Life as an author

Malevolent Metaphor

2011-11-15T12:33:00.000-08:00

The sunset thawed into a puddle of orange, which was our personal covenant after our marriage vows. Fred looked me in the eye after the final, “till death us do part,” and promised me that there would be a blizzard at Gulf Shores before he’d ever quit loving me. God, I loved that man, and his eyes penetrating my soul told me he felt the same way. The gulls called to us, and the sea salt sealed our fate.
“Anne, you are the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe God has given you to me. I love you more than mere words can express.”
“Fred, we have something so special. Let’s never take each other for granted or go to bed mad.”
“I’ve never loved any woman until I met you. I thought I knew what love was all about, but I was wrong. You’ve shown me what real love does to a man’s heart.”
We kissed, and then he slowly maneuvered my see-through Teddie off me. He kissed me again.
Since we both loved the beach but couldn’t afford the property, we moved to Robertsdale, Alabama. It was close enough to spend the day at the beach, and we could drive home for our nightly kiss. Robertsdale was a farming community where most people knew everyone in town. Although we were newcomers, we fit in because we joined the First Baptist Church and the Bar-B-Q Club. We were transplanted Westerners and found the South charming.
At first, we had a hard time understanding our friends and neighbors when their soft syllables rolled off their tongues as easily as butter melted on a good, hot biscuit. We had two children, Angie and Tom, and Fred joined the Volunteer Fire Department. I was homeroom mother and PTA president. We both felt that our roots found rich soil. Our love produced contentment and joy. Life was very good.

Since I was better at math, I’d always paid the bills. As a prudent spender, I’d set us up a savings account.
“Honey, I know you’re tired, so I figure I’d take over the bills, making one less thing you’d have to do.”
I was so appreciative of Fred. How did I end up with such a good man?

One day I drove out to the beach to walk and think. It was very cold. My intuition said something was wrong in our marriage. Snow started falling from the sky, and I knew the covenant had been broken. It took me six weeks to find the copies of the bills he had thrown away, just as he had thrown our marriage away.
I confronted him, and he lied. I watched the snow provide a covering of white in Robertsdale. It was almost as cold as his heart.

A Palette of Incubi

2011-10-04T08:22:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t believe what my shrink told me about my husband. Dr. Anderson set up an emergency appointment to warn me of my impending death. Dean was a psychopath, and he planned on killing me.

I looked around Dr. Anderson’s office and noticed, perhaps, for the first time, the print of the Marrimac and Monitor fighting in the Civil War. It was done in shades of grays and blacks, which matched his décor. I burst into tears that cut a trench in my wrinkled skin.

My doctor was my personal friend and felt the need to warn me. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure that Dean meant it, or if he blew up and had a hizzy fit. My doctor wasn’t compelled to tell the police or FBI, but did not want to take a chance with me.

Dean and I probably crossed each other on the Interstate. I had the advantage of Dean’s not expecting me to drive to Mobile from Monroeville. He would come home to an empty house. Dr. Anderson warned me not to leave a note.

Would Dean position himself to kill me as I got out of my car? He was a great shot from being on the Monroeville police force. That would be his out. No one would believe he shot me on purpose. Dr. Anderson would then inform the FBI.

I drove home in an ocean of dark olive evergreen trees. Normally, this far south, we didn’t really have a fall. I wanted a sign that I’d know what to do. Maybe Dean would be gone, taken our son to a neighbor, and left pissed off at me. In my own kind of way, I was praying.

I hugged the steering wheel, driving as if hypnotized. Then in the ribbon of different shades of green was a thin spot of bright red, my favorite color. Was this the sign Id asked for to protect my son and me? I thought so. I turned my thoughts from negative and scared to determined and brave. I’d do whatever it took to save my son’s life. If it meant giving up mine so he would be put away for life, I knew I’d do so without even thinking about it. That was the mother in me. I’d been in my late thirties when I had given Jason life.

I eased closer and closer to home and sat straighter with more confidence as I narrowed the distance between my fate and my son’s fate. Soon, I rounded the curve and saw the two twin oaks that were on each side of our drive. No lights were on. Was that a good sign that no one was home, or that Dean was waiting on me? I entered the house to my son’s crying I switched on the lights and Dean held a gun to our son’s head. I knew what I had to do.

Please go to this link

2011-09-20T06:29:00.001-07:00

and sign in with Authors Stand and read my story "Suicide Bomber" and rate it. Thanks! This story is told by Jolly who is now a young adult. http://shop.authorstand.com/Products/4267-suicide-bomber.aspx

A letter to myself as a writer

2011-09-13T06:33:00.001-07:00

Dear impatient self,

Do you remember the days that you submitted trash because you were too impatient to do it right? You did have sense enough to take a writing class. Each week you learned something new, you revised your manuscript. It took you sixty-six drafts to finally get it right. You worked five and one-half years to have a polished copy of your first novel. I hope you’ve learned to slow down, listen to your critique partners, go to writing conferences and learn the art of editing your work.

You still have a nasty habit of submitting before a work is ready. One recent short story you submitted presented itself as a first draft because you quickly edited it, rather than sentence by sentence. Never embarrass yourself again by doing something so silly. The editor happened to be a very nice person who gave you a personal rejection and even showed you her notes on the manuscript. Hopefully, you learned from that experience.

I’ve seen you grow in learning how to kill your babies and tighten up a story. You aren’t very good at this, but you’re willing to develop a new skill. Your stories are very good, but you must slow down and learn how to write them as best as you can.

Continue to enjoy writing that first draft. Let your right brain take over and become involved in the story. Have fun and get it down without worrying about the writing. Let it flow. This is your strength. You have a muse that whispers to you most of the time. You’ve been able to speed up your writing of a polished draft. But realize, after the fun part comes the hard part: switching your skills to your left brain to edit, polish and downsize the manuscript to make it tight.

Each time you write, you are synthesizing knowledge into your product. You are getting better at it, but you sometimes let that go to your head. Get off your pedestal and read your work out loud and listen to those mistakes that clearly show up in the spoken word. You’ve gotten a Kindle and sent your work in progress to it and then turned on the text to speech and listened carefully to the flow and the rhythm of the story. You’ve learned this is a great tool in editing your work.

You’re humble and take criticism seriously, and apply it to better writing. You’ve developed a thick skin and can take those rejection slips in your stride. You calculate mathematically that there is a number that will reach a probability that someone will take your manuscript and publish it. This is where you are patient and determined. You never give up. You try to learn what is off when you keep getting rejections, and you tighten up your work and submit it again. Your perseverance paid off in 2009 and it will pay off again if you keep your sight on a well developed manuscript.

Hopefully, this will show

2011-09-03T13:33:00.001-07:00

my output of writing and submissions over the past 7 days. Here goes nothing:

I've got my work really cut out for me.

2011-08-29T05:00:00.000-07:00

I am basically rewriting the story "Ouija Board" to have it smoother and attract a YA audience. My deadline is in two more days. So, this will be short because I must start writing. If you want to follow the protagonist of my book, she too, has a blog. Follow this link: http://leethames.wordpress.com/ As you all remember, Lee tells it like it is. Mature content. If you haven't read my book, In and Out of Madness by N L Snowden go here to purchase the paperback for $14.95 or to the Kindle store to get it for $0.99. http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=In+and+Out+of+Madness+by+N+L+Snowden

I want to thank all of my readers for your encouragement and taking the time to read the blogs to keep up with the author and the protagonist.

Bless all of the people and animals

2011-08-27T06:31:00.000-07:00

in Hurricane Irene's path. It may only be a cat 1 or 2 but it is going to drop massive amounts of rain, will have high winds, and cause power outages. So, it's going to impact a lot of people's lives.

I'm heading to my critique group today. We are all so close that we take negative remarks well. (as long as they pertain to the story or characters.) I've written a new short story "Ouija Board" to submit to a literary e-zine. The deadline is the 31st. My critique group, hopefully, will tear me a new one to make this a better story and draft.

I love my critique group and every one who is in it...and those who left to form a YA critique group.

When I get home, I'm starting to edit "Suicide Bomber" and hope to send it to the better literary magazines.

I feel good...

2011-08-25T18:25:00.001-07:00

This has been a very productive week. I've written two brand new short stories. Edited another and submitted it for an anthology. I sent of the one that is due by 8/31 to professional critique editor. My friend has my second novel editing it. I feel like I've gotten a lot of writing done. When I write, I feel happy!

I've been submitting short stories

2011-08-20T15:06:00.000-07:00

I head back in 2 days on "God Is No Lady" for sci-fi. Maybe the title got them...God sci-fi????? The story is a funny story of the near future: 2055. I had a blast making up gidgets and gadgets for that year. I used present technology and nano chipped the "working house." The story is about Laura's mother, Jolly, who has Alzheimer and the trials and tribulations she experiences in that particular year. No matter how many electronic miracles appear in this story, relationships break down into an ageless time. Jolly hates Laura's dad. He had a stroke (yup, those suckers are still around) and the only place he has to recover is at Laura's house in Jolly's bedroom. Let the sparks fly!

Life as an author: My head is spinning

2011-08-13T16:02:00.000-07:00

Life as an author: My head is spinning

My head is spinning

2011-08-13T15:51:00.000-07:00

I went to a Social Media workshop on Friday. Wow, there is so much out there.(things I'd never heard of before.) The biggest surprise was Alabama Virtual Library where you have access to magazines and newspapers for free. My brain was in information overload. Good thing that I took notes. Last night, I went to Imagine and had fun talking writing with two friends. Then up this morning to Quill Masters, my critique group. I've been bad today. I've written two blogs and that's it.

I'm working on a third story with a working title of Mark Moons. But I'm probably going to change the title because it is going to be a horror story. I've got it in my head, now to sit down and write it. Starting on Monday, that's exactly what I'm going to do. I have until August 31 to submit to the Dark Moon anthology.

I hear thunder. Maybe we'll get some rain, and I can snooze through it. I'm exhausted from the weekend. I have to have my energy tomorrow because I'm helping a friend clean her house. Everyone know that cleaning is not my forte, although I love a clean and organized house.

Monday, at 8 am, I go to my yoga class. I'm pitiful, but I'm also determined.

Here is the link to Lee Thames's blog

2011-08-08T10:37:00.000-07:00

She is as colorful on her blog as she was in the book: In and Out of Madness. I think many of you would enjoy Lee Thames's blog....it's a cleaned up R rated blog. Life forced her into becoming the person she was. But in the end, she over came that and self actualized. Here is her link: http://leethames.wordpress.com/ and here is a link to the video trailer that she stars in. You might find it interesting.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6ZI9N-5FBo

Remember: In and Out of Madness by N L Snowden on Amazon and Kindle. I lowered the Kindle price today to $.99. So, while they are redoing the price, it may not show up on Kindle store until Wednesday at the latest. Sometimes they do things fast and at other times, they take days.

Thank you for reading my blog and I hope you enjoy Lee's blog.

I'm trying something different

2011-08-07T17:24:00.000-07:00

I'm bringing the protagonist of my book In an Out of Madness to life. She has her own blog and she has a twitter account. She appears in my 3rd book and in many of my short stories. She even has a cameo appearance in my 4th book. I want my readers to connect with my characters. I'd like to get to the point that they can think of her as a friend and e-mail her, or me as the author.

I'm reading a book on maximizing your social media and bringing a character to life was suggested. I'm having a ball getting inside Lee's head to talk about things. I have to caution myself not to give away the ending to any of the short stories or the book.

Why don't all you writers try this. Build your character a following BEFORE the release date of the book. I didn't do that, but I think in the long run this will generate new sales. Lee is a lovable character you like to hate. She can be fun at times and then a total doo doo head! Like, many of my readers have asked why did it take so many times of being lied to before enough was enough? But, I believe, that makes her human and believable.

If you are kind of in a slump, bring your character alive and then the writing will take off again. Good luck!
N L Snowden

My platform

2011-08-07T07:39:00.000-07:00

Everybody is connected to mental illness: they are the parents of a mentally ill child, or the child of a mentally ill parent, or the SO of a mentally ill person, or they work with a mentally ill person, they are friends with one, or they themselves are one. My target audience is the large group of people who are consumers in mental health or providers or any of the above. The book In and Out of Madness is a psychological suspense. People who like a page turning book will enjoy the read. People connected to the mentally ill will find new insights due to climbing up in the heard of a bipolar person with disassociative disorder. The fact that she is married to a sex addict will lead to an unexpected ending.

Let's talk about the query letter

2011-08-06T06:40:00.000-07:00

There are four parts to the query letter. The first give the logistics: the working title, the word count, and who your targeted audience will be--your platform.

The second contains the blurb with a good hook. Think of what will be written on the back of the book. You have to hook that agent.

The third is about you: your interests or jobs IF THEY RELATE TO THE BOOK. You also tell them your writing credits or any awards you have won.

The fourth is the hardest. You have to work and research to do this. You explain why your book would be a good fit with that agent or agency.

Thank you for reading my query,

your name

The 15 minute a day writing challenge

2011-08-05T06:30:00.000-07:00

I've had horrible writer's block. I decided to take the 15 minute challenge to write something for 15 minutes each day in August. Yesterday and the day before, I worked on chapter 11 in the horse anthology. I started chapter 11 and today I will finish it up and start chapter 12.

I am also blogging, tweeting, and Facebooking. (although, I've more or less lost interest in Facebook. I plan to open a MySpace account under my protagonist's name.
All in all, I look forward to a productive day.

Heaven N Hell got accepted into a contest.

2011-07-27T10:34:00.000-07:00

We had to tell why we wrote the story and why someone would want to read it. Here is my abstract: (which got my story accepted into the contest.)

I've often pondered the question, "Is there a Hell?" Since I am not a Christian, my answer consisted of a resounding NO! As a Unitarian Universalist, I decided to create the perfect Heaven and Hell. This hell would have an element of eternity in it, but it would not be excruciating pain forever. I came up with a way for Heaven to be a pleasant experience and Hell to be very unpleasant but no torture.

Next, I pondered God's giving us free will and his ability to control the universe. I again, as a good Unitarian, came to the conclusion that God doesn't control the universe. Maybe God needed a Heaven. Maybe this imperfect being dealing daily with a humongous mistake, created a type of hell for Himself. So, I pondered what would constitute Heaven for God? My story is the answer to all of the questions. I think you will find it thought provoking and humorous at times. At least, God gets the last laugh.

Lee Thames

2011-07-27T06:09:00.000-07:00

now has her own blog and twitter account. She's tired of being in the background. She has a lot to say and I felt maybe she was right. So, I'm letting her rip. I hope she cleans up her fowl mouth since it is being put on Facebook, Twitter, and Yahoo at the same time. If any of you are interested in following Lee on her blog, here is the link:

http://leethames.wordpress.com/ She loves to tweet on Twitter. I told her she could talk all she wants but not to give away the ending of any books she appears in. I'm working on 4 more books, 2 novels and 2 anthologies. I hope to release all the Lee books at one time.

The horse anthology, geared toward adults, true horse stories where people tell it like it is, will be released in the fall of 2012, I hope. That is my goal, but in the publishing business, goals often get trampled on by life.

