The weekend’s winding down. I’m missing Texas and home, and trying desperately to find inexpensive flights home for at least a weekend during the holidays. I’m feeling unanchored, which is probably normal given all the changes lately (left my beloved cabin in the mountains, started a new job). It’s a melancholy evening …
So I thought I’d post this song, which has a hugely prominent place in my novel, A Good Kind of Knowing.
Listen and soak up the lyrics of Lovin’ Her Was Easier written and performed by one of my all-time favorite songwriters, Kris Kristofferson.
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Since my new novel, A Good Kind of Knowing, is all about music, I plan to post, every now and then, samples of the songs and artists mentioned in the story. Eventually, when I can find about an hour of previously unbooked time, I will put together a formidable playlist for those who want to read and listen at the same time. It’s gonna be EPIC. That’s my new word, by the way, when I’m trying to sound hip. Something tells me even using the word, “hip,” however, just blew my 43-year-old cover.
Here’s the first installment of Music to Read By:
First, the one and only Willie Nelson.
Next, how about some Texas Tornadoes with Freddy Fender?
And then there’s Charlie Sexton. Remember him?
And Ms. Nanci Griffith.
Finally, a necessity. Vintage George Strait.
Happy Friday, Y’all!
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Tonight, I’m celebrating the fact that my new novel, A Good Kind of Knowing, broke the top 100 in sales in its category on its first day out as an ebook. Yeehaw! I’m pretty excited.
So, I thought I’d toss out a little Willie for everyone … it’s the song mentioned in the first paragraph of the new novel. In fact, since the novel is all about music, and there are tons of songs referenced in the story, I’m putting together a playlist for anyone who would like to listen along to relevant music while reading certain chapters. Stay tuned.
But for now. Take it away, Wille honey.
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Hello all! Thought I’d give my blog readers a sneak peek of the new book trailer for A Good Kind of Knowing, which releases in ebook tomorrow.
I love, love, love it, even though it goes against all book trailer marketing best practices. (I’m such a rebel, you know.) It’s basically just a lovely slideshow put to music, featuring brief excerpts from the novel along with beautiful photographs of rural Texas. My husband told me that it’s like a little break from reality and stress.
So many of my friends provided photos for the slideshow, and I thank you! Ruth Parker, Austin Moore, Tammy Arnold, Scott Smejkal, I’m talking to you. Oh, and my sister Hope, whom I did not even ASK if I could use her stuff. Kinda like she used to do with my clothes in high school, come to think of it.
Tell me what you think! It’s about 2 minutes long, so sit back with a glass of wine tonight or a cup of coffee tomorrow and enjoy. Oh, and turn up your sound because the music feels good, too.
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I’m so pleased with how the cover art for my new novel, A Good Kind of Knowing, came out! My friend, Jeremy Kron, interactive designer extraordinaire, created this one, just like he did for Blue Straggler. And I really think he outdid himself this time. Here it is:
Imagine if Maeve Binchy grew up in Texas and wrote an old-school Larry McMurtry novel. Think Hope Floats meets High Fidelity. That’s how critics are describing A Good Kind of Knowing — from the author of the highly acclaimed and number-one Amazon bestseller, Blue Straggler.
A Good Kind of Knowingis a novel about the power of music and friendship, the relationship two-steps that go on in old Texas dancehalls, and the secret to finding just a little bit of common ground in a world full of distrust.
Sera Taylor’s store is the one place in Lakeville, Texas, where individuals from all walks of life share a universal love for music and a respect for the gypsy-like woman behind the antique glass counter. Readers get a taste of the unorthodox connection between Sera and Mack, a young local cowboy and musician, and Sera’s previously untested devotion to her husband Bill. They learn of her relationship with Ruby D., the vibrant but misguided mother of five; with Louie, the shy high school band director; with Beverly, the religious, upper-class socialite; with Antonio, a local bar owner striving to make a life for himself; with Tommy Lee, a rich and directionless gigolo; and with Wes, the only out-of-the closet gay man for miles. As Sera battles a serious illness, the characters must overcome long-held stereotypes to save Sera’s store, and in the end, large parts of themselves.
What readers are saying:
“Engaging, emotionally accurate, visual and funny.”
“My head is full of your story. It took me only two and a half days to read the book cover to cover, which means I was doing it every spare minute.”
“You pulled me right in.”
“I feel like I’m right there—I can feel the Texas heat and see the small town and the people who populate it.”
“The characters are diverse and interesting, and each has a unique personality that adds to the entire canvas of the story.”
“I know these people. What’s more, I like them, even despite their faults.”
