An Enlightening Interview

Art by Leah Griffith

Laine Cunningham, author, professional editor, and winner of five international awards for fiction and nonfiction, took the time to interview me about the writing of my novel, Cosette's Tribe. It turned out to be an experience I thoroughly enjoyed. Thanks so much for making me feel so at home, Laine.

Please find the interview below. I hope you enjoy the exchange.

LC: Leah Griffith is the award-winning author of Cosette’s Tribe (review here). She joins us today for a few questions about her writing process, her books, and her inspiration.

LC: When did you begin writing?
LG: I was in my late teens when I began writing. I felt a push within, something deep and soulful trying to find a mode of expression. In the early years my writing took on more of a spiritual nature. This type of writing has always helped me to remember how to breathe. In my twenties I began writing short stories and essays.

My mother was an avid reader, and shared her love for great literature with us children. When she was carrying me, she was reading Victor Hugo’s Les Miserable`s, and fell in love with young Cosette. Consequently she chose that as my middle name. As a kid I hated the name but after reading Les Miserable`s myself, I became proud to have the name and delighted to name my protagonist Cosette.

LC: Cosette's Tribe is somewhat autobiographical. What drew you to writing about certain times in your life?
LG: I’ve always felt the urge to write about my life in hopes that I could recycle my pain and use it to help others. This sort of powerful exchange helps me to remain a victor rather than a victim.

My life so far can be divided into three parts. Early childhood, ages 1-4: these were the magical years before the first sexual assault took place. During that phase I felt connected to unconditional love, and still possessed the lighthearted twirl of being a little girl. Ages 4-14 were a belly crawl through impossible situations. These were the years of abuse, where shame kept me isolated from “…everything nice.”

And 12 through today: these have been the messy years…and the best of years. It has been a time of getting up and getting up and getting up again, and feeling the generous healing power of my fall downs. These have been the years of sunny ah-has and moody reflections, illuminating all that I believe in and discovering that my little girl dreams could still be found optimistically tucked between bravery and forgiveness.

LC: Tell us about the second book you’re working on.
LG: My latest novel is a continuation of Cosette’s Tribe. In book two, we find 14 year-old Cosette still living at home with her mother and sexually abusive stepfather Ken. Although Cosette was able to put an end to Ken’s advances a couple of years before, she now faces his vindictive side where Ken’s main form of entertainment is how to make Cosette suffer for rejecting him. Cosette continues to search for purpose as she follows a pale stream of hope into the future.

Cosette’s mother remains clueless about the past sexual abuse and spends most of her time playing referee between Cosette and Ken. But Cosette has more sinister foes to face; enemies of her own making, for the escape route she chooses from her unhappy childhood could shatter her young life in an instant.

I’m aiming for a launch of book two (still untitled) in the spring of 2016.

LC: Meanwhile, you can read more from Leah at her blog Truth From The Booth or her other blog Eating Life Raw.

LC: What do you hope readers experience while reading your books? What do you hope they take away?
LG: It took me years to find the courage to write Cosette’s Tribe because of the personal nature of the story. Presenting my novel as a work of fiction created a cushion for me, providing just enough space between myself and the story, which was sorely needed. My hope was that my words would inspire readers to get back up after they’ve been knocked down, no matter what their struggles are. I want to encourage readers to trust life and embrace their own stories, perhaps discovering that it takes a certain amount of light to cast a shadow, and ironically, it’s that light which moves us beyond our pain.

As a woman I found creating this work incredibly empowering. It helped to move me from the space of a silent victim into the place of a vocal victor. It’s a mighty feeling to take part in one’s own redemption…to be your own hero.

LC: Connect with Leah on Facebook.

LC: Tell us about any awards or honors you’ve received as an author. What did those honors mean to you as an artist?
LG: Cosette’s Tribe is a self-published work, which means that it’s up to me to market and sell my precious story. Although I’m a bit shy and I should probably push a lot harder with the marketing of my novel, Cosette’s Tribe is not without awards and honors. Cosette’s Tribe was the first place winner of the 2011 Laine Cunningham, New Novel Award present by The Blotter Magazine. As a new author this was thrilling for me. After all, this wasn’t family and friends praising me, it was my peers, and it meant the world to me, as did the fat check and prizes they gave me.

Cosette’s Tribe took first place for both Best Novel and Mainstream Fiction in the 2013 eFestival of Words Best of the Independent eBooks Awards. Cosette’s Tribe was also chosen by Florida Weekly’s book reviewer Phil Jason as one of his favorites for 2012. Of course my biggest reward has been the overwhelmingly positive response from my readers.

LC: Find Leah’s book trailer and website at www.leahgriffith.com.

LC: Cosette is told from an intimate viewpoint of a young girl. How did this present challenges to your prose? How did you overcome those challenges?
LG: The language I chose to use while writing Cosette’s Tribe was a challenge. I had to “Be the kid” in order to write the kid. I kept things simple using the pure language of childhood when creating metaphors and expressions. Sometimes it became very difficult when describing scenes of a sexual nature, requiring me to enter and feel the darkness of a situation anew.

