Eldonna Edwards's Blog, page 3

Home is Where Your Tribe Shows Up

Photo Credit: JackWy PhotographyIn his posthumous novel by the same title Thomas Wolfe famously proclaimed that you can't go home again because things change. People grow older and more cynical, the town itself expands into something other than how you remember it or contracts into itself due to economic shifts, and leavers are shunned as traitors to family and community. Especially if one of those leavers writes a book reflecting the author's nostalgic image of that community.
I'm here to say that not only can you go home again, it will welcome you with open arms, show up at your book events, stand in line for hugs, and delight in reminding you of a thing you did that you'd forgotten or might wish they'd forgotten. But mostly you will laugh, the kind of laugh that starts deep in the belly and hollows out a secret place where tears are stored. Memories collide; the reality of your mortality a mirror staring back at you in all their beautiful faces. 
Last month I traveled to West Michigan for my Midwestern book launch of THIS I KNOW. My biggest fear was not that folks wouldn't buy my book, but that nobody would show up. People are busy with kids and jobs and aging parents. Driving 30-60 minutes to see an author you knew from church or went to school with might not be a priority when there's a wedding to plan, upcoming graduation or work and family obligations. 
But show up they did. I signed books for those I sat next to in kindergarten in the 1960's, smoked my
first joint with in high school, waited tables together while raising our children, hung out at the beach with every summer, sold real estate for during the 80s, and a critique partner who remembered when THIS I KNOW was just a seed of an idea. There were friends, friends of friends, cousins, nieces and nephews, and people who'd merely heard about me through the grapevine--still the most reliable form of communication in the rural Midwest where reliable cell and internet service are as scarce as designer handbags. 
Best of all my five siblings sat grinning from the front row at nearly every event, lined up much like when we scrunched together in that old wooden pew every week as our Dad went into overtime on his vigorous Sunday sermons. On one of those nights we enjoyed a slumber party, scattered around my eldest sister's cottage in our jammies, munching snacks and sharing stories from our current lives but mostly stirring up memories form our shared past.
Thank you to every one of you who attended my events, arranged after-parties, put me up in their home, and drove me where I needed to go. A special gratitude to Barnes & Noble Muskegon, Book Nook & Java Shop in Montague and The Bookman in Grand Haven for hosting me at your lovely bookstores. After one of my readings an employee handed me a Sharpie and asked me to sign their author wall. I only hesitated for a moment before writing, "You can take the girl out of Michigan, but you can't take Michigan out of the girl." Because Thomas Wolfe is wrong. You can go home again. And as we say here, you might should.
********

Have you heard? THIS I KNOW is Delilah Book Club Selection from America's most listened-to female radio host! Pop over to her page to read Delilah's review and why she chose to recommend my book to her 8 million listeners!



[image error]

