Signs in the Blood Revisited

                                                                                     

I wrote SIGNS, my first published novel, over twenty years ago. It came out in 2005. I was thrilled, as a rank amateur, to be published by Bantam Dell, a divission of Random House--one of the biggies. It was the beginning of a wild rollercoaster ride and five more Elizabeth Goodweather books. 

A few days ago I began rereading this, my first-born. I was delighted to discover that it was better than I remembered. More than that, it captures so much of my life twenty years ago--the farm, the garden, the dogs . . .

But I had to laugh when I realized that in this book, Miss Birdie is 81--as am I.

I was in my early sixties when I wrote this book and, originally, so was Elizabeth, But I dropped her age back to 52, hoping to give her a bit more zing in her possible romantic life. As for Miss Birdie, 81 seemed incredibly ancient. 

And now, here I am. I've had people address me as Miss Vicki and, while I try to be gracious, I really dislike it. I named Miss Birdie after an old (!) woman I once met, never thinking that someday I too . . .

Life is weird, the longer it goes on.

                                                                                      

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 . . .

Reason and Faith and Elizabeth Goodweather and Me

In my first novel, Signs in the Blood, Elizabeth visits a church that practices snake-handling.

"Elizabth watched, spellbound, as the snakes were passed from one to another of those who felt the call to handle. She had read that believers were sometimes bitten and that, of these, some died, though many lived to handle again. The library book had quoted a handler from Kentucky: 'Some folks say the snakes is doped up or their fangs is pulled out but I'm here to tell you, buy, this thing is real.'

"This thing is real, she thought, seeing the snakes being handled casually, even roughly. These ordinary people, these farmers, factory hands, mothers and fathers were in a mystical state as genuine as that of any whirling Sudi, any meditating Zen monk awaiting satori, as any person of any faith seeking to attain oneness with God by abandoning reason and trusting to spirit. The danger was real, the snakes were real, and the faith was real. The handlers all seemed to be in a deep ecstasy, beyond disbelief, beyond, doubt, beyond fear."

Elizabeth finds herself being tempted by this show of faith, finds herself wishing she had such certainty. The sexy preacher, it must be said, is a part of the fascination. But in the end, Elizabeth "hesitated, balanced there on the razor's edge between reason and faith. Then, with a feeling of an indefinable loss, she slid back in her seat and looked down. "No," she thought, no, not for me."

                                            

It must have been this scene that the author of a recent email I received had in mind when she said that Elizabeth's struggle with her faith was so raw that she had to wonder if it mirrored my own. And if it did, she hoped that I wouldn't write off God because of the way some people behave in his name.

I love it when I've touched a reader so deeply that she responds. I wrote back, telling her that, yes, like Elizabeth I have chosen reason over faith--any faith--all the while realizing the immense comfort religious folk derive from their sincere belief. And the snake handling is far less off-putting than the unkindness, the cruelty, the hypocrisy that I see in far too many "religious" folks.

We are each on our own journey.

 

How Old Is Miss Birdie Anyway?

I got to thinking about this this other day--if Miss Birdie was eighty-four in Signs in the Blood, how old is she now? When I wrote Signs, I just pulled that number out of the air. Eighty-four seemed so very old, compared to Elizabeth's, what was it, fifty-four, I think.  (As I recall, I originally made Elizabeth my age--at the time, sixty-four--but decided to make her ten years younger, fearing to have the book branded as Matron Lit.)

Now, twenty-some years later and only a year away from eighty myself, I'm closer in age to the Birdie of Signs than I am to the Elizabeth. Funny how that happens. (But please don't call me Miss Vicki.)

There are several books I've read and re-read over the past seventy-odd years that have made me aware of my shifting empathy with various characters. As I've aged, the generic unhappy/angry/idealistic young daughter has become less interesting to me than the generic cranky mother whose unspoken past may explain her difficult personality.  

But I digress. 

How old is Birdie? I took a look at the opening of The Day of Small Things. Says right there Least/Birdie was born in 1922. Which makes her 100 this year. But the month isn't given. And there's no vegetation to hint at time of year, just those brooding dark hemlocks. The cabin door is open so it must be a warm time --May, June, July? 