I missed 3 days of my medicine

2011-07-25T06:43:00.000-07:00

and had a melt down yesterday. I switched the dose from night to morning, but I kept forgetting to take it in the morning. First, I got a little manic and was organizing, drawing, cleaning my house and writing. Then I sank into a deep depression followed by a mixed state where a friend of mine made me extremely angry. (I haven't felt angry in 6 years since being on Abilify.) I knew I was in a mixed state and it would be a matter of time before feeling suicidal. So, I took my sleeping meds to knock me out. It worked. I awoke to a brand new day. Took my Abilify last night and this morning. I MUST stay on my medication. I've done so well for 6 years, I'd almost convinced myself that maybe I could come off the Abilify since it is so expensive. Yesterday proves I cannot go off Abilify. It works!

What does it mean to be bipolar?

2011-07-20T14:23:00.001-07:00

Lee tried hard to explain it in her book, In and Out of Madness. She found it difficult to accept the crazy things she did while medicated. Why hadn't her doctor told her husband how sick she really had been? He felt rejected and cheated on Lee. She felt everything in her world was one big lie and life was not worth living. Even the love for her child wasn't strong enough to make her want to fight for life. Have you been there? Well, I have as the author of In and Out of Madness. This book is available on Kindle for $2.99. You will literally feel the mind of a bipolar person suffering excruciating pain that became so intense that she chose death over living.

From Two to Sixty-Two excerpt The intro:

2011-06-20T16:10:00.000-07:00

The Horse He Rode In On:
From Two to Sixty-two

By

Dee Jordan

The scent of Bourbon, Youth Dew and cigarette smoke permeated the air. I was playing with my toy horses under the curved part of the huge Formica bar that served as our dining table. It was mint green lined with shiny aluminum. My whinnying and snorting annoyed my parents.
My mom and dad had given me a coloring book to keep me busy. Unable to get a baby sitter for that night when they had guests, they figured it would occupy me for at least thirty minutes. I would turn three in five more days, and I already colored within the lines. Soon I got bored and tried talking to the grown-ups. My dad drew a horse’s head on a napkin and handed it to me. They counted on my persistence to make it look like a horse, my favorite thing in the whole world. There I was in my Shirley Temple dark curls with red jeans and black cowboy boots. I came back in about ten minutes with an exact replica of that horse’s head and handed it to my dad.
“Dee, you need to find something else to color,” said my dad who seemed frustrated that I’d returned with that drawing so soon.
“Why Dee, you’re an artist. Look at that, it’s so lifelike,” said Mrs. Palmer.
Mama frowned, “Dee, we told you the grown-ups are visiting and for you to stay in your room. Now get back in there before I give you a whipping.”
The odd thing about it was that fifty-nine years later—I vividly remembered this as if it were yesterday.
My parents could never acknowledge my artistic ability or how much I loved horses. There were many horses in my life as a child, but although my parents owned a movie camera, there were none of me with any of my horses in them. Even in their photos, I’m only in the background out of focus behind their friends at their parties.
Thus went my young life.
My love for horses and my ability to draw them made the feeling of loneliness bearable. Whenever we rode anywhere in the car, I’d imagine myself on a horse galloping along beside the car, jumping ditches, brush and fallen logs, which kept me preoccupied.

Thanks to those fine old movies, the day of my birthday, I rode a stick horse around the back yard in my panties and undershirt. I remembered this because I watched the movies over and over. The next scene in the movie showed me in my lacy party dress with white shoes and socks, like getting ready for Easter, and I didn’t remember that part at all, but what I recall about that day was a man leading a horse up to the back yard. I knew my dream was coming true—I was getting a horse for my birthday! Excitement couldn’t begin to explain how I felt.
Then my daddy said, “Whose horse is this?”
“Mine!” rang out two voices. Of course one was mine, but the other was my friend Jeanne DeWitt. She squinted her dark eyes to see who had answered when it was indeed her pony. From that day on, we became best friends. She was as horse crazy as I was.

I meet myself coming out the door.

2011-06-15T16:35:00.001-07:00

My second book is at the editor. I'm writing my story for my horse anthology. The anthology title is The Horse He Rode In On. My story is titled "From Two to Sixty-two."

I attended a Write Tight workshop this past Saturday and man, have I got my editing work cut out for me. Don McNair told us about 21 steps to take your manuscript through to write tight: for example, get rid of "ing" words. Do you know how many "ing" words are in a 44 chapter manuscript....a month's worth of looking (even with ing space in Find.) You have to decide if simple past tense will work in the sentence as is..or do you need to rewrite the sentence so simple past tense does make sense. And once you do that, there are only 20 more to go....it's overwhelming. I took a 4 page double spaced short story that was 1,700+ words and now have it right under 1,500 words....it works. It tightened up that story. But it took all day to do 3 of the steps on 4 pages. I'll be writing until I'm 100. Maybe I can learn to write tight to begin with and not need so much editing.

Saturday is my critique group, Quill Masters, meeting at Penara bread and that evening is the Mobile Writers' Guild Drink 'N' Skrawl! Fun!!! hic-up! I'm going to finish the story in my horse anthology while I still have my right brain creative side working. All that editing will put me in left brain mode. After writing the story, I'll start editing it. The anthology is open to people who want to write about their life with a horse or pony or many equines. You have until December 31, 2011 to submit and they can be as long or short as you like them. I'm going to set it up where all money made from the sale of the book will go into saving our wild horses.

If you'd like to submit, please send it to mobiledeelight07@bellsouth.net.

In the Shadow of Sin: the Confessions of a Sex Addict

2011-06-03T07:32:00.001-07:00

Prologue
My name is Lee Thames. I'm Joe's ex-wife. I couldn't believe what I'd almost accomplished: killing my ex-husband. After nearly twenty years of marriage, he walked out on me. In my madness, I'd decided if I couldn't have him, then no one else could. I wanted him as dead as the slimy bloody spot on a highway. After what he'd done to me our entire marriage, I had no qualms about killing him. Part of this was due to my bi-polar illness, my disassociative disorder and my intense anger that he was an incorrigible sex addict.
He'd cheated on me our entire marriage while honey coating his undying love for me. He never loved me. I hurt so deeply that at times my breath seemed to catch in my throat with a pain in my heart that made breathing something I wished would end. All this was due to my thinking he had loved so many other women. But in time, I learned about sexual addiction and realized that he was incapable of love. He was only capable of conditional love or infatuation.
Although I didn't kill him, I did self-actualize enough to live my life without him, I knew I needed to make sense of the senseless. I knew I had to climb inside Joe's head and see things through his eyes. Maybe when I understood his illness, his life, the interplay of the two, I'd be able to find peace. Throw in my own illnesses fanning the fires of dislike that gradually turned into hatred and I'd finally see that I was not a victim but an active player in my marriage's demise. This is Joe's story, put together by what he'd told me.

Chapter One
Sylvester and Mildred Thames had raised Joe along with his two sisters in a fundamentalist home. No drinking, dancing, or smoking allowed. Although Sylvester was a mechanic, he never swore like those he worked with. He was mild-mannered, and Joe inherited his dad's laid-back personality.
"Joe, you're my favorite child. You know that, don't you?" Mildred told him. "Don't you dare disappoint me at Vacation Bible School. Sometimes I don't know what gets into you besides the Devil."
"I promise, Mama," Joe replied. "I'll make you proud of me."
"I ain't holding my breath."
At the tender age of six, Joe never questioned his parents' views on life. A good boy who helped his mother around the house, he took care of his sisters and worked in the big garden. For his size and age, Joe was strong because he chopped wood for his daddy.
High school football and church were the two big social events in his family's lives. Joe's church was a Primitive Southern Baptist focused on hellfire and brimstone—all the "thou shalt nots" rather than love and forgiveness. Joe was too young, at first, to understand the implications of his sin. As he aged, they manifested themselves and warped Joe's personality, creating a monster that controlled his life. Feeling powerless as to the hurts and pains he inflicted on others, most of the time he just didn't get it, although he tried.
Hidden from the main highway by cutting itself off physically from the rest of the world, Antioch Baptist Church created a world unto itself. A whitewashed cement block building that appeared a little off center, it endeared itself to its congregation of about twenty families and demanded fierce loyalty. Upstairs was "church" while down in the small basement were its fellowship hall, a bathroom, and a tiny kitchen. They held Vacation Bible School, much like an old one-room schoolhouse. Ten kids, ages five to twelve, attended. Joe's mom was the teacher.
Since his grandparents on both sides attended every Sunday and Wednesday service, Joe loved his church. For special occasions, the men of the congregation would wash each other's feet in obedience to Jesus' example. Joe always watched this ceremony with fascination.
Clueless that there was a loving God, Joe felt the weight of the unsaved world on his small shoulders. Feeling God's calling, he never questioned the church's doctrine. He looked up to and admired Brother John McGinny, often comparing him to Jesus.
When he preached, Bro. John's Broadway voice boomed its way to the back pew, echoing off the light pine-colored floor. Sunlight filtered through the frosted windows—no expensive stained glass in this understated décor. A ceiling fan whirled lazily, stirring up a steady breeze, albeit a light one.
Women fanned themselves with their Jesus-carrying-the-lost-sheep cardboard fans on wooden handles. The church smelled like women's overly sweet cologne and men's perspiration. All the men, decked out in suits in the stifling heat, had sweat-stain rings—giving away the suits' hard times as well as their ages—much like the Southern pine tree's rings. This congregation couldn't afford air-conditioning. The only thing of any real value in the church was the one-hundred-year-old red Bible on the pine pulpit.
Bro. John traveled from Macon, Georgia, every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening to do his preaching. Special times like Easter, Christmas, or Vacation Bible School, he would drive from Macon, get a room at West Point, Georgia—since Cusseta, Alabama had no motels—and spend a couple of nights visiting his congregation and catching up on the news of the community.
West Point was a thirty-minute drive down a long, narrow winding road in the backwoods of Alabama. On pretty days, Bro. John would crack his window to smell the scent of the pine trees that lined the road. His car was air-conditioned because he worked in Macon as a car salesman.
In the midst of a sermon, sweat glistened off Bro. John's sunburned dome, looking like a picked-over cotton patch with thinning gray hairs. Joe loved to hear the rise and fall of Bro. John's stage-projected voice—a sound like warmed molasses smoothly poured over a hot, buttered biscuit. But Joe hated it when he got louder and louder.
"Homosexuality is an abomination to God. God created Adam and Eve—a woman from Adam's rib—not Adam and Steve. Unmarried people engage in all kinds of sinful activities. Married couples act shamefully, committing adultery, which used to be punishable by stoning to death. Godly people do not tolerate Satan's follies."
He left the pulpit to strut as his voice got louder and louder with each word. Bro. John wiped his forehead with a limp handkerchief he kept crumpled up in his pocket, stained from previous sweat. He walked to the podium and picked up a smaller black Bible laid out on top of the large, ancient red one decorated inside with pictures of all the Biblical greats. He lifted up his personal worn-out Bible high into the air, shouting at this point.
"Anyone who gives in to these temptations has bought a one way ticket straight to Hell!" He strutted off the pulpit down the aisle. "Teenagers, dancing is wrong! Drinking and smoking are the Devil's curse. Using the Lord's name in vain has a special torment and punishment reserved for them. Doing these things will bring down God's wrath, brothers and sisters."
Loud Amens emanated from the congregation, by now stirred into a frenzy of righteous indignation for sinners. They punctuated Bro. John's message. His pacing made echoing sounds on the plank floor since he was a heavy built man. He wore a shiny white suit that gleamed in comparison to the old yellowed-white suits in his congregation. From the screaming, his face was as red as the top of his head as his tirade picked up momentum.
Bro. John frightened Joe when he preached about Hell, which he seemed to do a lot. The boy truly feared going to Hell. He often prayed and made promises to God, bargaining that he'd never do anything to bring down God's anger and judgment. He sometimes heard that God was love, but he didn't understand that other side of God.
Due to his age, Joe couldn't comprehend the sermon that morning—well, the part about homosexuality and adultery, although they were mentioned often. Joe prayed nightly to God, asking Him to lead him from all temptations, but most especially those two. They were too sinful to even ask his parents what they meant. Bro. John brought home that point about thinking about either of them was also a sin. Joe innately knew not to talk to his parents about the issues. He didn't want to cause them to sin by thinking about it long enough to answer any questions. Besides, he just needed to forget all about it.
That was, until the temptation of a quarter changed everything.
At age six, Joe had also wanted to be a preacher—feeling God's call, he gave mini-sermons in Vacation Bible School that summer of 1957 in the Antioch Baptist Church of Cusseta, Alabama. Towheaded with a sprinkling of cinnamon freckles showing through his rose-colored sunburn from working in the garden with his dad, he looked like the perfect picture of purity and innocence. But when Bro. John tested him and he failed, Joe was doomed to live in the shadow of sin for the rest of his life.
On the last day of Vacation Bible School, Bro. John asked, "Would you like to stay over and help me and earn a quarter?"
"Ya'suh!" Joe replied eagerly. "I'll make you proud. I'm a good worker."
"I'm sure you'll provide whatever I need you to do."
With eyes widened with excitement, Joe ran off to find his mama so she could grant permission to stay after everything was over. Since Joe didn't get an allowance, this money would buy paradise—a Coke and a hamburger. Thinking about being so grown-up made the corners of his mouth break into a Cheshire cat's grin, except for the gap where both front teeth were missing
"Mama, Brother John wants me to help him clean up the church. Can I stay? He'd even going to pay me."
"Why would Brother John choose you? You know you ain't no good for nothing." The words that Joe had heard so many times stung him like a wasp that flew up your sleeve.
"Mama, please. You know I'm a worker. I'll do the family proud."
"I swear, I don't know what's gotten into Brother John. There are so many other kids that would do better than you."
"Mama, please say yes. I'll walk home from church and be home in time to do my chores."
"Well, okay. Just make sure you do your chores when you get home." The promise of making some money gave Joe enough joy to control the pain he felt.
Joe helped empty the trashcans. While sweeping the floor in the fellowship hall, he heard Bro. John calling.
"Joe, can you come here a minute?"
"Yas'uh."
Joe drawled with a thick Southern accent. Each syllable glided into the other, smooth as cake batter. He tried to figure out where the pastor was. As Joe rounded the corner in the kitchen, there stood Bro. John, relieving himself in the bathroom with the door left open. Joe felt awkward, but Brother John seemed to have no shame as he turned around to face Joe with his fly open and his thing sticking straight up.
"I'll give you a quarter if you'll put this in your mouth and lick it."
"Naws'uh, I don't think I should."
"It's okay. No one will hurt you. Besides, I thought we were friends."
"Naws'uh, that would be wrong for me to do that."
"Come on, would I ask you to do something that was wrong?"
Something in his eyes scared Joe, even though he was the pastor of the church. Still, Joe trusted him to know what was best. How could Bro. John sin? Ministers didn't sin. And, besides, Joe had already had that money spent. He figured that if Bro. John said it was okay to do something, then what was the harm?
Bro. John tasted musty and salty. The pungent odor of sex—a mixture of the damp crawl space under Joe's house and his father's overalls on washday—wafted upward to his nose. It was hard for him to get his mouth around Bro. John's thing. Soon, Bro. John was breathing heavy and moaning, which scared Joe and made him stop for a moment.
"I can't do this. I'm scared."
Bro. John, forced himself back into Joe's mouth by grabbing him by the back of his head and thrusting himself hard against Joe's closed lips. This scared Joe worse than thinking about the wrong he was doing. When he stopped struggling, Bro. John let go of Joe's head.
Joe felt sick and wanted to gag when a watery fluid started going into his mouth. He started to lift his head, but Bro. John grabbed it again and thrust enough into Joe's mouth that he did start gagging. At that moment, his reflexes saved him from swallowing the nasty stuff, wetting the front of Bro. John's pants with what looked to Joe like whitish Jell-o.
"Damn you, Joe! Look what you've gone and done. God told me to test you. You are a miserable little homosexual wretch! Son, I'm going to pray for your soul. This will be our secret. I'll try my best to protect you from anyone finding out the truth about you, but you'd better repent and never do this again." Bro. John's eyes glared with a viciousness that Joe had never seen on anyone's face before that day.
Joe realized his mama was right. He was no good and should have listened to her and not kept on begging.
Joe fell to his knees, crying. "Bro. John, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do this, honest. Forgive me. Am I going to Hell?"
"Only if you talk about this with anyone."