Writing Cosette’s Tribe was a work of bravery requiring me to look at my childhood with both eyes open. This is how I discovered the light in my childhood, which was there all along. I just never noticed it because of the trauma I endured. It was the surprise of seeing this happy light that kept me writing, and it is this same generous light that I hope to share with my readers.

LC: Describe your writing space.
LG: My writing space is wherever I can open my laptop and type. I wrote most of Cosette’s Tribe on an ancient IBM laptop facing a blank wall at work. Today, I write from half a tiny booth in my kitchen. My husband Mike uses the other half to run his online business. Our booth is the only working space in the 350 square-foot trailer that we share with Duchess, our tiny dog. I also do my artwork from the booth. Virginia Woolfe would be appalled.

The Booth

Little Dog

Winging it

I always sensed that something vital was missing from my life. Was it a person? A situation? God? I wasn’t sure, but I automatically looked outside of myself for answers, which, if I were to write a book on how to give your power away, would be titled, ‘Looking Outside of Yourself for Answers.'

I’ve spent my entire life dodging the shadows and measurers, those who delight in defining others. I’ve feared God, myself, and the future—flinching each time life made a quick move.

I’ve wrestled with the meaning of life, invested myself in the study of death, and tried using crazy glue to reconstruct the ashes of 10,000 yesterdays.

As a child I had a fascination with birds, always wishing I could fly high above the stained sidewalks of my gritty life, so high that the stains blurred into bunnies and well kept gardens, seeing the entire scope of existence all at once and finally “getting” it.

Well, after wearing down countless pair of shoes I’ve discovered that I do indeed have wings, and the joy that this discovery has brought into my life is unmatchable.

My wings are the knowledge that everything that I’ve ever needed to live a full, and authentic, life already resides within me, and that the best way to express this life is through bold creativity. Creativity is the voice of my soul, where inspiration becomes conception and concentration flows into timeless meditation.

Actually, I was about 51-years-old when I first discovered my wings, and began writing my first novel, Cosette’s Tribe, and I was 56 before I put brush to canvas, expressing joy through color, so it is never too late to begin.

But oh how tragic it would have been if I had never discovered my wings, and had spent my days anchored to my own limited stories, or even worse, bowing to someone else’s image of me in order to win their love and approval, never becoming brave enough to fly.

Genuine love coaxes us to open our wings. It challenges us to try new things, hushing shame and judgment, while inspiring us to leave our fearful little nests and launch our hearts into the endless blue.

Flying is a practice, and it requires lots of room, so give your wings the space they need to fully open. Breathe. Embrace your magic, and remember my dear one…you were formed from stardust and love; believe the rumors of your greatness.

Wing it!

The Kid Got to Me

I met a girl, 17 and lean—her feet pointing inward, causing knees to bump foreheads as she spoke of her future plans—describing dreams as distant as the milky spills of new galaxies, pale against the pitch black uncertainty of the universe.

I found myself bowing to her naiveté, discovering a bit of my younger self in her newly set eyes. To be so eager and unafraid, like a rocket launching for the first time, piercing the conditioned “you cant’s", and the "don’t you dares” rocking life like a bubble-wrapped renegade from mom and dad’s front porch.

When she told me that she wanted to write books I knew that she had suffered. Only the scarred would dare to write, to make sense of, or at least to look at, the entrails of life. I wanted to pry, to find out why this perfect little prom princess would want to write books. What had happened to make her look inwardly, away from the rockets and the blistering pink of youth? But of course I’ll have to wait and see. Perhaps she’ll be a literary star, or pen cookbooks featuring a thousand ways to use cranberries. I don’t know.

I only know that the kid got to me.

Last Minute Tree

Art by: Leah Griffith

Last Minute Tree
By: Leah Griffith

I was about eleven when Alberta Hazard, took me along to help her buy a Christmas tree. It was the night before Christmas, pretty late to be buying a tree, but I was excited to go. This would be my first time breaking away from the nest and seeing how other people did Christmas—discovering that our family wasn’t the center of the holiday universe.

Although only eleven, I was Alberta and Rob’s babysitter, and a good one at that. I was old for my age, having no choice but to grow up quickly because of a complicated home life.

The Hazard’s had five kids back in the day when that was considered an average sized litter. They weren’t your conventional family. They had a fully stocked bar that took up their entire dining room and they kept a vicious Doberman named, Ranger, chained up in the kitchen. The children were well behaved, but who wouldn’t be with parents as stern as Alberta and Rob. They were whiskey serious—you could smell it each time they spoke.