“The pace is comfortable, the characters rich and colorful. The events are anything but predictable; I was always wondering what’s going to happen next.”
A Good Kind of Knowing is coming soon as an ebook — out by the end of the month! Paperbacks will be out for the holidays.
Thanks for all the support!
PS – Thanks to everyone who asked about my writing week in North Carolina. It was amazing and awesome and I got a ton of work on the third novel done. Plus, I squeezed in a few swims in the ocean (which was still warm!), one deep-sea fishing trip (my friend caught a shark!) and about 200 million meals of fried seafood. Now, back to reality.
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This is my new best friend, the portable swamp cooler I call, “Al.”
I haven’t been updating this blog as much as I’d like (and not near as much as my publisher would like I’m sure!) Life has been exceptionally crazy of late, though, so I have a good excuse. Let’s see … we moved from the mountaintop to the foothills of Denver, and I’m slowly emerging from grief mode. I have purchased a portable swamp cooler and drag it around me like some folks drag around their oxygen tanks. I also left the job I’ve been at for six years (the longest time I’ve ever been in one job) and started a new job that I’m loving. My son started first grade at a new school, and my husband lost his job. Yeehaw! But things are settling down now. Or will soon.
So until I have the ability to write more than a paragraph, I thought I’d go through some of my old stuff and post a short piece of my previous work.
Following is one of my favorite little mini-essays that I wrote about my childhood, growing up on the banks of the Guadalupe River. Much of my third novel I’m working on right now takes place along the river. Thanks for reading! (And my apologies if you’ve read this before.)
RIVER DAYS
The South Texas Guadalupe River in all its muddy loveliness.
Patterns exist in every childhood. Eating warm oatmeal for breakfast. Going to church at 9 a.m. on Sundays. Catching the bus after school.
Well, I rarely ate anything as healthy as oatmeal, only went to church on Easter and Christmas, and rode the bus just once, to see where it went. But the one pattern that stands out most in my years of growing up in South Texas is this: for about 10 years, every other Sunday, my two sisters and I piled into the back of my father’s 1979 green Ford truck with the camper on the back, sat on cattle feed sacks so hard we could feel every cube inside, and sang Tammy Wynette songs until my parents had driven the 20 or so miles to our bi-weekly destination.
My parents owned a camphouse on the banks of the Guadalupe River in South Texas. The cabin sat high on a grassy hill, just a stone’s throw from the river, and looked like it was put together with wood glue and a roll of aluminum foil.
Early on, my father had tiled the concrete floors with free, leftover linoleum squares from the lumberyard, so each one was a different pattern. Rusting iron beds lined the front room like an army’s hospital ward, the mattresses thin as slices of Wonder bread and holding fast to the mildew that only river air can provide. The bathroom’s toilet and sink showed only hints of ever being white; the well water’s sulfur had painted them brown and yellow and red, making them look like something fit for a horror movie. The kitchen was an old school bus, attached to the back of the camphouse by a welder’s hand. The kitchen-bus ran the length of the back of the house, the floors slanted down so much you could lose your balance bending down to pick up a dropped potato chip.
Our first chores when we arrived on Sunday mornings were the following: open the wood shutters that covered the screened windows in the front and back, securing them with baling wire. Check the bathroom and kitchen for water moccasins. Help Mom unload the brown grocery bags and stay out of Daddy’s way as he lit the barbecue pit.
After that, we were free.
Unlike at home, where my mother kept a tight handle on cleanliness, we could come and go as we pleased, river mud and all.
We could eat greasy burgers on buttery Texas Toast.
When a rain shower would develop, we could spend time inside, jumping from one iron bed to the next—a highly developed form of chase.
We could play on the tires that hung from century-old pecan trees as swings, and land on our knees, not worrying a bit about the grass stains.
We could build mud castles next to the swift currents of the Guadalupe and walk around all day with streaks of dried, clay-like dirt on our feet, arms and legs.
My sisters and cousins and I swang on a rope swing like this one out into the river. I wish I had photos of ours, though, because it was way better.
We could dangle from a thick, rough rope tied to a sturdy oak branch and let ourselves fly like birds out over the river, then fall from the sky with our stomachs in our throats, into the deep water, then float on our backs, feet first, down to the boat dock.
And we could run back to the camphouse, hair dripping wet, swimsuits filled with river silt, and walk straight into the kitchen to grab a cold Dr. Pepper, leaving footprints while hopping from a green paisley tile to one with sunbursts of orange.
Something about those days on the river has stayed with me through the years, as have the raised white scars on my knees—from landing on rocks in the river or cracked pecan shells near the tire swing.
