SOMETHING ABOUT THAT FIRST NOVEL

            Writing my first novel was a process to say the least. I began writing it several years before I stopped teaching. Concentrated space to dedicate to the book, however, was difficult to find. A full schedule of teaching English, a husband, kids, dogs, cats, koi, a house . . . well those things came first. Eventually when time was proffered to me like a pretty present, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. Having the luxury to write actually seemed to turn in on itself, knotting my mind in uncertainty; it was stifling. I knew, however, that if I were to be a writer, an author, I had to unwrap that gift and get going. I have done that. Every day I write . . . something. In fact, these days, if a random circumstance threatens to curtail my ability to write, I become a bit anxious. Putting words to paper is what I want to do. I find writing both challenging and pleasurable; it is fulfilling and frustrating; it teaches me; it feeds my spirit.

            My first novel was simply that, a first, and for me, it is a proud accomplishment even with its imperfections. The book definitely is fiction, but the characters I developed are syntheses of personalities, temperaments, and moral fibers I have known. I also employed the use of southern dialect that is so familiar to me I can taste it. Years of living in Kentucky and Texas as a child gave me an understanding of the beauty and the rhythm of the vernacular of the South and I employed such language in my first two novels. Check out the beginning section of the first chapter of Big House Dreams and see what you think.

Big House Dreams – Part One - Chapter One

Mama died on the first day of summer which was appropriate because she hated the heat and humidity that fell over Tennessee like a damp blanket in June, July, and beyond. In the midst of summer, she’d shuffle around in a limp cotton dress and raggedy duster ranting in her misery, taking everyone in her path along with her. Mercifully her life ended with the spring she loved just behind her. The bright sunshiny days and brisk winds of April had always filled her with energy and eagerness to clean the house from top to bottom or to plant her summer garden, digging with delight in soil that was just warming to the season. The freesias, daffodils, violas, and pansies gave her permission to stop for a brief rest as she studied them, marveling at the intricate beauty she knew God had created. “Just look at that little face,” she’d say as she gently lifted the blossom toward her for better scrutiny. “Look, Sara Mae. Look how sweet.” She’d ooh and ah, feeling blessed to be alive, savoring the beauty of every new leaf, the mew of spring lambs, and the incessant chatter of nesting birds staking out their territory. Spring had filled Mama to the brim with happiness, even when the context of her life sought to forbid it. Spring had always intensified her hope, for new beginnings were stirring all around her. Spring spoke to change, to nurturing, to creativity, and to gratitude. It was her season. She had been born in late May and died in June just after her forty-ninth birthday.

Why Emma Jenkins’s life was cut so short was a mystery to the community of Cam’s Corner. She hadn’t been sick a day in her life. She’d been a sober woman, not one to smile often, and although she was generally soft-spoken, she had been known to have her say when need be. She had been quietly self-sufficient, relying on her garden and her skills as a seamstress to provide. Her neighbors perceived her as pious and proper, volunteering her time and offering charity as she saw fit. She owned a little plot of land and a modest house, had a few friends, her church, a husband of sorts, and a daughter.

My novels (Big House Dreams and Nine Bucks and Change), and a memoir (Tumor Me, The Story of My Firefighter), are available on Amazon.com.