Truths By Ruth

Read an E-book Week

2012-03-05T17:00:00.002-08:00

Hear ye! Here ye!

The week of March 4-10 is read an E-book Week!

Here are two excellent selections, both available on Amazon for download to Kindle.

Soldiers From the Mist

SOLDIERS FROM THE MIST:

Three men--three promises. Two were broken, one should've been. Trapped for eternity because of these promises, the ghost of Charles Ely haunts the Ozark Hills serching for the fourth that will set him free.

The Rook and The Raven

THE ROOK AND THE RAVEN: *** also available from Barnes & Noble for The Nook
Love is a power unto itself and will not be denied. But is the love The Rook has for Raven strong enough to transcend dimensions or will it be forever lost between the shadows of time and space?

The Oneness

2012-03-03T10:29:00.001-08:00

My writing buddy, Jan Morrill, aka Gypsy/Samurai Jan, has written the next New York Times Best Seller and Tony Award winning play, Broken Dolls. Broken Dolls is a touching, powerful story about the treatment of Japanese/Americans during World War II told through the eyes of nine year old, Sachi Kimura. In the story, Sachi, her mother, and brother, Nobu are internees held at Rohwer, Arkansas.

In real life, George Takei (Mr. Sulu on Star Trek) was interned at Rowher.

George Takei

Universe works her magic in strange and mysterious ways. When Jan heard that Mr. Takei was performing with the Little Rock Symphony last weekend, she immediately took this as a sign to meet Mr. Takei and speak to him about Broken Dolls. She invited me to come along for the adventure.

Alas, even though George stood only three feet away of us, Jan wasn’t able to talk to him. But. Do not despair. Jan’s bold energy surrounded George Takei and set into motion a series of events that must manifest. It’s called the Law of Attraction. Only positive things will come from this back yard meeting.

Now for the rest of the story:

When I was in elementary school and junior high, I played the violin in the school’s orchestra. I was also a member of the Fayetteville High School A Cappella choir and performed in many concerts. I’m an actress as well. (Hard to believe I’m a drama queen, isn’t it?) I majored in drama at the University of Arkansas and acted in several school plays as well as the Rogers Little Theatre. It had been quite awhile however since I attended any kind of a performance and years since hearing a symphony.

I had forgotten the excitement.

I had forgotten the power of a collective consciousness.

Back stage at a play is chaos—makeup, costumes, runaway nerves, high energy straining at the reins to break loose and manifest. The heavy curtains shut the audience off from this corralled wildness. Everything seems calm out front but back stage actors run amok.

Until . . .

The director speaks.

The overture begins.

Actors settle. Calmness seeps through every pore and melts the panic. Magic happens. An unexplainable yet wonderful Oneness unites everyone into a collective consciousness aimed at giving the best performance possible.

Before a symphony, the Wood-Winds tune up, the Strings run scales, drums emit a low thunder, horns blare, the four-hundred person chorus files in, laughter, noise. Mass confusion reigns.

Until . . .

The Conductor steps onto the podium.

The silence is deafening.

Every eye is trained on one person. The baton he holds becomes a magic wand that unites hundreds of people into one collective consciousness working toward the same goal.

The result is overwhelming.

This Oneness happens in sports as well. Ever watch a football team warm up? Men running everywhere. No rhyme or reason to what they’re doing. Confusion.

Until . . .

The Quarterback brings them to the line of scrimmage.

The Oneness takes over.

The power of a collective consciousness is overwhelming. Think of the possibilities. If for one second, every mind united and concentrated all energy toward the same goal, sickness could be healed, famine destroyed, struggle and strife, gone. Peace and love would rule.

It would only take one second to change the world into paradise. One second!

Maybe that’s why plays, symphonies, sports, and the like attract so many people. Subconsciously we are looking for that director, quarterback, or conductor. After all, it’s only natural.

We were created by a supreme Oneness.

The Crazy Glue of Life

2012-02-19T09:58:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make: I want to fix things.

Not such things as broken clocks, flat tires, or mistakes in manuscripts. Nope, repairing these things would be easy compared to what I want to mend. I want to patch up broken hearts, renovate low self-esteem, refurbish the downtrodden, heal physical and mental sickness, glue the pieces of a broken world back—to put Humpty Dumpty together again.

Pretty tall order, isn’t it?

Fixing things is in my genes. Daddy was an electrician by trade. He fixed the dark. My brother, Wild Turkey Jim, is also an electrician and brings light into the world every day. He has the ability to repair almost anything that doesn’t work.

Mama could mend sadness with just a hug.

So, as you can see, my desire to repair humanity comes naturally. But, alas, I stink at it.

I don’t know how to make a broken heart whole again. Have no clue what magic words can make someone believe in themselves. I don’t have a witchy spell that will cure the insane. No secret formula for paste strong enough to bond the broken pieces of a shattered world together again.

Some philosophers would say it’s not my job, my responsibly to repair the world. That each individual must take responsibility for their own actions. These so called “wise men” argue that it’s taboo to interfere with another’s destiny, how else will mankind learn if someone else cleans up their messes? I agree. But . . .

It ain’t working!

This weekend I pondered a lot on this dilemma of how to fix the world and one word kept coming to me: friendship.

The power and gratitude for friends can mend a cracked heart, eliminate the feeling of worthlessness and plug the holes in our head.

Strong, sincere friendship is the crazy glue that holds us together with an impermeable seal.

I love and give thanks for my friends. Without them I would be lost. Joined together in previous life times or in only this one, they keep me sane with their honesty, non-judgmental ways, humor, wisdom, and downright silliness.

And that is how I plan to heal the world.

One good friend at a time.

The Sisterhood

I DARE YOU TO WISH APON A STAR

2012-02-05T17:27:00.000-08:00

Okay, it’s been awhile since I’ve ranted and raved, but something happened last week that I can’t get out of my head.

A writing colleague of mine read a story to my critique group, (The Northwest Arkansas Writer’s Workshop) titled, Butterfly and Frog. The story is an entry for “The Picture Book” category for the Oklahoma Writers Federation Inc. conference in May.

Of course it’s no surprise that this is a children’s story about the unlikely friendship of a butterfly and a frog that live together in a wonderful garden filled with flowers, a pond, and lily pads.

Brenda Black weaved a tale of beauty, the power of friendship, and the simplicity of life in 750 words. As she read, my mind’s eye could see little children wrapped in Sponge Bob Square Pants p.j’s snuggled deep in their beds while mom or dad sat beside them reading and turning the big pages of the book. Each page, painted in brilliant colors of the rainbow, told of the adventures of the unlikely friends. Each page drew the child into the Land of Nod and Make Believe.

I loved it.

Now, here’s the problem. While the members of the group loved the story, they didn’t believe. They couldn’t let themselves go, lose themselves in fantasy. They wanted the story to be logical.

What a shame.

I shook my head in pity and shot my mouth off about their lack of imagination, even called one guy Mr. Spock. I shouldn’t have been so harsh. The world in general has lost the innocence of childhood and the ability to dream. No wonder it’s in the shape that it is.

Does everything have to make sense? Where is trust? Faith? Tinker Bell and Peter Pan?

My new paramormal roamance, The Rook and the Raven is due to be released on February 8 from The Wild Rose Press. Here is what one review said:

If you let go of all ideas that are logical, and let yourself fall into this story, it
is truly beautiful. It’s interesting, funny and HOT. The Characters will make
you laughter, and bring you to tears. Beautiful fantasy story, just let yourself believe!

Notice the words, “if you let go of all ideas that are logical” and “just let yourself believe.”

In 2012 I challenge the Spocks of the world to let go. Dare the non-believers to take a leap of faith. I encourage all the Brenda Blacks and R.H.Burketts to keep on writing about butterflies, frogs, rooks, and ravens.

There’s a beautiful land waiting, “first star to the right and straight on till morning.” All you have to do is wish apon a star!"

The Legend of Dixie Dandelion

2012-01-27T18:24:00.000-08:00

My fire-fighting friend, Gypsy Jan posted this picture on her blog, (Jan Morrill's Thoughts Over Coffee. blogspot.com.) It was inspired from a real-life experience that hit close to home for Dixie.
Over 150 years ago, Dixie Dandelion fought a similar battle. Here is her story:

Fire!

The horses! Had to save the horses!

Without thought or hesitation, I ran toward the fledging flames, peeling off my buckskin jacket as I ran. The tanned leather wouldn’t catch fire, would be heavy enough to smother the embers. But the wind whipped the sparks into frenzy. Flames danced an evil, mocking tune. They licked my boots, pulled my pants leg, sneered and laughed at my desperation.

I flogged the beast with the coat. Frantic. The barn twisted and yelled for help in the grips of a violent death struggle. Oh, God! The horses! Slaughtered! Who would do such a thing?

Lips cracked from the heat, stealing my spit. Eyes blurred and burned from the smoke. All around me the smell of burning grass and wood. Unwillingly I drank the scent in, throat raspy and rough, coughed up black soot.

A shadow loomed beside me stomping at the flames. Who? Didn’t matter. Thank God I wasn’t alone.

Inky’s booming voice outshouted the roar of blood in my ears. “They’s free, Miss Dixie. They’s free.”

I heard the mares gallop past, the frightened whinnies of their colt’s right behind them. Safe. All safe.

The shadow grabbed my arm, pulled me away. No! I fought against his firm grasp. Had to save the barn!

“It’s too late, lassie.”

I struggled against Big Mike’s meaty arms when he pinned me against his big barrel chest. Tears sizzled on my cheeks. I cried at my helplessness to stop the snapping beast from devouring wood, nails, hay, and leather. One last death rattle and the barn’s scorched shoulders folded and collapsed to the dirt.

Dead.

Anger deep inside my belly hollered and fed unknown strength into exhausted muscle and bone. I ripped loose from Big Mike and stormed the cabin. My hands shook as I buckled the 45 around my waist and grabbed the rifle from above the fire place. Those son-of-a-bitches! I’d kill every one of them.

Big Mike caught my arm as I tore past.

“Ya can’t shoot them all, lassie. Let it go.”

I whirled and stared at his ruddy face.

“Let it go! Are you loco? They burned down my goddamn barn!”

“Let Jackson handle it lass. Don’t take the law into your own hands.”

“Jackson?” I sputtered. “Jackson?”

I kicked at him and screamed. “Jackson ain’t here, remember? He rode away. Just like he always does. Just like that day on the wagon train. Rode away and left me to fight off Whitaker. Alone. Always alone.”

“Dixie!”

And there he was. Bigger than life. Stepping down from his gallant black stallion like a knight returning from some far-off crusade. Long legs ate up the ground between us and he grabbed my forearms. My heart quickened as the look of worry and concern inched across his chiseled face.

“Damn it, woman!" He growled. “Just say the words!”

He dropped his arms. The heat from his stare withered my courage and my heart.

“I keep waiting, Dixie. But ya never say them. Ya never once just say, ‘Stay.’”