I've finished my second book. Here is a sneak view:

2011-05-30T15:26:00.000-07:00

She MUST Go. CHAPTER ONE
“Yes, this is Jordan Hurst. I think I killed my ex-wife. I need an ambulance fast!”
After flipping my long hair out of my eyes, I lit a cigarette. I looked around the crappy house and saw Amber laid out cold in the kitchen. I walked in and turned on the overhead light, painting her a garish white.
“Amber, Amber, wake up! I didn’t mean to hurt you! I only wanted to protect myself. You make me so damn mad. My God, what have I done?”
“Sir, stay on the phone. An ambulance will be there shortly. Is she breathing?”
“I don’t know, I’ll have to check.”
“Does she have a pulse?”
“Not sure of that either.”
“How did she hurt you?”
“She didn’t.”
“Do you need any medical care?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Sir, is she alive?”
“I told you I don’t know! Wait a minute. Let me check.”
Afraid to touch her, I was about to panic but knew I had to answer the operator. Laying my head on Amber’s chest, I listened for a heartbeat, then I sat up and watched to see if her rib cage moved.
“Yes, she’s alive. I saw her breathing. Hurry up.” I shouldered the cell phone and started cracking my knuckles. Amber’s glazed blue eyes stared at the ceiling. I looked up, curious to see what she had been looking at before she went down. Just a bunch of spider webs with dust bunnies caught in them. I felt my heart pounding with an ache because I realized I might not see her again. I wiped my hands on my slacks, leaving wet marks on them.
“Please, Amber, don’t die. I just wanted to stop you. You hurt me so much with all your cheating. Then you blabbed to everyone I was the cheater.” I sat down and rested her head in my lap, rubbing her face as tears formed in my eyes. We couldn’t live together, but I still loved her.
The sound of sirens blared and lights flashed outside. I got up to unlock the front door, and two blue-uniformed cops pushed their way in and grabbed me. They slammed me against the wall and cuffed my hands behind me.
“You’re under arrest,” one of the cops said. “Don’t give us any trouble and it’ll be easier for you.”
As they turned me around, the EMTs came rushing in. Hoping it would help my case at least a little, I said, “She’s in the kitchen. Please help her! She’s been unconscious about fifteen minutes.”
The cops shoved me out the door and began reading me my rights as they pulled me toward the squad car. As they pushed me into the back seat, one of the cops said, “Sonny boy, you’re in deep shit.”
I gulped. Why did I hit her so hard? I’m not the type of man who would hit a woman.
I looked up at the cop and said, “She came over here ready for a fight. I didn’t realize how angry she was until she attacked me with the knife. I only hit her to stop her from hurting me, I swear! I never expected to knock her out. Please believe me!”
“Save your breath for the detectives.”
He slammed the car door, then they both went back in the house. God, I hope they’d believe me. I didn’t want to go to jail—especially not over a woman like Amber. She was a psychopath with no conscience, and she’d made my life a living hell for the past ten years. How would I ever explain this to our daughter? Rachel would be devastated.
All the neighbors came out to see what was going on. I could see their shocked expressions and whispering as the EMTs brought Amber out on a stretcher. The neighbors probably thought I’d finally murdered her after all the years of fighting. She did look dead on that gurney. Part of me couldn’t help feeling a little relieved that this might finally be over. I couldn’t believe this night had gone so bad so fast. It had started with a telephone call but ended up one huge big deal.
When the cops got in the car, they wouldn’t answer my questions about whether Amber was dead or alive. The drive to the Livingston police station didn’t take long. Before I knew it, a hand yanked me out of the car. The next half hour was a blur as they booked me—fingerprinting, mug shot, taking my personal information. Finally, the cops walked me down a long corridor. I had to strip, shower and get sprayed with a lice killer before I put on their famous orange-and-blue jump suits.
The reality hit me hard as they walked me back to an interrogation room. Since I’d called 911 and practically confessed, this was a cut and dried case.
The room they put me in was worse than a hospital. Gray everywhere. A huge gray metal table, cheap light gray linoleum with many stains and cuts on it, thunder-storm gray walls. Even the folding chairs were charcoal gray metal.
The door opened a few minutes. A male detective—a middle-aged man with black hair slicked back from his forehead—came in and sat down opposite me, then a female officer came in smelling like gardenias in the cool evenings of summer. Her hair was a gorgeous wheat color, and she had big blue eyes. She walked around the table, opening and closing her mouth as if she were chewing gum, then she took a seat at the end. For some reason, her beauty calmed my nerves. I focused on her as the other detective started talking to me. I noticed that the lady wrote March 23, 2003 at the top of her legal pad.
“My name is Detective Carney,” said the man, “and this is Detective Jones.”
I remembered my manners and rose to shake their hands.
“Now,” said Carney, “state your name for the record and tell us what happened.”
“My name is Jordan Hurst,” I said. “I had plenty of reason to do what I did. It was self-defense.”

In and Out of Madness by N. L. Snowden

2011-05-04T07:44:00.000-07:00

I finally got the courage to query Sarah Jane Freyman to consider In and Out of Madness. This is my log line: In and Out of Madness: the collision of a sex addict with a mentally ill woman, explodes into an ending that leaves the reader gasping.

Lee Thames could draw horses before she could print her name. She was crazy about them--until 1998. Lee is bipolar and suffers from disassociative identiy disorder. On the night of May 5, 2003, she spends hours meandering through her home, while waiting to lure her ex-husband, Joe Thames, to her house so she can kill him in the perfect murder. Joe is a sex addict. He cheats on Lee, but he swears he'll never do it again. After she catches him in 2003 by hacking into his e-mail, she ends their marriage of nearly twenty years. She can't get over her obsession with Joe. She decides if she can't have him, no one can. Since she is mentally ill, she knows she'll get away with murder. Or will she?

4 signed copies left for $18 to include shipping and handling. E-mail me at nlsnowden@inandoutofmadness.com if you are interested in a copy.

I'm feeling hopeful

2011-04-28T04:22:00.000-07:00

I was part of Jessica Sinsheimer's query critique on Monday night. She represents Sarah Jane Freymann Literary. I queried on In and Out of Madness. She liked the query until it said "based on a true story." She said that would make her too sad, so she would pass. But she also said the writing was beautiful, and she would be interested in another project. So, that is very good news.

Well, you know me....give me an inch and I'll take a mile. I dropped based on a true story and pitched it as 100% fiction and queried Sarah Jane herself yesterday. My editor from Sneakaboard Press is signing a release that I have all rights to the book to do as I see fit. (Thank God!)

Now, the odds of her asking for more are 98 not to 2% yes. Then when I present it as having been published but that I now have the rights and send a copy of the release, the odds of her taking me as a client are 99.9999% not to .ooo9% she will.

But, I know this much. The odds are 0% unless I try.

Meanwhile book two is cranking along. I'm reading every chapter and putting a one sentence plot line above the chapter number in the hard copy. I will then see how it flows and what chapters I need to write (using those one sentences) to complete the manuscript with the new story line.

To say I'm busy is an understatement. But, I wake up early so I can start writing! I love it so much!

She MUST Go! (2nd book) WIP excerpt 4-18-11

2011-04-18T14:53:00.000-07:00

I've written the manuscript. I was on my first draft of editing it. I dreamed of another direction to take the manuscript and in order to do that, I had to change my characters. So, I will use the shell of the first draft and rewrite it to include Jordan's wife, Amber, being a psychopath. She is so mean, it's often funny. But, at times, she is truly scary. Jordan knocks her out, and he wonders if he's killed her. His lawyer sends a shrink in to evaluate his standing trial. He tells why he feels justified to kill her. You read, and you decide.

She MUST Go! (2nd book) WIP excerpt

2011-04-10T04:04:00.000-07:00

“Yes, this is Joe Thames. I think I killed my ex-wife. I need an ambulance as fast as you can get one here.”

I flipped my long hair out of my eyes. With trembling hands, I lit a cigarette. After looking around at the crappy apartment, I saw her laid out cold in the kitchen. I walked in and turned the overhead light on painting Lee a garish white.

“Lee, Lee! Wake up. I didn’t mean to hurt you! I only wanted to protect myself. You make me so damn mad. My God, what have I done?

“Sir, stay on the phone. An ambulance will be there shortly. Is she breathing? Does she have a pulse? How did she hurt you? Do you need any medical care?”

“No.”

“Sir, is she alive?”

“I don’t know. Wait a minute. Let me check.” Afraid to check on Lee, I was about to panic. I lay my head on Lee’s stomach and listened for a heartbeat, sat up and watched to see if her rib cage moved.

I felt so sorry for her. Her glazed, blue eyes stared at the ceiling. I looked up curious to see what she was looking at before she went down. Just a bunch of spider webs that had dust bunnies in them.

“Yes, she is. I saw her breathing. Hurry up.” I shouldered the cell phone and started cracking my knuckles.

“Please, Lee, don’t die. I just wanted to stop you. You hurt me with all your lies in that book you wrote. Yeah, you called it a novel, but everyone knew it was about us.”

The sound of an ambulance siren blared and lights pulsated. I sat down and rested Lee’s head in my lap. I rubbed her face as a tear formed in my eyes. We couldn’t live together, but I still loved her.

I’d left the front door unlocked so the EMTs could get into my apartment. Soon I heard them opening the front door.

“Yes sir. She’s right back here in the kitchen.”

“Tell me exactly what you did.”

“Well, she came into the house ready to attack me and I punched her. I underestimated my strength. I never expected to knock her out.” My heart was racing by now, which made me breathless.

“How long has she been unconscious?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

I watched them work on Lee. She never came to. Man, was I in trouble! I heard more sirens and knew the cops were coming to arrest me. I went to print out those e-mails that showed her threatening me.

God, I hope they’ll believe me. I’m scared. I don’t want to go to jail. Not over hitting a woman like Lee. She made my life hell the past five years. How would I ever explain this to our college age daughter, Jolly? She would be devastated.

I was on my third cigarette when they loaded Lee on a stretcher. I felt the need to empty the full ashtray into the garbage. I looked around at my ordered apartment that was neat and clean. A pentagram ring was the only jewelry I wore. I’d bought it right after we had split up. I wasn’t a warlock, but I dang sure wasn’t a Christian. How could I have messed up all of our lives like I’ve done?

“You’re going downtown with us. Put out your hands. Don’t give us any trouble and we’ll make things easier for you.”

When I held my hands out, I noticed the dried blood on my knuckles. The cops did too.
“Sunny boy, you’re in deep shit. Why did you hit a woman?”

On fire!

2011-04-05T14:15:00.000-07:00

I went to a writers' workshop with Michael Garrett, and it turned me on. So many nit picking things about the publishing industry we have to learn and deal with before we submit a manuscript. The editor is not looking for a manuscript to accept, but he/she is mainly looking for any reason to reject you. Talk about a dog eat dog world...the writing industry is it.

Right now I'm working on an anthology called Deelightful Visions, which I am going to offer as a free download if one buys my 2nd book off of my web page. It is a collection of published short stories, essays, winners of contests, and some new material. I'll also have some of my art and artistic photographs sprinkled in the book. I'm seeing light finally when I'll have this completed.

Next, I have to edit my second book titled She MUST Go!. The italics is throwing me off because none of my words are showing up. I hope they aren't blank spaces. I'm fired up to get back to editing and expanding book two.

I had a bad case of spring fever and didn't write for nearly a month. I've been organizing and giving "stuff" away. Now things are neater....I'm ready to rock n roll on book 2.

Maybe my big break is coming at long last.

2011-03-16T08:48:00.001-07:00

I contacted the "Tell Your Story" about Abilify and didn't hear back for a long, long time. Finally, a lady called me and we talked a while and I told her about my book and sent her a copy. She then had Pam call me and ask more questions and could hear the enthusiasm in my voice. She asked me would it be any trouble to travel. I answered that as long as they paid all of my expenses, no. We talked on then she said she was turning my name and information over to Bristol Myer Squibb's product department. She said they might use me as a spokesman for Abilify. Now, while talking to BMS people or in their name, I cannot mention the book. BUT--when they come up to me afterward one on one, I can do that and give out my business cards. If I start speaking, I can start selling my book. That's how your name gets known and you sell books. God, I'm so excited. But I tend to see the glass half full and that often gets me into disappointment land.

Another rejection....

2011-02-23T19:58:00.000-08:00

They are piling on. I keep getting form rejections and don't understand what is wrong. I've e-mailed Sara to please tell me what I did wrong so I could correct it. She hasn't answered. It's so frustrating to do a query and get a form rejection. I've gotten a book on Query Writing. I guess I'll go to bed and do some reading. Maybe I can figure out my mistakes.

I was a little low that Sara turned me down. I just felt we WERE a nice fit. Wrong! Not!But I keep on keeping on because the difference between an author and a writer is perseverance.And that, fortunately for me, is something I have.

I took the plunge today.

2011-02-21T15:13:00.000-08:00

I took a writing seminar from Sara Megibow.She is also an agent with the Nelson Literay Agency. She was so good and encouraged my making changes in my first five pages. I decided it's now or never and I queried her today. My heart was pounding when I hit the "send" button.

Now comes the hard part...the wait. I saw once some samples of query letters on Ms. Nelson's blog. When I tried finding it to read some, I couldn't bring it up. God, I pray that I did it right. I am very forgetful, but I tried to do what I learned in her class. My self-esteem is low for some reason today. (I'm STILL sick.) Hopefully, tomorrow I'll at least get a notification that she received it. I've never been THIS nervous while querying in the past. I think it's that I like Sara and want HER to represent me. Soon enough, I'll be either elated or very depressed.

Right now I'm working on an anthology of my short stories. Some have been published and some are new. It's called Deelightful Visions. My nick name is Dee. Well, the anxiety and anticipation has worn me out. I hope I can blog within the next few weeks with great news. Thank you all for reading my blog.

