A Well-Told Tale

       Okay, I admit it. I judge books by their covers. And sometimes by their subjects. And sometimes by the subject and the author's appearance.

         Of course, when I do that, I sometimes miss out on reading a real gem...

       I first met Verna Simms at a book signing. A story of hers and a story of mine--along with over a dozen other St. Louis writers--was in the same anthology. Verna was being pushed in a wheelchair by Kim, another writing friend.

       Verna was in her nineties. And she had written a novel. She even had a copy of it, and was eager for someone to offer to look at it.

       Because Verna knew what every writer knows. If you can get someone to hold your book in their hands, they're more likely to buy it.

       I did look at the back blurb. And I was turned off. There was a religious component to the novel, making me think it was one long sermon. Even though Kim said simply, "It's a good book," and I trusted Kim's opinion, I also knew they were friends. What else would someone say with their friend-author inches away? So I read the blurb, and handed the book back to Verna. 

       A book easy to resist, I figured. A preachy novel penned by a little old lady. A snoozefest, I figured.

       However, I was drawn to Verna's story as an author. I barely have enough drive as a writer to submit occasional pieces, and I'm four decades younger than Verna. What kind of woman has the kind of determination to write a novel and get it published? I was curious, so I set up an afternoon to interview her.

        And as I drove the hour or so to Verna's house, I was still smug in my resistance to not buy her book. 

       Soon, however, my resolve dissolved. Verna was so full of spunk and confidence, I eagerly dug into my purse and pulled out cash to buy her novel. Still, I was sure it was going to be a dud.

       Little did I know that Water Under the Bridge would make me want to stay up late at night. I read it during commercials as I watched television in the evenings. I read it every night before--too soon--I got too tired to keep my eyes open. I even took it into the bathroom with me. (Like George Constanza, I now had a book that was red-flagged.)

        On Tuesday I finished Verna Simms' novel. When I got to the last page, there was a character I had truly learned to hate (I really wished this character had gotten killed during the story) but I had learned something else way before I read the final words.

        And that is this: Verna Simms is a true story teller.  
   
        At the end of September I will be giving away a copy of Verna's book. It's a tale of survival and determination. It's the story of a spunky feminist in a little girl's body. It's a real pageturner and it's spectacular.

       Leave a comment, and you'll be entered into the drawing. On September 29 I'll root into the (literal) hat and pick a name.

       

A Winner and Hopefully a Loser

        I am a few days late announcing the winner of Paige Adams Strickland's book Akin to the Truth, but I am trying to keep to a Monday and Thursday posting schedule. (I'm really trying, Lisa. ;)

       It's an ebook version, I believe. I will be sending the winner's email address to Crystal Otto over at WOW.


       And the winner is----Bookie. Congratulations!


       As for a loser, we're hoping that our 43-pound miniature pony named Radar (sometimes  Radar disguises himself as a six-month old golden retriever puppy) loses the piece of plastic he ate yesterday. It was one of those vegetable labels/signs--about 2 or 3 inches long. The plastic is flexible, but is it flexible enough to twist around his intestinal tract as it heads to his poop chute? We'll see.


       Either I will have dug that bit of treasure out of one of his piles today, or we'll be talking to the vet.

Serenity Now!

The Pyrenees are in the background.
Skiers say that if you can ski the Pyrenees, you can ski anywhere.

       One of my favorite places on this planet is southern France. I've been three times, and hope to take my daughter and granddaughter next summer.

        Strange as it sounds, the only part of Paris I've seen is the inside of the airport. I am sure Paris is lovely and lively and alluring, but the peace and serenity of the southern countryside is what I love.

        The long, leisurely meals where conversation is just as valued as simply-made, everything-from-scratch dishes. The rolling hills. A lifestyle that is so much less stressful than ours.

         What is your favorite place? Why does it draw you? I'd love to hear from you.

This Much I Know is True...

        If you're from out of town, and you wonder what Ferguson is really like, this much I know is true...*

• It's a tiny town with parts that have a small-town flavor. Ferguson has a thriving farmers' market. There are some small, independently-owned businesses that have sprung up and are flourishing. There's a large, sprawling park with at least six ball fields and during some seasons and many days, each one is booked with baseball/softball/kickball leagues.

• One of those independent businesses that just celebrated its first anniversary is Cathy's Kitchen (home of the best fish tacos in St. Louis, in my opinion). Cathy Jenkins had a vision, found a property, spent months and months renovating it (it has a Route 66 theme, with countless personal/family connections) and her landlord was so generous, he told her, "Don't start paying on it until you're up and running." They began with just lunch and dinner...and now they even offer breakfast. It's a place where a school superintendent can sit at one table with friends/colleagues and a parks employee--after just finished mowing the fields--sits at another. You scan the crowd and--every time--there is diversity and harmony.

• It's a place of pride. Parts of Ferguson have large, century-old houses; most of the community is full of small, two-bedroom and three-bedroom homes, inhabited by families who love where they live. The yards are taken care of. The parents flock to school events and do everything they can to stay in their neighborhood school because they know the teachers care. The school that is closest to all the heartbreak has a community garden.  It has evening events for the families, including fun lock-ins for the students. The teachers have stood outside on street corners, jumping and dancing around, begging for cars to honk to show their Ferguson pride and begging them to stop by for free lunches ...since the start of the school year was delayed by seven school days.

      There are lots of things I don't know. But this much I know is true ...


* And if you have not read Wally Lamb's This Much I Know is True, you should. It's an incredible book.

What Do You Count On?

       
       Writing is hard work. Being able to count on certain tools is critical.

     
     On a daily basis, we have to dip into our tool box as we craft our lines.