THE ROOK AND THE RAVEN----If you dare.

2012-01-15T15:50:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I showed a friend the cover of my paranormal romance, The Rook and the Raven due for release February 8, as an e-book by The Wild Rose Press. She took one look and said, “What is a Rook?”

"Who is the Rook," would be more correct. Never-the-less it was a good question.

The Rook and The Raven was my first attempt at writing a paranormal romance.

Vampires, ghosts, shape-shifters, zombies, etc, etc. while quite interesting are overdone and are becoming boring to my taste. I wanted a fresh idea. A new character. But who?

If you are a regular reader of my blog, (and I hope you are) you will know that inspiration for my stories and characters often come from my dreams. One particular dream sticks with me for a several reasons that I won’t go into. But it was from this dream The Rook was born.

Unique and exciting, Roark is unlike any character you have ever experienced before. Only the mysterious, witchy-haired Jamaican clairvoyant, Madame Katanga can give Raven insight into who this intriguing and powerful entity really is:

“You have something to ask Madame Katanga.”

Not a question, but a statement of fact.

I took a big gulp of air that tasted like grass and herbs and squirmed in my chair.

“Who is this Rook?

Bronze eye-shadowed lids closed, and she eased back into the chair’s fluffy cushions. A deep sigh shook her heavy bosom like jelly, and the bone-and-alligator tooth necklace resting on them rattled. She spoke a hypnotizing Jamaican melody. The room closed in around me, and I struggled for a deep breath.

“In the higher realm there be an army of guardians called Sentinels who protect all life and keep the universe in balance. The highest of these guardians be the Rook. Him is hand-picked by the Keeper of all-that-is.”

“You mean God?”

“No child. The Keeper, he not the Creator. Him be more like . . . hmm . . . Secretary of Defense. Only the most cunning and wise Sentinel can be the Keeper’s captain, the Rook.”

Do you have the nerve to experience an unknown character? If so, download The Rook and The Raven by R.H. Burkett available February 8^th, from the Wild Rose Press.

The Wild Rose Press named Best Publisher of the Year for the 4th year in a row by polling on Preditors & Editors.

Booger County Twilight Zone

2012-01-07T09:24:00.000-08:00

My writing sister and close freind, Jan Morrill challenges us every week to "show not tell" with a writing prompt on her blog, Jan Morrill's Thoughts Over Coffee. blogspot.com.. This week's test comes from this picture. Too long to put in the comments of her blog, my story is as follows:

Spooky that’s what it is. Down- right spooky.

I shouldn’t have stayed so long at the party.

Shouldn’t have drunk “just one more.” What did they care all safe and snug in the warmth of their beds? I’m the one that has to drive home in the wee, small hours of the morning—alone.

Damn trees, so friendly in the daylight, but in the dark—ominous, live spirits. Their naked bodies and skeleton arms reach out to catch the door handle of my weary yet spunky, baby-shit- green VW bug. Hit the gas! Ha! Missed me. Long, brittle fingers only rake the fender.

Heart pounding now, blood roaring in my ears, I check the rear-view mirror praying for pin pricks of light to appear, to reassure me I haven’t fallen into some scene straight out of the Twilight Zone. Home is only a few miles away. But the road stretches before me like a slimy, slippery black snake. Will it never end? Even the full moon is evil, hanging there in the inky sky—one giant orange eye keeping pace with me as I speed even faster down the serpentine road.

What’s that? High beams catch an iridescent glow and reflect back in a blinding, white light. A person? A deer? Big Foot ? All shimmering and silver the little figure glides toward me. Slam on the brakes! Screeching like a banshee from hell, smelling like black, hot tar they catch hold. The seat beat locks, snaps me flat against the faded, Tinker Bell seatcover.

The little grey stares. Huge, onyx eyes shine like glassy black orbs in the night.

A terrified heart hammers my ribs fighting to escape my heaving chest. Guts twist into knots. Sweat pops on my forehead.

A light so brilliant my eyes ache pierces the dark. An eighteen-wheeler! A blessed truck driver! I’m saved.

An eerie deathly- silent yet haunting hum. Then nothing!

Blackness surrounds me. No little gray man. Gone.

Reality or imagination?

Somewhere Rod Serling is laughing.

Interview with Claire Croxton

2012-01-04T17:12:00.000-08:00

Claire Croxton is a fresh new voice in the often predictable ho-hum world of romance writing. Witty, touching, and humorous, Claire’s first novel, Redneck Ex will be released January 20th from The Wild Rose Press. Place your order now on Amazon.com...

I’m proud to call Claire not only my partner in crime but in writing as well. The following interview is only the tip of the iceberg to this snarky, vivacious talented woman.

Move over Jodi Thomas, there’s a new girl in town:

1. How old were you when the writing bug bit and do you remember what your first story was? I think I was in the 2^nd or 3^rd grade. I remember writing stories in a spiral-bound notebook. I was mad at my mother for making me take clothes to the laundry room and I wrote a story about a girl who could make things happen by thinking them. With a blink of an eye, the clothes magically ended up in the washing machine. Another story was about pixies who lived under the piano bench. They would nip at my heels when I wasn’t taking practicing seriously. Unfortunately, those pixies didn’t exist and to this day my piano playing is abysmal.

2. What kind of writing do you do? I spent a great deal of my professional life as a grant writer/ administrator in Northern Alaska. I think I’m one of the few grant writers who has ever killed someone off for dramatic effect in a grant application. Yes, we got the funding. I really enjoyed the job and had several writing opportunities including the creation of beautiful, glossy funding reports and working with authors and artists on children’s books. Now, I write short stories, contemporary romance and women’s fiction. I love sitting in front of a blank screen and freeing my mind of all the clutter. There have been times when I look over what I’ve written and can’t believe I wrote it.

3. What are the proudest moments in your writing life? Writing “The End” on the first manuscript I wrote. Lordy. What a disaster that work was, but actually finishing it made me feel like a success.

4. What have you learned from writing your first book that will help the most in writing your second, third, fourth, etc., etc., etc.? I think the biggest lesson I learned is that in order to get your work published you have to know the genre you’re writing. That seems easy enough, right? No way. There are so many new authors who write their books and then try to find a genre to fit their stories. My first novel had it all: romance, domestic abuse, computer crimes, a serial killer and to top it all off, serpent handling followers of the signs. Talk about not being marketable! Every genre including erotica and fantasy has guidelines. You need to learn those and make sure your story follows them.

5. Your writing has been described as “snarky.” Can you explain what “snark” means for those who are insanely curious but afraid to ask? Snark is just a nice way of saying smartass. My mama wouldn’t allow me to use such unladylike language, so I had to call it something else. So, I settled on snark.

6. What is the best writing advice you’ve received to date and what advice would you give to a beginning writer? Fortunately, I found the NW Arkansas Writers Workshop and they helped me wade my way through the completion of my first epic novel. Dusty Richards told me to “just finish the damn book.” He taught me to write the story and then go back and edit it. Velda Brotherton taught me about sense of place and deep point of view (POV.) I think the most important thing for all writers, but especially beginning writers, is to find a trustworthy critique group—or at least a few friends who’ll honestly review your work. You need honest feedback. It can be devastating to hear someone talk about the major character flaws of your dashing hero, but if your reviewers question him, so will the agents, editors, publishers and readers.

http://www.clairecroxton.com/

“I found REDNECK EX by Claire Croxton a delightful read, full of humor, tenderness and passion. A HOT story in a cold climate.”
~Jodi Thomas, NY Times Bestselling author,
4 time RITA award winner, and member of the Romance Writer Hall of Fame

“A hilarious, but poignant story of love lost and found under unusual circumstances. With a slightly twisted sense of humor, Croxton is a writer whose work is bound to create its own niche in contemporary romance.”
~Velda Brotherton, author of Stone Heart’s Woman
~*~
“Claire Croxton is the queen of redneck romance. REDNECK EX is gonna grab you like a bulldog with a prize bone. You’ll laugh, cry and fall in love with the down-to-earth, big-hearted Summer Leigh.”
~Pamela Foster, author

2012--- WHAT DO YOU WANT?

2011-12-31T16:03:00.000-08:00

Okay, so here it is, New Year’s Eve. I’m spending it with a favorite friend of mine, Captain Morgan and waxing philosophical.

I’ve been fighting depression for weeks. I ask myself, why? I think I’ve figured it out. I’m tired of not getting what I want. Is that selfish? If so, then so be it, I’m selfish. Deal with it.

The key in getting what you want is to know exactly what you do want. This sounds simple enough. Right? However, you’d be amazed to find how difficult a question this is for people. They can tell you what they don’t want but stumble over what they do want. (I have to apologize for the Captain. He isn’t a writer and doesn’t give even one tiny Yo-ho-ho on how many words he repeats.)

Here’s an example of what I’m talking about: people say, “I don’t want to be poor.” Wrong! Say instead, “I want unlimited abundance to come to me in a very joyful way.” (You have to put that disclaimer in there, “in a very joyful way” because your favorite uncle might die in a car crash and even though you inherit all his money, you miss him something fierce. Thus the meaning of the old saying, “be careful what you wish for.”)

Another example: “I don’t want to be fat.” Wrong! “I want to be slim, trim, and healthy.” See where I’m going here?

Am I rambling? Sorry. It’s the damn Captain.

The thing is, I’ve been saying this mantra for years and my bank balance is still zip. The scale still moans when I step on it.

I’m tired of it, damn it!

I just can’t imagine that God created us to struggle so. Think about it. Why would He want His children to suffer? If He liked seeing this, then He wouldn’t be God, would He? (Captain Morgan is so logical.) God wants us to be happy! If you follow this reasoning, then another old saying, “you create your own reality” is absolute.

According to the Miyans’, 2012 is the end of the world. Good! I've had it with toiling from 8-5 in a dead-end, God awful boring job. Let it be the end of me worrying how I’m going to pay my bills. Instead of me always thinking about what I don’t want, I will focus all energy on what I do want. And, believe me I have a list a mile long.

Do you?

Ask yourself on January 1, 2012, "What do I want?"

Okay, that’s enough deep thinking.

Right now, I want another drink.

Happy 2012 everyone!

TOP THREE PICKS FOR AMAZON KINDLES

2011-12-24T16:48:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is Christmas and hundreds of people everywhere will receive their new Kindles from Amazon. Then what? What books do they download?

Here are my top three picks:

For the historical fiction/Civil War buffs, and paranormal fans: Soldiers From the Mist by me, Ruth Burkett Weeks is a must read. The Civil War is the backdrop for the story of three men and three promises—two were broken, one should’ve been. Trapped for eternity because of these promises, the ghost of Charles Ely haunts the Ozark Hills in search of the fourth promise that will set them free. Soldiers is two stories in one. It is the real life story about how the author communicated and worked with the ghost of Charles Ely in the telling of his story.