Behind the bar Rob kept a leather strap hanging in full sight. The kids said it looked like a long black tongue waiting to give them a licking. It did. I felt bad for the Hazard kids. Their parents were mean, their dog was mean, and they spent most of their little lives on full alert—like deer sensing danger, tiptoeing around, trying not to piss off Rob, Alberta, or the dog.

When Alberta and Rob would leave for the evening, I’d spoil the kids, giving them “horsey” rides, sharing my snacks, and letting them choose which TV shows we watched. They loved the fun, and I felt like a mini god exercising my power of good over evil. That’s why I was excited to be able to have some say in what kind of Christmas tree they had. Their last year’s tree had been a boney disappointment.

Alberta wasn’t a big talker so we walked in silence, leaving me to watch the snow fall and wonder how something so delicate could make such hard crunching noises under my boots.

The guy selling trees was bundled up against wind, standing under a streetlight chewing on a cigar. Alberta spoke first, “Where do you keep the cheap trees?” Her words sounded crude, absent of holiday manners. Mr. Cigar was just as bad, not bothering to answer, but simply nodding his head, directing us to a dark corner where skinny pines roped in twine, were stacked on top of one another, looking more like a pile of hostages than Christmas trees.

I could imagine the flat line of disappointment in the kid’s eyes if we brought home one of those trees. Lord knows I was pretty familiar with that “let down” feeling myself, praying every night that my perverted stepfather would disappear from my life, only to find him at the breakfast table each morning fresh-faced and ready to rule the roost. I piped up, forcing out my words in big steamy breaths, “These trees are pathetic, Alberta. You guys need a pretty tree to go with that nice house of yours.”

There house was nice—on the outside, but on the inside it was as stark as a cell. Alberta wandered over to a “pretty” tree and lifted a branch, meeting it with her nose and sniffing as one sniffs a rose. I held my breath, afraid of breaking the spell. Dropping the bough, she hollered over her shoulder, “What’s this one cost?”

Alberta wasn’t a girly girl, she wore her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, carried a wallet like a dude, and had one eye that traveled, so you were never certain what she was looking at. She jingled the change in her jeans pocket, waiting for an answer.

“Oh that there’s a Blue Spruce, came all the way from Colorado. That one will cost you twelve bucks.”

“Twelve bucks for a tree on Christmas Eve? You’ll be burning them by morning. I’ll give you six.”

The man shuffled over to Alberta, and lit his already smoldering cigar, sucking and puffing, creating such a cloud that his head disappeared altogether.

“I’ll give it to you for eight, but that doesn’t include rope or me helping you tie it to your car.”

Alberta flipped open her wallet and lifted a perfect tenner out, handing it over to Mr. Cigar Face. He snagged the bill and quickly added it to an ample roll of green, handing her back two ones. “You might want to get your husband over here to help you…” But before he could finish his sentence, Alberta had already lifted the tree and was heading out, with me running behind.

It sure was a beauty, with thick fragrant branches, smelling like every kind of holiday happiness a kid could imagine. I took the light end while Alberta held onto the thickest part of the trunk. We made pretty good progress trudging through the snow along Main Street, passing store after store, their windows burning with holiday temptations, until Alberta’s good eye fixed itself on a neon sign, advertising that Archie’s Tavern was open for business on Christmas Eve.

The tree train stopped abruptly with an announcement from Alberta; “We’ll hoist the tree up here in this doorway, and go get a quick night cap. It will be our little secret.” And then she winked at me, sealing my fate as her co-conspirator.

The floor creaked as Alberta led the way through a section of small tables. Heads turned and nodded as she found us seats at the end of the bar. I felt as though I had entered a secret society where serious drinkers, perched like a sullen flock, drowned their troubles in booze. I had to fight the urge to spin on my barstool.

Alberta sipped her whiskey, half listening, as a guy sitting on her other side slur-whispered into her ear. I drank my Coke, glad to be on the end where no one could sit next to me.

A black haired lady in a red sequin dress was busy plunking nickels into the jukebox. Her rump shook to the music like a shimmery lure, drawing a skinny guy from the crowd who pulled her into a slow dance. I strained to focus my eyes, trying to see her face, imagining pretty, but instead finding the face of an old hag fit for handing out poison apples. My stomach twisted as my mind tried to adjust to what it was seeing, and I wondered if she knew what she looked like to everyone else, or if she even cared…if anyone cared. This was a different Christmas.

We made it back to Alberta’s by eight, leaving us plenty of time to decorate. Rob was passed out on the sofa, the kids were in bed, and the only creature stirring was Ranger, licking his bowl clean in the kitchen.

Wilson Pickett’s voice scratched over the hi-fi as we strung lights, and tossed tinsel. We worked like frenzied elves on deadline. Finally finished, Alberta plugged in the tree and shut off the lamp. I had to catch my breath because of the beauty of it—the icy shimmer of Christmas reflected off the tinsel—dancing over everything, including Rob’s sleeping face, transforming their harsh living room in sugar plum softness.

