Sarah Martin Byrd's Blog, page 15

Authors, Editors, and Agents

It's Monday after Thanksgiving and here I am, back at it. My granddaughter is at school and I'm chiseling out another weekly blog. Then I'll diligently send more queries out to agents, or maybe take a nap since I'm sporting a head cold.

The hardest part of being an author is the waiting. Waiting is even worse than getting "no's." Well, maybe that's stretching things a bit. Since the first of October I have sent out fifty-four queries. I've received seventeen "no's" and had one request to read the entire manuscript. Of course all the "no thank you" notes were form letters or emails, all except one. Last week I opened my SASE and was pleased to find a three-paragraph rejection letter.

In the letter, agent Jan said she hoped I was doing well and thanked me for the opportunity to consider "The Color of My Heart." She noted my material had a promising book concept that focused on the exploration and celebration of mind, body and spirit. But sadly, because of the intense competition in the current literary market, we as agents are forced to be highly selective and must pass up projects that we believe in.

Yes, a no, is a no. But, sometimes if you read between the lines you see a spark of interest that may have lit up an agent's eye. I really appreciate the encouragement this agent brought to me. She even signed the letter with a big ole "J."

The publishing world is buried in manuscripts like mine that may be pretty good, but how do agents and publishers choose one out of a million? Here are two suggestions I have for struggling authors: Write a magnificent story. Fill it with parts of your heart and soul. Create a magical scene and believable characters. And, when you have finished, the second thing you need to do is find yourself a good editor.

Recently an old acquaintance bought a copy of "Guardian Spirit." He told me he also had written a book and asked if I would read it. Of course I agreed. The story line is futuristic and way out of my usual genre of reading but it did capture my attention. What turned me off about the work was the fact that it was single-spaced with run-on paragraphs and there were so many grammatical errors and missed spelled words that after reading it I felt pretty good about my own writing skills.

This made me really think. What does an agent or publishing house see when they open my queries and read the words I have written? Are they turned off right away after noticing I have made an error in spelling or punctuation? Yes, I think they are. I admit I am not an English major and I cringe when I think about my first manuscript and what my editor, Jo Martin thought when she tried to unscramble all my scribbling.

After three novels and six years of working together Jo has taught me so much. She doesn't just fix all my spelling and grammatical errors. She helps me look at my characters and develop them into more believable people. Jo points out when I am telling, and not showing their actions. Sometimes she basically says this part or that just doesn't work. Honesty may hurt for a minute but in the long run it pays off.

When I gave Jo my last manuscript I thought she was going to be so proud of me. I understood more of when and where to put quotes. I thought I had nipped my "run on sentences" in the bud, and all she would have to do would be clean it up a bit. Not! I have to admit there wasn't as many penciled in corrections as on my previous manuscripts but there was still plenty.

So, in saying all of this my advice to all who are sending their work out into the world is to follow this formula: Author – Editor – Agent or Publisher. And when you see an error in my work simply know that my editor doesn't edit my blogs. Thank you Jo, for putting up with all my present tense, past tense errors and the many other things I mess up. I couldn't do this without you. Thank goodness for spell check and patient editors.

Howdy Pilgrim

When I think of Thanksgiving Day the first thing that comes to mind is family: A time of gathering to reminisce about the good old days, to cook and eat… and eat, and then eat some more. Is food what Thanksgiving is really all about? Most of us think that the first Thanksgiving was celebrated because of a bountiful harvest, but that's not the case. The history nut in me leads me to research that first Thanksgiving, via The World Book Encyclopedia, not the world-wide-web. I still love my twenty-one year old set of hardcover encyclopedias.

The first Thanksgiving was entirely religious and did not involve food. On December 4, 1619, a group of 38 English settlers arrived at Berkeley Plantation, on the James River near what is now Charles City, Virginia. This day of arrival was to be observed annually as a day of thanksgiving to God.

The first Thanksgiving in the New England state of Massachusetts was less than a year after the first pilgrims settled in America. The first winter had been devastating and about half of the settlers had died from the elements. But the pilgrims proved not to be quitters, even in the face of adversity and loss.

New hope sprouted in the summer of 1621. The settlers expected a bountiful harvest of corn even though the peas, wheat, and barley were not fairing as well. In early autumn governor William Bradford arranged a harvest festival to give thanks to God for the progress the colonists had made.

The first festival lasted three days. The pilgrims shot and ate duck, geese and turkey. They also feasted on clams, eel and other fish, wild plums and leeks, corn bread, and watercress. The women cooked this meal over an outdoor fire. Close to 90 Wampanoag Indians joined them bringing five deer to add to the feast. At Plymouth that day so long ago they ate outside at large tables and afterward enjoyed games together. I'm not certain, but I'd bet the tables were not segregated either.