For all the women fiction lovers out there: Redneck Goddess by Pam Foster will leave you laughing all the way to New Year’s and beyond. Goddess is the story of a backwoods country girl (named after a candy bar) from Noisy Creek, Georgia and her hot Latino lover, Julio. Read about Goo-Goo’s struggle with her redneck family to accept her golden-skinned boyfriend while trying to win the Redneck Goddess Beauty Pageant.

Bayou Jesus by M.G. Miller is Southern Gothic at its best. Bayou Jesus dares to ask the question, “If Jesus returned as a black man in the Deep South during the Depression would mankind accept him for the King of Kings?” Dark and thought provoking, Bayou Jesus will haunt you long after the last page is turned.

Merry Christmas and Happy Reading!

"Does Father Still Beat You?"

2011-12-20T19:32:00.000-08:00

Peter’s eyes closed and his fists clenched.

“I’m a son of the South and she is a demanding mother. Even though sympathetic to the North, Mama Dixie will insist on my allegiance. I’m an officer and will be called to command. Mostly boys I fear. War always takes the young first. I’ll be responsible for their very lives.” His shoulders slumped.

“I fear the task is too great. How can I save them, Mother? It frightens me to my very core.

“Son.” Her voice came soft. “If war happens, you’ll not be responsible for it or over who lives or dies. That is God’s decision. Your compassion for your fellow man swells my heart with pride.”

He whirled.

“Compassionate? Do not think me so. If pushed. If threatened. I’m more than capable of violence. Hard and premeditated, if need be.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. At storm brewed and rain clouds ushered in not only a change in weather but in his attitude as well. The air crackled with tension and a dark, uneasiness swirled with the wind. Lightning flashed and so did his eyes.

“Does Father still beat you?”

Lieutenant Peter James Montgomery is a tortured man who drinks to forget a promise made in cold-blooded anger—a promise that should’ve been broken. Is the responsibility of Unit 547 his atonement or punishment?

Read Soldiers From the Mist and find out.

Soldiers From the Mist by Ruth Burkett Weeks

Available on Amazon Kindle. Download now!

Soldiers From the Mist

A Charlie Brown Christmas

2011-12-16T18:12:00.000-08:00

Madison's prompt for this week's Friday fiction made me sad.

“Christmas was your favorite time of year.

I hated the holiday. But not you. Every year you’d insist on putting up a damned tree. Had to be real. No artificial tree for you, no sir. I hated it. Pine needles littered the floor. Jim Cat climbed the branches, tipping it over. You’d laugh. Every year, The Christmas Story and It’s a Wonderful Life. Ebenezer had it right—bah humbug!

Strange how your grandfather clock stopped when you passed. Never had the heart to start it again. But I did put up a tree this year. Oh, I know, it’s sad looking and droopy, but then again, so am I. Next year will be better, I promise. But for now, it’s the best I can do.

Merry Christmas, Winnie, I miss you.”

KINDLIZED!!!! JUST IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS!

2011-12-16T16:35:00.000-08:00

Breaking News!!!!

Soldiers From the Mist is now available on Kindle. Just in time for Christmas!!!

Three men, three promises--two were broken, one should've been. Trapped for eternity because of these promises, the ghost of Charles Ely haunts the Ozark hills and serches for the one that will set them free.

Make your first download to that new Kindle Fire, Soldiers From the Mist by Ruth Burkett Weeks.

LIGHTS, MUSIC, & FOOEY THE SNAKE

2011-12-13T19:28:00.000-08:00

Sometimes simplicity is a soothing balm to the ragged heart:

Sunday night my brother, great-nephew, and niece honored a Burkett Christmas tradition—we loaded up the Tahoe and drove around the neighborhoods looking at Christmas lights.

My great-nephew is three years old and is smarter than all of us put together. No kidding, the little scamp can work his I-Pod like it was nothing. I don’t even know how to put my cell phone on vibrate.

As we drove to Fayetteville to marvel over the Lights of the Ozarks, I sat beside Logan in the back seat and laughed at his story about his imaginary friend, Josh, who lives far away at the WalMart in Springdale. On a roll, he then told me he worked at JB Hunt. When I told him I worked just down the street from him and that someday we should do lunch, his giggles melted my heart.

Lights of the Ozarks

Logan and Pa-Pa are great buddies. (Another thing that melts my heart.) Both share the love of music and lights. Rocking out to country-western songs like,”Going Out with My Boots On, and I Like to Move It, Move It”, Logan kept us in stitches and entertained.

On the way home, we honored another tradition—Pet Smart. Pa-Pa often takes Logan to Pet Smart to look at the fish, birds, cats, and snakes. Even though Logan informed me he doesn’t like snakes, he still insists on Pa-Pa lifting him up to gaze into the slimy, slithery snake cage. I asked him what the snake’s name was and without missing a beat he said, “Fooey.”

That Sunday the only thing we spent was time—golden time together doing something as simple as going to the pet shop.

So, if you find yourself depressed over this holiday season and struggling with the insanity of shopping, buying, paying-for, and dealing with Christmas crowds, I recommend taking time out and going to see the lights—or to Pet Smart to visit Fooey the Snake.

Coming January 20, 2012: THE REDNECK EX

2011-12-12T16:57:00.000-08:00

REDNECK EX

Summer Leigh is jolted back to the Ozarks from Alaska to help her coon-hunting, bull riding, ex-husband, Dwight. The last time she helped Dwight, he flicked her aside like an empty can of Skoal. What will she find this time? The man she fell in love with years ago and a second change for love and family or heartbreak and sorrow deep in the backwoods of the Ozark hills?

If you like good ol’ boys, wit, charm, snarky women, and rekindled love, The Redneck Ex by Claire Croxton is a must read.

Coming Januray 20,2012 from The Wild Rose Press: The Redneck Ex by Claire Croxton.

Confessions of a Closet Bacon Eater

2011-12-09T18:17:00.000-08:00

This week's flash fiction from Madison is very unique. I couldn't tell what her son was doing in the picture until I read her caption that he was frying bacon on a space heater. What kind of a story could I make up about this? Read on and find out.

Hello.

My name is Bob. And I’m a baconholic.

It started innocently enough— bacon and grape jelly on a toasted sandwich for breakfast. I know now Mom wasn’t to blame. She just wanted me to have something hot and filling in my stomach before going to school.

Next it was bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches for lunch. Then bacon cheeseburgers for supper. But I wasn’t worried. I could stop any time I wanted.

I knew I’d hit bottom when I started cooking bacon over my space heater. That’s when a friend of mine told me about Bacon Eaters Anonymous.

It won’t be easy giving up those crispy sizzling strips of pure pork fat. I’ll just have to take it one day at-a-time.

Jesus is coming! Christmas Day 2011

2011-12-04T07:27:00.000-08:00

Bayou Jesus:

One of the many things I like about belonging to the Northwest Arkansas Writers’ Workshop is that the group is comprised of a variety of writers working on different genres—from westerns to romance and everything in-between. I thought I’d heard of very type of novel out there until M.G. Miller returned to the fold.

M. G. (Mike) Miller is a Southern Gothic novelist and former fiction editor for a national horror magazine. What is Southern Gothic? In Miller’s case, it horror that chills your bones and curls your toenails—and his brand of Southern Gothic is not for the faint of heart.

Even though I talk a good game, basically I’m a big chicken so my taste doesn’t run toward the macabre but Miller’s God-given talent of weaving tales of shock and revulsion into works of pure genus made me a fan. Currently he is fine-tuning his new book, Murderous. I can’t wait to get to class to hear what despicable act his character, Caroline has done to her mother this week.

Because I’m addicted to Miller’s unique voice, I read one of his earlier novels, Bayou Jesus. OMG! I couldn’t put the book down and read it in one sitting. Bayou Jesus not only is a brilliant piece of writing but is also a book that conjures questions. Questions about faith, belief and man’s inhumanity to man. The novel dares ask the question, “If Jesus returned today in a different form or way other than the traditional Christian belief, would we accept or deny him?”

Personally, I think he’d be crucified all over again. The pharmaceutical and health insurance companies would have a stroke if Jesus walked in our midst healing the sick and raising the dead. The economy would collapse. And do you think the power of the almighty dollar would bow down to unconditional love and compassion? I wonder.

What if Jesus returned as a woman? Maybe that’s already happened. A viable argument could be made for Mother Theresa. She healed the sick and walked among lepers seeking no fortune or fame. Hmm . . . sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

If Jesus came back as a stringy-haired teenager with a nose ring and tattoos, would Christians think him the King of Kings?

What if Jesus returned as a poor black man born in the Deep South during The Great Depression. Would mankind accept him as their Savior?

Read the reissue of Bayou Jesus by M. G. Miller and find out. Available Christmas Day from Southern Exposures Press exclusively on Amazon Kindle.

Connect with M.G. Miller on line

Website: http://www.mgmillerbooks.com

Blog: http://www.mgmillerbooks.wordpress.com

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/m_g_miller

Facebook Author Page: M.G. Miller

Interview with JAN MORRILL: A real life Samurai Gypsy!

2011-11-20T08:48:00.000-08:00

I met Jan Morrill at the Northwest Arkansas Writers' Workshop. Week-after-week I'd sit in awe and listen to her short stories and say to myself, "One day I hope I can write as well as Jan."

Jan Morrill

Jan is an award winning author with short stories and memoir essays in several anthologies and Chicken Soup of the Soul series. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for her short story, Xs and Os. She is currently represented by Kathleen Anderson of Anderson Literary Management who is looking for a home for Jan's novel Broken Dolls.

But there is more to this beautiful, talented woman than what meets the eye.

Jan is a loyal, giving woman who gracefully glides through life trying to make the world a better place with her writing that is as elegant as she. I hope this interview will give you a deeper insight into the author I call Samurai Gypsy Jan and who I'm honored to have as a close friend.

Jan Morrill

1. I always wanted to write and wrote my first story when I was ten years old. How old were you when the writing bug bit and do you remember what your first story was?

I’ve always thought of stories in my head, but until high school, those stories came out as drawings and paintings, rather than in written form. I did keep journals from about 8th grade, but didn’t attempt fiction until I enrolled in a Creative Writing class in high school. That is when I was bitten by the writing bug, and the itch has never gone away.

It’s funny you should ask this question, because just the other day, I found a folder of stories I wrote in that Creative Writing class. I smiled—even laughed—as I read. Here’s the first sentence of one of my stories, titled “Judgement.” It was dated February 6, 1976:

Susan still couldn’t believe the sight of what she had just seen.

I’m serious. The only thing good I can say about that sentence is, I’ve come a long way.

2. Your first novel, Broken Dolls is a powerful story about the treatment of Japanese-
Americans during WWII told from the point of view of a little girl, Sachi. What inspired you to write this story? What message do you want the reader to carry with them long after they finish reading?

My mother and her family were Japanese-American internees during World War II. When I first began writing the book, it was a fictionalized account of her years, but the book grew into a completely different story and pulled in a new character, African-American teenager, Terrence. Broken Dolls is about how their lives become entwined with prejudice, revenge and forgiveness.