I was at my best then, I think, when there were few rules and even fewer moments of doubt. I, along with my sisters, didn’t just live out the hours on those Sundays, we attacked them, like something fleeting. Like chasing dragonflies in waist-high weeds.
Risks seemed inevitable, even expected. We were wild. We were tomboys. We were fearless. We were laughter and dirty cheeks and sunburned noses.
We were our truest selves.
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We all have them. Those favorite foods that we turn to when we’ve had a fight with a significant other, when the work day was like walking through a war zone, when you feel like you’ve been beat up one side and down the other, when things are just not going well at all, when we need a little bit of warmth for the soul. Yes, I just used the phrase “warmth for the soul.” Next thing you know, I’ll be planning office parties and wearing Christmas sweaters. It could happen?
Seriously, I found that when I moved away from Texas, my favorite comfort foods from home became even more important to me. So, here are some of my top Texas comfort foods and the memories they stir up like a nest of Yellow Jackets. (Or something much nicer that warms the soul but that I can’t exactly think of right now.)
Mmmmmm. Rings of Texas pit sausage. Can you smell it?
Real Texas barbecue– I spent my childhood Sundays soaking up the smell of mesquite wood from my dad’s barbecue pit and smoker. Mom would make her magic marinades, and Daddy would man the pit. You haven’t tasted perfection until you’ve had their barbecue, whether it’s brisket sealed with that crisp black goodness of flavor or ring sausage that literally bursts with juice when you take a bite. No sauce needed. It’s rare for me to find good barbecue up here in Colorado, but every now and then, I’ll chance upon something that’s at least edible. And even mediocre barbecue takes me back to weekends on the Guadalupe River, trying to avoid the water moccasins, and swinging into the river from a rope tied to an old oak tree. And river mud. Lots of river mud between my toes.
These turtles are called Texas River Sliders, and you can see them everywhere along the Guadalupe. And no, I don't eat them and they are not a comfort food. But they are cool.
Texas chili – It has to be my mom’s recipe, of course, with just a kick of spice. My mom always seemed to have a pot of chili in waiting, and now we celebrate the first snowfall at our home at the top of a mountain each year by making a pot of Mom’s chili. Secret recipe hint: It has cornmeal in it. (Funny side note: When I first reread this, I had left out the “a” in front of “My mom always seemed to have a pot” … so it read “My mom always seemed to have pot.” Frankly, that would have been a way more interesting childhood.)
Potato soup – I know it’s a common theme here, but my mom makes the Best Potato Soup Ever. She always made it for me when I was feeling under the weather, no matter how busy she was as a working mom of three crazy kids.
Beer Nuts– Yes, I’m talking about those sweet-salty nuts you find at convenience stores next to the Slim Jims and teriyaki jerky. My dad loves Beer Nuts, and they remind me of him.
Admit it. You're jonesing for some of these right now, aren't you?
Peach ice cream – Nothing says summer to me more than peach ice cream. One of the real treats of visiting my Mammaw and PawPaw back in the day was fishing for catfish in their tank (let me know if you non-Texans need a translation of a tank) and then cooling off with their homemade peach ice cream … with fresh peaches and lots of cream and the perfect amount of sweetness. I have yet to find a commercial brand that makes the cut, but I keep trying. (Sorry, Blue Bell. I’ve known Elizabeth Hart’s ice cream and sir, you’re no Elizabeth Hart.)
Now (maybe because I have a problem?), I also have Colorado comfort foods — but I’ll cover those in another post, because I’ve made myself really homesick and hungry now. Where are those Beer Nuts when you need ‘em?
What’s your favorite comfort food? What does it remind you of? I wanna know!
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In my novel Blue Straggler, the main character, Bailey, admits to being truly afraid of two things: lightning and rattlesnakes. That statement could be autobiographical for me, except you’d have to substitute “dentists” for “lightning.”
Yes, I’m one of those crazies who fears going to the dentist. I’d rather go to the ob/gyn than the dentist. I’d rather experience Chinese water torture. I’d rather be forced to eat dung beetles, or just dung. Seriously. Yet, I make myself go once a year (okay, it’s usually more like once every two years, but don’t judge me) because basically I don’t think I’m going to be all that sexy in dentures. Also I like to eat and to eat well, you really should have teeth.
I can trace my dental phobia back to growing up in rural South Texas where we didn’t have fluoride in our water until we got MTV and I left for college. (Exaggeration alert. I was in junior high. Probably – I did not research this. Sue me.) I had cavities back then and a dentist (we didn’t have many choices) filled like 100 cavities in one appointment. Or maybe six, but still. It scarred me, okay?