In 1789, President George Washington issued a general proclamation naming November 26 a day of national thanksgiving. By 1830, New York had an official state Thanksgiving Day, and other Northern states soon followed. In 1855, Virginia became the first Southern state to adopt the custom.

Sarah Josepha Hale, the editor of Godey's Lady's Book worked many years to promote the idea of a national Thanksgiving Day. Then President Abraham Lincoln proclaimed the last Thursday in November 1863, as "a day of thanksgiving and praise to our beneficent Father."

Each year afterward, for 75 years, the President formally proclaimed that Thanksgiving Day should be celebrated on the last Thursday of November. But in 1939, President Franklin D. Roosevelt set it one week earlier. He wanted to help business by lengthening the shopping period before Christmas. But then Congress ruled that after 1941 the fourth Thursday of November would be observed as Thanksgiving Day and would be a legal federal holiday.

I know you've all heard or read this before but I just wanted to bring back the realities of yesteryear. A small group of people came to a strange and exciting new world. A place where American Indians roamed the land, a spot where wildlife was abundant and a person could grow their own food and live off the land. Do you think it was easy for the Native Americans to welcome the foreigners with open arms? I wonder if they shouted out a welcome of "howdy pilgrim?"

Yes, I believe they did. I think the American Indian was open to the newcomers and they probably worked together teaching each other the ways of their own people. Where did it all go wrong? When we became greedy and forgot where our blessings came. No one owns the land. We are only stewards of it.

I can only hope that at this time of year we can remember that first Thanksgiving. Those people celebrated the simplest of things like food in their bellies and a warm place to lie down for the night. Today if we don't live in a mansion filled with valuable antiques and earn six figures we think we are the unfortunate ones.

Why, oh why can't we get back to our roots and stop living above our means. Yes, I enjoy nice things, we all do. But we can certainly do without a lot of what we have or what we think we have to have. The next five weeks will be filled with shopping and overspending. Some will pay for their extravagance the entire next year. It doesn't have to be like that. Please, enjoy your families and step back and remember what this holiday season is really all about. Being thankful for what we have and not longing for things we don't need.

From the Duke and I: "Pilgrims, we hope you all have a blessed Thanksgiving Day."

Thankfulness, a Recipe of Love

This week I feel sort of like a preacher. I had one blog all thought out and ready to key in and then a divine voice stopped me saying, "You need to blog about being thankful." Well of course I do since next Thursday is Thanksgiving Day.

I often wonder if some people think this is the only day we're obliged to give thanks? Thanksgiving Day isn't like your birthday only to be celebrated one day a year. We should be thankful every day. Whether it's a good one or a bad one. Thanksgiving is a time of reflection, a day to count our blessings.

I could get all ho-hum now and say Thanksgiving just isn't the same since Mama and Daddy are gone and we can't go home anymore. But I'm not. I just don't want to be sad today. I read a friends post on facebook this morning. She was downhearted about the holidays coming up with lots of her loved ones gone. My advice to her was, start a new tradition.

After Mama passed away three years ago and the homeplace wasn't available for me and my siblings and our clans to assemble, we decided that was no reason to stop joining together as a family to give thanks. So we started a new tradition. We now meet in a little cabin that belongs to my sister near The Blue Ridge Parkway. We all cook, laugh, share memories and just plain enjoy ourselves. Is it the same as going home? No. But it's really okay. We're making good memories for our children and grandchildren.

Life can be one of two things. A dreary existence filled with regrets and sorrows. Or, it can be a life filled with hope and dreams. It is our choice everyday to either be happy or be sad. Attitude changes lives. Not just our own but those around us. So when life kicks your butt, just look around and you'll see you're in pretty good shape. There is always someone who's getting kicked a little harder than you.

I wish blessings of peace, hope and thankfulness to you and yours. Not just for the season, but for everyday.

Here are a couple of wonderful recipes that you might want to share with your loved ones during the holidays. My Aunt Lafayette loved to bake. She always had a desert ready to serve company. Here are two of her favorites.

Pecan Pie

(This makes 3 regular crust pies.)

6 eggs

1 1/3 cups sugar

2/3 cup soft butter (Land of Lakes sweet cream is what she used.)

1 bottle, 16 ounce green label Karo Syrup

2 cups pecans, chopped in small pieces. (Not fine.)

Dash of salt

3 regular size Pet Ritz, frozen pie crusts

Beat eggs, sugar, salt and butter. (Do not over beat.) Add syrup then pecans. Beat as you pour in pie shells to keep pecans stirred equally in all pies.

Bake at 350 degrees to 40 to 50 minutes.

Serve with butter pecan ice cream or plain.