I hope readers see through the eyes of my characters--Sachi, Nobu and Terrence--the effect of prejudice and misunderstanding. They are all broken dolls, yet the story also shows how one can triumph, even in adversity.

3. All of us dream that our novels will be made into Oscar winning movies. Who would you like to see bring your Broken Dolls characters to life on the big screen?

You’re right – I have imagined the people I would like to portray my characters on the big screen. It helps to have a physical image in my mind as my characters tell me their story.

The main actor I must have in my movie is Ken Watanabe as Papa. In fact, Mr. Watanabe so perfectly captures my image of Papa that I re-wrote the role of Michio Kimura (Papa) so that Mr. Watanabe would have a bigger part in the movie one day.

I always imagined a younger version of actor, Terrence Howard as my character, Terrence Harris. You can probably tell this by the name I chose for my character. Terrence Howard has hazel eyes. It’s no coincidence that Terrence, my character, also has hazel eyes.

As for Sachi, I often imagine the little girl who played little Chiyo in Memoirs of a Geisha. But of course, she would be too old to play Sachi, who is eight years old at the beginning of Broken Dolls.

4. What is the best advice you’ve received to date on writing and what advice would you give a beginning writer?

One of the best books (on creativity) I’ve read is The Art of War, by Steven Pressfield. This book discusses resistance, which is the enemy of creativity. Pressfield says, “Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us. Between the two stands resistance.”

He goes on to discuss author, Somerset Maugham’s theory of resistance:

Maugham reckoned another, deeper truth: that by performing the mundane physical act of sitting down and starting to work, he sent in motion a mysterious but infallible sequence of events that would produce inspiration, as surely as if the goddess had synchronized her watch with his.”

This is just a fancy way of stating what we’ve all heard before. Just sit down and write!

Beyond that, the piece of advice I’d share with a beginning writer is to find a good critique group. It was only after I found the Northwest Arkansas Writers’ Workshop, led by Dusty Richards and Velda Brotherton, that I truly became serious about my writing. I’d go so far as to say if I hadn’t found this group, I probably would never have completed my book. They taught, encouraged and motivated me and I’ve grown ten-fold as a writer since joining the group approximately six years ago.

5. I call you Gypsy Jan because you’ve traveled the globe. Where are some of the places you’ve been? How has travel helped your writing experience?

I’ve been to more places than I ever imagined I’d ever go in my life, and I count my blessings for the experience. I’ve been to Japan, China, Russia, Italy, France, Turkey, Greece, Thailand, Brazil, Argentina, British Virgin Islands, Sweden, Norway, Finland, Croatia, Spain, Estonia, United Arab Emirates. Travel has opened my mind to wonder, because I’ve seen so many things that I don’t see in the United States—different cultures, different landscapes, different foods. I often watch a person and wonder how they became who they are. I wonder about their histories. “What if” is a very common question in my mind, both in and out of the country. I’ve written a couple of short stories based on my travels, and while in Thailand, I came up with an idea for a book down the road. First, though, I must finish the sequel to Broken Dolls, which is titled Broken Dreams. After that, I have in mind one more sequel, and possible a prequel. So, the Thailand inspiration is way down the road.

Thank you so much for the interview, Ruth. You asked some thought-provoking questions, and Question 4 in particular, gave me renewed motivation to “just sit down and write!”

Go to: http://www.jansthoughtsovercoffee.blogspot.com/ for book trailer to Broken Dolls and much more.

They Walk Faithfully By Our Side

2011-11-17T20:32:00.000-08:00

Of all the pictures Madison has given us for Friday Fiction this one hit home the strongest. It resurected memories of so long ago. I felt the leather reins in my hands. Heard the creak of saddle leather. And smelled that wonderful scent of horse. There are no words that can describe the relationship between a girl and her horse. Some think it silly, but all us cowgirls know it's the greatest love on earth. My story will not do justice to this picture. Never-the-less here it is, dedicated to Cowgirls everywhere and the horses that walk faithfully by our side.

I Knew

“No one thought you were born just for me. But I knew.

No one thought you were a wish come true. But I knew.

No one thought you’d amount to much. But I knew.

No one thought your strength would give me courage. But I knew.

No one thought you could change a shy little girl into a confident young woman. But I knew.

No one thought you’d share my dreams or hear my voice. But I knew.

No one thought you’d be my best friend forever. But I knew.

No one thought I could love you as much as I do. Even me.

But that’s ok.

You knew.”

Birth of the Ghost Flower

2011-11-11T18:44:00.000-08:00

Here is this week's Friday Fiction's picture. Madsion is challenging us but I love this story even if I say so myself:

The Ghost Flower

Birth of the Ghost Flower

Every one hundred years and only during a blue moon, the mysterious Dalfine joins with her lover, the golden-flamed griffin, Hector.

Hunted for her magic coat of rose petals and dove feathers, Dalfine found sanctuary in the nooks and crannies of Hector’s Shadow Mountain but at great sacrifice. Lonely and sad she’d cry silent tears and wish upon the stars for someone to love.

Longing for a soul-mate as well, Hector followed the trail of iced crystals only to find the beautiful Dalfine weeping by the water’s edge. Their souls merged as one.

The ghost flower was born.

And on the Seventh Day . . .

2011-11-04T16:32:00.000-07:00

It's a good thing that my friend and sister writer, Madison Woods started Friday Fictioneers. If it wasn't for her prompt pictures I wouldn't be writing anything. I try and think outside the box with the pictures she gives us each week and put a different twist on old titles and ideas.
Here is her picture for this week and my story:

And on the Seventh Day . . .

Theologinas believe on the seventh day God rested, however . . .

Old Man Winter argued that planet Earth would be greater protected if everything was frozen forever in time. No disease, no hunger, no strife--only iced beauty beyond compare.

God reasoned this new world was home to his greatest creation--Man. Without warmth and renewal Man would fall dorment and the evolution of the species would be doomed.

The Old Man refused to listen and turned a cold shoulder.

Not wanting to hurt the elderly man's feelings, God gave in and created four seasons: spring, summer, fall, and winter.

And so, on the seventh day the "Art of Compromise" was born.

BOOK SIGNING ****************

2011-11-03T16:31:00.000-07:00

Come join me and my sister author, Pam Foster for a book signing for my book, Soldiers From the Mist and her book, Redneck Goddess:

WHEN: Saturday, November 5th

WHERE: Ozark Natural Foods: Fayetteville, AR

TIME: 1:00

Pam and I will be doing readings from our books. Come join in the fun.

Soldiers From the Mist

Redneck Goddess

The Witch of Moon Hollow

2011-10-30T09:52:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow (actually at midnight tonight) Halloween begins. It’s the time of year when the veil between this world and the “other side” is the thinnest and therefore spirits and ghosts are able to communicate more effectively. Personally, I don’t have any trouble talking to spirits regardless of what date is on the calendar, but I love Halloween just the same. Why? The answer may surprise you: I really don’t know.

We didn’t celebrate Halloween that much when I was a kid due to location. We lived in the sticks (at that time) where houses weren’t close together. Children never came to our door trick or treating. Mama drove my brother and me into town if we wanted to go on the yearly candy fest. Then things got weird and razor blades in candy and apples started showing up. Mama put the hex on everything. But we always craved a pumpkin and put its candle-lit face on the front porch. I still do.

In High School drama class I played a lying possessed little brat in the play, The Crucial. I lived in Salem, Mass. for over five years, and walked in witchy energy every day, but it wasn’t until I moved back home to Arkansas that my interest in the paranormal started to grow.

I became a Tarot Card reader, a Ouija Board nut and loved things that went bump in the night. Then I matured. The Ouija Board is hidden deep in my closet never to be fooled with again, and I just as soon not meet anything that rattles around in the dark.

I still read the cards, however and love the ambience of the paranormal. I know I was a witch in a previous life and was murdered because of that. I believe in reincarnation, ghostly encounters, Big Foot, aliens, black cats, astral travel, Voo Doo, ESP, visions, basically all things paranormal. The “Truth is out There,” somewhere and someday I will learn all of it.

Another reason why I love Halloween is the weather. The air is crisp, the stars shine brighter, and the night is black as sin. Trees wear coats of yellow, red, and orange. Leaves jump from their branches and scurry across the yard. My blood sizzles. I feel alive. Everything feels Twilight Zone-ish. I like that.

About two years ago around Halloween, I had a wonderful dream about a witch. She stood in a clearing, wild wind whipped the trees, lightning bolts scarred the sky. She raised her arms to the night and conjured. Wow! I loved that dream. Actually, I don’t think it was a dream. It was me in a different time. That vision haunted me for months until I finally took the hint and wrote a short story about it.

The Witch of Moon Hollow has won first place awards and hopefully will continue to do. Here is just a taste:

A hooded figure stood tall in the middle of the clearing, arms raised high to the star-infested sky. I stood frozen to the spot.

Wind, crisp as a bite from a red, juicy apple, nipped my face and bent tree tops to the ground only to snap them back into place. Thunder cracked. The moon bobbed between the clouds like a silver cork in an inky ocean. Yellow lightning zigzagged to the ground and caught the figure’s face in its flash.

Morrigan!

Coal-black hair, loose and long, whipped about her face. Hairs on my arm stood straight up. Lightning tore the sky again. Her voice, clear and strong, cut through the night and rang like a crystal bell through the frosty air:

“I, Morrigan, Warrior Goddess, do hereby command and summon thee:

From the Sun, I take strength and stamina.

From the Moon, I take beauty and grace.

From the Wind, I take power and speed.”

She clapped her hands together three times. For a heart beat everything stood still.

Something came up behind me. Goose bumps crawled up my back like thousands of red ants. No way was I going to turn and look.

Happy Halloween to all that dare to dream and believe.

The Legend of Danny O'Shea

2011-10-29T09:07:00.000-07:00

Dyamite

Here is my flash fiction for this Friday.

The Legend of Danny O'Shea

Danny O’Shea loved his emerald-eyed Kathleen and promised her a land of milk and honey in the land of the Americas.

“The mountain seams are full of gold, Katie, my love,” he’d laugh low and musical. “One blast can change a poor potato farmer into a king.”

“Tis a grand dream.” Kathleen smiled. “And what is life without them? Go to America and claim ye fortune.”

“I’ll send for you my love.”

Danny O’Shea was never heard from again.

Some say his ghost haunts the hills still searching for the mother lode and golden dreams, that the sound of dynamite and laughter is carried on the wind.

But tis’ only legend.

Or is it?

Halloween by Pan Cat

2011-10-25T18:36:00.000-07:00

All year I gaze out into the starlit night, waiting . . . waiting.

Crisp air makes my blood boil and skin itch. My tail and whiskers twich. Restless, I pace from room to room on silent paws only to return to the window. “Is it time?” my emerald eyes ask.

She understands.
She sits beside me, her gentle hand stokes my slick coat. “Soon, Pan. Soon,” she promises.