This is me in the dental chair. Not really. But can you believe the things you can find on the Internet?
So, this past week, I stepped into my current dentist’s office for a cleaning and checkup. I say my current dentist because I’m also a “dentist hopper.” I jump around to a lot of different dentists, because once a hygienist or dentist hurts me, I leave them without a note. And since anything having to do with going to the dentists hurts like hell, I love `em and leave `em a lot. This is why I get about 10 different notices from dentists all over Denver saying I’m past due for an exam. (Clean up your mailing lists, people! I’m over you!)
I’d prepped for the appointment with drugs to soothe the soul and ibuprofen to take the edge off the pain. And yes, I was just there for a cleaning.
Let me just say that those drugs did nothing for me as soon as I smelled that gawd-awful dentist office smell. What the hell is that smell, anyway? Burned flesh? Jawbone sawdust? I suggested to the receptionist who took me back to the cleaning cube that they should pump laughing gas in through the air vents. She didn’t laugh.
I took my seat in the chair, and the hygienist promptly tilted my ass so far back I nearly slid off that slippery vinyl chair, head first. Then she attempted a conversation, with me in the yoga pose I like to call “Upside Down Sitting Duck.”
Hygienist: Do you have any concerns?
Me: Not really, other than you’re going to hate me because it’s been two years since I’ve had a cleaning. Ha, ha. Ha?
Hygienist, looking at my chart and frowning: I see that. (She could have humored me with, “I won’t hate you, don’t be silly.”)
Me: I’m sorry. (Also at this point, I have a very good view of her nostril hairs and she could use some maintenance.)
Hygienist, aiming a sharp, archaic tool at me: Let’s get started.
Me: Wait! Can I have a topical anesthetic?
Hygienist: Why?
Me, blood pressure rising: Because, byotch, you are about to wound my gums! (I didn’t really say that. I actually said, “Because it helps with soft tissue pain when you scrape my gums; I read it on the Internet.”
Hygienist: I’ll have to check with the doctor.
She leaves and I enjoy the view of a popcorn-style ceiling, which they should really remodel this century. When she returns with the goop, I also bring up another uncomfortable topic.
Me: I also wish to decline x-rays.
Hygienist: <Insert very long speech here about how they are a great and necessary diagnostic tool, and how I am pretty much the stupidest person in America for not getting them.>
Me: I realize all of that. Thank you. I still decline. I don’t like radiation, and why yes I do know how it compares to security devices at the airport. I’ll sign the form, please. And yes, I know that you will not get to bill my insurance company $1,000 for x-rays. I’m truly sorry.
So, as you can tell, the hygienist and I are not on friendly terms, and this is not a great way to shape a relationship with someone who is using barbaric measures to supposedly remove tartar buildup. In short, this woman obviously hated me, and she took it out on my poor innocent, inflamed gums and teeth. Also, she almost sucked my entire tongue up with that little tube one time. I came out of the chair a little.
At this point, I was just praying that the ibuprofen would kick in, because my head was starting to throb. Also, note to readers: Ibuprofen makes you bleed a little more than normal. Enough said. I think I needed more than one of those bib things.
I also found this on the Internet, which pretty much sums up how I feel about going to the dentist.
When she finished with me, my cheeks and chin were literally peppered with tartar pieces (and maybe pieces of my teeth, who knows). I could have used protective eyewear. I had been in a battle I could not win, even if the dentist did eventually tell me I had no cavities from what he could see without the x-rays.
That night, I immediately found that having vodka in the house is a good thing. Because y’all, I had to self-medicate. Plus I think vodka is good for killing bacteria in your mouth. I’m going with that.
For two days after, my teeth were so tender that I couldn’t even eat Cheetos without pain. And yes, you haters out there, I KNOW that if I went every six months, I wouldn’t have so much tartar buildup and the hygienist would not have to put her foot on my chest to get the pressure she needs to scrape the crap off.
The moral of this story is that there is no moral. I just hate going to the dentist. As soon as I get rich, I’m going to take advantage of sedation dentistry … for cleanings.
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If you ever see any of the following status updates on my Facebook page, call the authorities because I’ve been hacked! (Wait. Are there authorities to call for that, by the way? Is it even illegal? Are there fines? And what is in that huge box at the top of my closet? These are the kinds of questions that keep me up at night.)
And now for posts you will never see from me:
I signed up for my next marathon today – so excited.
Wow, it’s 5 p.m. and I totally forgot to eat today.
My performance in last night’s kickball game was crazy good.
Enjoying the brilliant writing in Fifty Shades of Grey.
Please, everyone, check out my new glamour-shot profile pic!