N L Snowden

I'm sick of being sick....

2010-12-29T07:32:00.000-08:00

I've been coughing my guts out for 5 days now. I finally went to a doctor and received a diagnosis of bronchitis. I'm on medicine that is helping me, but also makes me feel very weak. I haven't done any writing since mid December. I think I'll wait until the new year to crank back up again.

I've taken in a friend to live with me. She is a visual artist. I'm having to adjust to no longer being alone at my house. She is homeless and needs me. I'm the type person who managed to be alone without feeling lonely. Writing kept my spirits up. This friend is a new experience, which I feel will benefit both of us. I'll have to quit being so selfish and she'll learn some better habits as well.

Take time to read my Christmas story. It's fiction with a grain of truth in it. I took the NaNoMoWrit challenge in November and wrote a 51,000+ word novella in 24 days. It's filled with awkward sentences and typos working that fast, but is actually a decent story. I had no inkling where I was going or what the story was going to be about. The title is She Must Go! Lee Thames, the protagonist in the novel In and Out of Madness becomes the supreme bitch and antagonist in this novella. I had a blast writing it. I am going through it now doing first draft editing. It was a zero draft. (meaning I'm having to edit to make it a first draft.)

Well, it's time for me to take my cough syrup laced with codeine and my nap so my lungs will heal. May all of you have a happy holiday and a splendid new year!

Life as an author: The Burning of the Yule Log (a short story)

2010-12-24T06:25:00.000-08:00

Life as an author: The Burning of the Yule Log (a short story)

The Burning of the Yule Log (a short story)

2010-12-24T06:24:00.001-08:00

“The Burning of the Yule Log”
By
N. L. Snowden

I wanted no part of Christmas that year. I didn’t want to remember our family traditions, and I didn’t want to worship a God who had heaped such misery upon me. I drifted back from the mailbox turning over what was obviously my first Christmas card of the season addressed to Bob and Helen Strange. I didn’t have the heart to open it and see the smiling faces of the George family with their bragging letter of how wonderful the past year had been. In fact, as I walked by the trashcan, I ditched it.
Bob, my husband of twenty-five years, had left me for a younger woman and cleaned out our bank accounts. Since both of our names were on the account, it was legal and there was nothing I could do about it. As if things weren’t sorry enough, I had to call my daughter and tell her I had more bad news—I had ovarian cancer.
The doctors had stressed the importance of positive thinking in order for my body’s immune system to aid in treating my cancer, but how could I think positively when I looked at the world through a waterfall of constant tears? Nothing was as it should be, even my vision made things out of focus or doubled the images.
My world had collapsed.
When Sarah came home from college, it would be even more of a shock—the obvious empty chair at our Christmas dinner table, the lack of a video camera capturing us as we opened the presents, and that famous grin on her father’s face. I just couldn’t face trying to fit the square of our lives now into the circle of what it used to be.
“Sarah, we won’t be celebrating Christmas this year.”
“Mom, that’s okay. I don’t feel much like having Christmas with Daddy gone anyway.” When I didn’t respond, she said, “Mom, are you okay? Something besides Daddy’s leaving is bothering you. I hear it in your voice.”
The question made me realize the complete magnitude of my misery, and I broke down crying. Between gulps, I managed to get out, “Honey, I’ve been to the doctor, and he told me I’ve got ovarian cancer. You know how I feel about chemo and the horrors of the treatments. I’m opting out and going to live my life the best I can for as long as I can without the effects of chemo and radiation making me sicker.”
“No, Mom, please . . . for me, please go through the treatments. I’ve lost Dad. I couldn’t bear losing you too.”
All my fears of needles and throwing up melted with that plea from my daughter. She was right. I was being selfish and not thinking of her. Trouble was, even with the treatments, no one could guarantee me a long life.
“Sarah, you know how I hate—"
“Mom, call me Randgrith, my Asatru name. I’ll be strong enough for both of us. Please give yourself a chance.”
“A chance at what? Crying all of the time because I’m so lonely and jealous?”
Despite my words, I knew I had to make an honest attempt to live, for her sake if nothing else. “Okay, you win. I’ll do the chemo, Sarah—I mean Randgrith. I’ll call you by that name, but you’ll always be Sarah to me. Will you pray to Odin for me? My God has written me off and no longer hears my prayers.”
I’m an Episcopalian and I don’t believe in the Bible literally. At that moment, I didn’t believe in any part of it. It was just a bunch of myths like the Viking myths of the Asatru or the Greek and Roman myths.
“Of course I will, Mom. Listen, I know things are going badly for you right now, but I have a big favor to ask of you?”
“I can’t make any promises now,” I said, “but go on and ask me.”
“On the twenty-second through the twenty-fourth of the month, a few of my friends from high school want to rent a cabin in the mountains and have a reunion. I can’t believe it’s been over a year since I graduated.”
Was she was going to come home and then leave me alone? How could she?
Then I remembered that she was young and living her life in spite of everything, even the news that I had cancer. A perpetual optimist, she probably figured that the treatments would actually cure me. I loved her enough not to dash all her hopes and ruin her holiday.
“Okay, but make sure you won’t drink and drive. Stay at the cabin and party. Don’t get in a car with anyone drinking.”
“God, Mom, I’m not sixteen. You know I’m responsible. Quit preaching to me.”
With a quiver in my voice, I said, “Okay, you can go.”
“I’m sorry I fussed at you, Mom. I know this has been hard on you, but please try to stop focusing on the negatives. Focus on what you have that many mothers would give anything to have—a daughter who loves you and respects you.”
I realized she was right, and I also realized the perfect way to show her how much I appreciated having a wonderful daughter like her. I was a Christian, but Sarah declared herself a pagan, so I decided that before she went on her trip, we would celebrate the lighting of the Yule log on the Winter Solstice, a very big Asatru event that praised Odin for his favors. I figured it would really help her through the holiday season and would help bolster my attitude. A pagan god was better than no god. She’d never bought the Bible thing anyway. Maybe she had been right all along. Her religion had imperfect gods and goddesses that messed up all of the time. I liked that. How could anyone say God was perfect when marriages ended and He allowed people’s lives to be cut short?
“Thank you, Honey. When you get home for the holidays, I have a big surprise for you. I think you’re going to love it.”
“Come on, Mom. I need some good news now. Tell me.”
“Okay, baby. When you get here, we’re going to decorate and burn a Yule log on the Winter Solstice and do away with all that Christmas crap.”
“Oh, Mom, you’re the best! Can I invite some of my Asatru friends over for the celebration?”
“Sure. I love you, Randgrith, more than you will ever know.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
We never hung up the phone without saying we loved each another.
Most Christians don’t know that Yule Tidings are an old Viking tradition. I knew that these two things would make this so much easier on Randgrith. She’d wanted to share her religion with me, and now she could. Our holiday celebration would be more like a sumbel where there would be a lot of bragging and gift giving to Odin. Being with her friends at Christmas would help remove the sting of her father’s abandoning us.
Since she didn't arrive until the twentieth, we had a lot to prepare for the Yule celebration before the Winter Solstice on the twenty-first. First, we had to find a log big enough to burn for twelve hours. In the days of old, the log had to measure in size big enough to burn for twelve days, not twelve hours. Second, we’d have to make the log acceptable to Odin by decorating it before we burned it. Sarah would be tired from the long drive back home, but celebrating Yule would energize her.
This was her first visit home since her father had split. As she walked through the living room, I watched her freeze before going to her room to put away her things. I saw her shoulders shake and knew that seeing his recliner missing from the family room brought home the truth that he was indeed gone. Of course, this unleashed a new open faucet of tears from me. I think watching my daughter’s pain was worse than the pain I’d felt at losing him.
“Randgrith, this is why we’ll not do Christmas ever again. I want to share your religion, but mainly I don’t want to endure mine and all the emptiness it now represents.”
She turned to me and we held each other, each lost in our memories of her father—both good and bad.
“Put your things in your room, then let’s go to the woods and get our log.”
I worried that we’d not be able to drag the Yule log out of the woods, especially with both of us so defeated emotionally. Then I remembered: By damn, we were two strong women, weren’t we? We both vowed not to shed another tear over the man who’d deserted us. We got up, dressed in layers because it was cold outside, and we headed out.
Inside the dusty barn that smelled of sweet hay and horse manure, we grabbed ropes, halters, nails and a hammer. We walked out into the cool, crisp air and trekked to the woods to look for the perfect log. Of course, our curious horses followed us, along with three dogs and our pot-bellied pig that thought he was a dog.
Deep inside the woods, we spotted it, an omen that we were on the right track. Most fallen trees are long and thin, but this one answered the call of destiny. Obviously, the log used to be the trunk of a good-sized tree. so It would definitely burn for twelve hours. However, we knew immediately that we would never be able to drag it to the house.
Fortunately, we had horses. None had ever dragged anything, so we worried that it would scare the horse and make it think the big thing behind it was chasing it. We had to choose the horse least likely to spook and try to run away. Sarah’s half Lipizzan had the strength to drag the log, but he also was the one most likely to turn aggressive if he got scared. The Hapsburg kings had bred Lipizzans to be warhorses, so they attacked rather than ran.
We settled on my black-and-white gaited gelding named Skywalker. The problem was, we had no harness and wondered if we could trust Skywalker not to hurt himself or us in the process of dragging the log to the utility patio. Also, how could we burn the log in our cozy fireplace since it was far too big and heavy for us to get it into the house?
I bridled Skywalker, then we looked around for some makeshift way we could hook up the horse to the log. Between ropes, a hammer, a chain, and an old mule collar that had hung in our barn for years, we devised a way to pull the log. The plan was to use Skywalker’s love of food as the Skinnerian reward for taking one or two steps and pulling without lunging and taking off.
By then, it was dusk and difficult for us to see, but maybe that would work in our favor. We caught the other horses and put them in the barn so they wouldn’t cause any problems over the feed we’d have in the bucket. I put the collar on Skywalker, and he acted indignant. He shook his head with his curly black mane flying, trying to sling it off.
When I brought out a handful of sweet feed for Skywalker, he settled down. His prehensile lips felt like velvet to my touch. He was smart and seemed to know he had a mission, so he peacefully walked with us to the log. By a miracle, we managed to nail loops that we tied more rope to and tied the chain to the log so Skywalker could drag it.
The log was so big that I had to guide Skywalker with bit and bucket while Sarah pulled with a separate rope. Skywalker leaned into the collar and the log inched forward. I could see the whites of his eyes and knew he was about to hightail it out of there. He kicked out at the log with both hind legs and sent chips flying. Lucky for us, we were both standing to his front and side, so the blows never threatened us. Still, I feared he’d hurt himself.
Again, a handful of feed worked its magic on him. We spent a good thirty minutes taking two steps at a time as we convinced Skywalker that the huge monster behind him wouldn’t hurt him. Just as the stars came out, our hero dragged the log up onto the utility patio that held the trashcan, firewood bin, water hose and faucet.
Even with the chill in the air, Skywalker lathered between his hind legs from his exertion. I loved horses so much that the scent of horse sweat was a comforting smell to me. Since Sarah was already exhausted from the long drive home from school, I told her to go inside and rest while I took care of Skywalker and prepared him for his much-deserved rest in his stall. I walked him down to cool him off, groomed him and put him up.
When I finished, I walked by the giant log on my way inside and was so proud of what the three of us had done. Who needed a man in their lives—not us! Well, Skywalker was a male, so I guess we depended on one after all.
While I built a fire in the fireplace, Sarah said, “Be right back,” and went to her bedroom. When she returned, she handed me a bottle of wine. “Mom, that’s Meade. It’s an ale made from honey, and it’s what the Vikings used to drink. I shopped all over before I found a store that carried it. We need to chill it overnight. Oh, and one of my friends, Gunar, is coming in tomorrow. He said he hunted yesterday and killed a deer, so we’ll have venison roast instead of turkey.”

The next morning, we woke up in a merry mood to make the log acceptable to Odin. Sarah—Randgrith as she would be called for the celebration—decorated it with flour, sugar, pinecones and oak leaves. I mentally photographed the image of her dressed in a toboggan cap with her long chestnut hair hanging down her back, squatted down shaking flour along the log’s top. She’d gotten that beautiful, thick hair from her dad, but her stormy blue eyes were my gift to the sacred union that had produced her. A huge lump nearly choked me with so many different emotions.
Next, we each put a photograph of something important to us on the log as a symbol of our gift to Odin. Of course, mine was a photograph of my husband and me kissing on our wedding day. I gave Randgrith her privacy as she placed it out of sight between the tinder. Around the Yule log were the smaller branches and kindling used to ignite the gigantic log.
Since the Winter Solstice celebrated the shortest day of the year, the ceremony we performed at dusk was a short one.
“Hail to Odin for the meat that he provided from our hunt yesterday.”
“Hail to Odin for the sweet Meade that we drink in celebration of the Yule.”
“Hail to Odin for the family and friends gathered here to honor our god.”
With each “hail” we took long drinks of the Meade. I quickly began to feel tipsy because I wasn’t normally a drinker. We exchanged unwrapped gifts as the mighty log caught fire. We all watched in awe as the flames leapt in a dance of blue, orange and bright yellow. When the photographs caught fire, green joined the pallet because of the developing fluids used in the photos. The kaleidoscope of colors, along with the star-filled sky, astounded us. Since it was getting colder, we retired to the house and let the kids tell tales of their own greatness as the Vikings of old had done.
Randgrith was grinning, bragging and drinking more Meade. I had fun at first, then a horrible loneliness set in, as well as a swelling anger. I realized with a hateful bitterness that I had lost both my husband and my best friend, and I had cancer on top of all that. I resented the hell out of his leaving me, and I resented God for my disease. Bitterness eclipsed the feelings of thankfulness I wanted to feel that I had Randgrith home celebrating with me, not about to leave again.
Gradually, the kids’ laughter brought me out of my reverie. They all spent the night in the big, empty house, and that did make me feel better. However, I felt there was something empty in my life besides my broken heart, and I knew something was missing. Nothing could satisfy me—not the Yule celebration, not even Sarah and her friends. My anger turned to hopelessness verging on depression.
To our delight, the log was still smoldering the next morning. Odin had accepted the gifts and showed us his pleasure. Soon, it was time for Sarah and her friends to leave and for me to continue whatever Christmas celebration I could muster.
While Sarah was home, things weren’t quite so bad, but after she left for her reunion, my depression threatened to overtake me again. I looked in the mirror and saw sagging skin from losing thirty pounds in two months. An ugly old woman stared back at me—my acerbic mother who had been cold and hateful to me all of my life. I didn’t want to turn into her.
I had to do something to keep myself from falling into the abyss of depression. Out of desperation, I made up my mind to go to the Christmas Eve service at church and try to right things between God and myself. I wanted freedom from the weight of my own emptiness.
The bells chimed to announce midnight. The church was ablaze with lighted candles, and the scent of fresh holly filled my nostrils. Candlelight made the altar even lovelier than in natural light as the warm yellows reflected off its sacramental linens. I was suddenly filled with a sense of awe and reverence that my God was big and powerful.
The priest gave the most touching service on Jesus’ birth and what it symbolized in our lives. My hands shook with emotion as the message registered with me. After hearing the Christmas story and realizing the wondrous gift of a forgiving God, my anger turned to shame. Who was I to cast judgmental stones at God?
As I walked to the altar for communion, I became cognizant of Jesus’ forgiveness to all who had betrayed Him. Of course, I was no Jesus, but I knew that, with His help, I could do it too. I could forgive my ex and myself. I could also hope for physical healing and for spiritual rejuvenation. As I chewed the wafer and drank the wine, I thought, Lord, please find it in your heart to forgive me and show me how to forgive. I know I’m unworthy to ask you for anything right now, but if you’ll light the way, I will follow.
Immediately, warmth entered my heart. The hatred and bitterness miraculously disappeared. I literally felt God lift the burden of anger I carried, and I sensed my anxious face relaxing with a spirit of joy and love. His blessing gave me new hope. I wanted to live! Yes—I would fight my cancer with God’s help. I was at peace for the first time in months.
I could hardly wait to tell Sarah I had a new awakening and it had not come from Odin. It had come from the baby whose birthday we were celebrating. I would call her and wish her, not a happy Yule, but a happy Christmas.
As I walked out the church door, I looked at the babe lying in a manger on the church lawn.
"Happy birthday, baby, " I whispered. "Happy birthday."

