Second Chances

       Two days ago, Queenie found a home. Another dog rescue friend and I drove close to an hour to do the home visit and--if it was love at first sight--leave Queenie with her new family.

         Normally, Love a Golden does a home visit and THEN arrangements are made to transfer the dog to their new home, once the family has been approved. However, Queenie is a special case. She's a former puppy mill dog. She's traumatized by riding in the car. She takes a while to get acclimated. And since this family has had puppy mill girls before, we figured if they fell for her, making ANOTHER trip with her (and thus making her even more nervous) was not necessary.


     The family did fall in love with Queenie--who is now Lady--and it's obvious that she will soon be Lady of the House. Her new mom and dad have a Serta dog bed for her. (Their daughter--a vet--joked that when Sleep Number dog beds come out, her parents will buy one of those.) They have a better-than-perfect backyard. We're hoping they have enough patience.

This was Queenie. Now, she's Lady.

      And Queenie is not a typical gorgeous golden. She's shorter than most golden retrievers. She has a different (but definitely cute) face. Her front legs are terribly bowed--she resembles an old, out-of-shape wrestler. And don't forget the baggage--she has loads of baggage.

      If a couple of people are believing in Queenie enough to give her a second chance, perhaps I need to believe in my WIP enough to get back to it--I mean really get back to it.

      I've been in a rut lately. Working on shorter pieces. Vegging out. Even reorganizing my nightmare-of-an-office/spare bedroom. Doing anything except working on my NaNoGoneWrongo. Will I get back to it?

      Only time will tell...

      And hey!  If you want to find out how diamonds are Sioux's best friends, go here. You can also get a message about new postings from me (or even get my post via email? I'm not sure how it works) by clicking on a little box-thingy that Cathy C. Hall insisted I install. (Cathy, it took 13 hours and 9 minutes, but I did it! Really, it took less than 13 seconds. I feel bad I didn't do it sooner.) 

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?