It’s 75 and sunny outside, but dang, I really want to finish this report before I hit the trail.
Brought home our new pet today, a kingsnake just full of personality and small rats.
OMG. I’m jonesing for some new stiletto boots.
Yay! Time to clean the house!
A full morning of mall shopping, followed by a super-light lunch under 500 calories. Can life be any sweeter?
I wish my friends would stop sending me Ketel One vodka all the time.
Call of Duty: Modern Warfare haters, you can’t handle the gaming truth!
Does my avatar make me look fat?
I love that my husband hides dirty dishes in our oven. It’s such an endearing trait. XOXOXO
Can’t wait to go to the Kid Rock concert tonight.
Being a working mom has been such a freaking breeze this week. I feel so bad for women who have nannies and maids. They are truly missing out.
Check out our new (to us) Ford Crown Victoria with tinted windows.
The new Taylor Swift and Toby Keith duet. Is. Awesome.
Go, Mitt, go!
For the record, I have never turned down vodka of any kind. I know this is difficult to believe, but it is indeed true.
So … what update would NEVER come from you?
Come on, spill below! It’s fun and a good way to waste about 15 to 20 minutes depending on how fast you type.
* Disclaimer: If you are considering purchasing 1,000 copies of my novel, Blue Straggler, and any of these fake posts offend you, I completely and utterly apologize and also I take Visa.
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In fact, the need to be in control at all times has been handed down through the generations to my mother, and to my sisters and me, like bad costume jewelry. This is no secret, especially to our husbands, our children, our coworkers (Shut up, CCG.)
We don’t just like to be in control, we pretty much demand it without saying it out loud. We kinda mow people down with our opinions and our plans. (I hereby apologize to everyone I have in the past, or will in the future, take down like a Craftsman 3-in-1 self-propelled chopper.)
I think in some psychotherapy circles our control freakishism could be considered a treatable illness, but for us, it’s just how it is. Our unstated mantra: Get in line and follow our lead, or get the hell out of our way while we make this particular thing happen. (Being control freaks isn’t very fun for us, by the way. It might seem like it is, because we tend to get our way (a lot), but it’s actually quite exhausting. Some people go to the gym to feel the burn, we just manage our loved one’s lives.)
All of this is to bring me to the point of today’s Mother’s Day-themed blog post. My mom is one of the most talented cooks in the state of Texas, maybe in the whole damn country. She could season up a cow patty, smother it in her gravy, and you’d eat it like it was a sirloin and ask for more. No exaggeration. She’s that good. I seriously don’t think I have ever eaten anything — anything — in my 43 years as her daughter that I didn’t like. (No comment needed here about the effect of this on my hourglass figure.)
My mom's version of chicken cacciatore would put this one to shame.
Even her so-called “mistakes,” are delicious. It doesn’t matter what the dish is, a soup, casserole, salad, cobbler, breakfast taco, you name it. If it’s a “Sue’s Surprise,” you’d elbow out a hungry child to get to it first.
But here’s the rub: She doesn’t allow people, like, er, her daughters, in her domain. Her kitchen is pretty much off limits. She may say she wants your help, but she doesn’t mean it. Because she needs to do it her way, which of course is the right way.
That means that everything I learned from her had to be learned on the sly. (Lucky! It just so happens that sly is something I do well.) I watched her from around the corner of the living room when she thought I was dusting. I memorized her techniques while she thought I was merely playing jacks or pick-up-sticks under her feet. (You didn’t have to nudge me so hard with that nasty old pink house shoe, by the way, Mom.) I even caught her at a low point after some surgery one time, while she was still under the influence of a great many pain killers, and convinced her to tell me some of her recipes that she keeps only in her head. I am not above resorting to these kinds of tactics for the greater good of society and the culinary arts.
My beautiful mother with an unknown stinkbug.
Nowadays, I think I’ve turned out to be a pretty good cook, too. (Not at legendary level, like her, but I can make a batch of enchiladas that’ll make you want to slap your pet alligator twice. Which sounds a little more risqué than I meant it to.) Basically, I can make her chili and her ranch dressing and her cornbread, but I haven’t mastered her apple pies or chicken-fried steak or roasted turkey.
I’m still learning, though. Every time I go home, I’ll continue to make mental notes, before she (figuratively this time) kicks me out from under her feet again. I’ll park myself at the kitchen table and watch her do her magic, whether she likes it or not. I’ll hold my son on my lap, as he watches her, too. I’ll tell her how amazing and beautiful she is, and how much I love her and her cooking.
But chances are, even with this little bit of kissing up, she still won’t let me mess around in her kitchen.
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