The prologue to my NaNoMoWri Novel

2010-11-21T12:46:00.000-08:00

I CAN’T STAND HER ANYMORE

by

Joe Thames

Prologue

First, the ambulance arrived at my house flying around the corner with sirens blaring and blue light pulsating. I called 911 because I’d nearly killed my second wife, Lee Thames. She was my ex-wife now. She wouldn’t leave me alone.
I knew the police would follow the ambulance. I went to my computer and printed out a few e-mails that I could use as evidence. Things were going to get nasty around here.
Then I heard the sirens of the squad car, followed by two more. They were coming to arrest me. As bad as that was, at least someone would hear my side of the story.
I sat on the couch while they loaded Lee on a stretcher. I noticed the blood on my knuckles.
After our phone conversation, I had known we were going to have a verbal fight, but never realized how angry she was with me until she attacked me. When she is manic and mad, she is strong and capable of hurting me as much as I am capable of hurting her. I punched her first to prevent a huge knock down drag out fight. I underestimated my strength, because when I hit her, she went down in a slump, unconscious, I prayed.
Neighbors gathered around as the police walked me to the squad car with my hands handcuffed behind me. I figured they thought I’d murdered her. There was always that possibility. She did look dead on that gurney. Part of me was relieved that this might finally be over. I started thinking about what caused me to be in this situation.

I had awakened to a pounding headache and couldn’t tell if the ringing were in my head or actually the phone. I felt like shit. Normally, I don’t drink, but I tied one on last night. My little hot date from LaGrange, sleeping beside me on Lee’s side of the bed, was a Zima addict. Part of my game is to be whatever I need to be in order to score. Last night, her young body wrapped around me, most definitely was a score, except for my hangover this morning.
“Yeah?”
“Joe, I’m in LaGrange and will be at the house in about fifteen minutes.”
“I thought you were in Mobile, what the hell are you doing over in LaGrange? What time did you get to the area?” I was trying to sound cool because I had to get Miss Hot Pants back to LaGrange. On the way, Lee would radar my Jeep if we passed each other. I prayed Lee hadn’t come by our house since we lived more or less on the way to LaGrange from Mobile. Why the hell LaGrange anyway?
“Lee, why are you up this far and over in GA this damn early?” I looked over at the clock and damn if it weren’t ten thirty—not early by my normal standards. I was slipping all the way around today.
“Joe, I’m on to you. I want you to quick deed the house and land to me.”
“Hell, no, Lee, what do you think I am, an idiot?”
“Yup. That’s exactly what I think you are. Actually, you’re a dickhead. Let’s just say that my lawyer explained that it would be in your best interest to go on and quietly sign over the property to me. He knows what you, Ginger and Darryl did on January third.
Yeah, you were sick and couldn’t call me, you fucking lying bastard. My lawyer knows that you cheated on me with a woman and a man. Let’s say that I have proof, legal proof, and I can take you to the cleaners and really ruin what is left of your name. Let’s tie queer onto philanderer.”
Had she gotten into the house and taken digital photos of me with lil Miss Hot Pants this morning? She still had a key to this place, and I was sleeping hard. How did she know about that threesome we panted through two weeks ago? Something told me not to call Lee’s bluff.
“Lee, I overslept and haven’t had my coffee yet. I’ll talk to you when you get here.” I knew I was in the biggest mess of my life with a showdown less than fifteen minutes away.
I walked into the dirty kitchen to make the coffee. Empty bottles of Zima strewn all over the counters and our kitchen table told the tale about last night's seduction. God, Lee was going to get me good. I needed two cups to clear my head enough to deal with getting rid of last night’s wild ride and climbing aboard the worst roller coaster imaginable when Lee got home. While I measured out the coffee, the kitchen smelling like last week’s garbage mixed with the pungent odor of sex, I remembered the time I did underestimate one of Lee’s threats. Back in 1988, I learned better.
The squad car pulled up in front of the Opelika Police Station. The siren’s silence jerked me back into the present. Next, I felt a hand yank me out of the car. I was starting to get scared. They read me my rights, booked me, and finger printed me. Then they took my mug shot. This was a cut and dried case since I was the one who called 911. They took me back into a tiny room to interrogate me. The largest cop sat down opposite me. A female officer walked in. She was blonde with blue eyes and walked opening and closing her mouth as if she were chewing gum. She even swallowed occasionally. But she never smacked and when she smiled, nothing was in her mouth. Her beauty calmed my nerves. I focused on her as the officer started talking to me.
“Now, tell me your name and what happened,” said Officer Carney.
“Joe Thames. I’ve got plenty of reason to do what I did. It was self-defense, and it’s a long story.”
“Go ahead. Talk. We’ve got all night. I’m taping this conversation.”
“Lee told her side of the story, and she totally lied about being so innocent. I’m no saint, but I have to straighten up those misconceptions. The woman nearly killed me once with a gun back in 1998. Then she writes a book and does kill my good name. All of our married life, I acquiesced to her. I didn’t make trouble or stand up to her. But this is one time she is not going to get away with smearing me in public. I can’t sit back and let her get away with her lies.”

Being VP of the writers' guild has kept me busy!

2010-10-21T08:35:00.000-07:00

Cece Redmond and I put together the directions and clues for the Haunted Scavenger Hunt held Saturday October 16th. The logistics were horrendous. Cece figured all of that out. Then she took directions and I did the clues. What a nightmare as we worked late at night and then up early the next morning. Both of us were exhausted by the time the event was over.

It was a success and the teams had fun going out to find some ghosts. One guy came in with his camera showing a strange light on the left and then his camera quit working. He had witnesses that it did that. His name was drawn by Brian of TAPS to go with them on a Ghost hunt. It was fate.

Everyone got something. We had door prizes and plastic pumpkins filled with party favors.

This past Monday Cece and I got together to go over the writing for the grand prize of $200 to go toward a writing class. To have written so fast because it was a race against time, we had some astounding work! Our guild definitely has talent in it.

I'm working on my short stories for an anthology of my stories and essays. In the meantime, I went to see Secretariat and was inspired to write a YA/adult horse anthology of true stories. I've been a horse nut since birth and have quite a few unique horse tales to tell.

Let me get back to my story I'm working on, "I Can't Stand Her Anymore." This was very cathartic for me to climb up inside Joe's head and write his side of the story. Lee no longer felt like it was his fault the marriage fell a part. She could vividly see her role in its demise. I hope to do more blogging on a regular basis. I finally got my office organized, which translates into my life being more organized.

I'm reading Stephen King's book on writing and we are spot on in writing styles. (spontaneous without outlines and plotting) He says take a relic, create some characters, and a story will unfold. Tis true!

I've been a busy little beaver since 2006

2010-10-01T15:18:00.000-07:00

I've submitted 223 things: artwork, photos,poems, short stories, newspaper articles,essays, and a novel. I've entered some contest...didn't make the cut on most of them...used old stories I had written back in 2004 and 2005. But one that was not grammatically correct won because of my fresh use of language. My novel got some "bids" from some scammers, thankfully, I had the sense to see that. Finally, Sneakaboard Press, a small press published my first book, In and Out of Madness. Some of my short stories were published, but most were rejected. I had more luck with nonfiction than my fiction. That was until my book got published.

I'm one happy writer right now!

2010-09-25T04:44:00.001-07:00

I'm getting so much done after the infusions
Although it nearly killed me, literally by an allergic reaction to the iron, it has given me much needed energy. Yesterday I set up the first five pages of my second novel In the Shadow of Sin: the Confessions of a Sex Addict with a one sentence pitch for a contest. Here is my sentence for the pitch:This coming of age story is about how a young, innocent boy turns into a sexual predator. I also worked on my new short story that I'm submitting to The Missouri Review short story contest, and I also worked on editing my second book. I'm in writer's heaven! The iron and a product called Symbion (a pro-biotic) have removed the fog from my brain and I finally have clarity again.

My publisher, Ed Lord, has helped me turn over In and Out of Madness to me on Amazon. His publishing business closed so he could devote more time to writing. He's been an awesome editor. I am in the stage of waiting for my proof to okay Amazon putting the book online in my name with me at the controls of ordering and collecting royalties. Bless the man's heart, when I was still very fogged out, we made the cross over and it took 17 e-mails to him to finally figure out how to navigate Createspace.

I've been up since four this morning working on my second book. A book trailer company was running a special through the end of this month to get a book trailer made for $79 with a complete package for advertising the book. Of course, I jumped on that. I'm going to lose weight from lack of eating because I used my grocery money. But that will be a good thing.

Last, this morning I'm going to Quill Masters, my critique group. I'm working on a series of 13 short stories to become part of an anthology titled Deelightful Visions by Dee Jordan. I'm going to offer this book of short stories for free when people pay for my second book on my web page. My plan is once the credit card or Pay Pal is filled in then the next page will offer the link for the free download.

In the meantime, acting as vice president of the Mobile Writers' Guild, I've helped to line up some exciting speakers and things for us to learn: Wanda Argersinger will speak to us next month about her Y-Mee dolls that go with her book of Y-Mee's A B C's of Emotions. She is going to tell us if having a product along with the book increases sales. On January 6, Rick Bragg is coming to speak to us at the West Mobile Branch Library from 6-7:30. He will be selling and signing his books. Phillip Brady is going to be with us in February to teach us about how to run a good critique group. In April on Saturday the 2nd, we are going to have two workshops by Michael Garrett. (He edited Stephen King's work along with many famous authors) The morning session will be "How to get your book published" for $49 and the afternoon session will be "Writing short stories" but it includes a critique of 5 pages you have written. It, too, will be only $49. The Mobile Public Library is helping co-host these two events: Rick Bragg and Michael Garrett. Our last meeting will end on a note of researching something very controversial by Paulette, author of Death In Sixty Days.

As you can see, since I cut back at Cracker Barrel, my life and writing has picked up making me so very happy right now.

"Suicide Bomber"

2010-09-19T02:54:00.000-07:00

I've worked hard the past two days to pare down a 36 page story to a 25 page story and keep the essence of the story flowing and, yet, get rid of some of my favorite scenes, my babies, that did nothing to push the story forward. It was a great writing exercise.

This story is part of a thirteen story anthology that I'm working on. By the time I have my second book, In the Shadow of Sin: the Confessions of a Sex Addict published, I hope to have my anthology ready to offer as a free download if anyone buys either my first or second book from my web page. When a person gets to filling out the pay section and the confirmation is sent, then a link with a free download for the anthology will be offered. People would get two for the price of one.

How do you feel about this plan? Would you be enticed to buy from the author's web page rather than Amazon if an anthology of short stories was offered for free? Please give me some feedback on this idea.

Chapter Thirteen of In the Shadow of Sin

2010-09-12T02:41:00.000-07:00

Chapter Thirteen

The thing about swimming was this: Joe had swum in the creeks around his house, but they weren't deep. So, when they lined up at the Navy's huge, deep pool, and the officer barked out an order, Joe figured he'd better be honest and say he had been swimming before.

No one knew the fate of the non swimmers. To be honest, no one knew the fate of the swimmers either. To swim from end to end was intimidating. He was sure it would be more than he could handle. To swim from side to side, well, in a pinch, he probably could muster the strength to get from one side to the other. The recruits had just done their morning hike in full gear. The officer took them into the pool area. Joe figured the, drill instructor was just showing them where the swimming test was going to be held. It never occurred to him that they were going to do the test, because all had on backpacks, heavy boots, and their famous bell bottom denims. Yup, the DI scared the bejeezus out of Joe.

Joe nearly crapped his pants when the DI told them what was coming.

"Hey, you bunch of pansies. Raise your hands if you've never been swimming."

Joe was tempted, but deep down he knew their lot was going to be worse.
About six hands went up.

"Well, for starters, you six can sit here and watch what you will be doing next week. Yes, that's right. One week to learn to swim. After that, I want two hundred push-ups from you bunch of candy asses. Now let's see who's ready for the navy. Line up for the swimming test. You're going to jump in the pool in full gear, tread water for fifteen minutes, swim to the side and get out. If you don't drown, then you're worthy to be called a seaman."

Joe knew he'd go to that deep bottom like a piece of lead on the end of a fishing line. He'd already opened his big mouth that he could swim. To be "fair," the DI was going to call the names at random . It seemed like Joe's luck still wasn't very good.
"Thames, Joe, in the pool, now. Hup to it boy!" The DI snarled out the words.
There were two diving boards. One a regular height and one way up in the air. Joe knew which one he was going to jump off. No contest there.

"Yessuh!" He saluted and walked toward the diving boards. As he climbed up the low one, the DI started cursing him out.

"You pussy! Get your scared ass up on that high dive. What do you think this is, a fucking tea party?"

"No suh," Joe replied, afraid that anything he said or did would get him more time of treading water. He backed down the ladder and almost fell. Everyone laughed.
"Notice we have a girl with us, Miss Thames the klutz."

Joe felt his face reddening. He was starting to get mad, which wasn't good, since his breathing sped up and his heart rate boomed in his ears, both from fear and anger. He'd have a hard time staying afloat.

Joe was climbing the high dive. Damn, this fucker was far up in the air. That mother of a pool was looking smaller. Shit.

Joe walked out to the end and froze. He couldn't do it. Shit, man. Joe knew he'd go straight to the deep bottom and never surface. He was sweating. His mouth was as dry as gum baked flat in the heat on the pavement. He couldn't swallow. Joe started feeling faint. He didn't know how long he stood there, but soon he heard the DI coming up the ladder screaming at him.

"You yellow-bellied piece of shit, I'm fixing to kick your ass into that goddamn pool. Boy, I better not make it up there and your scrawny ass is still standing there."

Joe knew being pushed off of that board was worse than jumping, so he held his nose and leapt into the water.