I guess I'll have to talk to Birdie to find out the date. Or maybe someone versed in astrology could suggest a suitable birthdate for this redoubtable woman.

 

Not Her Cup of Tea...

"I just finished reading your book (Signs in the Blood) which I won at the ______ library when you were there and really enjoyed it until I read the following sentence..........(Deleted to avoid spoiler).....that was totally disgusting and ruined the whole book for me.............it was so appalling that I felt like I should let you know..................."

There's a useful phrase people use in talking about books -- 'not my cup of tea.'  No book pleases everyone but I kinda hate it that the lady who wrote this email to me found a sentence 'disgusting. ' Makes me feel a little sleazy.

On the other hand, I do ask people to let me know what they think and I shouldn't be surprised if the thoughts are sometimes negative.  Different folks enjoy different types of fiction, even different types of mysteries. And different folks have different tolerance levels -- we've already talked here about the danger of killing a (fictional) cat or dog. 

I replied to this lady, explaining briefly my reason for the disgusting sentence. Probably we both feel better now.

And on the same day I received the following:

"I was lucky enough to win a copy of Signs In The Blood at the Virtual Bcon last year.  I liked it enough to get the rest of the series and have spent this week reading them.  They are all very good, Old Wounds is my absolute favorite as it has a lot of me in it.  ...(Sentence deleted to avoid a spoiler.)

I have stayed up till nearly midnight this whole week reading and now hopefully will be back to my normal sleeping schedule.

Thank you so much for the reading pleasure you have given me!"

So now I don't feel so sleazy anymore.  It all balances out.

The Cherokee Peach

Hit was washday and I was haulin water from the spring when Levy Johnson come down the mountain. My fire was goin good but I needed me some more water for the rinsin. Levy was on his way to help Daddy with plowin the corn and he was ridin a big sorrel mare, all geared up, but when he saw me he slid down from the mare's back and said, I'll tote them heavy pails for you.

His hair was the color of Mister Tomlin's gold pieces and his face was smooth and put me in mind of the ripe peaches on our red-leaved Cherokee peach tree. I smiled when I thought this for just then the sun broke through the morning mist and I could see the fuzz, same as a peach has, all along Levy's jawbone.

When I wrote that scene in Signs in the Blood, I had this particular peach tree in mind -- red leaves, small pinky-red peaches. I have no idea what the varietal name of our peach tree (which grows down at our pond --not by the cabin) might be. But I know how free and easy my older neighbors were with proper names of plants and it seemed not unlikely that Little Sylvie might have known a red-leaved peach as a Cherokee.

A recent post on the Dorothy L list about authors who don't exercise due diligence in their research got me thinking and I asked Mr. Google about Cherokee peach. Turns out there is one -- but I doubt it's the same.

I also learned that peaches were a very early introduction to the Americas -- probably brought in by the Spaniards -- and they 'went wild' so long ago that many people (myself included) assumed they were native.

Peaches were cultivated by the Native Americans and one of the many sad stories from the Trail of Tears was that the soldiers destroyed the Cherokee orchards to force them away from their land.

But peaches are stubborn and wherever the fruit drops, before long a new tree will spring up. Resilient-- like the Cherokee.

The River

Though we don't see the river from our house, it's an abiding presence in our lives. To get, well, almost anywhere, we have to cross the river. I love the sight of it and it always shows up somewhere in my books.

from Signs in the Blood -- Little Sylvie at the river:

I looked at the river, runnin there so fast beneath the bridge. Teacher had showed us on a great map how a flatboat could go down this same river into Tennessee, on to Alabama, back to Tennessee and Kentucky all the way to the Ohio River and from there to the mighty Mississippi and right smack down to New Orleans. And in New Orleans, she told us, you can get on a ship that can take you right around this world.

It seemed a marvel to me that his same water I was lookin at would travel so far while I stayed put. I thought how I would like to go on one of them boats and see all them places . . .