Five Things I Learned from My Mother

My mother at 41 and her 13-pound boy.To say the last few weeks have been a thrilling roller-coaster ride would be an understatement. In the span of a month, my debut novel released, I moved, and my beloved 16-year-old dog Bella died. I sometimes wonder how we survive even one of these events without curling into a tangled ball of stress. But then I remember that for every lowdown low there is an incredible high. Our lives might feel out of control but it's possible to find balance even in the midst of complete chaos. You know how I know this? I learned it from my mom. This photo of her was taken shortly after the birth of her eighth child when she was 41. I realize he looks like a three-month-old baby but my brother David came into this world weighing a whopping 13 pounds. My mother quit babies after that one, but she didn't quit bringing forth life. 
Writers often compare launching a new book to giving birth. In my just-released novel THIS I KNOW young Grace Carter inherits her mother's deep intuition. As Mother's Day approaches I've been thinking about what traits my mother gifted me through her genes and by her example; qualities that have made me better equipped to navigate this life.1. Laughter cures pretty much everything. Laughing with Anna UnkovichAlthough she suffered from debilitating degenerative disk disease, it's my mother's laugh, not her pain that I remember most clearly. She often shared jokes, ruining the punch line because she couldn't get through it without cracking herself up. The only thing I loved better than making my mom proud was making her laugh so hard she once peed herself while cooking lunch for my sisters and me. Being pregnant with 13-pound baby might have contributed to the bladder release but I happily took credit. I've carried my mom's voluptuous laugh with me into my own parenthood and beyond. When a neighbor moved away a few years ago she shared that the thing she'd miss most about living next door to me was hearing laughter resonating from my home almost every day. She said hearing me laugh made her less lonely. I hope she laughed with me. Or even at me. Because there's nothing like the chortles and howls of a good belly laugh to make you forget for a moment everything you want to cry about. Laughter takes you out of yourself and sends back a love note.
2. Human touch heals the soul.
My mother was one of the most affectionate people I've ever known. Severe back pain often prevented her from lifting or bending to hug us so she'd pull us close to pet our heads or massage our ears. When she ended up in traction, she'd often invite me to crawl in beside her on the bed where she lay in traction where we could snuggle and hold hands. I used to think she did this for me but looking back I realize she hungered for the healing properties of touch as much as I did. She died a few years before I started my 25-year career in as a massage therapist. What I wouldn't give to have been able to offer her a healing massage when she was hurting. I'm so thankful for her tenderness, for teaching me the power within our reach not only to heal others, but to heal ourselves.
3. Your circumstances don't define you.  Just when her life seemed to peak, my mother was given a diagnosis of terminal cancer. The doctor gave her six months to live. Surrounded by all her children when the call came, she bawled into her hands for all of about fifteen minutes. By the end of the day she was calling the doctors liars; she hadn't come this far to accept their doom and gloom sentence. Over the next three years my mother LIVED her life. She endured chemo, radiation and platelet infusions. She researched and delved into alternative therapies, the most memorable being garlic. Everywhere garlic. She danced, she sang, she went to movies, she spent time with old friends and made new ones. Through it all she refused to give in. Of all the things my mother taught me I'm most grateful for learning what resilience looks like. Her strength has shadowed me through every hardship along a path littered with heartbreak and loss, including losing her.
4. It's okay to break the rules.
VaLoyce Edwards was a mother and preacher's wife but she was so much more than that. The only thing she loved more than singing was if you sang with her. She often performed in our churches and if I'm being honest. that was about the only time I paid attention. Her voice could make a Buckingham Palace guard cry. We didn't have much in the way of luxuries growing up in a home with seven children and two adults but we always had music. My mom listened to Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong and Mahalia Jackson records on our hi-fi. Dancing wasn't allowed in our Southern Baptist home but it didn't stop her from swaying. She'd close her eyes and become a like a willow branch, moving with an unseen wind. Later on in life, she gave herself permission to go listen to bands at various venues. I never had the pleasure of tagging along with her but I'm told that once she let loose she burned up the floor. 5. Never give up on your dreams. I know this one sounds cliche but hear me out. In her late forties, my mother opted for a risky surgery, one that could have left her in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down. The outcome of this decision changed her life. Freed from chronic back pain and the unfortunate side effects of pain medications, she enrolled in college and earned her degree in sociology. Immediately upon graduation she was hired by the university as a financial aid counselor, helping others to find ways to pursue their educational goals. Like my mother, I went back to school in my fifties. And also like her, I never gave up on my goal of writing books. I was 54 when LOST IN TRANSPLANTATION published and 59 when my debut novel THIS I KNOW released. I'll be 60 when my next book is out in June of 2019.
It's been almost three decades since my mother passed away, just shy of her 65th birthday. I know she would be so proud of me for writing a book but prouder still that I channeled her resilience, her laughter, her willingness to break the rules in writing this little story about a girl who longs to rescue her mother from the depths of darkness. Happy Mothers Day, Mom. I love you. This I Know.
What about you? What did you learn or inherit from your mom-person?
**********It's out!My debut novel THIS I KNOW released on April 24 and I'm thrilled with the overwhelming support and positive feedback from so many people. It's available at Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Target, Sam's Club or order from you Independent Bookstore. I'm headed to Michigan for a book tour May 12-20. If you happen to be within spitting distance, I hope you'll drop in and say hi.

Eldonna Edwards' Upcoming Book EventsMay 12 at Barnes & Noble/Muskegon, MI 1 pmMay 18 at Book Nook & Java/Montague, MI 5 pmMay 19 at The Bookman/Grand Haven, MI 1 pm
June 3 at Bang The Drum Brewery/San Luis Obispo, CA 1 pm