The weight of the gear sucked him down to the bottom like a drain had been opened and he was heading down into the depths of hell. Joe couldn't hold his breath that long. He figured out how to kick off the bottom to propel himself to the top, a slow go with all the added weight and the added resistance of the clothes. By the time he surfaced, Joe had taken in a mouthful of water and broke the surface coughing. He flailed his arms and legs to tread water but the coughing took him back under. He'd managed to get a breath, but not a big one. Joe kicked and flailed for all he was worth to bring his head out of the water and keep it there.

Another recruit had jumped in and almost hit Joe. He barely moved out of the way. God it was hard. By a miracle, he managed to swim further up into the pool to keep some asshole from jumping on him. The jumping produced waves that broke into his mouth. He even had to hold his breath some with his head above the water. Joe figured he'd been in for fifteen minutes and started trying to swim to the side to crawl out when they took a pole and pushed him back toward the center. The DI had older recruits who had passed this test helping him. The poles, designed to save people, were going to drown Joe. It seemed like a lifetime of agony before they motioned for him to come to the side and climb out. He was exhausted. His lips were blue from lack of oxygen. He noticed the DI wrote something down when he came out of the pool. Turns out, they decided Joe was not seaworthy and he never had to go on a ship the whole four years that he was in the Navy. Suited Joe just fine.

Then, as if that weren't enough, they had to hike while weighted down further with squishy wet clothes and shoes. Damn, what had he done?

"Fall out for five then line up again. Here comes the fun part."

Joe felt nauseated. What could be worse than what he'd just been through?

The DI started calling names again, but this time in alphabetical order.

Next they lined up for their shots. Don't let anyone say that those guns without needles don't hurt. That's some bullshit. If the recruit stayed still, his arm wouldn't bleed. But if he flinched, it ripped a damn hole in his arm. Joe saw that happen to the guy in front of him, so he concentrated on being still.

Finally, the day was over and the men went back to the barracks. A large, muscular guy with named Jabo came over to Joe and pushed him. He tried to start a fight.
"Hey, pretty boy, where's your mama?"

Apparently, Jabo figured since Joe had had such a hard time at the swimming pool and since he was thin, he would be an easy mark. But that ole country boy had grown up fighting. Chopping wood and cotton made his shoulders and arms strong. Joe hauled off and hooked Jabo right across the mouth. It earned Joe respect and a night in the brig. Not a good thing. But after that, the DI never called him a pussy again. A bastard, a motherfucker, and many other names, but never a pussy again.

Compared to screwing two women, never sleeping, and working manual labor, boot camp was a picnic for him most of the time. All the outdoor stuff was easy for him. His pawpaw had been a Cherokee Indian and he grew up learning how to survive off of the land. Even with the one bathroom, shitting and pissing in the woods was no big deal to him. The city boys were funny, especially when they didn't have toilet paper. Joe had to show them how to use leaves. When push came to pulling, Joe was the champ on the survival part of boot camp. He and the DI became buddies after all was said and done. He discovered Joe was a hard worker, could keep his clothes ironed and neat—thanks to helping his mama—and he was fearless. At least he wanted everyone to think he was.

I've finished the rough draft to my second book!

2010-09-12T02:28:00.000-07:00

The book is timely because it's a coming of age story about an innocent boy turning into a sex addict. It was based on a good bit of research sprinkled generously with imagination. It is using many of the same characters that were in the first book since Joe Thames suffered from sexual addiction. I decided to make this his story. Lee is telling it. She is trying to make sense of the senseless. She starts with Joy's boyhood and takes us right up to the end when Joe has to face the truth in himself.

Sexual addiction is a hot topic and many self help book and memoirs are coming out. But this is fiction. Maybe someone would pick up a book of fiction that wouldn't be caught dead reading a memoir. I'm hoping that people can learn about the illness, know it is real, and understand what both the addict and the spouse goes through. Let us not forget Jolly, the child. It impacted her life as well.

I'm having two doctors read the first draft for authenticity. One is a psychiatrist and the other actually treats sex addicts. It's critical that I get it right.

My muse is whispering in my ear

2010-09-09T08:19:00.000-07:00

and my characters have had a mutiny of my planned plot and ending. They are leading the way and my fingers follow. At least three new scenes have come into play because my protagonist insisted that I show his side of the story with more emotional depth. Knowing that my muse is near, makes my heart sing! I'm hoping that In the Shadow of Sin: the Confessions of a Sex Addict will be finished by the end of October for the first draft. I'm going to let it percolate for awhile and work on my collection of short stories called Deelightful Visions by Dee Jordan. Well, my muse says to get off the Internet and get busy or she's leaving me with bad writer's block! So, I'd better get off and get busy!

I'm making many changes in my life

2010-08-30T09:33:00.000-07:00

I've closed my two My Space and Facebook accounts, which had an abundance of "friends." I found myself doing Facebook at the expense of my writing. I'm having some physical health issues that cause me to tire very easily. Having said that, I'm on chapter 42 of the rough draft of the second book. I dropped out of my critique group because switching from "creative" to "edit" mode was chasing off my muse. Like today, after all that critiquing, I'm brain dead. Of course, my physical problem of anemia that is pretty bad doesn't help matters. I'm going to be part of a study to have my blood infused direct with iron in a drip. ( I HATE NEEDLES AND STICKS!) They make no bone about it in the literature you sign as their waiver for any distress that pain and soreness and even redness is a common side effect. UGH! I've got an old Facebook account that I'm trying to rebuild only with people I actually know, but that is slow going for friends to confirm back to me or for ole feeble head to remember. Between the fear of all those blood test and IV's....my creativity is slow. I did write yesterday and am please with the results. But today, I had LOTS of blood drawn and the needle was dull so felt the presser of her pushing it in.....Yikes, it hurt! So, I'm looking forward to my lunch date I have every Wednesday with friends to settle me down. I will write more this afternoon. I'm such a huge baby and wimp!

Good news: Our Mobile Writers' Guild is starting back up on Thursday night at 6 and we have the Southern Ghost Hunters to talk to us about the paranormal. What a great opening! Now, as vice President, I have to line up the next ten meetings. That is another reason I'm getting out of my critique group until after the first of the year. I want to really work hard on some good things for our guild to do. I've gotten one idea that I think will work nicely. But I'm really trying to minimize my life so I can spend more time writing.

A great book to read and own!

2010-08-27T06:44:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading Wanda M. Argersinger's book, Y-Mee's A B C Book of Emotions.
We've all felt that way: Why me, Lord? Wanda, who suffers from lupus, has turned tragedy into humor. In this book, which literally covers all of our emotions from A-Z, she writes a compelling, charming, and humorous book. It even comes with a snuggly W-Mee doll. This is the kind of book you'll read through once then put it in a place to read over and over again. Each time, you get a richer and more profound message set with a backdrop of humor. Here is the link on Amazon where you can order this book for under $13.

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Y-Mee+A+B+C+Book+of+Emotions&ih=12_5_4_3_2_2_1_0_1_1.109_223&fsc=-1&x=12&y=14

This little ditty is a must for anyone who has ever sat there with their hands folded, head bowed, and thought: "Why me?"

Cindy Herb's great motivational book

2010-07-21T07:28:00.000-07:00

Awakening the Spirit: The Open Wide Like a Floozy Chronicles

By

Cindy L. Herb
http://www.cherbchronicles.com/

The title of this book is very significant. It alludes to something sexual, which is true. A man raped Cindy at the tender age of nine. Then her father molested her. What made matters worse were the secrets that the family kept, and that her mother abandoned her emotionally. She literally was all alone.
Cindy perceived all of life through the lenses of her experiences. Trust was a commodity that she never had a chance to add to her emotional growth. From childhood to adulthood, Cindy was stuck. Raised as a good Catholic girl by a devout mother, her concept of God was precarious to say the least. She found that studying tarot cards and numerology kept her mind off her past. She never took either seriously until she met Charles at a psychic fair. Unlike all the others, he told her about her past. (He was the real deal) but it angered Cindy because she wanted to know about her future. Charles saw her pain affected her choices in life—as she lived a toxic relationship with her mother. He gave Cindy his card and told her he taught classes on getting in touch with God within. Cindy didn't like him because he didn't tell her what she wanted to hear.
When Cindy gained a good bit of weight and developed many physical problems, she looked at the card and figured what did she have to lose? Charles changed Cindy's life. He told her nothing. He taught her how to dig, look inward, stop being judgmental and find peace and beauty in every life experience. Now only did Cindy overcome her past, mend her relationship with her mother, but she became a spiritual coach for others because he past taught her how to help others. Charles told her to open wide like a floozy so that the energy of light and goodness could enter her rather than the tense posture of crossing her arms and legs, sitting tight and rigid so the light bounced off rather than entered her life. Cindy attributes this light of love and compassion as coming from God. She studied numerology and quickly learned how everything in her life corresponded with numbers related to her name and important milestones in her life. Between learning her importance from numerology, her compassion and acceptance from Charles, and her light and love from God; she soon discovered her purpose in life.
If you struggle spiritually, mentally, or physically in your life, I recommend this uplifting yet realistic book. This is the story of how the most horrible nightmare turned her life into a blessing.

N. L. Snowden, author of In and Out of Madness for sale on Amazon for $12.78.
www.inandoutofmadness.net

Lee feels led to talk today.

2010-07-14T10:52:00.001-07:00

In and Out of Madness is a long, sad story that deals with mental illness. Lee Thames gives a first person report about her life. Here is a synopsis:

"I'm bipolar. I married a man in a wheelchair because of my molestation as a child. While sick (manic) he farmed me out to other men and that is how I met my second husband who swore he'd cherish me and never let another man touch me. But, he was a sex addict and broke my heart. To "keep him" because I loved him so much, I stooped to swinging, again going from suicidal attempts in depression to manic highs of rage. Eventually, after all the I love yous and I'll never cheat on you again, once my inheritance ran out, so did he. I thought he was my soul mate. That's when I decided to lure him to my house and shoot him. If I couldn't have him, then no one else could either.

To this day, I know I'm so much better off without him, but he still holds a place in my heart that no one else can fill. In the meantime, moving from our house and farm of broken dreams and promises to Mobile where my daughter (our daughter) lives, getting a Christian therapist, and trying a new med called Abilify...my life finally started to fall into place. However, I was extremely angry and unforgiving and bitter. I went to church with my neighbor, by this time, I'd given up on God and only went to be polite. The minister asked to raise your hand if you had a spirit of unforgiveness, bitterness, anger, or depression. I thought, what have I got to lose...never expecting anything to really happen. But, I raised my hand and repeated the prayer with an unbelieving spirit, and BAM..just like that, I felt it all lifted off of me.

Most of the time, I'm fine being alone...but out of nowhere, songs have been triggering me...and I've been somewhat depressed. My daughter taught me that depression is a liar and I'm not all the things that depressions calls me in my head. That helps but sometimes it's so bad, I have to take sleeping meds and knock myself out to stop the ugly voices."

Getting the creative juices flowing

2010-06-27T06:25:00.000-07:00

I tried a new trick. I have a friend who likes to read. So, I get up every morning and write a short short and send to my friend. They are always a rough draft. I don't worry about polish as it is strictly a writing exercise. But, it "warms me up" so that my creative juices and my muse are ready to dive into finishing the first draft of my second novel. Try this...it may help prevent writers' block or pull you out of it if you have writers' block.

Drink and Skrawl at 4:30 pm today

2010-06-13T04:06:00.000-07:00

I have hand edited my hard copy of my second book, In the Shadow of Sin: the Confessions of a Sex Addict. I am now at the part to start writing to bridge to a section I've already written. I'll be writing it tonight at the fun get together of the Mobile Writers' Guild at the Yellow Mushroom downtown.

I made a change to the dedication page of In and Out of Madness. The proof was finally approved and the book will go into print and be available on Amazon next Friday the 18th.

I've turned in my two week notice at work. This will give me more time to work on my second book and get it out while the topic is timely.

usgwassociates.com is a scam

2010-06-10T13:30:00.000-07:00

First, they took my money of $426 to pay the "grant writer." Then they asked for a credit report, a Federal Tax ID number, 2 proof of identity as an American citizen and presented themselves as guaranteeing an $80,000 grant from the Federal Govt. to me. Next, they kept putting me off when the 15 page packet would show up for me to fill in with their guidance. After that, the money would be in my hands between four and six weeks. I thought I was getting a govt. grant.

A friend sent an article that said that real govt grant web addresses end in .gov. Sure enough, mine ended in .com. So, I called them up on May 26th and asked for my money back. (They had a money back guarantee.) They said they would send a cashier's check in 10 business days. Well, here it is on day 13, and no returned money. The telephone number used to contact them is no longer in service. Thank God I wised up before I sent all that personal information to them.

Beware of United States Grant Writers Associates. They are not real. They will not get you a grant. They will, however, take your money then try to get your identity information then close shop and you realized you've been taken.

They did not return my calls. They did not return my money. And now their contact number is no longer in service.

Mmmmm...something stinks to me!

Life as an author: Life as an author: Please visit my web page.

2010-05-22T10:43:00.000-07:00

Life as an author: Life as an author: Please visit my web page. www.inandoutofmadness.net/

Please visit my web page.

2010-05-22T10:32:00.000-07:00

I was an easy mark and feel that I got scammed

2010-05-22T05:53:00.000-07:00

Whenever you want something really bad, you go to desperate means to gain success. Some are good, like tenacity. Some are better, like workshops and conferences and seminars to learn how to make your book make money. Some, however, are stupid--driven by desperation. Let's look at me....the perfect mark: age-61:check, I'm old, vain-believed in my projected enough to think someone else would be as excited: check, greed-needing a lot of money to do a large book run to have the inventory to be picked up by a distributor: check. So, when my friend called and told me she had gotten a grant, I went online to check for her whether or not it was a scam. I plugged in the name with "fraud," "scam," and "rip off." Clean as a whistle or a baby's butt after a bath. So, I told her it was okay. Then greedy, vain, old me figured if my friend could get a grant, why couldn't I get one? She had the contact telephone number. I called and told them I was an author and about the money I'd ALREADY spent promoting my book, but I had a need to have a large print run, advertisement, and book signing money. Oh ho...I qualified right then and there (first red flag that I missed) and they sent me an e-mail to fill out and return to them as certified mail. Of course, being told I was going to get $80,000, I didn't have time or the inclination to read the print. (red flag number two that I missed.) Oh, their web site looked so professional and they asked for a bio, a balance sheet to the penny of receipts or bids on spending the $80,000--which I had no problem doing. They needed a Federal Tax ID number, which I had to spend money to get and put in my folder of things to send them when I got my 15 pages from them to fill out, only with their help. My grant was a slam dunk. (third red flag that I missed because I've written three grants in my life and know that just writing them is NO guarantee you'll get the money.) My vanity, however, high fived myself on what a great project that I had. Then came the wait. We'd have our paperwork by the end of April. Going to the mailbox was almost as exciting as sex....waiting for that package and the promise of $80,000. Each day, a let down...it didn't come. Many phone calls later, their excuse was that they were waiting for a form from the IRS giving the grant tax exempt status.(red flag number four, a grant would send something to the IRS and they would send it back before next tax season.) Everyone around me smelled a rat but they didn't want to burst my bubble. Finally, one friend found something on the Internet about grant fraud and sent it to me. I read it, and bingo...all the red flags surfaced at one time. In the article, it said that all grants come from a website called www.grants.gov. Sweat popped out on my brow. What was that webpage address for the grant company? ....dot com. I knew I'd been had. I called them up and the man I needed to talk with was tied up with another client, naturally. I kept calling until they put me on the phone with someone else, and the man I needed to talk to no longer worked for them. (the right hand didn't know what the left hand had told me so I caught them in a lie.) I asked for my money back and was told in ten days I'd get a cashier's check. We'll see and I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, go to my webpage and check out my book, In and Out of Madness. Put this code into the text of the post at the end:
Buy Your Copy of My Book Here

Scroll down to chapter one then read chapter two.