Pineapple Carrot Cake

This moist cake with cream cheese frosting is the best I've ever eaten. It's so simple because it uses jars of carrot baby food.

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 cups sugar

2 teaspoons baking soda

2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

1-teaspoon salt

1-1/2 cups vegetable oil

4 eggs

2 jars (6 ounce each) carrot baby food

1 can (8 ounces) crushed pineapple, drained

1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts (optional)

Frosting:

1 package (8 ounces) cream cheese, softened

1/2 cup butter or margarine, softened

1-teaspoon vanilla extract

3-3/4 cups confectioners' sugar

Additional chopped walnuts or pecans for topping.

In a mixing bowl, combine the dry ingredients. Add the oil, eggs and baby food, mix on low speed until well blended. Stir in pineapple and nuts. Pour into two greased and floured 9-inch round baking pans. (I use three.) Bake at 350 for 35-40 minutes or until a toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean. Cool for 10 minutes before removing from pans to wire racks to cool completely.

For frosting, in a mixing bowl, beat cream cheese and butter until smooth. Beat in vanilla and confectioners sugar until mixture reaches spreading consistency. Spread between layers and over top and sides of cake. Garnish with nuts if desired. Store in the refrigerator. Yield 12 servings.

Warranties, Guarantees and Thoughts of Frank Wall

When you purchase an item it often has a warranty. New cars, five years or 60,000 thousand miles, high definition televisions a year or two, even something as small as an electric mixer has some kind of guarantee that it will work for a certain amount of time. Some homes even come with warranties. The roof is guaranteed not to leak and the electric, plumbing and septic system is supposed to be in tip-top shape. But sometimes there just are no guarantees.

We have no warranties on these old bodies of ours. Our days on this earth are numbered, and we're not guaranteed one more. I often wonder about life and death. What will the days to come reveal and how many more sunrises will I see? How will I respond to life's bountifulness, or lack of? Have the years of living and dying molded me into a statue? Immune to whatever sorrows come my way? I'm afraid not.

This has been a hard few days. My husband's eighty-one-year old uncle was buried on Saturday and a dear friend passed away on Sunday. Our friend went in for a simple knee replacement and died of cardiac arrest. There was no guarantee attached to his knee surgery. I am so saddened by his departure. His passing leaves a huge void in the lives of so many.

Frank Wall will be remembered and mourned by all who knew him. If Frank liked you, you had a friend for life. I will always remember his big bear hugs. There was never a time in the thirty-some odd years that I knew him that he didn't wrap me up in his arms and plant a kiss on the top of my head. Frank had a way of making you feel special, even if you weren't. The only good thing about his passing is the fact that God gave him eighty-four blessed years.

Frank was loved deeply by his family. The days ahead for them will not be easy. What do you do when someone that you love is suddenly not there? For one thing you cry a river of tears, tears that well up from your soul and pour out from your heart. You feel a longing for what was and will never be again. The days will pass and sometimes you won't remember them. Why? Because your thoughts are all tangled up in your pain and sorrow.

If Frank could talk to his family he'd tell them to buck up and get on with life. Yes, Frank loved to live and he wouldn't want you to stop living just because he graduated to a better place. A spot where there is never a rainy day to ruin a golf game. If Jesus plays sports I'll bet Frank has already set up a tee time with Him.

A few days ago I got a message from another friend. We grew up in the same community and went to school together. Over the years we sort of lost track of each other, families and jobs pulling us this way and that. The past few years we've been able to reconnect and kindle our friendship.

In my friends message she started out by saying, "I want to tell you before you hear it somewhere else." That in its self is a bad, bad sign.

"I have cervical cancer." Were her next words. "I don't know if its spread to other areas or not."  Cervical cancer is nightmare enough for a 52-year-old woman, but my friend also has MS and about three years ago she had breast cancer and went through some major reconstructive surgery. See what I mean about wondering about life and death.

I can't help but think of Job from the Bible when I think of my friend. He was tortured and diseased. Everything was taken from him, but you know what? Job never faltered, even when his very own wife told him to curse God and die. But Job didn't curse God; he praised Him knowing He was his only guarantee in life or death.

No, God doesn't assure us we'll have eighty-one years like Uncle Charlie, or eighty-four years like my friend Frank, and he doesn't promise my friend with cancer another day or me either. But he does have a lifetime guarantee waiting for each of us. Written out and stamped in blood.

John 14:1-3 says:

1)    Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me.

2)    In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.

3)    And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.

If you hold this promise in your heart and believe these words of Jesus then you have all the warranty you'll ever need, a guarantee of eternal life.

A Glimpse From the Past

(I hope you enjoy Olivia's tale. I had an overwhelming urge to create, even though as in all fiction there is a lot of truth here. Forgive the grammar; it's old mountain dialect and the way Olivia talks.)