Wading in The Wings

[image error] “Living in the present moment is the recurring baptism of the soul, forever purifying every new day with a new you.” ― Alaric Hutchinson, LIVING PEACE
Of all the days that stand out from my childhood, the times we gathered at Stony Lake for baptism services feel the most visceral. It was a big deal in our little church and nearly all of our small congregation attended. What I remember most clearly is my dad's sun-deprived white feet under rolled-up pant legs as he stood at the water's edge, holding his weathered Bible in one hand while he spoke. It didn't matter that the pages flapped in the summer breeze; he knew those words by heart, as did most of us.
I'm not Southern or Baptist but something deep and holy stuck to my bones from those annual gatherings at the lake. Two of my favorite  scenes in THIS I KNOW are a spirited community baptism that takes place at Cherry Lake and a much more personal one that occurs in a small backyard pond. To this day I much prefer baths to showers. One of the first
things I did when I bought my current home was to drop an antique claw foot bathtub in the yard under the trees. It is my sanctuary. Showers are for rinsing; the bath is more of a prayer, a purification of mind and spirit that transcends mere physical cleansing.

Waiting for my book to come out reminds me of those languid summer days wishing my dad would wrap up his long-winded sermon so I could watch him dunk people in the lake. As I count down the last several days to the long-awaited release date, I'm reminded of the words we used to sing as we gathered in the long shadows of those sandy Lake Michigan dunes. 
When peace like a river, attendeth my wayWhen sorrows like sea billows rollWhatever my lot, thou hast taught me to sayIt is well, it is well, with my soul.
It's been two years since I gleefully signed a contract with my publisher for THIS I KNOW, a story about a young girl trying to navigate her kaleidoscopic understanding of Spirit, juxtaposed against her father's black-and-white image of God. My gratitude goes out to every single one of you who has cheered me on. Thank you to the many pre-release readers wrote to tell me how much you loved my little Grace Marie, shared my good news, and talked about my book to others. Today I truly can say that all is indeed well with my soul.
*******************************************Please join me for my long-awaited Launch Party on Facebook!

Tornado Weather

The first day of Spring is just around the corner. Here in California that usually means our jade-green Irish hills gradually turn the color of a lion's mane, but due to recent drought, it's probably going to be more like fading from olive to burnt toast. We're getting some rain this week but probably not enough to correct a full dry season. Hopefully we'll be spared another round of mudslides to the south.
I come from the Midwest, where precipitation happens all year long. The part when it turns white is mostly what propelled me toward the west coast. I'm not nostalgic about shoveling out of six-foot banks of snow, but I do miss how lightening sparked across a forever sky, followed by booming thunder that sometimes punctuated my dad's hellfire and brimstone sermons. When people ask why I set my first novel in Michigan they assume it's because I grew up there. That's partly why, but it's also because Michigan weather makes for a more interesting backdrop. Rain, thunderstorms, hail, blizzards, ice storms; and let's not forget when the air turns eerily still and the sky a sickly shade of yellow that we call tornado weather.
One of my favorite scenes to write in THIS I KNOW is when the family huddles in the basement of their home as a tornado passes overhead. Just recalling the hush of a sticky wind right before the warning sirens pierced my young ears sends me reeling backward in time. I can feel the humidity on my skin, smell the dank corner of our parsonage basement, feel the fear of my family as we waited for the all clear on our transistor radio.  

From chapter 16 of THIS I KNOW:
A huge crack of thunder booms above us, rattling the windows. Chastity scampers over to Mama and Daddy and I follow. The lights flicker on and off twice before the room goes completely dark. Above us our whole house shakes, the wind leaning it one way and then the house fighting its way back to center. Mama starts humming “A Shelter in the Time of Storm,” which is meant to comfort us but for some reason makes me even more scared. 
We don't experience tornadoes as a rule in California, but we do have earthquakes. Mother Nature usually gives you time to take shelter before a funnel cloud reaches for the ground but these tremors come without warning. The best we can do is strap furniture to the wall, keep glassware secured inside cabinets and pray we're not in the grocery store when it hits. 

What about you? How does Mother Nature earn your deepest fear and respect in your neighborhood?

