Tag Archives: Blue Straggler

How Growing Up With Country Music Made Me a Better Writer

Posted on by
1

I know there are plenty of music snobs out there who look down their noses at country music. And I will admit that some of what’s played on country radio these days isn’t any better than sugary, dance-mix pop or chip-on-the-shoulder rap.

But the country music that I love, and that I grew up on, is good stuff — some of the best music ever made in my opinion. I spent many a night drifting off to sleep to the sounds of my parents playing dominoes with friends or barbecuing a brisket on Sunday afternoons, while listening to folks like Willie Nelson, Gary Stewart, Charley Pride, Charlie Rich, Eddie Rabbit, Loretta Lynn, Conway Twitty, George Strait, Moe Bandy, Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline.

And you know what? I’m so thankful that my parents and grandparents raised me to love country music the way I do. I’m so glad my world was inundated with steel guitars and fiddles and the ability to two-step by the time I was 3 years old. Because I truly believe it has made me a better writer.

If the only song you think of when you think of Loretta Lynn is "Coal Miner's Daughter," you are missing out. Try "Don't Come Home A-Drinkin'" and you'll hear perfection.

Why? Because country music is all about hard drinking, hard loving and hard living. It’s based on strong, get-you-in-the-gut storytelling. Except for the aforementioned crapola that somehow makes its way to radio these days, country can tell a heart-wrenching or heartwarming tale like no other genre of music. (Blues is a very close second. A blues guitar riff can give me goose bumps without a word ever being sung.)

Basically, country music has long explored humanity, in all its goodness and flaws. Wife left you for another man? Check. Lost your job and long to tell your boss to go to hell? Check. Drowning your sorrows in whiskey? Check. Cheating with your best friend’s husband? Check. White trash girl honing in on your S.O.? Check. Love your mama even though she’s in jail? Check.

Seriously, is there any better fodder for good, juicy fiction than these themes? Can anyone really listen to Willie’s Whiskey River (Take My Mind) without wanting a stiff drink? Is there any sexier a song than Kris Kristofferson’s Help Me Make It Through the Night? And who wouldn’t root for Dolly Parton as she pleads with a chick to back off her man in Jolene?

As a friend who does not love country music the way I do once joked to me: “My life is perfect right now and this stuff still makes me want to get drunk and cry my eyes out.”

Exactly.

The Hag and I even agree on political leanings, at least right now. See? There are SOME Democrats in country music.

And that’s why it’s good stuff. And why I should also really thank Mr. Merle Haggard in person for writing If We Make It Through December and Silver Wings, among other greats.

__________________________________________

DID YOU KNOW? There are tons of 1960s country music references in Blue Straggler. And my second novel, which will be out later this year and is titled A Good Kind of Knowing, includes music (a lot of it country) as a thread throughout the book. In fact, music has such prominence in the storyline that it’s nearly a character itself.

——————————————————————-

DID YOU ALSO KNOW? Blue Straggler is a #1 bestselling novel now after hitting the top spot on Amazon in comic fiction earlier this month. It’s stayed in the top five now for four weeks. The novel is also on two other bestselling lists. It’s all so amazing! Thank you again to every single reader who took the time to check out my work. I appreciate you, and you’ve had a real impact on my life.

 

If you want to read more of my writing, I send out the occasional newsletter. Sign up here:

Friends Are Worried About My “Girls”

Posted on by
6

I have good friends. In Texas, in Colorado, all over the U.S. Even a few overseas. Here in Denver, in particular, I happen to work with some really awesome people … ladies that I can laugh so hard with that we snort out loud and tears roll down our faces. We’ve also cried sad tears together a few times. (They can’t seem to understand that when I say, “do not be nice to me when I’m on the verge of tears,” I mean it! If someone expresses sympathy at that stage, the waterworks begin. And nobody likes to see that in the workplace!)

This is the scene in the movie that I'm talking about. You know you remember it.

I actually like to think of these ladies I work with as my A Team — my entourage when I need propping up. If you need an image of what this might entail, think of the scene in the movie Bridesmaids, where the whole group of girls are getting on the plane for Vegas for the bachelorette party. Daring music plays, wind machines blow our hair, as we walk slowly as a group. You get the picture.

Lately, these friends have been expressing concern about, well, my “girls.” And I don’t mean children of any kind. I mean those girls. They think I need a different bra. These are the things that they are not afraid to tell me over morning coffee. And I think I’m glad.

I think. I am. Glad.

One of these ladies, who shall remain nameless, says that the right bra can change your life. She watches Oprah. Another agrees with the whole concept of bratopia; she says she’s a religious convert to the church of push-ups and half-cup sizes.