2010-05-19T03:59:00.000-07:00

I have been physically sick with kidney problems and I allowed depression to sneak up on me and rob me of my enjoyment of life. I was so focused on the physical problem that I didn't realize my fatigue, forcing myself to do ANY THING and EVERY THING was that I'd become depressed. Now that I know, I can up my anti-depressant and back off on my Abilify until I'm "right" again. Needless to say, I haven't done any writing or editing lately. Even my critique group, I didn't edit. I simply read their work. Normally, I LOVE doing this. But my brain is muddled and it's hard to read when I'm depressed. It's even hard to drive because I have trouble concentrating. I hope soon I will be "me" again. My doctor is sending me to a nephrologist to find out why my kidneys are not filtering as they should. I was the picture of physical health and this was picked up on my annual physical. It has no symptoms...the silent killer. Thank God my doctor caught it and is treating it in its early stages. If left untreated, I'd have to go on dialysis....my biggest fear in life. So, let's pray they'll find the cause and easily treat it.

chapter 2 In the Shadow of Sin: the Confessions of a Sex Addict

2010-05-10T10:12:00.000-07:00

Chapter Two
Walking home from church, heavy with guilt and fear, Joe tried holding back the tears. He didn't want anyone at home to suspect anything was wrong. His mom was having one of her spells and didn't notice when he walked in, although the screened-in door slammed. A spring snapped the door shut before too many flies entered the house. He wiped his eyes then went to the back to check on his sisters.
Maria was only three, and Debra was just a baby a little over a year old. Maria was playing with the paper dolls Joe had cut out of the Sears catalog for her earlier in the week. Debra chewed on a teething ring while crawling around crumpling up the paper dolls right before stuffing one into her mouth. Joe rescued her just as Maria started crying because Debra had destroyed her dolls. Joe knew he was on his own for the rest of the night until Daddy got home from work.
* * *
The previous month, Joe's mother had left his sisters with him and had been gone for hours. Maria had wandered off and Joe panicked because he couldn't leave the baby to go and look for Maria. Opelika was too big, and she was too heavy for him to carry for long periods. That day, Mama had kept him home from school because she wanted him to help her pack for their move to Cusseta. They were returning to Mama and Daddy's hometown to be near all of their family and his grandparents. His mama figured it wouldn't matter if Joe missed school since it was the middle of May and school was winding down. However, he missed a spelling test—his next-to-the-worst subject—and knew that piling up new spelling words to learn with those for a make-up test would be too much for him to learn and pass, but he never questioned his mama.
When he couldn't find Maria, Joe called his daddy at work to come home to help him. Luckily, Sylvester worked only a couple of blocks from where they lived in Opelika. He made it home in only two minutes. He picked up the baby, took Joe by his hand, and they went together looking for Maria.
Right up the street in a parking lot of a grocery store was a mini-circus, and there was Maria, riding an elephant. The Thames's neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, was there with her children and had taken care of Maria and provided the elephant ride. Maria beamed as she sat in front of Robert, Mrs. Johnson's eight-year-old son.
Tears formed in Sylvester's eyes when he realized she was safe. "Maria, come to Daddy. It's time to go home." He handed Debra to Joe to hold while he helped Maria off the elephant. "Nadine, how can I thank you for taking care of my baby girl? She wandered off before we knew she was missing."
Sylvester failed to mention that Mildred had done the unpardonable sin of abandoning his kids. That would be a family secret.
On the way home, Sylvester said, "Thanks, Joe, for calling me. You did the right thing. You're a good boy and real smart."
Sylvester was furious with Mildred that she'd gone off and left the children in Joe's care. He was too young to handle an emergency. That was one of the few times Joe heard his mama and daddy fight or fuss. Joe held his hands over his ears to muffle out the noise. A sensitive child, Joe hated fussing and anger.
Right before Joe went to sleep that night, Mama slipped into his bedroom. Joe wanted to tell her how sorry he was for getting her in trouble and that he really loved her. But when she opened the door, he knew she was going to curse him out, because she clenched her teeth as she mumbled the words so Daddy wouldn't hear her.
"I hope you're happy now, you little piece of shit. Tomorrow when you go to Little League practice, I hope a lightning bolt strikes you dead. I wish I'd never had you."
"Mama, I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do. Please don't be mad with me. I love you."
"Well, that's too bad, because I don't love you."
She turned out the light and left Joe alone in the dark, crying softly to prevent Daddy from hearing. He didn't want to get her in trouble again. Also, Joe didn't want his dad to know that he cried like a little girl. He felt like a loser all the way around—a bad boy and a failure. Then he remembered the twenty cents he'd get the next day for lunch money. That was it! He'd use it and his quarter to buy his mama a present. By skipping lunch, he'd show her how much he loved her. Maybe that would make her love him again. She loved getting gifts.
He would go to that store down the street. Mama loved licorice candy. Buying her some candy and picking her a bouquet of flowers surely would make her love him again. With those happy thoughts on his mind, he fell asleep.
Joe woke up early the next day, got dressed and walked into the kitchen. He dreaded going to school and having to take the spelling test, which he knew he wasn't prepared to make up. The scent of fried ham tickled his nostrils with its salty odor. Mama had a huge plate of fresh cathead biscuits, fresh churned butter, homemade blackberry jam and scrambled eggs—all ready to serve. A pot of warm grits sent steam into the air, reminding him to eat an extra helping of everything so he wouldn't be too hungry later because he was going to skip lunch.
"Morning, Joe," Mama said. "Help me set the table while I go check on the girls."
Daddy was sitting at the table enjoying his third cup of coffee while reading the morning paper. Joe dutifully walked over to the off-white drain rack and grabbed four plates, the silverware, and the baby spoon to feed Debra some grits. Daddy nodded but never said a word.
Yesterday's problem still weighed Joe down heavily, so he remained silent. His mama had acted like she'd forgotten about his calling Daddy yesterday, but he was still worried. Soon the barefoot pattering of Maria's feet and Debra's cooing brought him out of his thoughts.
"Joe, feed the baby for me while I help Maria with her shoes."
"Yes'am."
He walked to the stove and loaded up his plate. First, he took a tablespoon of the blackberry jam and butter and made a purple paste from blending them together. He walked back to the kitchen table and sat beside his dad. He was just about to smear the purple paste on a hot biscuit, ready to melt in his mouth, when Mama set Debra on his lap.
"Be sure and blow on the grits so they won't burn her."
"Yes'am." Joe held Debra with one hand and started feeding her the creamy grits cooled down with sweet milk—fresh from his uncle's cow.
Mama brought a warm bottle to feed the baby. By the time Joe finished, his food was lukewarm and the butter wouldn't melt on the biscuits. The food wasn't nearly as tasty. He couldn't make himself eat extra servings as he'd planned. Still, the sacrifice would be worth it to see the smile on his mama's face.
Sylvester looked over at Joe. "How did you do yesterday on your spelling test?"
Mama looked at Joe and mouthed, "Good."
"I done good, Daddy." He hated lying to his dad but realized it was necessary to keep peace. "I had a stomachache and Mama picked me up after my test."
Joe knew two things: Daddy wouldn't approve of his missing the test, and when the bad grade came in, he'd whip him for lying to him. Yet, he feared his mother's anger worse than he feared his father's discipline.
By the time lunch rolled around, starvation wrestled with Joe's resolve. But, he remembered his mama's anger and vowed to do without so he could buy her a gift at the store. He used lunchtime to study for the make-up spelling test. Maybe that would help him get a passing grade so his daddy wouldn't whip him.
Most of the time, to his mama's credit, she did help Joe by calling out the words the morning of the test. Today, he was on his own, although he didn't figure her help would have made much difference. The days that she called out the words, he'd get all of them right except maybe one, but he would still flunk the test when the teacher called out the words, or maybe he would slide by with only a passing grade. He never could figure that one out. Every single time he brought home a spelling test with the bad grade on it, Mama reminded him of what an idiot he was and how much he disappointed her. Today, maybe with this extra time, he'd do okay on it. Maybe she'd even be proud of him.
While he was sitting alone at the end table with his spelling book, he heard, "Hey, Joe, why aren't you eating?"
This comment made by Lynda, the prettiest girl in the class, surprised him. She had polished-copper red hair and light sage green eyes. She wore her hair plaited in two long braids trimmed with matching bows that picked up the color of her dress. Not only was she pretty, she seemed sweet and kind.
He replied, "I'm saving up to buy my mama a present after school today."
"That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard. Your mom is lucky to have you for a son."
Joe turned scarlet. He wasn't used to receiving compliments, especially from the most popular girl in the class.
"Do you want me to help you with your spelling words and call them out to you?"
Torn between wanting the help and having her find out how dumb he was when he kept
missing the words, Joe turned her down politely. Then, thinking maybe she could help him make a good grade, he changed his mind.
"Lynda, you really don't mind helping me? I ain't too good with spelling, and I sure do wanna surprise my mama with a good grade."
After Lynda put up her lunch tray, they went outside on the playground. She started calling out the words, and he missed half of them. She handed him back the paper and told him to study only those five. She played school and had Joe say the word, write the word, spell it out loud, then write it four more times.
It worked! He made an eighty on the test that afternoon. Joe couldn't believe his luck—Lynda's attention and making a B on the make-up test.
After he got his spelling grade back, Joe walked up to Lynda on the playground to thank her. She was with her friends, and when he approached her, she turned around and started walking away, ignoring him. He heard one of her friends laugh after she whispered something to them. Joe knew he'd been put in his place. Poor dumb kids didn't mix with the pretty and smart ones, especially those with money.
That afternoon, he stopped by the store and bought his mama some peppermint candy, a lace handkerchief, and a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. They were out of licorice. On the way home, he picked her a bouquet of buttercups. Feeling so proud of himself, he couldn't wait to give Mama her gifts and tell her about the spelling test. What had happened at school with Lynda wasn't going to spoil this day.
When Joe walked into the house, he noticed it was quiet as well as dark. He checked the girls' room, but they weren't there. Mama's bedroom door was closed, but he was so excited about surprising her, he went bursting in.
Mama was asleep, but Joe ran over to the bed and kissed her on her cheek. "Mama, wake up! I made an eighty on my spelling test today!"
He held out the gifts and showed her the buttercups.
"Mama, look what I got you. Buttercups! Your favorite flowers. And some gum and candy too. How do you like the pretty handkerchief that I bought you? Mama, I love you. I'm sorry about yesterday, I really am."
"Damn you, Joe! Get out of here and leave me alone. You're an ignoramus for waking me up. Didn't you notice that no one was here? I'm not feeling good, so Granny is keeping the girls for me. You're so damn inconsiderate. Get those nasty weeds out of my house!"
***
As Joe got older, he continued trying to buy his mother's love, lying to protect her. After he got a job, he tried giving her part of his paycheck whenever she overspent the family budget. She would use the money to keep the girls and, by then, a younger brother in brand name clothes. Since Joe had to buy his own clothes, he couldn't afford nice ones.
Sometimes, Joe missed his car payment because his mama took that much of his check. His dad would ground him from using the car or, if angered enough, he would whip Joe. Still, Joe never told the truth to the good parent while trying in vain to win the love of the bad one. He felt guilty, but each time he lied to protect his mama, his guilt lessened a little more.
By the time he was fifteen, lying had become second nature to him, and he had no qualms about it. The only person Joe never lied to was Carol, the older woman who seduced him.

I'm not getting any writing done...and I'm down

2010-05-10T10:04:00.000-07:00

I'm busy editing and working at my job. I'm anemic right now, and by the time I finish work, I'm give out and go to bed. I hope the doctor can soon find out why I'm anemic and help me. I feel behind in everything and overwhelmed....not the best state of mind to do creative writing. I'm taking mega doses of all of the vitamin B family. It is helping, but I'm still not up to par.

Writing is my life....

2010-05-09T05:08:00.000-07:00

I am at my happiest when I am writing. Right now I am rewriting book two from first person to third. I am having the protagonist from In and Out of Madness tell the story from Joe's point of view. He is the protagonist and Lee is the antagonist. This book is 100% fiction. That is why I am enjoying it so much. Its title is In the Shadow of Sin: the Confessions of a Sex Addict. Here is the prologue and chapter one.

Prologue

My name is Lee Thames. I'm Joe's ex-wife. I couldn't believe what I'd almost accomplished: killing my ex-husband. After nearly twenty years of marriage, he walked out on me. In my madness, I'd decided if I couldn't have him, then no one else could. I wanted him as dead as the slimy bloody spot on a highway. After what he'd done to me our entire marriage, I had no qualms about killing him. Part of this was due to my bi-polar illness, my disassociative disorder and my intense anger that he was an incorrigible sex addict.

He'd cheated on me our entire marriage while honey coating his undying love for me. He never loved me. I hurt so deeply that at times my breath seemed to catch in my throat with a pain in my heart that made breathing something I wished would end. All this was due to my thinking he had loved so many other women. But in time, I learned about sexual addiction and realized that he was incapable of love. He was only capable of conditional love or infatuation.

Although I didn't kill him, I did self-actualize enough to live my life without him, I knew I needed to make sense of the senseless. I knew I had to climb inside Joe's head and see things through his eyes. Maybe when I understood his illness, his life, the interplay of the two, I'd be able to find peace. Throw in my own illnesses fanning the fires of dislike that gradually turned into hatred and I'd finally see that I was not a victim but an active player in my marriage's demise. This is Joe's story, put together by what he'd told me.

Chapter One

Sylvester and Mildred Thames had raised Joe along with his two sisters in a fundamentalist home. No drinking, dancing, or smoking allowed. Although Sylvester was a mechanic, he never swore like those he worked with. He was mild-mannered, and Joe inherited his dad's laid-back personality.

"Joe, you're my favorite child. You know that, don't you?" Mildred told him. "Don't you dare disappoint me at Vacation Bible School. Sometimes I don't know what gets into you besides the Devil."

"I promise, Mama," Joe replied. "I'll make you proud of me."

"I ain't holding my breath."

At the tender age of six, Joe never questioned his parents' views on life. A good boy who helped his mother around the house, he took care of his sisters and worked in the big garden. For his size and age, Joe was strong because he chopped wood for his daddy.