I Only Know What I Don't Know

[image error] Lately I've been thinking a lot  about birthdays. Not just because I'll be completing another trip around the sun this month, but because I've witnessed so many people at the end of their journey. Having recently midwifed more than a few dear ones across the fragile veil of this life, I've realized just how similar these transitions are to birth; the labored breath, the physical pain, the emotional whiplash and at long last, the rush of love that overwhelms us.
Family legend says I was born in a hospital elevator between the labor room and the delivery theater, all ten-and-a-quarter pounds of me! I don't know if the story is true but I tend to believe it. Patience is not one of my most stellar virtues. On the other hand, I do enjoy my comforts and I'm just as apt to believe I was one of those hangers-on who waited long past my due date to leave the safety of my mother's womb. And to do so on my terms, not the will of my poor mother or the hospital staff.
While writing the opening prologue of THIS I KNOW, I tried to imagine the final moments  of unborn twins who communicate their last thoughts to one another right before birth. Do babies experience fear? Excitement? Sadness? Or is the whole experience just a lollapalooza of love during a newborn's entry into the outside world? Here's how my young protagonist Grace Carter describes her memory of a time before birth:
Folks don’t believe me when I tell them I remember being in the womb. They think it’s my wild imagination. “There goes Grace in her fantasy world,” they say. But I know what I know. The thing is, they could remember, too, if they wanted. Maybe they don’t because they’d be sorry they were ever born if they recalled the sweetest place they’ve ever been and how they had to leave it.
As I lean into the final bend of a new decade I'm more inclined to believe we don't know any more about what happens before life than what follows death. When people ask me what I think happens after we die, my answer is that I only know what I don't know. For now, I choose to be awed by the gift of another moment, another day, another candle on this sweet slice of life before me. Because every day is new birth. How will you celebrate that gift today?
**********
Pssst! In celebration of my birthday, we're announcing a Goodreads giveaway for 20 print copies of THIS I KNOW beginning March 3. If you add the book to your Goodreads want-to-read-list you'll be reminded when the giveaway opens. Good luck!

The Healing Power of Music

[image error] "Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows. Lies the seed, that with the sun's love in the spring becomes the rose." --from "The Rose" by Gordon Wills, sung by Bette Midler
My mother had an amazing voice and she love, love, loved to sing. I remember how she'd hum her favorite hymns as she washed dishes or ironed my dad's shirts, and especially when she sat at her sewing machine.  I'd watch her lean into the lever with her knee, pushing the fabric past the needle, bubble-tipped straight pins clenched firmly between her lips. I always worried she'd accidentally swallow one but she never did. And she never stopped humming.
I don't know if I inherited my mother's voice, but I'm pretty sure my love for music came from her. From the time I was a small child, I'd volunteer to sing in church and auditioned for school musicals. At the age of twelve my older sister Mary Beth gave me a beginner guitar, a thing my other sister Nita never forgave her for because I considered that guitar a license to sing all the live long day. Singing brought me joy. It brought Nita to tears, and not in a good way.
When I created the character of Isabelle, wife to the Rev. Henry Carter and mother to four daughters in THIS I KNOW, I gave her my own mother's beautiful voice. And then I took it away from her when Mrs. Carter suffers an unbearable loss. I wanted the reader to feel her deafening silence, how grief not only stills our hearts, it will come like a thief for your tongue and the soul that feeds it. But also how music just might be the one thing to make you feel whole again.
The other day I drove home from a literary event feeling exhausted. Not just from a busy day, but from the heaviness of recent heartbreaking news, the dreadful political noise, and not knowing how to rise above the ennui resulting from day-to-day information overload. I have so much to be happy about--a new book coming out, living where other people vacation, and exceptional good health. And yet here I was, sighing as I exited the 101 toward the Pacific coast.
I turned on the radio hoping to cheer myself up. I surfed from channel-to-channel without landing on the perfect song. I turned it off again, choosing the hum of tires on pavement over bubblegum pop. It was in the silence that I heard my mother whisper, "Come on, Donna Sue." That's what she called me when she was being playful. "Sing us a song." 
And so I did. I sang, nay, belted out a rendition of The Rose that cleared the fog from my lungs and the dread from brain. I sang it three times until, pulling into the driveway, I felt an imaginary pair of wings unfold as I emptied myself from the car and floated into the house.
What about you? Is there a song that lifts you out of a funk? What was your relationship with music growing up? 

**************************
THIS I KNOW by Eldonna Edwards releases 04.24.18
"Once in a while you read a book that just takes your breath away with its beauty and truth. This I Know is such a book.This is one of the most beautiful coming of age stories I’ve ever read, and it will stay with me for a long, long time." --Rosemary S., Librarian

What Was I Thinking?

My beau secretly snapped this photo in a rare moment of what appears to be me taking a break. I am not on a break, I'm working. Having recently turned in the manuscript for my second novel, I've started pondering Book #3. You can't see it, but if thoughts were literal bubbles around our heads, mine would block out the ocean and the mountain behind it. (Yeah, I know. Rough setting, right?)

