesta said. “We might get down there, but I’m afraid we might never get back up. Right down there is the spring, girls. See the tin roof? Just dip the bucket in and skim the trash off the top of the water, then dunk it again to fill it.”

Laura, Lakin, and Lila, with the bucket in Lila’s hand, strolled the rest of the way down the path. Lila dipped and skimmed as she was instructed.

“Mom, this is so cool. I feel like we’ve missed so much not knowing Grandma Nelda and Me-maw. I guess we’ll never know what clothes rinsed in rain water feels like.”

The thought overwhelmed Laura with sadness and caused an ache in her chest. Before, she didn’t know what she’d missed, but now she would.

Back up the hill, they met up with Nelda and Me-maw and made their way back to the cottage. Lila set the bucket on the front porch and went inside for the dipper. They each took turns sipping the cool spring water and agreed it was better than any dollar bottle of so-called spring water they’d bought at a store.

The Birth of a Novel

Many times over the past few years I have been asked the question: How long does it take to write a novel? There is no cut and dry answer. It depends on how many other projects I have going on.

The novel I recently finished, The River Keeper took me only a year to pen. It is now being edited and I’m hoping for a 2013 release. You might think an entire year is a long time, but for me it’s not because it took me thirteen years to finish my first novel, In The Coal Mine Shadows. Which by the way has never been published.

The Color of My Heart’s cover has just been finalized and should launch by the end of this month. I started writing this book in June of 2009. By the end of August all the characters had revealed their personalities and I was ready to really put the ink to paper.

The first draft of, The Color of My Heart was soon finished in October of 2010, only seventeen months in the making. By March of 2011 I had finished several re-writes and it was ready for my editor. She and I worked on the manuscript from March until December. Since its conception in the summer of 2009 it was finally ready to start submitting to publishing companies by the end of 2011.

Confident that the manuscript was in the best possible shape I created a cover letter, query, and synopsis and started submitting to Christian Publishing Companies. I used the 2011 Christian Writers’ Market Guide by Sally E. Stuart as a reference to find publishers to send my work to. My previous publisher had gone out of business so I was starting all over again. Not a fun process.

Three months and nineteen queries later on April 4, 2012 I received an email from publisher, Sam Lowry at Ambassador International. He thanked me for the opportunity to review my work. Then went on to say he thought I bring serious talent and empathy to our Southern canvas. And, that they, Ambassador International would very much like to explore this further.

Almost three weeks later after contract negotiations I signed the legal papers and The Color of My Heart was well on it’s way to becoming a living, breathing novel. It was no longer a figment of my imagination.

Since April the novel has been through another round of edits and now has a beautiful cover and is at press stage. I want to thank the team at Ambassador International for putting up with all my little quirks. Even though this is my second published novel the process has been much different this time. Thankfully both experiences have been positive.

So, with all this being said, The Color of My Heart is due to be released by the end of this month. Only three years and four months in the making. Now that’s a long gestation period, but most good things never come fast, or easy.

I’d love to hear the story of your publishing experience.

Contact and follow me on facebook at: www.facebook.com/SarahMartinByrd

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An excerpt from, The Color of My Heart.

“Me-maw, you didn’t answer me this morning. May I stay here with you?”

“Let’s sit down.” Lakin held onto Inesta’s arm, settling her down in the porch chair. Inesta spoke. “You are welcome here. This is your home. But being here with an old woman like me will become a misery to you. You need to be in school and make something out of yourself. You’ve got to be the kind of mother a youngster will be proud of. You’ll need a good job to support this baby, and to get one, you’ll need an education.”

“I can’t go back to college in Raleigh. I don’t belong there. The dreams I had three months ago are not the same ones I have today. I want to stay here.”

“You can’t disappear here, Lakin. You can’t hide away from what’s happening to you. There’s no use to try. The truth is the truth, and the sooner you tell everyone and face it, the quicker you’ll be able to move forward. You’re young and beautiful. You have your whole life ahead of you. You can’t tuck yourself away in the folds of this old woman’s skirt and be happy.”

Folks, Food and Fall Festivals

Autumn is my favorite season of the year. Chilly mornings bring out the nesting instinct in me. I just want to bury myself in a warm fuzzy blanket with a good book and a hot cup of coffee. As I watch the leaves turn all different shades of yellow, orange and red on the Maple tree out behind my house I have to fight the urge to crank up the old wood stove in the basement.