The pumpkin is carved. The candles are lit. She strides toward me on pointy-toed boots, onyx skirts whisper with each step, black hat on her head, broom in hand.

The clock chimes midnight—the witching hour. The waiting is over. Time to fly.

She calls me to her side. Beside her I ride.

Pan Weeks

Halloween has begun.

All Hallow' s Eve by Ruth Weeks

REDNECK EX by CLAIRE CROXTON

2011-10-22T14:33:00.000-07:00

Do you like romance?
Do you like snark?
Are you looking for the next Jodi Thomas? Nora Roberts?
Then Redneck Ex is perfect for you.
Claire Croxton's new novel has it all: laughter, tears, snark, hot men, and wild sex.
Croxton's writing voice is a breath of fresh air that will leave you wanting more!

With one twang of a banjo string, Summer Leigh Johnson's tidy, organized life in Barrow, Alaska is jolted back to the Ozarks when her coon-hunting, tobacco-chewing, bull-riding, redneck ex-husband asks for her help. She has two options: turn her back on him like he did to her eleven years ago, or help. Burdened with the curse of every southern woman--What Would Mama Do?--she goes to his aid. And what does she find? The man she fell in love with all those years ago and a second chance at love and family. The last time she gave her heart to Dwight, he flicked it aside like an empty can of Skoal. This time he's cradling it as gently as he would a speckled pup. It will take a lot more than Dwight's southern charm and good looks to convince Summer to stay.

Coming January 20,2012 from The Wild Rose Press: Redneck Ex by Claire Croxton
for book trailer go to:www.youtube.com/watch?v=ImFfBlroGbE

Tripping the Circuit Breaker

2011-10-21T17:45:00.000-07:00

Here is the picture and my story for this Friday's flash fiction. It is the first thing that entered my mind when I saw the picture. I confess however, I had several Captain Morgan's!

It was one of those days—the cat yakked in my shoe, coffee overflowed the pot, work fornicated and multiplied before my eyes, the phone wouldn’t shut up! My brain smoked, dangerously close to overload.

That’s when the circuit breaker tripped—I lost my marbles.

“Lost-marble-syndrome” happens to me so regularly that I never panic. The little guys always roll home after a few moments of running amok. The pretty glass orbs show up in various places: my purse, coffee cup, even on the desk top right in front of me.

Contrary to popular belief, losing one’s marbles isn’t a bad thing. Just like circuit breakers in the home they trip-out for your protection.

Roll on, little marble. Roll on!

Do Not Weep for Me

2011-10-14T11:38:00.000-07:00

My writing friend, Madison Woods has started the "Friday Fictioneers". Each Friday she posts a picture on her blog and we write a flash fiction story (around 100 words) about it. http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/
Here is her picture for this Friday. And my story.

DO NOT WEEP FOR ME
I didn’t always look like this—sagging, aged, yellowed, and sad.

In my youth, I was wanted, needed in fact. The first purples and pinks in the swirling autumn skies signaled the arrival of dawn, of a new day fresh with knowledge.

Laughing children would run to my door. Excited to learn, they’d push their way into my one room; sit at wooden desks, surrounded in scent of quill, parchment, and caulk.The black board against my side offered up sums and letters. Primers in worn jackets whisked their young minds into a world of poetry and prose.

My time is over now. Obsolete. But do not weep for me.

My purpose is eternal.

Coming February 2012:The Rook and The Raven by R.H. Burkett

2011-10-10T17:26:00.000-07:00

The Rook and The Raven, my paranormal romance, will be released by The Wild Rose Press on February 8,2012 in e-book form.

Ancient law forbids the Rook from interfering with human destiny, but Roark defies all to rescue Raven from certain death. Now her soul is forever tied to his. In his heart, he knows she will never understand the bond they share or the constant longing to be together, yet he is helpless to sever the bond.

Raven discovers unbridled passion in the strength of Roark's embrace, even as she struggles to accept that she'll never live in his world or he in hers. Only when she uncovers Roark's God-given purpose as a Sentinel does she realize the torment she causes him with her possessiveness.

Love is a power unto itself, but is the love Roark has for Raven strong enough to transcend dimensions? Or will their love be forever lost between the shadows of time and space?

The Good Guys

2011-10-09T16:17:00.000-07:00

This weekend I did a lot of thinking about the “good guys.”

The good guys are easy to spot in the movies and TV. They’re the ones that wear white hats and save the day at the last possible moment. Men like NCIS Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Superman, and The Lone Ranger.

In the real world, however, the good guys aren’t so easy to spot. They don’t wear white Stetson’s, don’t have a cape and fly or strap six guns on their hips. So how do you recognize them? Easy.

The good guys are men who:

*Jump out of bed at 1:00 in the morning without complaining to change a flat tire.

*Kill spiders in the shower no matter how small or how big.

*Take their wives shopping all day then carry the grocery bags in the house.

*Respect women.

*Cherish their wives, kids, and relatives.

*Hold hands with their sufficient others.

*Mow the grass.

*Hold doors open.

*Take the car for an oil change.

*Place family above work.

Good guys come in a variety of shapes and sizes and have ordinary names such as: Jim, Greg, Dan, Ned, Kevin, Brian, and Neal.

And while it may be true that “good guys” finish last, they are number one in the hearts of the women they protect, support, and cherish.

Confessions of a secret shoe-box hoarder

2011-10-03T12:46:00.000-07:00

I have heard said that confession is good for the soul. If that be the case, my soul is about to whitewashed clean.

I’m on vacation this week. One of the things I decided to do while away from the 8-5 lunacy I call a job, is clean-out my closet. That in itself is insanity. I work all year for seven days off and I want to spend my precious free time cleaning closets? I’ve gone over the edge, people!

What I discovered this morning while knee-deep in clothes and shoes is that I’m only a few steps away from being a slob. I hate to admit this. It conjures such unsavory pictures: newspapers stacked to the ceiling, dishes in the sink, cups and plates hiding in the bathroom, laundry crawling out of the hamper trying to make its own way to the washing machine. I’m not really that bad even though my ex-husband would disagree. Maybe that’s why he’s my ex.

The problem is, I just can’t bring myself to throw things away. Take shoe-boxes for example.

On the floor in my closet I had ten empty shoe boxes. Ten! The shoes that came in them are gone, but I saved the boxes. My thinking is that I might need them to wrap Christmas presents in, or store stuff in. However some of those boxes had been there since I moved, five years ago. And can you believe it? I packed those bastards and moved them to my new place! Lord, God what is wrong with me?

Then there are gift bags. I love gift bags. Their colors are so pretty. The pictures that grace their papered frames of horses, kittens, witches, and wizards are works of art. How can I throw art away? Besides you never know when you might need a gift bag. They aren’t cheap, ya’ know. The bags are like the shoe boxes. I might them to wrap things in.

And the clothes!

I had a shirt that I bought in Jamaica over six years ago. It didn’t fit when I bought it. But it so pretty—dark blue with the moon, sun, and stars. Every witch needs a blouse like that, right? And some day I might be a size 6 again. So it hung in my closet next to the tan cowboy shirt with the fringe that is also too small. I did bite the bullet and throw the Jamaican voo-doo shirt away, but I kept the cowboy one. Because one can never have too many cowboy shirts and one day I might lose 60 pounds. Right? Hey, it could happen. And when it does, I will have a shirt that Buffalo Bill Cody would kill for.

I ended up with seven garbage bags full of clothes to give to the Salvation Army. The shoe boxes and old gift bags ended up in the dumpster. I can see the floor of my closet now. So what did I do to celebrate this cleansing?

I went shopping and bought more stuff!

Tomorrow I plan on cleaning out kitchen and desk drawers. Oh boy! I haven’t looked in them in five years. No telling what treasures I will find that need to be tucked away in some shoe box.

Damn!

I knew I shouldn’t have thrown those boxes away.

REDNECK GODDESS now available on Amazon.com

2011-10-02T14:28:00.000-07:00

“I slam the boot sideway, the pointy toe catching the gator behind one iridescent gold eye. The beast isn’t deterred, nor does he seem amused. He turns that flat head toward me. I have a fraction of a second, a lifetime, to think the hitting an alligator in the head with an ostrich skin cowboy boot will be my last stupid act on this earth.”

This excerpt is from Redneck Goddess written by a wonderful new author and friend, Pam Foster.

Redneck Goddess is about a Southern girl, (named after a candy bar) that has the nerve to fall in love with a hot Latino man from The Republic of Panama and bring him home to Noisy Creek, Georgia to met her family of backwood rednecks. From gators, bears, and The Redneck Goddess beauty pageant, this book will keep you laughing from beginning to end.

Redness Goddess is available on Amazon.com..

Buy it. Read it. Laugh!

We're caught in a trap!

2011-10-01T16:57:00.000-07:00

It has been quite awhile since my last rant but the time has come to ask: WHAT THE CAT FUR?

It all started five years ago.

When I moved to a rural area, I wasn’t able to get cable TV even though I was told I could. This lie started a round of arguments with COX cable. To make a long story short, and to put it mildly . . . they were rude. I swore I would never-ever go back to them even if they came to my front door and begged me—which was exactly what happen. However while installing the cable, the contractors cut my phone line. Not once, but twice. It doesn’t take much imagination to guess where I told them they could stick their precious cable.

I ordered DISH instead. My bill started out at $45. I really thought was too much to pay for the horse-racing channel, food channels (I don’t cook), home shopping channels (my money goes to pay the TV bill, I have none left over to buy needless crap), but that is what came with the package that had the channels I wanted.

OK. I have a problem with these “packages.” I think some half-ass executive sits up all night and thinks of ways to give a subscriber the channels they want BUT only with a bunch of crap they will never watch in a million years. However if we want to see the programs we like, we must agree to this insanity. Oh . . . the local channels are an additional cost. Why?

Ok. I suppress my urge to kill the installer and agree to this package just so I can watch eight hours of NCIS on Saturdays. Good thing I like Mark Harmon and I guess I can swing $45. a month.

BUT WAIT!

Because I occasionally like to watch TV in bed, I must pay an extra $7. for the privilege.

AND

Just in case something happens and I have to call a repair tech out, which costs over $100. just add $6. more for protection.

My $45. package has morphed into $58. plus tax resulting in a bill of $61.

Enough is enough.

I go on line and notice DISH has a package with all the channels I want for $29.95. Even when I add in the cost of the local channels this comes up to half of what I’m currently paying. Perfect.

I call DISH.

I get Anna in East Jesus on the phone who speaks some kind of language other than English. I think this is a plot as well. Get someone to help the customer that frustrates them so bad and they will hang up. Problem solved.

I tell Anna I want to downgrade to the $29.95 package advertised online. “That is only available to new customers” is her reply.

“What are you doing for the old customers,” is mine.