Writers often hear things like, "You're so lucky. You get to sit around and just make up stories instead of going to a job." I am lucky and I do get to play with words, but it's a job--one that I don't ever leave. Every single experience becomes an opportunity to explore as a possible scene. Every person I meet gets filed away in a collage of traits that make up future characters. Every sound, every smell, every touch; they're all pieces swimming around in my head trying to find their way to the page. And that's just the writing part. PR and marketing are a whole 'nother ballgame.

Several years ago I took a stab at meditation. It didn't go so well. Apparently some people the luxury of neat little organized brain compartments. My brain is more like a pinball machine, with thoughts racing and bouncing faster than I can write them down. And yet I'm grateful for this. I love my job, I really do. I manifested it! But when I look at this picture I realize I also manifested moving to California, living near the ocean, and a beloved companion who pauses to snap a pic of his partner deep in thought on a sunny day in Avila Beach.

So as I close my laptop and head out to the back deck, I'm going to try and leave my work-in-process right here in my office, along with these forming characters, plot lines, and settings. Because sometimes you have to take time to live your own story, yes? In the meantime, caption the photo above for a chance to win a "THIS I KNOW" lined notebook (pictured below). I'll choose a random name from comments here and on my Facebook Page. Go!

Dear Rosemary: A Love Letter to Librarians

Dear Rosemary,
My sister taught me to read. An avid reader herself, Nita turned empty milk crates into desks, the living room into a private schoolhouse, and my younger sister and me into her wide-eyed students. It was during those not-so-lazy summer mornings and blizzardy winter afternoons that she'd assign us articles from our dog-eared set of encyclopedias to read and report on. Oddly enough, Rosemary, I loved her game of "school at home." Not just because I could sneak peeks at naked statues, but because thanks to my older sister's penchant for making learning fun, I entered kindergarten at a fifth grade reading level. 
We had no library in our tiny town. The closest one was miles away and I didn't discover it until our second grade teacher took us on a field trip there. I remember crawling around on the floor like a monkey in a banana store, pulling stacks of books off the shelf and devouring them on the spot. I fell instantly in love with Dr. Seuss and all his crazy thing-a-ma-words. Eventually I graduated to The Bobbsey Twins , Laura Ingalls Wilder's books and then the Nancy Drew mysteries, all recommended by the smiling librarian. Oh how I loved the crunch of that stamp as she punched a date next to my name on the yellow card from the book's pouch!

Flash forward fifty years to yesterday, when I received the very first netgalley* review for my debut novel, THIS I KNOW. Now, I try not to look outside of myself for validation but I'd be lying if I said reviews don't matter. Of course they do. The experts tell us authors never to read reviews of our own books. But for me, that's like putting a do-not-look note over David's junk on Michelangelo's  encyclopedia page. So of course I took a deep breath and clicked on your review.




And suddenly I felt the glitter of happiness sprinkling down upon my head. Not because someone liked my book. Because you liked it, Rosemary. Someone who reads and recommends books for a living. Someone who holds the power of "yes" and with the ability, as Barbara Kingsolver said, "to save souls." I'll likely never know who you are, but I will never forget you because you were my first, my virgin 5-star review, my, dare I say...hero. I understand that not everyone will agree with your review but it won't matter. Because this? This is something no critic can ever take from me.

So thank you Rosemary for reading my book and sharing your thoughts. Thank you Nita for teaching me to read and Mrs. Swanson for taking a bunch of wild eight-year-olds to the public library. Thank you to the library patrons who read and request books. And a huge thank you to all the librarians who pull a book from the shelf and whisper, "This one will take your breath away..."

With love and gratitude,

Eldonna

What about you? Did you visit the library as a child? Do you still utilize your local library? Do you have a favorite go-to librarian you look to for book recommendations? What books/people set you on the path to a lifetime of reading?



*Netgalley is a website where industry professionals like booksellers, trade reviewers and librarians can read new books before they release. 

The Eagle Has (Almost) Landed

[image error] I was ten years old when astronauts Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong made their historical Apollo 11 moon landing on July 20, 1969. It happened on a Sunday, between morning and evening church services, which is fortunate because had it been a few hours earlier or later, I'd have missed it. Moon landing or not, nobody in our house ever got to skip church unless they were sick. And by sick you either had to have a fever over 100 degrees or throw up, both rather hard to fake. 

I know this because I tried many times to fool my parents so I could stay home to watch Wonderful World of Disney. One time I went so far as to eat pickles and ice cream, then let my sister spin me around in a plastic sledding saucer because The Wizard of Oz was going to be on. It didn't work, other than to make me queasy for the next couple hours which, of course, I spent at church. As if the upset stomach wasn't  torture enough, I still had to listen to my peers going on and on about the amazing movie at school the next day.