We rushed outside in our stocking feet to catch a glimpse of the tree through the window. It was Rockwellian perfect, fit for a holiday postcard. Alberta smiled at the warm vision she had created, and whispered, "Let's go wake up the kids."

I remember Alberta loading her arms with the three youngest, while I tugged at droopy limbs and whispered, “Come see”. We half-circled the tree, the children’s eyes wide, their voices hushed with wonder.

I could sense the spirit of Christmas standing there with us—the joy, the togetherness, and even though it was temporary, and things would surely go back to normal, Christmas was visiting the Hazard family, waking up little hearts to the message of divine love, and the magic of hope, and change.

The Hazard’s left their tree up until January 22nd that year. Alberta begrudgingly agreed to take it down because Rob said it was a fire hazard. The next two years they had beautiful trees decorated well before Christmas Eve, after that they moved away and I lost track of them.

I like to imagine that the Hazard children grew up and created memorable Christmases for their own families, and that my childlike input on that snowy, tree-buying Christmas Eve, was enough to make a difference for generations of Hazards to come.

It’s always the little things isn’t it?

ELR wishes all our friends a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, and a most Happy New Year.

May the blessings we wish for be the blessings we give.

.

.

As a Christmas special, my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, will remain on sale for just 99¢ on Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Surrender to Your Nakedness

I’ve kept clear of writing lately opting instead to dip my brush into tiny puddles of primaries and pastels. It’s not that I haven’t felt the urge to write, but rather I’ve grown tired of my own words. For me writing is a reflective vocation where my words spell out the contents of my heart. If my heart is heavy, my words are heavy, and quite frankly I’ve been in such a state of introspection lately that my writing has become an extension of this self absorbed circuitry.

This negative energy has been trying to drain me of my strength and pallor for some time now, so when my friend, Julia suggested that I splash my life with color; I jumped right in. Actually she made me take up painting as a homework assignment for her Getting Naked Class, that I attend. The class has been huge help in pointing the way to the things that really matter. So thank you Julia for giving me an artistic nudge.

This morning I’m writing because I miss it and I’m hoping to discover some tiny treasures, perhaps a clue as to how to navigate beyond the limited default settings of my mind to a place of freedom and intelligence, a place where the past is tucked in and understood and doesn’t rule the day. A place where the future needn’t mirror the past but holds infinite possibilities and endless surprises. I want to be rid of all the senseless gloom and doom and skip off into the land of perpetual tra la las.

By making the writer paint I’ve stepped off of my predictable path. My artwork is childlike and two-dimensional, bespeaking naivety and a clear lack of formal training, yet it is honest and untainted by the measuring madness of the ego or the shortsightedness of ambition. Painting, when I’m not certain how to paint, has taught me that control is an illusion, as are security, perfection, and time, and that I need only be myself—my rag-tag, bedraggled, silly, somewhat gullible, grumpy, and overly-deep self in order to be happy. I am enough.

Surrendering to this truth is like stripping naked in a fabulous boutique. The silks linens and cottons call to me from the racks, but I must remain naked until I’m certain that I’m not using the clothing as a form of disguise or surrogate security. I must surrender to my nakedness as surely as the evening must surrender to dawn, spring to summer, autumn to the callous cold of winter, and finally life itself must surrender, like a startled zebra seized by the committed jaw of a lioness, to the relentless grip of death.

I am convinced that until I can consistently determine the difference between the conditioned voices of yesterday and the compassionate and intuitive words of today…right now, I will continue to get trapped within the webby inertia of identity-dementia, and waste my days looking backwards for the road ahead.

My Next Big Thing!

My Next Big Thing!

Laine Cunningham, recipient of two national awards for her novel, Message Stick, tagged me for a blog hop called “My Next Big Thing.” Laine posted on her current project, Buy Light and Purple Blooms. Check out her full blog post by clicking here.

Everyone in the blog hop answered ten questions about their latest projects. Laine’s describes Buy Light and Purple Blooms as a women’s thriller. "That is, the story is primarily a woman’s story yet it has some of the same elements as thrillers."

At the bottom of this post, you’ll see the writers I’ve tagged so far. I will be adding more writers throughout the month of January. Hop along to read about more great plans in the works!

My next big thing is a continuation of my first novel, Cosette’s Tribe. Readers have fallen in love with young Cosette and are craving more. I originally intended to write a continuation on the story so I guess this means that both author and reader are on the same page.

Here are the questions:
1. What is the working title of your book or project?

This book is a continuation of my first novel, Cosette’s Tribe. It remains untitled so far but I have a few ideas.

2. Where did the idea come from for the book or project?

The readers of Cosette’s Tribe have become quite invested in her outcome with many requests for a sequel. I had originally intended to write two books about Cosette, her early years and her life as an adult. This book starts when she is 14. I’m still not certain where it will end.