No comment. (no matter the language, zero is zero)

Anna and I try to communicate for a few more minutes until finally she finds a package for the “veteran customer” that works. I repeat the package back to her and what channels they include as well as the new price. Correct. Everything is cool. With a touch of a button, the new package goes straight to my receiver. HOWEVER, even though the changes are made right away, I still have to pay the old amount because it takes a month for billing to catch up.

Really?

I come home. Switch on the TV. I only get local channels.

I call DISH.

This time I get Tony in Mexico City.

Tony and I click. He understands my frustration when he tells me I have only the basic package that includes nothing. (another plot)

To make a long story short, Tony puts me back to the where I started from.

What the cat fur is wrong with this?????????????

Why do we put up with this insanity????????????

How do “they” get away with so much control???

When I was a kid, we had a TV with an antenna and a rotor. Got every channel we wanted and didn’t pay squat.

Just like ol’ dad said,

“Livin’ ain’t easy no more. There’s too many gadgets.”

The Gift

2011-09-30T16:44:00.000-07:00

The Rook comes with night.

Mysterious and dark he stands. Gold-tipped onyx wings catch the moon’s rays and dance across the water in ripples of mirrored silver. His scent of earth, wind, and fire swirls in the mist and draws me into outstretched arms. Lips press against lips and souls unite to soar between the shadows of time and space.

One moment there.

The next, gone.

Morning brings faded memories of his essence. Reality or only a dream?

But wait.

There. In the marbled stones. A feather. His gift. A promise.

With a wish, he will return.

Coming soon from The Wild Rose Press: The Rook and The Raven

What the cat fur happened?

2011-09-21T17:22:00.000-07:00

Instead of paying attention to the road on my way to work, I waxed philosophical today.

It was the deer’s fault.

When I dumped the trash this morning, I surprised a young doe. In wide-eyed wonder she studied me as I eased from the car and gently tossed the garbage bag into the steel container. Mesmerized by my voice that constantly assured her how pretty she was, the yearling stood silent as a statue. Only an occasional flicking of her ears betrayed her presence. Then, with a flick of her white tail, she whirled and floated through the woods on long, thin legs no bigger around than good-sized sticks.

While I stood there surrounded by trees and wild flowers, savoring the fresh woodsy scent and smiling at the crows calling out their greetings to the day, a question popped into my head: Why are the ones that do no harm always the victims of the ones that do?

The deer symbolizes gentleness and beauty. Bambi harms nothing except a few gardens here and there. Yet somewhere in the woods you can bet a yahoo with a deer rifle is waiting to blow him away for sport. This ignoramus is the same one that crosses the white line into the other lane to smash a turtle crossing the road.

Children. Pure innocence. How many suffer abuse and neglect at the hands of older and supposedly wiser adults? The same with the elderly?

If God created all and it behold it was very good, what the cat fur happened?

Of course there are those that would say, “The Devil made it so.” But if you go by the reasoning that God created all, then He made the devil and behold ol’ Scatch was very good. Right? If there was only good in the universe where did bad come from?

As I weaved in and out of traffic I wondered why God would put a Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden only to forbid Adam and Eve to eat the fruit. Isn’t that temptation? Why would God have the need to tempt anyone? Why did Cain kill Abel? Or was it the other way around? I never could get that straight. Did Abel have more toys than Cain? Did he slew him for greed and power? For money?

And what the cat fur is the deal with money? Who invented it? Did cavemen get tired of carrying around rocks so one day they up and decided to change to paper? Who determined the value of this paper? Who made up the rule, the more paper you have, the richer you are? Why can’t we just trade? You have something I need, and I have something you need. Just trade. No buying. No selling. We all know the old saying, “money is the root of all evil.” But a friend of mine once said, “It isn’t money that is evil, it’s what you decide to do with it that is.”

Okay, now we’re back to the good and bad thing. Some would argue man has free will and that’s what messed everything up. Here again, if God made everything it stands to reason he created free will. Why give man a tool to use against good?

It just don’t make sense!

Needless to say, when I got into work, I was in a snit. It took until the afternoon to snap out of my funk. I don’t have the answers to any of these questions, which I suppose is one reason why they bother me so. But I’ll keep on wondering and asking. Keep on trying to make sense of this crazy world we live in. But until then, I agree with The Carpenters:

“Bless the beasts and the children, for in this world they make no war”

NEITHER RAIN, SLEET OR SNOW

2011-09-18T11:33:00.000-07:00

I am quickly learning that the term, “struggling writer” means more about what happens when an author has published a book than before. Promoting is a challenge. Published authors are like mailmen/women—we hawk our books in the rain, sleet, snow, dead of night and heat of day.

This weekend my friend, Big Foot Pam, and I went to The Not So Square Arts Festival in Mt Vernon, Mo. to promote and sell my book, Soldiers From the Mist, and Pam’s book, The Redneck Goddess. This little adventure taught me two things:

One: Pay attention to your instincts. (Both my gut and Pam’s told us the weather wouldn’t cooperate and we should stay home)

Two: Pay attention to number ONE.

Saturday morning I got up at the ungodly hour of 5:00 to get ready to meet Big Foot Pam at 6:30. Getting up that early on the weekend is against my religion, but I was going to sell all my books so missing a few hours of sleep would be worth it. Right?

Mt Vernon is a cute little town. Their big stone courthouse stands in the middle of the square and a stature of Lady Justice watched vendors and artists set up for the day. Pam and I were sharing a table that thankfully she brought as there were none supplied. The space we are assigned was about the size of a shoe box. Authors love to talk and are a friendly bunch which is a good thing because we were practically sitting in each other laps. We were under an awning however which was a good thing because it when the rain hit we were more protected than others. Thunder rumbled, clouds swirled, a cool breeze whipped around the square. I laughed and told Pam that we were probably under a tornado warning.

But hope sprang eternal.

All of us huddled together and assured ourselves that the storm would blow over, the sun would shine and people would come.

At noon, the sun was still MIA. Pam and I were wet and cold. No people. No sales.

We came home.

BUT . . .

I had fun.

Big Foot Pam is witty and funny. Or fellow authors were friendly and entertaining.

I am a writer. A published author.

One day promoting my book is better than a hundred days sitting at home watching TV.

Even if it means standing in the rain.

THE CREEPING

2011-09-07T18:46:00.000-07:00

Like fine lines around the mouth and eyes, the Creeping appears gradually—one day, nothing, the next mysteriously there.

The wind signals its arrival and whispers its coming through branches and leaves. The hazy film of heat and humidity yields to its presence and fades into memory.

The mornings dawn bright, crisp.

Dusk falls cool and crystal clear.

The Creeping carries the scent of fresh wood and evergreen. Lingers on the tongue.

T-shirts give way to sweat-shirts. Shorts to jeans. Tennis shoes for sandals.

The Creeping invites its friends: football, apple cider, Halloween, and Jack Frost to travel by its side.

Days are shorter. Daylight savings times begins.

Mother Nature paints her leaves bright orange, brilliant red, and striking yellow in celebration.

The Creeping has arrived.

Fall is here.

Listen to the Mockingbird

2011-08-28T08:40:00.000-07:00

“It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird,” Attics Finch told his daughter, Scout.

This sentence revolved around in my head the other day when I was at lunch. I often sit in my car at noon (when it isn’t 110 in the shade) to read and take to a break from the 8-5 insanity that my financial circumstances demand I put up with, at least for the time being.

On this particular day the sun was shining, a light breeze blew the wonderful scent of freshly cut grass through my open car window, and a mockingbird was going ape in the tree behind me.

This official bird of Arkansas sang, and sang, and sang. At times his voice trilled up and down the scale only to dip into a musical tune whistled with such richness and vigor it was a wonder his little throat didn’t burst.

When he got tired of singing, he’d launch into imitations of “here kitty, kitty.” (I swear it sounded just like that.) And, he’d whistle for the horses the way I did when I called my million dollar horse to me.

Mockingbirds are very territorial especially if they have a nest near by. My brother got attacked one summer by an overprotective mama mockingbird. I thought it quite funny when she pecked him on the head, but Jim failed to see the humor in it. And you’re dead meat if you’re a cat taking 40 winks under the bushes where there is a nest. Mama and Daddy mockingbird will take turns diving bombing Morris until he gives up and finds another spot for his catnap.

But for the most part Mockingbirds are content to sit on a guide wire, a telephone pole, or a tree branch and sing their little hearts out because they are happy.

I’ve never heard an unhappy bird. Have you?

When lunch hour was over, I stood at my car door, looked up at the little songbird that had given me an hour long concert free of charge, and said out loud, “Thank you.”

As I walked across the lot to the side door, I gave thanks for many things: Thank you God for creating birds and their songs, thank you for giving me ears to hear them with and eyes to see them. Thank you for the trees they sit and live in.

When five o’clock finally rolled around and I was free at last, I walked to my car and laughed. Mr. Mockingbird was still at it: singing his merry tunes and calling the kitty-cats. I wondered how long he could sing without going hoarse.

Do birds loose their voices?

Something on my windshield caught my attention—a feather—a gray and white feather. A gift of gratitude from a bird whose only purpose in life is to bring sweet music into the world.

The feather is in my office—a reminder to stop and smell the roses, feel the wind on my face, listen to the simple song of the birds—to chill out.

Thank you God for the Mockingbird.

COMING SOON FROM THE WILD ROSE PRESS

2011-08-23T18:39:00.000-07:00

As a writer I am often asked how I come up with ideas for a story.

Ideas can spring from anywhere: the grocery story, Wal-Mart, work, school, but my idea for The Rook and the Raven came from a dream.

When I decided that I wanted to write a paranormal romance for The Wild Rose Press, I first went to their website (TheWildRosePress.com) and looked at the guidelines for their Faery Rose line. The hero “should be sensual, who knows what he wants and goes after the leading lady.” Okay. I can handle that. But what kind of hero should I have?

I didn’t want the usual cast of characters: vampires, werewolves, or ghosts. Ho-hum. Boring. My supernatural hero had to be brand new. But who or what?

Then I remembered a dream I had years ago.

On my quest to become more spiritual I went to many meetings that offered guided meditations to find your spirit guide. I desperately wanted to know my guide’s name and what he looked like. While I sat ramrod straight, feet on the floor, eyes closed, and listened to the speaker walk us through grassy meadows, crystal clear lakes, into caves and to infinity and beyond, I waited for my guardian to appear.

He never did.

After months of these meetings and failed meditations, I quit searching for my guides. I knew I had them. They were always there when I needed them. Humans put too much importance on a name and shape anyway. Don’t get me wrong. A lot of people find their guides in this way. It just didn’t work for me. I think I was trying too hard.

A few years later, my guide came to me in a dream.

He was worth the wait.

He wore a black trench coat with a high collar. His entourage followed a few steps behind him. I didn’t know guides had a staff of assistants. It quickly dawned on me that this guide was El Supremo.

He looked like Orlando Bloom in Pirates of the Caribbean.