Me? Ummmm. Comfort is my religion. And I strongly believe that bras could very well be society’s long-used way of keeping women down and in their place. Okay, maybe not to that extreme, but I think bras are stupid and not necessary and anti-feminist and did I mention stupid? I’m a closet hippie and I want to be free of all society-made constraints. I should probably just go ahead and chuck my attempts at a normal life and move to a commune. But I bet communes would entail actually communing with others, and I’m not good at small talk.

I digress.

So, I do try to listen to my entourage on important life details. Love, marriage, parenthood, where to go for lunch. So against my better judgment, I went to [gulp] Macy’s for a bra fitting. That’s right. Me. In Macy’s. For a bra fitting. Anyone who knows me knows this is not a picture easily conjured.

My “bra fit expert” was about 65 years old. Her name was Jen, which was weird to me for a woman that age, but who am I to say anything? I’m a 42-year-old Kathy.

Jen called me, “honey,” a lot, which I didn’t mind (yet). She did however shake her head and make a “tsk-tsk” sound when I explained to her what type of bra I wear now. She looked me up and down. Turned me around in front of her. Looked me up and down again.

Jen and I were not going to be good friends, I could tell.

She took me into a fitting room, had me strip to my bra, and then she proceeded to whip her tape measure around me with impressive efficiency. I do not like people touching me AT ALL, but at least she was quick about it. I thought she could use a little bit more deodorant, but again, being the nice person I am, I did not mention this.

Then she told me to wait while she brought back some options to try on. In the meantime, I was alone in the dressing room, with Taylor Swift music being pumped in at a loud volume, and all I could do was stare at myself. This is actually my idea of Hell. (It was also very warm in this fitting room. Coincidence? I think not.)

While I waited, I found five wiry silver hairs, 10 additional wrinkles I hadn’t known existed and one little white hair on my chin. I tried sucking my stomach in and standing at different angles, analyzed my teeth for coffee (and Dr Pepper) stains, and stuck my tongue out at myself just in case someone was watching me from behind the secret mirrors.

I found this vintage bra ad online. I love the Internet.

Jen eventually (and I mean she was gone a long time) came back with several different bras for me to try on. I obliged, telling myself that this could change my life. Oprah knows. But the first bra I tried on was tight in every imaginable place. How tight? Cutting off blood circulation tight. The second one left so much room in the cups I could have shoplifted two or three pairs of socks in there and still had room for a new blender. The next bra felt like I was being squished into some kind of medieval, barbarian corset. The girls did get a boost from that one. I verbally apologized to them, as I couldn’t get out of that contraption fast enough.

Jen came back and was disappointed in me. I was frustrated. She brought more to try. Only one felt the least bit comfortable, and Jen told me that [and I quote], “it does absolutely nothing for my figure.”  Really, Jen? Did I mention you need some Secret Clinical Formula?

Jen and I parted amicably, I suppose. She told me that I need to keep in mind the goal is not absolute comfort, but to help my body look its best. I disagree, Jen! And I told her so. She sighed. I make people sigh a lot sometimes. (I think that’s actually a line from Blue Straggler.)

Now, I’ll just have to report back to my entourage that my mission was a failure. But they’ll understand. They probably expected it.

 

 

If you want to read more of my writing, I send out the occasional newsletter. Sign up here:

Two Things I Miss Most About South Texas in the Spring

Posted on by
5

My book tour in Texas is coming up the week of March 26 (see details on the events here), and I’m so looking forward to not only the book events themselves, but just being in Texas in the spring.

This time of year is actually when I miss home the most. Where I’m at (high in the Colorado mountains west of Denver), we’re still very much in winter mode. March and April are our two snowiest months of the year. The huge blizzard of 2003 when we got 9 feet of snow — not a typo, that’s 9 feet — occurred in March. We just had windchills that were near 20 below in the past week. Our doors were frozen shut.

So, the thought of being in that warm, albeit humid, Texas air is exciting right now. I’m bringing my flip-flops, y’all! (I don’t think my mother will let me wear them to the book signings, though. And I’m pretty sure my ankle surgeon would not approve.)

Two more things I miss about home this time of year?

Spring in Texas. Photo credit: flickr.com/photos/bobrosenberg CC license 2.0

First, the wildflowers. The fields of bluebonnets that look like a sea of blue. The red paintbrushes (we always called them Indian Blankets). The pink buttercups. The list goes on. There’s nothing quite like a drive down a rural Texas highway in March and seeing the beautiful colors lining the roadways and dotting the pastures along the way. Our wildflower season at 10,500 feet above sea level is in late June and early July, so this trip in two weeks is going to be a real treat.

Secondly, and most importantly, I miss my mom’s lemon icebox pie. She always makes a double recipe for Easter Sunday. (Well, because we love it so much, she’s now starting making it at Christmas, Thanksgiving or anytime my son will be around! Spoiled kid.) I’ve tried making it up here a dozen times and it never tastes as good as hers. She uses the organic lemons that she and my dad grow there in Gonzales, Texas, which probably makes all the difference in the world.