Another great thing about autumn is it brings all kinds of festivals to the area. There’s the Pumpkin Festival, Sweet Potato Festival, Apple Festival, Wooly Worm Festival and, The Autumn Leaves Festival. These are just a few that come to mind. While attending the Pumpkin Festival in my hometown of Elkin, North Carolina this past Saturday I was amazed at the number of people who are still interested in my first published novel, “Guardian Spirit.” Even after being available for two years it’s still selling quite well.

I was thrilled to have a draft of the cover of my next novel, “The Color of My Heart” to display. I’ll be sharing it with you when it’s finalized. But the best part of the day was meeting new people and visiting with old friends. In a crowd of several thousand you find all kinds of folks. Some rush to your booth because they want to meet a real live author. Others try to avoid you because they hate to read and could care less about you or your writing.

It takes all sorts of people to make up this world. How boring if we all looked the same and thought the same thoughts. When I was young I wanted to be a country music singer. I dreamed of standing on stage at The Grand Ole Opry. There was, and still is one huge problem. I can’t remember the words to songs or carry a tune!

Each of us has been given a talent, some to teach, others to draw or paint beautiful landscapes and portraits. And there are those who can actually sing and play instruments. Then there are those like me who try to make up stories and put them down on paper.

Like the different seasons we are all unique. While I enjoy the slowing down of life that autumn brings, you may look forward to the hustle and bustle of summer, or the snowy days of winter or maybe the newness of spring.

People ask me all the time how I come up with different stories. It’s easy. All I have to do is look around. Watch nature, the sun as it sets and rises, animals, and the different phases of the moon while it spins around the earth. Stories are everywhere.

A writer is an observer of all things, especially people and their habits. Every human being is a one-of-a-kind piece of art designed by our Maker. There is a story, song, or picture in every one of us. God has given each of His children a special gift. It is our choice to use it or let it sit on a shelf collecting dust.

Romans 12: 6-8

6) Having then gifts differing according to the grace that is given to us, whether prophecy, let us prophesy according to the proportion of faith;

7) Or ministry, let us wait on our ministering: or he that teacheth, on teaching;

Or he that exhorteth, on exhortation: he that giveth, let him do it with simplicity; he that ruleth, with diligence; he that sheweth mercy, with cheerfulness.

Blog – Blog – Blog, Less Is Sometimes Better

When I started writing this weekly blog over two years ago I thought I was experienced because I’d written a column for the local newspaper off and on for many years. But after reading several chapters of New York Times Best-Selling Author, Michael Hyatt’s book titled, Platform – Get Noticed In A Noisy World I’ve found out I really don’t know as much as I thought I did.

Yes, I’ve absorbed plenty over the past few years. My previous publisher, Lucky Press helped me get my feet wet in the publishing world and I will forever be indebted to them, especially their marketing advisor, Shelby Isaacson with NuChapter Marketing. She and I worked together for several months building my social media platform. Many of the things Shelby taught me are also spotlighted in Mr. Hyatt’s book.

I’d like to share a couple of things with you. Most of us think the longer a blog the better. In fact I thought the rule was anything under one thousand words was fine, but Mr. Hyatt says in his book to keep your blog at five hundred words or less. I’ve been thinking a lot about this. He’s so right. Who in the world has time to sit and read lengthy posts?

Platform is a step-by-step guide for anyone with something to say or sell. Fellow authors this is a must read. Mr. Hyatt tells in his book how to create more blog traffic. He suggests you write frequently and keep it short. He posts five times a week, Monday through Friday. He says whatever you do be consistent. That’s why I always try to post on Mondays

Mr. Hyatt’s book is so well written. I’m usually bored by detail and non-fiction, but I find myself actually looking forward to reading a few chapters each day while I wait in car line for my granddaughter to get out of school. The book is written in a format that is easy to understand. He uses lists and bullets, has short chapters, and pretty much tells us what has worked for him and what hasn’t.

We should first of all write something that has meaning and is worth sharing. I know sometimes I tend to get too personal. Who wants to hear about my boring life? Hopefully in the future I will be more helpful to authors who are struggling to find their way. But for those who really know me you know I’ll always write from the heart and that’s just the long or short of it.

So for my first bit of helpful advice I suggest you purchase Mr. Hyatt’s book. It is by far one of the best sources I’ve seen on marketing yourself and your product. If you have something you are trying to sell via social media you will not regret investing a few dollars in this exceptional book.

Now if I don’t shut up I’ll be breaking rule number one and write over five hundred words. Oops, too late I’m already at five hundred and forty two. This less is better advice might just be a good thing, but I don’t know how easy it’s going to be. You know me; I sort of like to talk. Have a great week.

Where in the World is Walton’s Mountain?