High school football and church were the two big social events in his family's lives. Joe's church was a Primitive Southern Baptist focused on hellfire and brimstone—all the "thou shalt nots" rather than love and forgiveness. Joe was too young, at first, to understand the implications of his sin. As he aged, they manifested themselves and warped Joe's personality, creating a monster that controlled his life. Feeling powerless as to the hurts and pains he inflicted on others, most of the time he just didn't get it, although he tried.

Hidden from the main highway by cutting itself off physically from the rest of the world, Antioch Baptist Church created a world unto itself. A whitewashed cement block building that appeared a little off center, it endeared itself to its congregation of about twenty families and demanded fierce loyalty. Upstairs was "church" while down in the small basement were its fellowship hall, a bathroom, and a tiny kitchen. They held Vacation Bible School, much like an old one-room schoolhouse. Ten kids, ages five to twelve, attended. Joe's mom was the teacher.

Since his grandparents on both sides attended every Sunday and Wednesday service, Joe loved his church. For special occasions, the men of the congregation would wash each other's feet in obedience to Jesus' example. Joe always watched this ceremony with fascination.

Clueless that there was a loving God, Joe felt the weight of the unsaved world on his small shoulders. Feeling God's calling, he never questioned the church's doctrine. He looked up to and admired Brother John McGinny, often comparing him to Jesus.

When he preached, Bro. John's Broadway voice boomed its way to the back pew, echoing off the light pine-colored floor. Sunlight filtered through the frosted windows—no expensive stained glass in this understated décor. A ceiling fan whirled lazily, stirring up a steady breeze, albeit a light one.

Women fanned themselves with their Jesus-carrying-the-lost-sheep cardboard fans on wooden handles. The church smelled like women's overly sweet cologne and men's perspiration. All the men, decked out in suits in the stifling heat, had sweat-stain rings—giving away the suits' hard times as well as their ages—much like the Southern pine tree's rings. This congregation couldn't afford air-conditioning. The only thing of any real value in the church was the one-hundred-year-old red Bible on the pine pulpit.

Bro. John traveled from Macon, Georgia, every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening to do his preaching. Special times like Easter, Christmas, or Vacation Bible School, he would drive from Macon, get a room at West Point, Georgia—since Cusseta, Alabama had no motels—and spend a couple of nights visiting his congregation and catching up on the news of the community.

West Point was a thirty-minute drive down a long, narrow winding road in the backwoods of Alabama. On pretty days, Bro. John would crack his window to smell the scent of the pine trees that lined the road. His car was air-conditioned because he worked in Macon as a car salesman.

In the midst of a sermon, sweat glistened off Bro. John's sunburned dome, looking like a picked-over cotton patch with thinning gray hairs. Joe loved to hear the rise and fall of Bro. John's stage-projected voice—a sound like warmed molasses smoothly poured over a hot, buttered biscuit. But Joe hated it when he got louder and louder.

"Homosexuality is an abomination to God. God created Adam and Eve—a woman from Adam's rib—not Adam and Steve. Unmarried people engage in all kinds of sinful activities. Married couples act shamefully, committing adultery, which used to be punishable by stoning to death. Godly people do not tolerate Satan's follies."

He left the pulpit to strut as his voice got louder and louder with each word. Bro. John wiped his forehead with a limp handkerchief he kept crumpled up in his pocket, stained from previous sweat. He walked to the podium and picked up a smaller black Bible laid out on top of the large, ancient red one decorated inside with pictures of all the Biblical greats. He lifted up his personal worn-out Bible high into the air, shouting at this point.

"Anyone who gives in to these temptations has bought a one way ticket straight to Hell!" He strutted off the pulpit down the aisle. "Teenagers, dancing is wrong! Drinking and smoking are the Devil's curse. Using the Lord's name in vain has a special torment and punishment reserved for them. Doing these things will bring down God's wrath, brothers and sisters."

Loud Amens emanated from the congregation, by now stirred into a frenzy of righteous indignation for sinners. They punctuated Bro. John's message. His pacing made echoing sounds on the plank floor since he was a heavy built man. He wore a shiny white suit that gleamed in comparison to the old yellowed-white suits in his congregation. From the screaming, his face was as red as the top of his head as his tirade picked up momentum.

Bro. John frightened Joe when he preached about Hell, which he seemed to do a lot. The boy truly feared going to Hell. He often prayed and made promises to God, bargaining that he'd never do anything to bring down God's anger and judgment. He sometimes heard that God was love, but he didn't understand that other side of God.

Due to his age, Joe couldn't comprehend the sermon that morning—well, the part about homosexuality and adultery, although they were mentioned often. Joe prayed nightly to God, asking Him to lead him from all temptations, but most especially those two. They were too sinful to even ask his parents what they meant. Bro. John brought home that point about thinking about either of them was also a sin. Joe innately knew not to talk to his parents about the issues. He didn't want to cause them to sin by thinking about it long enough to answer any questions. Besides, he just needed to forget all about it.

That was, until the temptation of a quarter changed everything.

At age six, Joe had also wanted to be a preacher—feeling God's call, he gave mini-sermons in Vacation Bible School that summer of 1957 in the Antioch Baptist Church of Cusseta, Alabama. Towheaded with a sprinkling of cinnamon freckles showing through his rose-colored sunburn from working in the garden with his dad, he looked like the perfect picture of purity and innocence. But when Bro. John tested him and he failed, Joe was doomed to live in the shadow of sin for the rest of his life.

On the last day of Vacation Bible School, Bro. John asked, "Would you like to stay over and help me and earn a quarter?"

"Ya'suh!" Joe replied eagerly. "I'll make you proud. I'm a good worker."

"I'm sure you'll provide whatever I need you to do."

With eyes widened with excitement, Joe ran off to find his mama so she could grant permission to stay after everything was over. Since Joe didn't get an allowance, this money would buy paradise—a Coke and a hamburger. Thinking about being so grown-up made the corners of his mouth break into a Cheshire cat's grin, except for the gap where both front teeth were missing

"Mama, Brother John wants me to help him clean up the church. Can I stay? He'd even going to pay me."

"Why would Brother John choose you? You know you ain't no good for nothing." The words that Joe had heard so many times stung him like a wasp that flew up your sleeve.

"Mama, please. You know I'm a worker. I'll do the family proud."

"I swear, I don't know what's gotten into Brother John. There are so many other kids that would do better than you."

"Mama, please say yes. I'll walk home from church and be home in time to do my chores."

"Well, okay. Just make sure you do your chores when you get home." The promise of making some money gave Joe enough joy to control the pain he felt.

Joe helped empty the trashcans. While sweeping the floor in the fellowship hall, he heard Bro. John calling.

"Joe, can you come here a minute?"

"Yas'uh."

Joe drawled with a thick Southern accent. Each syllable glided into the other, smooth as cake batter. He tried to figure out where the pastor was. As Joe rounded the corner in the kitchen, there stood Bro. John, relieving himself in the bathroom with the door left open. Joe felt awkward, but Brother John seemed to have no shame as he turned around to face Joe with his fly open and his thing sticking straight up.

"I'll give you a quarter if you'll put this in your mouth and lick it."

"Naws'uh, I don't think I should."

"It's okay. No one will hurt you. Besides, I thought we were friends."

"Naws'uh, that would be wrong for me to do that."

"Come on, would I ask you to do something that was wrong?"

Something in his eyes scared Joe, even though he was the pastor of the church. Still, Joe trusted him to know what was best. How could Bro. John sin? Ministers didn't sin. And, besides, Joe had already had that money spent. He figured that if Bro. John said it was okay to do something, then what was the harm?

Bro. John tasted musty and salty. The pungent odor of sex—a mixture of the damp crawl space under Joe's house and his father's overalls on washday—wafted upward to his nose. It was hard for him to get his mouth around Bro. John's thing. Soon, Bro. John was breathing heavy and moaning, which scared Joe and made him stop for a moment.

"I can't do this. I'm scared."

Bro. John, forced himself back into Joe's mouth by grabbing him by the back of his head and thrusting himself hard against Joe's closed lips. This scared Joe worse than thinking about the wrong he was doing. When he stopped struggling, Bro. John let go of Joe's head.

Joe felt sick and wanted to gag when a watery fluid started going into his mouth. He started to lift his head, but Bro. John grabbed it again and thrust enough into Joe's mouth that he did start gagging. At that moment, his reflexes saved him from swallowing the nasty stuff, wetting the front of Bro. John's pants with what looked to Joe like whitish Jell-o.

"Damn you, Joe! Look what you've gone and done. God told me to test you. You are a miserable little homosexual wretch! Son, I'm going to pray for your soul. This will be our secret. I'll try my best to protect you from anyone finding out the truth about you, but you'd better repent and never do this again." Bro. John's eyes glared with a viciousness that Joe had never seen on anyone's face before that day.

Joe realized his mama was right. He was no good and should have listened to her and not kept on begging.

Joe fell to his knees, crying. "Bro. John, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do this, honest. Forgive me. Am I going to Hell?"

"Only if you talk about this with anyone."

The Alabama Book Festival

2010-04-16T16:19:00.001-07:00

I'm driving 4 hours to Montgomery to be a volunteer for the Alabama Writers' Forum and count people coming into the festival. I so wanted to be an author asked to attend. I was actually nominated but it got lost and by the time I asked the person who nominated me what gives, they had closed out their authors. So help me God, next year, I'm going as an author. In the meantime, that is a place LOADED with readers. So, I'm going to hand out postcards and business cards when not working my volunteer shift. So, maybe I'll have another run on sales on Amazon. I'm also getting my book ready to be iPad ready as an e-book. It is already on Kindle but is an earlier draft than the paperback version. I'm waiting for my grant package to come in and fill out. Then from the time they receive it and my 3 folders of information and receipts, it will be 6 to 8 weeks and I'll have a check. That's when I'm going to have another book launch where my book will be in bookstores and libraries. I'm really working hard to have the second book ready to publish in 2013. It takes a while to write a book and then edit it and polish it.

Sometimes I'm so busy, I can't write....

2010-04-04T19:14:00.000-07:00

Writing is the nectar for my soul. It gives me equilibrium in my life. When I can't write, I feel weak, tired, and defeated. Although most of my inability to write centers around working on a grant to get my book, In and Out of Madness promoted, and I do consider that to be a part of writing; not being able to work on my second book has taken a toll on my health.

Finally, the past three days, I MADE time to work on In the Shadow of Sin: the Confessions of a Sex Addict. (boy do I wish I could write faster! Timing is perfect for that book!) Being able to sit down at my computer has actually speeded up the healing time from a physical affliction. I'd lost how to sign in and am so grateful to the Mobile Writer's Guild that they had my link.

Congratulations to fellow Quill Master, Kay Grafe, on the publication of her book! Now, every member of our critique group has been published....we are all authors as well as writers! Until later, thanks for stopping by.

Taking the plunge

2010-02-12T14:43:00.000-08:00

The past two Thursday nights I have been on teleconferencing calls about how to make your business a success. The latest one was telling about getting yourself involved in a nonprofit as an expert with something to offer (my book? my experience) then going to corporate for a sponsor who will purchase your product for the nonprofit to give away as a way to build PR in their name and help a targeted group of people. Sounds good and makes sense. You just have to know how to write a dynamite business proposal. I'm going to a 3 day seminar on writing a proposal and getting connected while there with a nonprofit and a corporate sponsor....or I get my money back. Well, between tuition, flights, hotels....I'm charging some change. Either I'll lose and create a debt that will take me ten years to pay off or I'll hit the jackpot, get out of debt, and have my book become a big success. You have to take risks and you have to believe in yourself and last, it takes money to make money. So, either I'm the biggest fool there is or I'm on to something that will pay me back in very high dividends.

I'm finally in Barnes and Noble

2010-02-08T16:13:00.000-08:00

My publisher worked very hard to get Barnes and Noble to purchase two books, which put me in their system where I can now do some book signings. People can order the book online and at their local store they can order a copy.

In my area of a 60 mile radius from where I live, I have 4 Barnes and Noble bookstores that I hope will set me up to do a book signing.

I had a teleconference call on how to truly launch your book and sell thousands in one day. It will take some time to do all that they said, but I'm hoping for my power launch to be Friday the 13th of August.

I'm still reading books to write book reviews and the chapters of my fellow authors and writers in my critique group called Quill Masters.

I've been called into my other job twice and it's tired me out. So, I'm signing off for now.

Here it is May 22. Those two books did NOT get me into Barnes and Noble. It takes a 2000 book print run with inventory as opposed to my POD book, to get a distributor who will place the book in bookstores and libraries.

2010-01-29T13:43:00.000-08:00

I've been pulled in all directions at once. My truck was traded for a Honda Fit 2008 model with 12,000 miles on it. Now I have a car payment again. My house seems to have hit its 5th year and I've had to fix my dryer, my garbage disposal ( I fixed it!) and repair my roof. I'm putting out big bucks on promoting my book, In and Out of Madness: What do Tiger Woods and my novel have in common? My antagonist is a sex addict. So, if you are interested in learning the low down on sexual addiction, mental illness, multiple personality, and the perfect murder you can order the book for $14.95 from Amazon or send a check for $18 to N. L. Snowden, 8719 Terrell Ct. S., Mobile, AL 36695 and I will autograph you a copy and mail it to you. This covers shipping and handling. If you want a quick page turning read, let me suggest my book. Then when you finish, if you want a book with lots of fine nuances missed on the first plot driven read, then re-read it. Many people have and said they enjoyed it more the second time around....kind of like when meatloaf is reheated, it's always better.

I've entered the Breakthrough Novel contest. I'm working on a package deal with Outskirts Press for a large enough inventory to have the distributors represent me. In other words....big bucks fixing to be spent. I'm putting my money where my mouth is.

Last, but not least, I hired Michelle Levigne to write a screenplay from my novel. She did and it is excellent. I'm doing minor edits and we, or rather she, is going to submit it to an agent...hopefully to try to make it into a Lifetime movie for TV.

So, this is one explaination between the posts....between promoting this book, writing my second, being in a writer's group, reading and writing book reviews, and last, working part time at Cracker Barrel....I meet myself coming out the door! Until next time....Nina.

The Write Stuff

2009-11-30T04:56:00.000-08:00

There are three ingredients in having "the write stuff" to be an author: perseverance, faith, and a willingness to work on some form of writing each day.

To me, "writing" can be reading books on how to write, reading good fiction if you are a fiction writer, reading a book and writing a review, writing articles for newspapers and magazines, and of course, writing your poems, short stories, and novel or nonfiction book.

Faith breaks down into believing in yourself, often with an inner conviction that something outside of yourself is giving you the words that can change lives.

Perseverance of course means never giving up. I had over 147 rejections before I landed a publishing contract on my manuscript, now a novel, In and Out of Madness. In the past three years since I started keeping records I have submitted over 33 different things 148 times. So, even though I had mostly rejections, I did have a short story published in an e-zine, one essay published in an anthology, and another short story published in an anthology. I started myself simple with articles on mental health for New York City Voices and some newspaper articles. I progressed to writing book reviews for Alabama Writers' Forum Online Reviews.

I live by this quote: The only difference between a writer and an author is perserverance.