        One of the tools I occasionally use is a rhyming dictionary. (Mine has a boring cover, so I'm borrowing Bart Simpson's for a moment.)
        Rarely do I write poetry with a rhyme scheme. I mean, do you think I even want to dabble in the same arena as Fireblossom or Mama Zen? Fuhgeddabodit.
         However, sometimes I am forced drawn into writing a poem with a particular rhyme scheme. Sometimes I'm a scribe as my class writes a group poem. Very occasionally, I write a rap (and horrors! Yes, I even perform it. What's that you say? You haven't heard of Reddiculous Redd? You're missing out on something hilarious rich.)
        A rhyming dictionary is a tool that is always sitting on my shelf, waiting and ready...

       
 Here is a tool that ensures I don't sit too long. Radar. Whiner Extraordinaire. The Yipster. The Gnaw-er. We thought we were adopting a dog, but we were hoodwinked. Radar is a miniature pony. He's all legs right now, and weighs close to 40 pounds. And he's only five months old.

          Okay, admittedly, this is not a writing tool--at least not in the strictest sense. Aquarelle pencils are really tools of diversion. Using a brush and water (or a finger you slobber on), your drawings are transformed into looking like watercolor art. This year, I've vowed to filling my writing journal with doodling and ticket stubs and photos along with the writing. 
        However, as I'm sketching or zentangling (type "zentangle" into your search box, but beware: doodling with zentangle patterns is highly addictive and is a wonderful way to while away the hours during day-long meetings) I'm also thinking about what I'm writing.

         The delete key is another tool I rely on. Getting a story down often means there are pages/paragraphs/lines/words that need to be deleted as revision happens.
   
          'Cause if you're a writer, you know that writing is usually more deconstruction than construction.

       What writing tools (or tools of diversion) do you rely on?    

Stranger in a Strange Land

       (No, that is not me in the above photo, air-brushed within an inch of my life, resulting in this gorgeousness. It's Paige Adams Strickland...memoir-writer and a sister from another two mothers...)

      If you aren't an adoptee, you don't know what it's like to be a stranger in a strange land. I knew--from toddlerhood on--that I was adopted, and I was loved and doted on. But I also knew I shared nothing genetic with my family, and when I passed by people in the street, I'd wonder...

      
       Is that my birth mother?
       Is that woman a cousin of mine?
       Did that guy know my birth mother? 

  

       Reading Paige Adams Strickland's Akin to the Truth brought back (to me) the black hole full of the unknown.
        Strickland's journey is like a stream of consciousness. One memory bumps into another and into another. She bravely bares the dysfunction of her family, she shares her lovely grandmothers with the world, and admitted--through her actions--that she was always striving to make her parents proud.
        The tiny tidbits tossed to the reader, of life growing up in the 60's and 70's, will bring the reader back in time. The television shows. The songs. The clothes. The sayings. (My father said, "Hell's bells" as well, just like Paige's. And my dad has his "cocktail hour" every evening, too.)
              Like every good writer, Paige Adams Strickland makes us wait until her story is almost finished...before we find out what we are desperate to find out. Does she find her biological parents? Does she discontinue the search, because rooting around in the unknown sometimes gets messy? Does she get rejected by her birth mother or her birth father? 
          You'll have to read the book to find out...
          At the very end, in the last two paragraphs, Strickland gives us something extra-satisfying. In those final lines that flow like poetry, she's found her rhythm as a writer and as a daughter and a woman. 
          And at the very end, it's also apparent: Paige Adams Strickland has another story to tell...a story that picks up where she's left off in Akin to the Truth.

          Via a drawing, an electronic version of Akin to the Truth will be given away on August 28. Leave a comment...and keep your fingers crossed. 






A description of the book:  In 1961, adoption was still one of those private and taboo topics. Not much identifying information was provided for adoptive families or for birth parents by the agencies. In Ohio, records were sealed forever. Adoptees and birth mothers were supposed to be thankful for the adoptive family and never look back. Adoptive parents thought their deal was signed and sealed.

As a child and teenager, growing up adopted was like a Scarlet Letter "A" if anyone ever found out the truth. At least, that's the way author, Paige Strickland felt as she muddled through social situations and other interpersonal relations. She always loved her adoptive family, but realized she wanted not just more, but what other "regular born" people had: real roots, accurate health history and authentic family lore. She wanted freedom from shame, more dignity, authenticity and a full identity.

Then, through random chance, a local TV talk show in 1987 revealed that certain records were open if you were born before 1964 in the state of Ohio, and the author's life would never be the same after that program.

During her quest, (pre computer), for her identity, her adoptive father struggled with his own self image and sense of belonging, so both father and daughter embarked on separate and unique parallel missions to find what was missing in their lives.

This is the story of how being adopted affected Paige growing up in the 1960s, 70s and early 80s. It shows how one adoptee has embraced and learned to view family more globally. She tells the saga of a loving but dysfunctional family of both blood and choice, trying to cope with typical and not so typical life alterations during the decades of social revolution and free love. She learns that the most fascinating family stories are discovered by those passionate enough to question and search.

Paige Adams Strickland is a teacher and writer from Cincinnati, Ohio. She is married with two daughters.  

About the Author: Paige Adams Strickland, a teacher and writer from Cincinnati, Ohio, is married with two daughters. Her first book, Akin to the Truth: A Memoir of Adoption and Identity, is about growing up in the 1960s-80s (Baby-Scoop Era) and searching for her first identity. It is also the story of her adoptive family and in particular her father’s struggles to figure out his place in the world while Paige strives to find hers. After hours she enjoys family and friends, pets, reading, Zumba ™ Fitness, gardening and baseball.