3. What genre does it fall under, if any?

It could fall under many genres, but the most obvious would be literary fiction. It is a coming of age story, which could also fall under general fiction or women’s fiction.

4. If applicable, whom would you choose to play your characters in a movie?

I know very few young actresses so I guess it would be best to leave this to the casting agents.

5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your manuscript or project?

Desperate to leave an abusive home life, 14 year-old Cosette challenges the world, risking everything to find the answers to life’s most critical questions.

6. Will your book or story be self-published or represented by an agency?

Although seeking an agent’s representation, I am very comfortable with self-publishing this project.

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I am still working on the first draft. So far I have invested a little over a year on this project.

8. What other book or stories would you compare this story to within the genre?

This Boy’s Life, an adaptation to a memoir of the same name by Tobias Wolff, has a similar nitty-gritty vibe and flow as Cosette’s story. I can’t think of a story within the genre of fiction that I would compare my project to.

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book or story?

I have been carrying this story with me my entire life. Much of it is inspired by my experiences as a teen.

10. What else about the book or story might pique the reader’s interest?

The setting takes place in a small New England city back in the 1960s-70s. Readers have expressed an intense emotional investment in book one, Cosette’s Tribe, stating that it takes them back to the streets of their own youth. This project, book two, will challenge readers to believe in the magic of serendipity and experience, as they bite their nails down to the quick, hoping for things to turn out well for young Cosette.

Leah Griffith's novel, Cosette’s Tribe, is now available on Amazon, B&N, and also offering signed copies from here.

Laine Cunningham:
Author of several books
Publishing Consultant
Quoted on CNN and Media Bistro
Winner of five national awards
Visit Laine’s blog here.

Laine’s latest book, Seven Sisters is available on Amazon now!

Marie Nikodem Loerzel will be posting after her return from travel next week. Visit Marie’s blog, Rock The Kasbah here.

Ripples and Repercussions

Saturday evening I was heading north on the Silver Star, a passenger train crammed with a mishmash of adventurous souls traveling over the Mother’s Day Weekend. It was surprising to me how crowded the train was. I assumed that half the passengers were suffering from aviophobia, while the rest were either eager train enthusiasts visiting the Tampa station to celebrate their 100-year anniversary, (which I totally enjoyed) or those whose budgets couldn’t handle the price of airfare. For me it was a combination of two: plus the thrill of being lost in a tangle of strangers, experiencing a certain freedom reserved only for the anonymous.

The train car rattled over the tracks, beating out a rickety rhythm, rocking me to sleep, next to my hushed seatmate, who just that afternoon was still a complete stranger to me—a face with no story, just an extra in my life-movie. But after being sequestered together to a space no larger than a coat closet for fifteen hours, a sort of forced intimacy occurred, bonding this writer to a retired New York City cop with a prickly persona and a heart the size of humanity.

I’m a people watcher; I get my cues and clues watching how people speak to, and about, one another. My defenses rise like steely porcupine needles when I see things that I don’t like: negativity, prejudice, hatefulness, pettiness; all these traits cause me to withdraw into my silent shell—protecting all my soft spots.

Warren was easy for me to read. Initially I could tell that, like myself, he had already withdrawn into his shell; although due to sheer necessity his vulnerable neck and head were poking out, looking around for his seat. His voice was set to “gruff” warning others not to screw with him, stashing his fleshy heart, warm with blood and kindness, safely away within his own shell.

Perhaps it was fate that had decided that Warren and I should meet, although I did kind of initiate things. At first he was behind me looking a bit confused over the seat numbers, but then I invited him to sit beside me, figuring he looked harmless enough. It’s a crapshoot on the train, and the last thing I wanted was to be seated next to Mr. Stinky or Mrs. Crabapple.

We sat politely side by side, both of us taking turns sharing our stories. Two chatterboxes who also happened to be good listeners, creating a give and take as rewarding as an exchange between a kid and an ice cream truck on a blistering August afternoon.

The more we chatted the more I liked him. He spoke with a disarming honesty about himself, and the lessons and rewards he had gleaned from life’s experiences. He expressed immense gratitude for his family—his incredible wife who loved and understood him, and a treasured daughter, smart and beautiful, as he stated, “his best contribution to society.”

We decided to have dinner in the dining car. I guess on trains space is pretty limited because we found ourselves sitting across from an austere looking couple, straight-laced diners, possessing a no-nonsense air about them—Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself. Of course at this point Warren and I had sped beyond common niceties and splashed headlong into puddles of silliness. We were like a couple of slap stick comedians sitting at a properly set table, stuffing our nervous giggles beneath our linen napkins, desperately searching for our adult faces—and our table manners.

Watching Warren adjust himself to this couple was like watching the destruction of the Hoover Dam—first the cracks (wine was involved in this stage) then the leaks (humor) and then the flood. No filter “be yourself and screw them” Warren was in full form, and I, being a proper lady, followed his lead until Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself morphed into Mr. & Mrs. Life Can Be Fun, and the four of us sat laughing and talking until the waiter poured our drinks into “to go” cups, and shooed us out of the dining car for closing.