Now, while I liked Orlando in Pirates, Johnny Depp was the bad boy that made my heart race. Elizabeth could have Will. Give me Jack Sparrow. With that being said, I wouldn’t kick Will out of bed for eating crackers. So having a guide that looked like Orlando Bloom was pretty cool.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the dream, but the thing I remember so vividly was how it ended.

Orlando Bloom Guide wrapped his trench coat around his wide shoulders, and with a look of intense remorse he told me he must go. He was needed in a different time and space.

I felt his sadness and loneness when he disappeared into the mist.

I’ve never dreamed of him sense.

He would be my hero. (Picture Hugh Jackman in Van Heilsing with silver eyes and wings and you got The Rook.)

And because my guide protects not only me, but tons of others in this vast universe, I wanted to come up with a name never heard before. My fingers typed, The Rook.

A rook is also called a castle. A castle protects. Perfect.

I’ve always liked the name Raven so my leading lady became, Raven.

And that is how I came up with the idea for The Rook and the Raven.

The Rook is the highest Sentinel; created for the sole purpose of protecting all life in the universe. He is immortal. Invisible. And because I like bad boys, he’s a rebel.

“Disobeying the ancient law that forbids The Rook from interfering with destiny, Roark rescues young Raven from certain death, forever tying her mortal soul to his.”

Love is a power unto itself and will not be denied. But is the love The Rook has for Raven strong enough to transcend dimensions or will it be forever lost between the shadows of time and space?”

I AM A ROSE

2011-08-13T14:26:00.000-07:00

Being the deep philosophical thinker that I am, I often ponder the role Fate plays in our lives. Case in point:

A year ago I attended the annual Ozark Creative Writers conference in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. OCW puts on a wonderful three day meeting that brings together agents, publishers, authors, and editors from around the country. Last year the co-owner of The Wild Rose Press, Rhonda Penders, was a guest speaker.

The Wild Rose Press—“Where romance blooms,”—is a small electronic and print publisher of romance. I never considered writing romance even though it’s the biggest selling genre out there but Rhonda’s witty presentation and bubbly personality pulled me to her like a magnet.

Down-to-earth, humorous and very approachable, Rhonda encouraged all writers to speak and ask questions regardless of the genre they wrote.

“I’m here for three days.” She laughed. “Use me.”

Even though I didn’t have a novel, short story, poem, or even a sentence to pitch, I made an appointment to speak with her anyway.

Fate stepped in.

We briefly spoke about my writing when the topic of the Crescent Hotel came up. The Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs is nationally known for the ghosts that call it home. I have experienced ghostly encounters there and I recounted them to Rhonda who listened to each word with chill bumps racing up and down her arms. By the time our ten minutes were over, a bond of friendship had developed between her and me.

Last May I had the pleasure of seeing Rhonda again at the Oklahoma Writers Federation conference in Oklahoma City. While I listened to her presentation, I came to a decision.

I wanted to be a member of the rose garden.

Wild Rose Press has subtitles named after different types of roses that a short story or novel can be submitted to: American, Black, Cactus, Champagne, and Faery to name just a few. (Go to their website: The Wild Rose Press.com for more info) Faery Rose is for paranormal romance and a perfect fit for me.

I left the conference with a story forming in my mind. Of course a romance wouldn’t be worth its salt unless it has a love scene between the pages. Quite a challenge for me to write. However, a case of coke and a fifth of Jack Daniels later, I had written not one, but two spicy encounters between my immortal hero The Rook and his mortal love interest, Raven.

I submitted the story.

Last Monday, The Wild Rose Press offered me a contact.

I am proud to say that I am now an official rose.

Fate caused my path to cross with Rhonda’s. Why? So I could become a romance writer? Perhaps, but . . .

I gained a friend that until that autumn day in the small town of Eureka Springs I never knew existed. Where that friendship will lead us is unknown. Why the bond developed in the first place is unknown. Is there a bigger reason other than mere friendship looming out there in space somewhere? Who knows?

But that's what I like about Fate.

No reason is ever necessary.

YOU ARE INVITED . . .

2011-07-23T11:02:00.000-07:00

Come join me and six additional local authors for a book signing.

Where: Innisfree Senior Living Community, 24^th & Walnut, Rogers, AR

Time: Saturday, July 30, at 2:00

Authors presenting will be:

Linda Apple

Linda Apple: Linda is an inspirational writer and speaker and the Chicken Soup of the Soul queen. She has short stories in thirthteen editions and just like the Energizer Bunny, she’s still going. Linda will be speaking on writing for Chicken Soup plus her book, Inspire. Witty, humorous and always a gracious Southern lady, Linda is a valuable friend and a wonderful author/ speaker.

Velda Brotherton

Velda Brotherton: Velda can write it all from fiction, non-fiction, newspaper articles to cookbooks. She is bringing four of her books: Arkansas Meals & Memories, Boston Mountains, Lost in the Ozarks, her Willa award winning novel, Fly with the Mourning Dove, and Wandering Through Time. Velda is a perfect example of it’s never too late to learn. She recently branched out into E-books and will be speaking on that adventure as well.

Pam Jones

Pam Jones: Pam, aka Bigfoot Pam, is a new author whose book, Redness Goddess, was released from HighHill Press only this month. Goddess is billed as a “Southern charmer, you just can’t put down.” She will be reading from her book, and just like the billing, Pam will charm you with her soft, southern voice and wonderful sense of humor.

Jan Morrill

Jan Morrill: Jan is my writing buddy who I nick-named Gypsy Jan as she and her husband are always galloping off to visit other counties, and Samurai Jan because of her passion and fierce commitment to excellent writing. Jan recently signed with an agent/editor and is busy fine-tuning her novel, Broken Dolls. Always elegant and graceful, Jan will be sharing her computer expertise on creating short stores from Smash Words.

Barbara McMinn

Barbara McMinn: Barbara is from Miami, Oklahoma and drives 90 miles every week to our writing/critique group. Now, that’s commitment! Barb is a mystery/romance author and will be bringing three of her books: The Seduction of Janey, Out of the Darkness, and Forbidden Desire.

Dusty Richards

Dusty Richards: Recently voted the “Greatest Living Western Writer”, and with over 104 published western novels under his belt buckle, Dusty will delight you with his cowboy, good ol’ boy down home humor and stories. His Wrangler Award winning novel, The Sundown Chaser will be available for sale as well as many more of his novels.

Ruth Burkett Weeks

Ruth Burkett Weeks: My novel, Soldiers From the Mist was released in March of this year from HighHill Press out of St Charles, MO. I will be speaking on the unique way this story came to me by the ghost that haunts my house. I will also be the foreman for this signing and of this wild bunch so anything can and probably will happen!

Innisfree Senior Living Community is a bright and cheery home to over 100 residents who are humorous, charming, and young at heart. Come join us for a fun, entertaining afternoon with fun, entertaining people.

Sit back, relax in the cool dining room of Innisfree, sip lemonade, eat a cookie and BUY A BOOK!

"TO BOLDLY GO WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE"

2011-07-09T10:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I stood in the break room at work and watched the space shuttle Atlantis escape Earth’s gravity and soar into the final frontier for the last time. Arms folded over my chest, I secretly crossed my fingers and said a silent prayer:

“Please God, protect them. Give Mission Control the wisdom to abort the flight even if the smallest of details don’t look right. Angels, surround the shuttle and her crew and fly with them to their destination and bring them home safety again.”

Chill bumps popped and tears stung my eyes as I counted down . . . 4-3-2-1 . . . we have ignition, we have lift off.”

When I was a little girl, daddy and I would go outside every night and watch for the satellite “Echo” to cross the skies. He pointed out the Big Dipper and told me how to find the North Star. We would ponder life on other planets and look at the moon knowing, some day Man would go there.

I was a Girl Scout counselor the summer Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. Twenty-five counselors crammed into a tiny staff house and watched the miracle on a 19 inch black and white TV. Afterwards, I stood outside the cabin and stared at that big yellow orb hanging in the inky sky and willed myself to see the astronauts and their moon rover.

In the 1990’s I lived in Galveston, Texas. Houston was just a hop, skip, and a jump away and so was NASA. When Daddy came to visit, NASA was our first destination. We saw the Mercury space capsule that Allen Shepherd rode in and wondered how a man could fit in that small of space. Daddy said Shepherd was the first man selected to go into space because he had the least fear. I don’t know if that is true or not, however, I could well imagine how his heart must have been pounding.

The Gemini capsules were fascinating. Again, we marveled at how small an area two astronauts had worked side by side in. The moon rover looked silly and out of place in the NASA auditorium, but the little dune buggy had gotten the job done. Daddy and I thought the space shuttle amazing. It took so much power and energy to get that thing launched and yet it was just a simple gilder plane when it came home to land.

Mother Earth

I remember Apollo 13’s trouble and how the world held its breath waiting and praying for those three men to come back to Earth safe and sound. And they did. Why? Because in that brief moment in time, Mankind banded together and put all their energy and concentration into getting them back. “Failure is not an option,” the head of Mission Control had said.

The power of a collective consciousness is astounding.

I feel sad that the shuttle missions are ending however; I know that man will continue to visit the vast black beyond. Challenger and Atlantis are just stepping stones to bigger and better space crafts. Worm holes will be found and the speed of light will be conquered by warp drive.

Kirk & Spock

Personally, I have no desire to travel into space. I don’t have the guts. Unless, of course, I could be on the Enterprise with Kirk and Spock.

Daddy, on the other hand, would’ve loved to have been a "rocket man."

God bless and Godspeed Atlantis.

Rodeo of the Ozarks--- A million dollar memory

2011-07-01T19:36:00.000-07:00

Joe Horse

I think my love affair with horses began when I was in the womb.

While pregnant with my brother and me, Mama rode my oldest brother’s horse, Joe. She wasn’t a big horsewoman or had dreams of being a cowgirl, she just loved Joe.

Grandma (her mother) was a different story. Grandma loved horses and rode every chance she got. I remember her telling me that Great Grandma always insisted she be a lady and ride side-saddle. When Grandma rode into town for the mail, she’d ride from home side-saddle but when out of sight of the house, she’d dismount, take the saddle off, hide it in the bushes, then ride bareback into the post office. Of course she’d saddle up again before reaching home.

Grandma

My Uncle Jimmy (Daddy’s brother) was a horse trainer. His horse was a huge American Saddle bred named Beauty.

So you see, horses are in my genes.

Uncle Jimmy & Beauty

As a child, I was obsessed with horses. Drove Mama and Daddy crazy. More than once the neighbors would telephone Daddy and laugh. “Elmer, that daughter of yours is riding my horses again.” The solution to my catching and riding the neighbor’s horses was simple: Let me have one of my own!

Grandma understood my horse infatuation and made sure I would have the money to buy my magnificent steed one day by bequeathing me two, $100. Savings bonds.

King

I was thirteen when Daddy gave in and let me buy a sorrell gelding named King. Daddy called King a million dollar horse because I wouldn’t have taken a million dollars for him.