Well this is it, the day I dread all year. It's hog killin' day. My name is Olivia Oliver. The year is 1928. I was born here in this place called Cades Cove almost thirteen years ago. Some white folk changed its name way back when. The real name is Kate's Cove. Named for a Cherokee chief's wife. Never could figure out why Kate's Cove wasn't a good enough name.

We live down toward Parson's branch. Just me and my mama and papa. Mama took sick after I was born and the doc told her she wouldn't be having no more babies. Papa says it's probably for the best since I'm such a handful. Can't nobody keep up with me. Some days I take off this way or that and won't come home till dark. I love this land, the valleys and the hills. I wake up every morning and watch the fog lift. Starting from the ground and slowly rising to the tops of the mountains, cloaking the fall colors in mist then disappearing into the clouds.

This is my favorite time of year, fall, but not my favorite day remember? First real cold spell in November brings slaughter day. Maybe if I wouldn't put names to the darn things it wouldn't bother me so much. Henry's the unlucky one this year. We got two other boar hogs named of Harley and Horace. Papa says Henry's the fattest so he's the first to go. Of course he's my favorite.

I heard papa's pistol fire a few minutes ago. I've just got to sit here on this stump and cry. I won't let nobody see me though. I ain't made that way. I glance up as a crow flies overhead. Reckon' he's a leaving cause he don't want to watch the hog killin' neither. Oh Lordy papa's a callin'. It's times like this I'm a wishin' I had me a bunch of brothers and sisters and then maybe I could just slip off and nobody would notice or maybe I'd just disappear amongst the others. There he goes again callin' my name. Just got to buck up and face it.

First thing I see when I walk up is old Henry hanging there by his hind feet. Papa's ready to winch him down into the boiling water. Mama started that pot to heating two hours before daylight. There he goes. No wonder I hate bacon. What kind of person could eat something with the name of Henry? Every year I tell myself, Olivia you ain't going to like them there hogs. Just slop them and be on your way. But every time one of them big ole nasty things catches my eye and there I go again. Love done struck me.

I just have to turn my back when old Henry's head disappears into the boiling vapors. Won't take long before papa will be winching him back up and then I'll have to help scrape the hair off his hide. That's when I have to take my mind somewhere's else. Maybe I'll go up the side of Rich Mountain. Up where them black bears like to go and eat huckleberries. Them bears don't skear me none. They just look at me and I look at them. They can get real mean sometimes though. I seen where one ripped up a baby dear one time when the snow was about a foot deep. Blood looks real bright red on pearly white snow. An old Cherokee tale says bears are transformed people. I don't rightly know or understand that. But I guess I understand the killin'. Any of us would 'bout do anything if we's hungry enough. Man or bear. Maybe I'd even eat a portion of old Henry if I was a starvin'. It's best to never say never, if you know what I mean.

Scrape…scrape… scrape. The stink of scorched hog hide will stick with you for days, sometimes even a week or two. I just have to take myself away. Maybe over to the gristmill and watch the wheel turn or to the sorghum mill. It's too late to be making molasses but you can still smell that sweet scent long after the harvest. Anything smells better than singed hog hide.

Talk has it that the National Government is going to buy up all our land here in the cove. Going to call it the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I don't know what no park is but I don't like it. This is my home and I ain't a goin' no wheres. I ain't leavin' my trails and secret hiding places. And then there's all these mountain animals. Is that federal government going to make them leave too? Somebody said they would get to stay here in this sanctuary. Don't know what no sanctuary is neither.

I look around me. The mountains rise up above in every direction. I can hear the creeks a ripplin' and the turkey's a squawkin'. On a cold winter's night I hear the gray wolf a callin' his mate and them winds start a talkin' to me. They's telling me all kinds of things. Matters I keep to myself. Some stuff just can't be deciphered. One thing for sure is I can't explain how much I love these mountains of old Tennessee. How they's a part of me and I'm a part of them.

I hope you enjoyed Olivia's story and traveled back a bit in time to Cades Cove. A real place where people lived off the land, or died by it. Back to my remembrances of hog killing day. If you haven't been to Cades Cove, Tennessee you have missed a chance to go back in time. There is so much history there. Stories of pioneers and Cherokee Indians. If you want to touch and smell nature at its most fragrant moment you must visit the cove.

And if you enjoy your stay at the cove, you'll also have to visit Cataloochee, North Carolina. There you'll also experience a flash from the past as well as peeks of real live elk as they graze in the open meadows. Think I'm kidding? Go see for yourself. But wait until January. It's very crowded there this time of year. Enjoy.