We said goodbye to our new friends, who now sported “yes” faces for the entire world to admire, and then we found our seats.

We sat and talked about how alike we were and how much pleasure we found in cracking up Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself. We theorized that fate had accidentally thrown the two of us together, causing a rift in the time continuum, thus allowing us to see beyond the cosmic curtain for a brief moment. We saw that we were secret agents from the other side, strategically placed on earth as crust busters for those who take themselves, and life, way too seriously. We had the same life-tasks and the two of us together were—well, pretty efficient, but perhaps a bit much for one small train.

Eventually we nodded off, our heads silently bobbing in sync with the bumps, as we passed the dimly lit hubs of sleepy unknown towns, their soft yellow lights glowing on yesterdays fashions, mom and pop eateries, and neighborhood thrift stores.

My reasons for traveling north were as varied as my thoughts, a little business—a bit of pleasure, but mostly because I felt an unction drawing me northward. I had to go and find out what life had to say to me.

I had never met Warren before, but by the time my trip was over I felt we had become sure friends, and that our meeting was a sort of divine appointment, the repercussions of which will ripple to the corners of the world touching unknown hearts—forever.

It’s an exciting thing to follow your heart—opening yourself up to an innumerable amount of unknown possibilities, and betting on yourself to find what it is that you need. This trip has provided for me a sparkling opportunity, thus wiping my slate clean in order to write something fresh—creating for myself a new chapter as a woman, author—and friend to Warren.

I’ll keep you posted on my discoveries as I walk, with eyes wide open, into the vivid blue of each Tarheel day. Life is good. Tough. But good.

Purposeful Vulnerability

It’s been a whirlwind of a week with the release of my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, and a surprise visit from my daughter and granddaughter from NC. And then on top of that, I was honored with a surprise launch party, sneakily hatched by my two beautiful daughters!

The Tango Continues

I’ve just had an amazing week with my friend Holly. We bodysurfed until we were bruised, combed miles of blonde beaches, ate at rustic waterfront cafes, and spent hours chatting out on the lanai. I didn’t realize how much I needed this time of rejuvenation until after she had left. That’s when I felt the residue of peace lingering like a fine mist floating in the air, setting free my breath, and opening up my mind.

I feel recharged and excited, now being able to enjoy the multitude of steps waiting to be climbed. I see them before me like a stairway spiraling upward—pinpricking through the clouds. I laugh at the great climb ahead, knowing full well that I will get there—in time.



What to do? What to do? My desk and wall are cluttered with scribbled scraps, folders, and odd mementos purposefully collected to inspire me. I moved my desk into the master bedroom in order to make room for, Jesse & Jesse, my two dear friends who had been staying with us now for a while. They departed this morning, driving northward, intent on a new journey, thus creating a vacancy in my heart—and my spare bedroom; so, today I shall transfer my office back to the spacious quietness of the guest suite so that I can spread out and plan…

It’s a small transition, but transitions and changes tend to create a rhythm of their own, beating in time with the monotonous, building momentum. One can never tell which action is important until afterwards, for each holds within itself a fan of repercussions, creating an endless wave of activities slapping against the lives of many…perhaps all.

So, what to do?

I received my proofs for Cosette’s Tribe this week, which is proof that I actually wrote a book; so, now that I have this wonderful novel I can see that there is much more work to do in order to nurture and care for it properly. It’s not so different than having a baby. When you’re in the hospital surrounded by smiles, balloons and family, the duties of motherhood seem somewhat distant and romantic, but once you’re at home with your pint-sized soul mate, all wiggly and pink—and demanding—you find your tears flowing along with the colicky lullaby of your infant’s cries; this is when motherhood arrests you, and you find that your life has been changed forever. Such is the life of a writer turned author.



As I write this blog my book sits silently beside me, literary twins—a paperback, and hardcover. Inanimate objects that can only be brought to life by the imagination of a hungry reader, someone to invite Cosette in where she can freely whisper her guarded secrets and dizzying dreams, finding a sure friend and confidant to join her on her journey.

There is no turning back or changing my mind. I, like a parent, have created a life and now I am responsible for that life. The paper versions of my novel are complete and as close to perfect as we could get them. Now comes the challenge of formatting an e-book, which is proving to be enormously frustrating, what with the way the files like to misbehave. Right now we’re stuck, but I’m praying for the angels to send me a MOBI miracle.


I couldn't resist slipping my girl up on the shelf!

My newest task is to promote Cosette’s Tribe. It makes me a little nervous—this marketing thing. Actually I feel fearful and brave all at the same time. I guess I’ll just have to dive in and get it done the same way I wrote the book and published it…feeling a bit inadequate. Everything is new. Everything is waiting. Everything must be done and inadequacies must be defied. I’ve come to the conclusion that fear can be a great motivator and that anything worth doing is usually accomplished while afraid.