Not only were the astronauts kind enough to land on the moon at three in the afternoon, but they waited to take their moon walk until after evening services let out. I raced across the street and gathered around our black-and-white set with my parents and six siblings. I knew this was a big deal. Not just because we'd read about it in our Weekly Reader or because I was allowed to stay up past my nine o'clock bedtime. It was a big deal because my parents usually spent Sunday evenings lingering over coffee and pastries with one or two of the deacons and their wives, but on this night they came straight home after the last Amen.

My dad wasn't too keen on the whole space exploration thing. He believed that if the good Lord wanted us to walk on the moon he would've put us there in the first place. I don't recall much about what I saw on TV that night other than the squeals and shushing between my siblings as the big event unfolded. What I remember most is laying in bed afterward, worrying about those two men up there so far away. How the heck they were supposed to make it all the way back home? What if a whale swallowed their tiny pod when it crashed into the sea, just like the one that swallowed Jonah in the Bible, perhaps punishment for going against the laws of God?

Of course they did land safely and the rest is history, but I remain fascinated by the idea of we humans having the ambition to send a spaceship to the moon. Nearly fifty years later I realize every grand idea starts with a small spark of imagination. For some, it's the idea of planting a flag on the moon. For others, it's merely planting one word in front of the other, day after day after livelong day. Y'all are my rocket fuel. And when that book finally hits the shelf? That's my eagle landing. That's my flag. One small step for a woman. One giant leap of faith.

What about you? Where were you when Apollo 11 landed?* What small steps are you taking to launch YOUR dreams? 
*For those of you born too late, ask your parents. ;) 


**********************************

Only 106 more days until THIS I KNOW launches. Now available for Pre-order Online or at your favorite indie bookstore.

The Writing Season

A little before midnight on the very last day of 2017, I emailed the revised manuscript for my next book to the publisher. As the document whooshed its way toward New York, I felt a little thrilled and a little lost. Having been totally immersed in editing this story for the last two months, the realization that I was finally done was both liberating and terrifying. My first thought was, it good enough? That thought was immediately followed by, now what?
People often ask writers where they get their ideas. The obvious answer is that we get them from life, from our experiences, and from the what-ifs that hit us in the shower or the grocery store or while driving. (All places, by the way, where you are least able to write them down.) But beyond the spark of ideas there needs to be an inner voice nudging us to tell a story. Not just the story we want to write, the one we must write.
The idea for my debut novel was gifted on a platter, nay, a silver-plated communion plate. As the daughter of a rural evangelical minister, I teethed on the back of church pews. I  think I always knew I'd someday write this book. 

From the Author Notes in THIS I KNOW:  Every story begins with "What if...?" and here's where truth and fiction part ways. What if my dad had been a bit of a tyrant rather than the loving, compassionate, imperfect man that he was? What if instead of a rebellious teen with a wild imagination, one of his children was born with something that challenged his deeply-held convictions? 
And from there, a story about a clairvoyant preacher's daughter who comes of age in the 1960's Midwest took hold.
My next book, the one I just sent off to the publisher, was borne of a lifelong fascination with the cultural revolution. Having grown up just a beat behind the peaceniks and flower children, I missed out on Woodstock, Haight-Ashbury and the idealist generation of hippies who turned on, tuned in and dropped out. I used to fantasize about living in a commune, learning from enlightened masters, and living off the land. In writing CLOVER BLUE, I turned those imaginings into the story of a young boy who grqapples with invisible loyalties as he comes of age among a ragtag group of offbeat characters who live at the Saffron Freedom Community in Northern California. There's a guru, a midwife, a Vietnam deserter, a surfer, a yoga enthusiast, a tarot card reader and a runaway teen, among others. All that's missing is Ken Kesey's bus.
Now that the first book is about to launch and the next one is written, I've discovered that the ecstasy of accomplishment is sometimes encased in a thin shell of panic. Unlike the first two novels, book number three hasn't burst forth from my consciousness, screaming for attention. I have a few ideas germinating but they're just tiny seeds. I guess you could say it's the winter of my creative cycle. But the thing about seasons is that they change, and I have to trust that those riotous roots are conjuring up a hell of a good story. In the meantime, I'm pretty excited about the one that's about ready to be born. 

[image error]