I hope she doesn’t mind that I share her recipe below.

These things are seriously good. And since they are baked, I take it to mean I can eat the whole bag.

In other very exciting news, Blue Straggler is now on an Amazon.com bestseller list!  It hit the top 20 best sellers in ebooks/comic fiction on Friday. That meant, of course, that I celebrated all weekend. (Send vodka replenishment and those Snappea Crisp things.)

Mom’s Lemon Icebox Pie

  • 1 can sweetened condensed milk
  • 2 packages (8 oz.) cream cheese, softened to room temperature
  • 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice

Beat the above ingredients until smooth. Pour into a 9-inch graham cracker pie shell. Spread whipped topping (or make your own whipped cream!) over the top of the pie.

Chill in the refrigerator for at least three hours before serving.

If you want to read more of my writing, I send out the occasional newsletter. Sign up here:

Great Reviews and Book Tours Are Making Me Consider Spanx

Posted on by
5

Blue Straggler’s official release date last week was A-MAZING. I mean, we’re talking an all-out love fest! Readers were buying it, talking about it, posting reviews. (And not just my mom, either, for you cynics out there.)

The cake my husband and son brought home to celebrate launch day!

In fact, as of this writing, the novel has 38 reviews on Amazon.com and an average 5-star rating. Can I get a yeehaw? I’m just so grateful to everyone who has read the book and thought it worthy of a positive review.

I also am solidifying my book tour dates here in Colorado and back home in Texas. (There may be one in Seattle, too!) But I’m starting to get a little nervous. Why? Because I’ll be the center of attention at such events, I do not like being the center of attention at such events, and basically, doing a book tour is like combining five or six high school reunions and family weddings all in one month or so of happenings. But, no pressure or anything.

This is NOT me in Spanx.

Now, I’m usually a pretty laid-back person when it comes to my appearance. I am comfortable with who I am and have found, at age 42, that I can even like myself some days. (Those are still rare days, but they do occur.) I am the kind of person who would never in a million years consider wearing shapewear (i.e., Spanx®) because I prefer to be able to breathe in and out without pain.

But still. People will be LOOKING at me. Bleh!

So I thought I would let all of those people who will be attending a book tour event, and who haven’t seen me in 10 or more years, know a few things up front. I think it’ll be easier on us all to just get these things out in the open prior to the event, so we can move on to drinking wine and/or coffee.

  1. I will not be wearing Spanx, and I’m sorry for what that means for my side profile.
  2. I have grown some additional chins, and I’m afraid they are here to stay. They have names.
  3. The Colorado air is awesome, but very dry. This means that I will have more wrinkles than all you South/Central Texas byotches who don’t even have to moisturize because the humidity stays at 90 percent.
  4. I wear glasses now if I need to see anything in the distance, but I don’t like wearing them much. So if I’m not wearing my glasses, and you wave to me from across the room, do not take it personally when I do not wave back.
  5. For about a year now, I have been experiencing robust, random hot flashes. We’re talking the kind that makes me want to strip down to my underwear and sit on a block of ice in the shade. The hot flashes are made worse by things like wine, coffee, Colorado fireplaces and Texas heat. All of which I still love and enjoy. So be warned.
  6. My sense of fashion has not evolved since the last time you saw me and in some cases I may still be wearing the same pair of Justin boots I wore in 1998.
  7. I used to wear makeup like a good Texas girl, but now I’m more like a Colorado hippie. That means that what you once believed was my true complexion was probably wrong.

Well, there you go. It’s all out there now. I feel so much better. Do you?

Details are still being nailed down for many of my book tour dates, but I do have one that I can pass along! I’ll be in Bryan-College Station, Texas (Texas A&M graduates like me call that the Mecca) on Wednesday, March 28, from 5:30 to 7 p.m. at the Downtown Uncorked wine bar in Bryan. I’ll be signing and selling books and drinking large amounts of wine. Please join me and bring 100 of your closest friends!

If you want to read more of my writing, I send out the occasional newsletter. Sign up here:

Fly, Baby, Fly! Or, Blue Straggler Officially Released in Paperback

Posted on by
5

March 1 is finally here and my novel Blue Straggler has been officially released out into the wide, wide world in paperback.

The best indie publisher ever.

I am so thankful to 30 Day Books for taking a chance on my work and this story.

I am so thankful to all of my readers who have been encouraging me all these years (like … ummm … 10 or more).

I am so thankful to have friends who continue to pimp me out, I mean share information on my novel with everyone they know.