The tango continues...

Calamity Becomes Art

Lately most of my blog entries have been a bit on esoteric side, clouded and shrouded, meant to only reveal a shadow. I do this when my life gets complicated and answers evade me. I receive great comfort from the pillowy protection that prose, metaphors and poetry offers me. I could live there forever if allowed, but I’m not allowed, and I must come out from behind the mist on occasion and do a little show and tell.

I am currently on the brink of realizing an important part of my dream with the upcoming publication of my novel, Cosette’s Tribe. The seeds of this dream were planted when I was a child living out a nightmare. Of course I wasn’t aware of my dream then, after all I was just a child. And besides, I was too busy trying to survive, dodging monsters in between games of hopscotch, and seeking out safe habitats on the fringes of society. But throughout my life I always had a certain sense that there was something important that I needed to do.

As I matured I aspired to become a writer; one with the ability to inspire people whose childhoods read like pulp fiction. I wanted to speak to those little kids living in adult’s bodies, the ones who still find it difficult to raise their heavy heads off their desks, lift their muted voices above their classmate’s, and move forward, far away from their fear and shame.

I’ve had to live through many years of lessons in order to reach the point where my calamity became my art, and my staggered footsteps a trail… a way out. When I look back at my life and I ask myself what I have to offer, I see my path transformed by life’s alchemy into a golden river, which is so pure that it pours out of me and finds form within the hearts that receive it. I have me. Leah. And I am enough.

Sometimes the closer we get to realizing a dream the harder the journey becomes. I was intimidated at the prospect of having to navigate the unknown realms of self-publication. I love to write, but I hadn’t planned on becoming a publisher. My life in general has become a bit complicated over the past year, and then with the added pressure of self-publishing I became discouraged, which led me into a phase of stagnation and fear.

I know from experience that I can only gain understanding as I move forward, and that perfection is a lie invented by fear to inspire inferiority and paralysis. So, today I’m embracing all the things that I don’t understand about publishing my first novel, including all the technical things that tie my stomach into knots.

I’m also facing all the emotional issues that seek to derail me: fear of failure, fear of success, people’s reactions and my shyness. These are but heavy chains meant to keep my dreams earthbound. Dreams have wings you know; they need to fly. So, today I am giving my dreams wings by embracing the amazing journey of self-publication and following wherever it may lead me.

My job is to do the work required in order to set my dream soaring. Where it goes from there is entirely out of my hands.


On another note, I was recently honored by a fellow blogger with The Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award. At the time I was buried in work and worry and unable to offer appropriate thanks for this honor. So, without further ado, I want to thank J.P. Lane of All Dressed Up for this sweet honor. I encourage you all to drop by and visit her!




This video never ceases to inspire me.

It's On!

It’s a pretty day for living and I’m ready to take the stage. I’ve been quite sick for over a week now, but I believe today is different. The fog has lifted and my body feels like its old self again. I’m no longer aware that I have lungs. One needn’t feel their lungs, or their heart, throat, and ribs. These things should remain silent throughout the day, quietly attending to their tasks.

So I feel well, and I have a beautiful day at my disposal. It’s a working day for me but my job is often so pleasurable that I don’t even consider it work. I look at it as living. It wasn’t always so. I realize that I’m blessed right now. Poor. But Blessed.

My oldest daughter and I have a bit of a debate going on. She insists that my writing isn’t really work because I’m not being paid for it…yet. I tried to explain to her that one day I would be getting paid for the books that I pen right now. It’s a lot like a cabinet maker who spends months building a grand piece of furniture. Is he being paid for that piece as he builds it? No. But once it’s complete he will place it in his shop and wait for the right customer to come along…and then he will get paid.

She didn’t buy my argument and was dogging me; basically trying to get me to admit that I’m a contented slacker engaged in a happy hobby. Okay, she didn’t call me a slacker…but she implied it.

All of my life I’ve worked at various jobs. I’ve been an office worker, waitress, and factory worker. I’ve sold cars, candles, and Christmas decorations. I’ve been in human services for over a decade and spent the last three years of my life living away from home like a soldier. So now, thanks to a very supportive husband, I’ve been given the opportunity to work at what I love. I don’t know how long it will last but I intend to enjoy this gift and use my time wisely.

I shouldn’t let my daughter push my buttons. She got me so upset yesterday that I threatened to disinherit her. She simply rolled her eyes…seeing that my most valuable asset to date is the antibiotics prescription that I just got filled.

You wait and see kiddo! Someday I’ll be cruising on the Caribbean, with my good children, gorging on shrimp and cream puffs, while you’re clocking out for lunch and eating your words!

Be nice to Mummy. *grin

Freak Flag Flying!