This weekend I marked another check beside one of the items on my bucket list. Truth be told I don’t have a written list, but I do have things in my mind that I’d like to accomplish or just do for fun before I pass on. For those who follow my blogs you know I talked about the television series, The Walton’s a few months ago in one of them. I spoke of a day when I would visit Walton’s Mountain and stand high upon the terraces of rock and soil and smell and see the same things that John, Olivia, Zeb, Esther, John Boy and all the other Walton clan once did. And maybe, just maybe some of the Walton’s wisdom would escape those mountain crevices and fill my being.

After searching the Walton’s Mountain website I found directions to the Walton’s Mountain Museum in Schuyler, Virginia. The two hundred mile trip to the summit of the mountain seemed such a short journey. The drive was beautiful up Highway 81, though a bit too much traffic for me, so we took a more scenic route and found ourselves in Lovingston, Virginia a town not too far from the majestic mountain. There we stopped at the visitor’s center and asked for specific directions since the Walton’s Mountain website’s were pretty vague.

The lady at the Lovingston Visitor Center was very helpful. She gave us two maps, told us about a scenic drive along the river and the must see, Crabtree Falls just a short jaunt away. All was going well. Only thirty minutes and I’d be looking at the mountain of my dreams… then it happened. I asked the question that had been burning in my mind for years.

“So this is the real mountain in all the Walton shows?”

The nice lady answers, “Mountain? There’s no mountain.”

I swallow my disappointment and say, “You’re telling me there is no Walton’s Mountain? But this brochure says: Come visit the Schuyler Community Center “ON” Walton’s Mountain.”

She quietly answers, “You’ll have to take that up with the people in Schuyler where the Walton’s Mountain Museum is located.”

I turned to leave, shoulders drooped, head hanging low and tried to block out my husband’s lecturing.

“Do you mean you dragged me two-hundred miles to see a mountain that doesn’t exist?”

He was not happy, but hey, neither was I! All those years, nine in all of watching my favorite family were in vain. The town of Walton’s Mountain was built in the rear area of the Warner Brother’s Studio and the mountains shown in the series is part of the range opposite Warner Studios in Burbank, California. Yes, that’s what I said California!

I felt like a little girl who had all of a sudden been told by her older brother that there really wasn’t a Santa Claus. My husband wanted to turn around and not even visit the homestead of Earl Hamner but I told him I’d come this far and by golly I was going all the way.

Silence shrouded our SUV as we speed even farther toward the illusion of Walton’s Mountain. The Visitor Center ladies directions took us right to the small-unincorporated community of Schyler. It is a quaint little town where a replica of Ike Godsey’s store, the Walton’s living room and kitchen, and John Boy’s bedroom is housed in an old school building. There is also an ancient store where you can purchase artifacts such as re-runs of the Walton series, books by Earl Hamner, the man for who’s life the series is about, and even a copy of the Baldwin sisters, Papa’s recipe. Now don’t think I wasn’t tempted to pay one dollar and a half for that.

All in all the day was not a complete loss. The house where Earl Hamner was raised still stands behind the old store. Rumor has it that he wrote most of his life stories in the shed just off the store building. He may have even written Spencer’s Mountain there. As I looked around that day I realized that all writers alter the truth. Mr. Hamner told the tales of his youth while growing up in the depression years during World War 11. He instilled in all who viewed The Walton’s the values that we should all live by today.

I didn’t get to stand on Walton’s Mountain and dream the dreams of John Boy but the spirit of the show lingers in that small township of Schuyler, and in my heart. The hopes and dreams of a young boy were brought to fruition. Earl Hamner, the real life voice of John Boy Walton at the beginning of every show echo’s in my head almost every time I sit down to write. That kind of writing may be out of date for some, but for this country girl it will always be my favorite. Words that come from the heart are never forgotten.

Goodnight John Boy!

For more information about The Walton’s series you can visit this website: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Waltons

I’d like to share another excerpt from my soon to be released novel, The Color of My Heart.

Tomorrow will be my one-hundredth birthday! As I grew old, each year became shorter and shorter. A decade soon became a year, a year a month, a month a week, a week a day…until now…this morning… all that’s left are minutes.

These minutes are now quickly turning to seconds. I am as a timepiece, each second ticking away. As the hands move forward, I swiftly flow from night to day and day to night.

Who will keep the journals? Ever since before the voyage of my grandmother Zessia, our lives have been written down. Zessia had been taught the gift of scribing. She started penning her life on paper before she was ten years old, and from her the pen was passed to her daughter, my mother, Tilley, then to me. Who will carry on? Nelda won’t be here. What will Laura do when she reads the books? Will she continue the tradition of our families, or will she turn her back to the truth?

Inesta Calhoun