I am so thankful for the friends who are helping me set up signings and release parties and who have written just to say they are proud of me. I never get tired of hearing that.

I am so thankful for each and every review posted online (I’m up to 34 reviews on Amazon!)

And I am so thankful for my family who put up with this crazy dream of mine and never once told me it wouldn’t happen, even though they were probably getting kind of doubtful around the time I turned 40.

Yep, I am one thankful person today.

Now, I guess it’s time to sit back and see how my literary baby does out there in the broader universe.

Until the verdict is in, I say with fervor, “Cool Whip for all!”

(If you don’t get that reference, by the way, you’ll just have to read the book!)

If you want to read more of my writing, I send out the occasional newsletter. Sign up here:

A Land-locked Girl’s Memories of the Coast

Posted on by
7

This is the resort we stayed at in Cancun. Swanky!

My husband and I just got back from a few days in Cancun. (Note to Mom: We were not attacked by, nor did we see, one armed bandito, which was a little disappointing after all the hype.) We did manage, though, to successfully escape two snowstorms and windchills below zero here on the mountain.

Overall, it was a good time that included a large quantity of unlimited, top-shelf alcohol, some fun-loving friends and hours spent catching up on some great novels on my Kindle. (By the way, ever heard of a Tequila Boom-Boom shot? I have now. If I could go back and rewrite Blue Straggler, the main character Bailey would definitely be drinking those.)

Now, let me be clear: I am not a beach girl. I do not long to surf or own a long board. My skin’s typically so pale all I have to do is look at the ocean and I’m burned. I never, not once, wanted to be a mermaid. (I wanted legs, dammit!) I couldn’t sail a boat to save my life. I am not one of those women who look good in a bikini, tankini or ini of any kind. Sea water stings my eyes. I don’t particularly care for mold. I don’t like being shark bait. The constant sound of those waves gets to me after a while. And I will never, ever look good with that whole wind-blown hair thing. If given the choice, I would much rather be standing at the top of a 12,000 ft. peak than floating in any ocean, no matter how turquoise the water.

However, every now and then, I need the sea and a break from All Things Mountain. Plus, I do enjoy sea kayaking, snorkeling, building sand castles, shell hunting and a Jimmy Buffet song or two.

Colorado, of course, offers none of that. (Jimmy B., does come to town every five years to play huge stadium concerts, though. Land-locked parrot heads, rejoice!)

This is a lovely shot of Port Aransas, courtesy of Creative Commons/Flickr.

During my childhood in South Texas, we often headed to what we simply called “the coast.” Port Aransas, located on the Texas Gulf of Mexico, was only a few hours away from my  hometown, so my parents could drive us all down in our 1970s-era custom party van with the swivel seats and curtains in the back, spend the day on the beach, and drive back that evening.

I distinctly remember that every day trip to the coast involved a great deal of pre-weather anxiety for us kids: My parents would nix the trip if the forecast called for more than a 10 percent chance of rain. We’d all hover around the kitchen radio the evening before, listening to the local radio station, KCTI, for the latest.

More memory snapshots: Getting to buy a new beach towel at Kmart in Seguin every summer. Feeding large flocks of aggressive seagulls that would swoop down to take bread out of my hands. Floating on large black inner tubes (the kind we’d use to float in the Guadalupe River, too) out in the waves. Keeping constant watch for jellyfish, which were not only in the water but all along the beach. My mom looking so glamorous in her swimsuit and sunglasses. My dad drinking Pearl beerunder the blue tarp we’d put up for shade. Eating summer sausage and blocks of cheddar cheese and greasy bargain potato chips and drinking ice-cold Dr Pepper out of glass bottles from the well-stocked cooler. Being completely unaware of my body and how it might look to others, concentrating only on jumping into the big waves as they tumbled to shore. Feeling the strong undertow grab me and buckets of sand, drawing us quickly out into the surf. A sense of pseudo-panic when I’d take a momentary break from swimming and playing in the water to realize I had drifted so much that the blue tarp and the custom party van were becoming far too small in the distance. Resting on those plastic-tube folding lounge chairs with hinges that got more and more rusted each year. And of course, after we got back home, those large gobs of Noxzema cream we’d all have to apply to our beet-red, sunburned skin.

Remember these?

We may not have had perfect, white-sand beaches or round-the-clock waiters bringing us drinks called Purple Rain and Superman under the shade of coconut trees, or Elvis impersonators as the evening resort entertainment , but we did have fun back then. Too bad there won’t be time for a run to Port A when I’m in Texas in March for my book signing tour.

What are your favorite beach memories? Please share below! I’d love to hear about them.

Random Texas music note: The Court Yard Hounds, wrote and recorded a tribute song to the Texas coast. Listen to it here.

If you want to read more of my writing, I send out the occasional newsletter. Sign up here: