Re-posting Re-reading

 

A post from a few years back of this. I miss Elizabeth and Birdie and the gang . . . but have no intention of writing another one. Sometimes it's good to know when you're done. 

I can remember nights in my workroom, struggling to meet a deadline, and I can remember when I first realized that I didn't want to do this forever. Six novels seemed like a respectable number. And I wanted to give Elizabeth a break from all the murders. So I did and plunged into researching the Shelton Laurel Massacre for what would be my last novel, And the Crows Took Their Eyes. But it's fun to look back . . .

 I found myself taking a notion to spend some more time with Miss Birdie and read her book -- The Day of Small Things. Of course I've read it before -- many times -- while I was writing it and re-writing it and proof-reading it over and over. But none of these are the same as just reading for fun -- with the writer/editor eye turned off. And enough time had passed that, at times I could forget I'd written it and just read . . .

I was so pleasantly surprised that I picked up Signs in the Blood  and read it. It was better than I remembered, if I say it myself.  Again there was that strange disconnect between reader and writer -- I kept coming across little family jokes and little odds and ends that are parts of my past . . .

As  I always say, Elizabeth isn't me -- but we share a lot -- Little Sylvie's cabin next door . . . the dogs . . .

She and Phillip sat on my blue bench . . .

In Art's Blood - yes, I kept on reading right through the rest of the books -- Elizabeth and Kyra make wreaths in her workshop -- John's workshop in my world . . .  as was, before the fire.

Old Wounds gets very close to my world -- Elizabeth and family live in this barn while they are building their house in 1984 -- just as my family lived in it in 1974 while building that same house . . .

(I hasten to add that, unlike my unruly Elizabeth, I was never tempted by a charming neighbor -- nor by a bedroom-eyed snake handling preacher either.)

Every time I go to town I drive past this brick building that is the home of the enigmatic Troll of In a Dark Season. 

And sometimes I kind of expect to hear mariachi music floating from Justin and Claui's house -- home to Elizabeth's Mexican farm hands Julio and Homero in Under the Skin.

Rereading these books was a surprising experience in that I became  the reader not the writer and I kept finding myself thinking, Why, that's just the way I'd say that or That sounds familiar only to realize suddenly, Well, duh . . .

I also realized that I am now (much) closer in age to Miss Birdie than Elizabeth (who was ten years younger than I when the first book came out in 2005. ) 

It was an interesting experience, reading right through those books that took over six years to produce -- reading right through them in less than two weeks. 

And now, I'm tempted to do it again . . .

Airing the Quilts -Part 1

From OLD WOUNDS:

What is it? Is it a carnival or something? Can we stop? In the side yard of a small green house overlooking the road, bright colors of every description flapped and danced in the wind. Pa slowed the truck and Rosemary realized, with some disappointment, that it was just a bunch of quilts, hanging from clotheslines stretched between big trees. A slender woman in a blue housedress was adding yet another dazzling rectangle to the last empty space. Pink stars spun on a green background as the breeze lifted the quilt. The woman stepped back as if to admire the spectacle then, catching sight of their truck, she raised her hand in a friendly wave.

These are pictures from maybe fifteen or twenty years ago -- pre digital, for sure. I was on my way to the grocery store when the bright colors slowed me down. Back then, I didn't carry a camera all the time so, when I got to the grocery store, I bought a disposable camera.

On my return trip I stopped and asked the lady of the house if I could take pictures of her quilts. She was surprised but  agreed and showed me the different ones. This below was what she called her 'pattern quilt' -- examples of the various squares she had made, all fitted together in a glorious jumble.

The quilter and her quilts are long gone -- someone  else lives in the little stone house now.  But she's commemorated in the above excerpt (the house was changed to green to tie it to a chapter in ART'S BLOOD) -- and the stone house became Nola Barrett's house in IN A DARK SEASON. A memorable stop that day.

And speaking of memorable, I just remembered where the rest of the pictures are -- the much better ones that show the quilter and all of her quilts -- in a dusty scrapbook on the top shelf of my workroom.  It's late now -- I'll post them on Saturday.

Another Milestone for Birdie's Book.

Today I finished my careful read through of the manuscript. I have been taking it in smallish chunks, trying to read it aloud in my mind and making changes as they seemed called for.

I haven't had to re-do any more chapters -- but I have beefed up some crucial scenes -- adding a few choice sentences or paragraphs here and there.

And when I got to the end, I felt good about the whole thing. What could be better?

I have my dedication and acknowledgments written; I've called University of Tennessee press to make sure I can quote from an old book they did a reprint of ( bet you didn't know this was the author's responsibility); and now I have to polish the opening chapters of the next book (Under the Skin) so they can be printed as a teaser in the back of this book (The Day of Small Things.)

And I have to think about what I'll be saying when I speak at the Hendersonville Library on Wednesday night. My mind is full of Birdie's book and the next one. But what good to tantalize people with a book that won't be available for months? Or another that isn't even written?

No, I'll have to go back to In a Dark Season, and retrace the Drovers' Road, awaken Ish and Mariah, reacquaint myself with Nola and Big Lavinia, with the Troll and his cats, retrace Lydy's Goforth's brief career, go again with Elizabeth and Phillip to Max Patch and meet with James Suttles.

All these people in my head and all these stories, some told and others waiting their turn . . .