One week in from quitting my job and I’ve resumed working on my new novel, renovated a closet, and worn make-up only twice. Once to go to the mall and the other time I put it on simply out of habit. I’m going to save a fortune on make-up and perfume, not to mention hair cuts. I’m now sporting a disgruntled afro and I’m torn between letting it grow out into its former unmanageable lion’s mane, complete with Pepe Le Pew streaking, or cracking the whip and taming it down to a sophisticated Judi Dench razor cut.

Actually, if I didn’t have to walk the dog in the morning I’d probably forget to brush my hair, and I’d stay in my PJ’s around the clock. Okay, that’s a bit extreme, but it amazes me how quickly I can let go of all the frilly garnishes of life; those little extras that swallow up hours of my time and money.

My husband isn’t complaining. He’s so thrilled with having me around again, to scratch his back and listen to his stories, that I could tattoo earthworms on my face and speak pig Latin with a lisp and he’d overlook it. Ours is a spiritual union.

I know that writing is a sedentary activity, so I’ve committed myself to going to the gym three times a week. I do this in order to keep myself from morphing into a giant marshmallow; although I still feel totally intimidated by all the high tech equipment (mine is a state of the art gym) and the pushy personal trainers who all but call me fatty. “I could have you down to a size three in six weeks,” they boast. Yeah, for only fifty bucks a session and a gallon of my blood. Yikes! I stay to myself, plugged into my music, and count the minutes until I can leave.

Seriously, I am extremely grateful to have this time for creativity. It’s a gift that I’d been yearning for for years, and now that it’s here I can’t imagine ever living without it. I promise not to ignore showers, waxings, and oral hygiene, but otherwise I intend to enjoy this freedom and let my freak flag fly!

My Moody Muse

My muse stares from her holy perch, brooding, and fluttering; signaling me in her urgent, yet hushed way. “Yes, I’m here’” I say; meeting her where the elastic tension of my life expands and experience and emotion collide.

With those gypsy eyes of hers, I knew that we would be doing the tango and not the waltz. But her smile shines so white with sacred purpose, and the endless sea of passion that is her heart, makes it impossible for me to resist her. I love her, and have become accustom to her smoldering mood swings and reflective silences.

She’s a romantic philosopher, an ageless poet, considering the stars, and the scars, creating a sonnet of all that’s trite and true. She speaks with an honesty that’s often embarrassing, but I write it all down anyways, in fear of offending her and chasing her off to search for another channel with which to stir the world’s soul.

She’s collected the precious stones of my journey and examined each one. Fascinated with her discoveries, she gently excavates the underside of my soul…that hidden place where love and fear spoon in conflicted comfort, and my smoky dreams rise like incense in search of her blessing.

We dance in intimate darkness, and in graceful secrecy we conceive our unorthodox and brilliant children, casting them far away from ourselves forever.

We have become one, my moody muse and I, as surely as this moment is one with eternity and creativity is one with God.

Shock and Gawk

Eating Life Raw (ELR) was conceived from a genuine desire to speak with undaunted honesty about life, resulting in a cathartic release for me and hopefully an inspiring and stimulating experience for you, the reader. Lately I’ve been feeling a bit “goody-two-shoes” editing myself in order to please the agents of the world who may, or may not, be visiting ELR. I’m seeking to get my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, published, and in doing so I think I’ve omitted some of the blood and guts involved in eating life raw.

We all live on the same planet and we know that life is capable of dishing out moldy mystery meat, leaving us gagging into our napkins, while optimistically eyeing the dessert table. We’ve experienced the excitement of the hunt and the profusion of blood, the heart thumping danger and the breathtaking delight of everyday living.

Life is a messy tangled head of hair, and we’re constantly trying to comb it out so that we might look good, attract the right mate, find meaningful friendships, and secure our rightful places in the world. We whisper our desperate prayers into the darkness, waiting for a feeling, a subtle clue, that our prayers have been heard. We drag our tired asses out of bed and clock in at work, exchanging heartbeats for wages. As we work, we often dream of being elsewhere, keeping our precious heartbeats for ourselves, and spending them on the things that matter the most to us.

Of course nobody knows when their heart will stop beating so we gamble that someday, when we’ve saved up enough money, we will still have enough heartbeats remaining to live our real lives. It’s a crap shoot with major consequences. So, given the situation, why should I pussy-foot around with my words? Words are my soul’s expression. Words are the wings of my dreams. They take me on trips that I could never afford otherwise. They lift me up out of the doldrums so that I can skulk about the belfry with Quasimodo, take a magic carpet ride with Aladdin, or morph, like a shapeshifter, and “be” the chair.

Don’t worry; I’m not going off the deep end. Actually, that sounds like a lot of fun. Okay, don’t worry; I’m not going to be sharing embarrassing and personal things. Oh wait…I’ve already done that. Okay, how about this…don’t worry, this isn’t a Shock and Gawk campaign, it’s just me living my life…which, by the way, is a once in a lifetime opportunity.