A Little Girl's Calling

Growing up in a small community in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains I never dreamed of living anywhere else. Yes, I love an occasional trip to the beach but I wouldn't want the sand hills to be my home. Even as a small child I knew where my roots were. I had lots of dreams but moving away from Elkin, North Carolina was not one of them.

By most standards back in the early '60's we were a poor family and sort of looked down on by many. That's another story in its self. One I'd rather not talk about. But I never felt poor. I always had a full stomach and ice cream money for school. When it was time to pay for class pictures and such, my daddy would fuss but he would always hand over the cash. No, I didn't have a set of clothes for every day of the week with matching pocketbook and shoes but I had all I needed. When all the other girls in class were bringing in record albums on fun day to dance to I couldn't, I didn't have any. I didn't know it then but I was learning a valuable lesson in life. Sometimes we don't have everything we want, but most of the time we have what we need.

Just because we didn't own a record player did not mean there was no music in our house. One of my earliest memories of home is my daddy's old box radio. It sat on top of the refrigerator. Daddy got up early every morning and one of the first things he did was turn on that radio. Back then he listened to a country station, WFMX out of Statesville, North Carolina. Even though no one in my family played a musical instrument back then most of us had music in us. At times Daddy and Uncle Jim would set into singing and as a little girl I just knew they'd be famous one day. My Grandma Verlie always said she was "a kin" to Hank Williams and that's where her boys got their singing ability. Maybe so. I do know she had relatives whose last names were Williams.

As a teenager while watching country music award shows I dreamed of walking out on stage at the Grand Ole Opry and singing my little heart out. One of my all time favorite women singers is Loretta Lynn. Lordy what a life story that woman has lived. I even wrote about her in one of my novels, Guardian Spirit. I saw her at The Opry many years ago. I was sitting up in the rafters and she was only a spec down below, but I'll never forget the feeling of being in the same room with her.

What happened to my dream of being a famous singer? Well bottom line, I can't sing that well. Yes, I'm a member of the church choir, and I'll even do a solo part now and then or harmonize with my siblings, but I am no singer. All who know me understand it doesn't bother me one bit to speak to a large crowd, but stand me up in front of a group and stick a microphone in my hand to sing and my throat closes and my insides turn to mush. It makes me wonder about my grandma's bragging. Then I reconsider this thought because my two brothers and sister sing beautifully.

I believe we all have a calling. Preachers are called to preach. Teachers to teach and singers to sing. My calling I'd like to believe is putting stories down on paper. No I'll never be a Loretta Lynn. I don't think it's in the stars for me to stand before millions and accept a country music award. But that's okay. I wasn't meant to do that. I truly believe when characters start talking to me and I write their stories down I am doing what I was born to do. I know I won't perform for millions of excited fans, but the dreams of this little girl are still big. Someday millions may read my books.

No, I didn't get the gift of a fine tuned voice from Hank Williams. My siblings inherited all that talent. But I think I know where my knack for story telling came from. My Great Uncle Ed was well known for being the teller of stories in our family. He never wrote them down or made the New York Times Best Sellers list, but we'll never forgot the tales of Uncle Ed. He wasn't rich or famous and he never won any awards, but he'll always be remembered because he did what he was called to do.

I still have my daddy's old box radio. Sometimes I touch the wooden sides and turn the dial. I wrap my fingers around the plug and know long ago his fingers touched the same place. I think back and remember when I was a little girl. I close my eyes and I can hear the voices of my ancestors. Some ring through my head in song, others in story. I always knew I was a bit different. Sort of unsettled and restless. Now after all these years I know why. I was working, but not doing what I was supposed to be doing.

My daddy never had the luck or luxury of being able to follow his calling. He was a very smart and talented man but other things took control and ruled over him. Today I am blessed to be able to pursue my dream. I can only wish the same will happen for you some day. Don't miss your calling. Use your talents so others may receive a blessing through it.

Heirlooms of Love… What Are You Leaving Behind?

Every which way I turn these days there are festivals. Fall festivals, sonker festivals, wine festivals, pumpkin and apple festivals, and my favorite, book festivals.

It amazes me the creative ability that some people possess. This past weekend while signing books at a festival I met so many talented artists. The booth on one side of me was filled with homemade pumpkins. What is a homemade pumpkin you might ask? Well, these pumpkins were made from horseshoes. Yes, used horse, mule, and donkey shoes. The nails had been pulled out and they were sanded, painted a muted color of orange and arranged in a way that formed a perfect pumpkin shape. Then one horseshoe was cut in half and painted green then welded to the top making the stem. These iron pumpkins were the talk of the two-day event. They sold like hotcakes to a starving man for twenty bucks each.

The lady who crafted this original design also made other objects from thrown away items. A turtle was made from a shovel, a rabbit from a shoehorn, and a kitty cat and hoot owl from some other discarded junkyard pieces. The woman's name was Kim, but I'll always remember her as the horseshoe lady.

Then across the way from my booth was a tent called "The Bag Lady." It took me most of the first day to figure out exactly what those things were hanging all around her tent. They were sort of fashioned like a rag doll, but I found out they were much more useful. Their full skirts with elastic around the bottom were made to cram plastic grocery bags up in. "The Bag Lady" had made a holder for our bags. Da!

Other tents held handmade quilts, capes and floral arrangements. One of my favorite booths was on the other side of mine. Under this tent was the work of Johnny Pardue. Johnny is a five-day a week laborer just like most of us. But in his spare time he is a master potter. As I listened to him telling others of his love to mold and form clay, and how he fired and mixed his own glaze I watched a glitter in his wife Janet's eyes. She is so proud of her husband, and rightly so. Johnny calls his pottery business a hobby. I call it leaving behind a legacy of heirlooms. The bottom of each piece is engraved with his last name, "Pardue" and the date. Years from now ancestors of the ones who bought his pieces will glance at his name and he will be remembered as Johnny, the pottery man.

Have you ever wondered how you will be remembered? Do you sew or embroider fancy pieces of eyelet or stitch lovely quilts from hand-me-down clothes? Do you create recipes that will be passed from generation to generation? Or do you simply live your life in a way that creates precious memories? Recollections of a grandmother who took the time to pile fallen leaves in a big mound for you to jump in. A mother who loved you so much she hugged you too tight, and a dad who never hugged you but you knew he loved you anyway.

All kinds of things can bear your name and bring remembrances. For instance there is a road in a near by community named, "Preacher Field Road." C.F. Fields was the pastor at my home church, Pleasant Ridge Baptist from 1923-1928. I don't really know if he lived on this road or not. Someone told me one time that he is buried in a field over looking Carter Falls on the road. Either way Preacher Fields will always be remembered. Why, because his name is written down on a road sign.

Some people will never be forgotten: Kings, queens, presidents, etc. But what about just common folk like you and me? Five or six generations from now will anyone have passed down the stories of you? Will anyone remember the good or bad things you did? Maybe, but probably not.

There is one sure way to know you'll be remembered. Write your life down. The story doesn't have to be filled with fancy words or poetic script. Just simply mark down things from as far back as you can remember. Let others in the family tell you stories and write those down too. Then one hundred years from now, one of your ancestors will open up the hand written notebook and they'll say, "Look. Here's a story about my great-grandpa." And they'll glance at the name of the author, and they'll remember you as the one who took the time to write your family's legacy.

Heirlooms do not have to be gold coins, pieces of antique furniture or handmade items. Heirlooms of love can be found in the notes, letters and journals of the ones who have come before us. These items bear the heart and soul of our ancestors.

When I'm gone I think I will be remembered as the woman who wrote things down. No one will probably remember how much I loved my family or that I had rather eat a homemade meal than be taken to a fancy restaurant. But one day a hundred years from now someone will pick up one of my novels and they will read it and know I was someone who had a great love for others in her heart. I pray my writing will always have a message of hope in it.

This is one of my favorite, original quotes. "Most everything will eventually be forgotten. The spoken word will fade with time, but the written word lives forever."

Autumn at the Springhouse

I simply love this time of year. The flaming colors of nature and the cool breezes bring out a longing in me. I yearn for campfires, coffee and a fuzzy blanket to wrap up in.

Over a hundred years ago a great-great-grandfather of mine purchased a rather large plot of land. This property had a couple of small creeks on it and a real good spring with a bountiful amount of water spewing from the ground. Over the past thirty-five years my husband Jerry and I have been able to buy back some of the property that was once owned by my ancestors. The old springhouse rests on one track.

Stories of the springhouse flow from family and all who have lived around the spring. Memories of sitting in the shade as grandma churned butter under the old elm tree. All the trips up and down the hill carrying water to the house. Open fire with a washing tub boiling over it. The smell of bleach after Mrs. Adams cleaned the inside of the springhouse.

For me scenes from my own remembrances surface. Watching my daughter Wendy and granddaughter Emma wade in the creek. Weiner roasts, and Bible school lessons. Walking through the big tunnel that is buried under the road, and catching spring lizards and crawfish. The spring has been home to rope swings, wedding portraits and snow covered rabbit tracks. The weather beaten boards have witnessed a lot of living.

When we purchased the land underneath the springhouse almost thirty years ago it was so grown up around it you couldn't even tell there was a structure underneath all the honeysuckle and wild rose bushes. Jerry and I sat into cleaning up. A chainsaw, ax and sling were put to work and the treasure that we uncovered remains today. Though the foundation is weak and the tin roof rusty, it still stands.

I did however make a major mistake years ago. I planted two weeping willow trees along the creek, one above the springhouse, and the other on the lower side. One of them died so I broke a limb off of a willow in my daddy's yard and stuck it down in the edge of the creek to root. It now stands high over the creek bank. Stretching up toward the heavens, then sadly falling to the ground. It's spindly limbs kissing the soft grass. I think willows are so beautiful but never, ever, plant one near a spring.

The willow roots have invaded the inside of the springhouse choking out the natural flow of water. The spidery webs have reached in and shifted huge rocks that had been in place lining the spring hole for better than a century. I really messed up.

Last week while I was working down at the spring I wondered if I could un-do what I did all those years ago. A neighbor told me that if I cut down the willows the spring would return back to normal. Does anyone else know if this is true? Because now, I not only love the old spring, I also love the willows. It would be a "weeping" shame to see them go.

The spring is a thinking place for me. When I'm there I wonder about life. Where I've been and where I might be going. I think of the lives that spring has touched. The thirsts of many have been quenched from its waters. The spring has sustained life, for to live without water is impossible. Oh how we take the simplest things for granted.

Last week while cleaning the filth from the creek bed I suddenly felt old. I wondered: If I died today would I have any regrets? Is there something I haven't done that I should have? The first thing that came to mind was: I haven't sat and watched the creek enough times, or listened to its flow. I have a problem sitting still. There is always something to do. Maybe that's why I enjoy writing so much. I have to be still.

While visiting the springhouse last Thursday I realized that it isn't just Fall of the year, it's the fall of my life. There is a lot of living under my belt and much more I hope, but there is one thing I know for certain, the wisdom of the old springhouse spoke to me last week. It said: "You better be doing the things you want to do, and stop doing all the stuff you think you have to do." Great advice don't you think? Who knows what those whispering willows might tell me… if I'll just be still and listen.

Collector?

Bill collector, tax collector. Collector. Nasty sounding word isn't it? Someone always wants your money. Don't hate me, but I'm a collector too.

I'll bet everyone out there who reads this blog collects something. My aunt collected figurines of angels. My mama collected salt and pepper shakers, and my daughter is trying to collect a shot glass from every state.

Up until about twenty years ago the only thing I collected was dust on my junk. Then one day I was at the estate auction of a neighbor I'd known all my life. He was a diabetic and had lost both his legs to this devastating disease. When the auctioneer held up one of his canes I knew I had to have it. But I didn't have a buyer's number. Quickly I punched my uncle who was standing beside me. "Bid on that for me." I said.

He did, and I now own the cane. That got me started. Now if there is an auction being held for someone I've known I automatically look for one of his or her canes. I've found a few and I cherish each one. The canes hold special memories of each precious soul.

Another thing I love about homemade canes is that they are all unique. I've seen swirling ones, crooked ones and all kinds with animals and serpents carved into them. Recently I met a man who was walking along with one of the most beautiful works of art I've ever seen in his hand. The cane had distinctive designs carved all up and down it and then perched at the top was carved an owl.

When I questioned the man, he said he'd been picking up sticks since he was a boy. Looking for ones that were a bit special to make into walking sticks. He said he was cleaning up the yard one day not long ago and the owl was looking up at him. I said, "You mean it was already craved?"  He answered with a little crooked grin. "No, I just saw an owl in it." I love it.

It takes a special person to see things in a stick. Just like it takes a particular type person to see a story on a blank sheet of paper. I recently gave my next novel, (not yet published) to a friend to read. This morning I got this message from her: "Sarah, I finished your book last night AND AGAIN you took my breath away!!! The characters are so real, I feel like they live next door. The ending was a surprise turn. I'm not sure just where your insight comes from—but I have decided it is a God given talent and it is meant to be shared."

She said some other encouraging things about my work, but the one statement that really made me think was: Where does my insight come from? Good question. Sometimes I wonder myself. I just get an idea, and like seeing an owl in a useless old stick, I envision characters and mark their stories down on paper. I picture their lives and the predicaments they're in and then start feeling what they might feel. I guess I try to get into my imaginary character's head. Don't ask me to explain that.

I also collect bookends. You know, the things that keep your books from falling over on a shelf. I have several pair, brass ducks, a huge bedpost that has been sawed in half, a beautiful set of hand carved elephants, and of course a set on old timey cast iron irons. These bookends hold the worlds most collected item: The written word.

Yes, I collect words, others and also my own. Boxes of my stories, poems, and articles are stashed away in out buildings and old barns all over our property. When I pass away there is no telling what might be uncovered. I love the words of a current country song by Band Perry. A penny for your thoughts, oh no I'll sell them for a dollar. They're worth so much more after I'm a goner—Funny when you're dead how people start listening.

There may be a lot of truth to these lyrics. A writer spends a lifetime collecting words. She puts down her thoughts and the inner grumblings of her head, and the gut retching feelings from her heart. She notes life experiences, memories that no one else can pen. Yes, her thoughts are a priceless collectible item, worth much more than a dollar.

Advice From a Nobody

A year has passed since my first novel Guardian Spirit was published. Do I still pinch myself just to make sure I'm not dreaming? Yes. Do I still have trouble calling myself an author? Yes. Do I know more about the publishing industry than I did a year ago? No. Well maybe a little. I do know that it is a hard, competitive business.

This year of traveling to festivals, book clubs, schools and wherever else anyone will listen to me has been a challenging experience. All writers are not public speakers. I however don't know when to shut up. That's not to say I am a good speaker, its just saying I'm not afraid to stand in front of a crowd and speak my mind. The challenge is in hoping I will be an inspiration to others.

Someone asked me at a festival on Saturday: When did you become a writer? I answered, "I've always been a writer, but have only recently come out of the closet." Others too are emerging from their hiding places. Friends and acquaintances ask me questions like, how did you find a publisher? Where do you get your stories? Do you create an outline first? Would you read my stuff and tell me if you think it's any good? The questions go on and on.

First of all let me say just because I have a traditionally published book doesn't mean I'm an expert. But I would love to share a few miles of my journey with you. Hopefully I can push the next Earnest Hemmingway (by the way, I met relatives of the late Hemmingway at a festival the other day) to pursue his or her dream.

Here goes: First of all you have to have a story in you. Writers are a little more diverse than the average Joe. Our heads spin with characters and plots. We see sunsets and the color of trees a bit differently. We plan our day around writing down our stories. Do I outline my novels? No. I have a general idea about my story, the beginning, middle and the end. However when I start writing my characters take over and the entire concept may change. I let the characters in my novels speak their mind. If you sit down and struggle for words maybe you should just shut up and let the voices in your head take over.

A frequently asked question is: How did you find a publisher? Well a fairy certainly didn't drop one off under a cabbage leaf. First of all I did my homework. I bought a really thick book called Writer's Market and got to work. Inside those pages were examples of how to write a good synopsis, and the dos and don'ts of how to query a publisher. Most importantly there are hundreds of publishers listed in this book. Famous presses like Random House and small presses like my publisher, Lucky Press. I found out very quickly that to get your stuff read by the rich and famous you have to have an agent to get your manuscript through the door or you must have a long, lost uncle in the business that owes you a favor.

Bottom line, you have to work hard, be diligent, create a unique polished product and have  thick skin. If you are the type to get discouraged when someone tells you no, then you might as well forget having a writing career. You get up every morning; send out a few queries and the next day you do the same, and the next day you do it again. There is nothing like the excitement of going to your mailbox, hopefully wishing that returned SASE envelope has good news in it. Truthfully, it probably never will. If someone likes your stuff they'll email you or call you. If you see your own handwriting on that envelope addressed to you then you can expect a generic rejection letter. Which reads: We're sorry your manuscript isn't a fit for us right now. That isn't to say your work isn't good. We wish you luck in your search for a publisher… blah… blah…blah.

It's all the luck of the draw. I hear stories all the time about novels that were sent out for years to agents and publishing companies, receiving nothing but rejection after rejection. Then one day someone actually reads it and the next thing you know they're on the New York Times Best Sellers list. It happens, but not if you keep your work to yourself because you are afraid of rejection, or if you're too lazy to market it. You have to have a whole lot of want-to to make it happen.

My favorite question is: Will you read my stuff and tell me what you think? I love to read, so of course I say yes. Sometimes I like what I'm reading, other times I love it, and sometimes I don't like it at all. Am I honest with the person to whom their words I've been entrusted? Yes. Take advice from this nobody. Don't let anyone tell you your writing isn't any good. Sure I don't enjoy everything I read, but someone else might love it. We all have different likes and enjoy all kinds of genres. I for one thought I didn't like futuristic novels, but have read three really good ones lately.

As a writer and reader you have to step out of the box. You have to listen to the advice of others, then you have to say to yourself: Okay, that's what they think now how do I feel about this? You have to listen to your heart and follow your own instincts. Why? Because  the voices of your characters are only in your head.

Oh, one more thing. Another popular question has been: When is your next novel coming out? Well all I can say to that is I'm starting to query agents this week, and of course I don't know how many days, weeks or months of sending queries it will take. But, I can promise you one thing; no matter how many SASE rejections I get, I'll keep trying. Keep your fingers crossed and maybe your legs too, because I don't have a famous uncle in the publishing business who owes me. Blessings to all of us who write down the words that pour from our hearts.