Of course, I wanted to ride Million Dollar King in the biggest, bestest rodeo parade of all: The Rodeo of the Ozarks.

I remember the summer of 1965 as one of my greatest. Uncle Jimmy and Uncle Clayton (the other horse trainer in the family) came all the way from Marysville, Kansas to spend Fourth of July with us and see me ride in the parade.

We went to the rodeo all four nights.

That year the main attraction was a genuine Indian Princess and her white horse. The Princess, complete with a huge headdress of feathers, would walk to the far end of the arena. Her wild horse would run from his end to meet her and she’d leap onto his back and ride without using a bridle or a saddle. The high point of her act was when she jumped her pure-white stallion over a red convertible parked in the middle of the arena. Wow! The sight of his snowy mane and tail flowing in the wind when that horse flew over that car gave me chill bumps. Dreamed about it for months.

The Rodeo of the Ozarks parade started at the rodeo grounds in Springdale and went straight down Emma Street. I was decked out in my long sleeve Northwest Arkansas Riding Club shirt, jeans, and cowboy hat. Never mind that is was hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk, I was just too cool looking to worry about the heat.

King strutted his best.

Red silky neck arched. Flaxen flowing tail held high. That million dollar gelding pranced and danced all the way down Emma and would’ve passed everyone and every horse if not for the tight rein I had on him.

My life long dream was over in an hour.

Loading King into the trailer, getting him to the rodeo grounds, loading him back, and getting him home took longer.

Poor Daddy. He had to do everything but ride the horse for me.

He did so without complaining.

Because that’s what daddies of cowgirls do.

That night my uncles, my brother and me, Mama and Daddy ate homemade peach ice-cream on the porch. The full moon lit the sky, the stars glowed like diamond points, the whippoorwills called, and the night creatures sang their best medleys.

It just doesn’t get any better than that.

King got apples and carrots for a midnight snack for being such a champ.

I’ve gone back to the Rodeo since then but it was never the same as that great summer of 1965.

However, no matter the year, you can bet that somewhere in those bleachers, a little girl breaks out into a sweat when the rodeo queen gallops past.

And dreams of the day when daddy takes his million dollar daughter and her million dollar horse to the rodeo parade.

A young Dixie Dandelion and King

Eureka in Eureka!

2011-06-29T18:09:00.000-07:00

BigFoot Pam, Dixie Ruth, Doc Ned, Alaska Patty

Last weekend (June 25-26th) I had a book signing at the Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

Three of my writing buds went me and together we traded the blahs of every day life for the healing magic of the Springs. Not only was this a much needed "get-a-way-from-reality" weekend, it was also a time to celebrate:

Ruth Burkett Weeks

I had a book signing for Soldiers From the Mist.

Alaksa Patty signed a contract with Wild Rose Press for not one, but TWO romance novels due to be released in November, Santorini Sunset and Redneck Ex.

Big Foot Pam's new novel, Redneck Goddess,has been released from HighHill Press and the next book signing will be her's.

Gypsy Jan signed with an agent and it's only a matter of time before her novel, Broken Dolls finds a home.

Doc Ned headed over to the Springs on Sunday to lend his advise and experitse.

Gyspy Jan and Alaska Patty

Alas, we didn't see any ghosts at the famous haunted hotel probably because we laughed so hard we scared them!However,the siging was very successful. Thanks to Linda Clark and her staff for their help, and to the owner, Jean for her support.

Something wonderful happened last weekend in that small town nestled in the Ozark hills. Nerves calmed. Time disappeared. Food and drink flowed. And laughter, lots and lots of laughter rejuvenated us all.

Too much excitement for Jasper Cat

Never under-estimate good friends and good laughter, for that is the true magic in life!

Crystal Dining Room Crescent Hotel

SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY!

2011-06-11T08:40:00.000-07:00

COME ONE, COME ALL TO MY BOOK SIGNING

When: SUNDAY, JUNE 26, 2011

Where: THE CRESCENT HOTEL Eureka Springs, Arkansas

TIME: 2:00-4:00

I am so excited to announce this book signing.

The Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas is one of my favorite haunts. (get it—haunt?) The Hotel is nationally known for the ghosts that live there and who interact with the staff and patrons.

In my book, Soldiers From the Mist, an actual happening occurred at the Crescent that I included in the novel as one of the Whisperings entries. AND guess when that occurred? Yep, you got it, on the exact weekend that my book signing is scheduled!

THERE ARE NO SUCH THINGS AS COINCIDENCES!!!!

So, drive over to the Crescent and join me for what I know will be a fun afternoon. Every one will be there including Charlie, Jesse, Emmie, and all the gang. The hotel is beautiful in the spring and summer and on Sunday mornings they serve a buffet in the Crystal Dining room that is to die for. (Ooops bad choice of words).

Be there or be square!

Tarot 101

2011-06-08T18:39:00.000-07:00

I realize it’s been awhile since I’ve made a blog entry. I apologize. I’d like to say I’ve been swamped with book signings and writing conferences, but the plain truth is I’ve had the blahs.

You know the blahs otherwise known as the blues. Or depression. All of us get this way from time-to-time. My blahs, however, are stubborn and don’t seem to want to move out which is ironic because I have no idea when they moved in. Just woke up one morning and bang! Blah.

First, I blamed the weather.

I hate winter. The cold. The ice. The snow. I crave sunshine. Then, the monsoons hit. Water, water every where. And wind! Living in a mobile home with tornadoes lurking about is not a comfortable feeling. I prayed to every thing and every one who wore a halo and had wings. But now, even though it went straight from winter into summer, the weather isn’t a problem.

Oh, I thought about mopping the floors, doing the laundry and the dishes. For Pete’s sake, I have a dishwasher. I needed to write, write, and write. But, today is Tuesday and NCIS is on TV.

This has got to stop!

I decided to consult the Tarot cards to see what the cat fur was going on.

Tarot cards have been around since the beginning of time. Playing cards are modeled after them which reminds me of a funny story: I went to a “reader” in a nearby town with a friend of mine. The reader was supposed to be excellent. She read modern day playing cards instead of the Tarot and informed me quite rudely that she didn’t believe in the Tarot. Well, duh! Where did she think the idea of playing cards came from?

But I digress.

There are 78 cards in the Tarot deck. They are divided into two separate units, the Major Arcana and the Minor Arcana that explain in more detail what the Major guys are up to. They have four suits, just like a deck cards which corresponds to the four elements: Swords (air), Pentacles (earth), Wands (Fire) and Cups, (water.) The deck also contains Kings, Queens, and Knights.

There are hundreds of different decks of Tarot cards on the market. I collected them until I got too many, then I gave them away. Giving a Tarot deck to someone is good mojo. I read the Ryder-Waite deck.

Some readers advise to put your energy on the cards before starting to read. An excellent way to do this is to sleep with them under your pillow. I confess, I did that. Did it work? Couldn’t say. But I do think of my Tarot deck as an old friend.

A good, honest, sincere reader will tell you, any one can read the cards. There is no mystery to unlocking their meaning. Yes, there are guidelines that help, but basically just look at the cards and determine what the pictures mean to you. This explains why one card can mean one thing to a one reader and the same card can mean something else to different reader. It doesn’t matter as long as those readers interpret the card the same way every time.

Also, contrary to popular belief, the cards do not foretell the future! No one can predict the future because of a little thing called free will. However, the cards can point out happenings that may occur. A co-worker told me of a reading he received which said he was going to die in a car accident on a certain date. He was scared too death and wanted to know what to do. First, the cards very, very rarely pin point an exact time. Second, don’t drive that day! Stay home!

Duh. It isn’t rocket science, people!

I read the Tarot at various psychic fairs and at parties and for personal clients, but I stopped because most people hear but don’t listen. (Don’t get me started on this.) They twisted the cards to fit their preconceived plan and didn’t listen to what I said. One client wanted to know what his future wife would look like: her weight, hair color, eye color, job, where she lived, how many brothers and sisters she had, etc, etc.. I finally referred him to someone else. True, the cards can determine hair color and eye color but nothing is written in stone. If I told him she would be a red head with green eyes Mrs. Right with blonde hair and blue eyes could pass him on the street.

The Death card gets a bad wrap in the deck. Very, very rarely does it mean physical death. It is rebirth. Much like a flower dies in the winter but is reborn in the summer. But, no one listens to that when I slap the Death card down. So, I pulled the Death from my deck. I have one that means physical death, but I don’t tell the client which one. I also have a cards for yes, no, and maybe.

Oh, and while I’m at it. Some consider the Tarot as devil worship. For those of you that know me, do I look evil? And, if you ever receive a reading that scares the liver plumb out of you, don’t pay attention to it. An honest, sincere reader leaves the client with hope regardless of the situation.

All of this is a round-about-way to getting to the cards I pulled to explain why I have the blahs.

I drew two major arcana cards: Judgment and The Wheel of Fortune.

Judgment can mean procrastination. Oh gee, that fits to a T.

The Wheel of Fortune means the beginning of a new cycle. Progress. Advancement. Improvement.

So what does that mean?

Get off my lazy butt and do something constructive!

True friends always tell the truth no matter how ugly.

BEWARE!

2011-05-23T16:23:00.000-07:00

Temper Tantrum

A frown creases Mother Nature’s face.

Features darken and clouds start to race.

Puke green skies spew dime-sized hail.

Lightning slashes the ozone with a scratch of her fingernail.

Thunder rumbles from the kicking of her feet.

Rain flattens the grass like a wet, cotton sheet.

Soft breezes harden into mighty winds that blow.

The Lady’s fixing to put-on one hell of a show.

The Doppler sings out, tornadoes are near.

People, like ants, scurry underground out of caution and fear.

An eerie silence hangs heavy in the electric-charged air.

Curses are thrown. But is that really fair?

Man rips her crust and slaughters her trees.

Birds lose their homes and are forced to flee.

Gooey, black oil poisons her water,

Smothering the fish, the duck, and the otter.

Her anger and sorrow are justified.

For a Mother must grieve for the children that died.

How much more must she endure

Before Man wakes up and initiates a cure?

It was only a temper tantrum she threw today.

But beware; tomorrow there could be hell to pay.

Time is Realitive

2011-05-13T17:29:00.000-07:00

"Down the hall and to the right."

As I sat in my little cube at work this week, I couldn’t help but think about time.

The old saying, “time flies when you’re having fun,” is an absolute truth. Eight hours at work drag. The same eight hours spent at a writing conference, whizzes by like a freight train.

Last Thursday, Friday, and Saturday (May 5-6) I attended the Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc., aka OWFI, annual writing conference in Oklahoma City. It was the first year I attended as previous years the date fell on the end of the month and I couldn’t go because of work. (The only excuse for missing the end of the month at my job is death, and even then a death certificate would probably be asked for.)

I was the chairperson in charge of registration this year which sounded scary as over 400 people usually attend the conference, but as usual, I worried about nothing. It was a blast! Every one was friendly, joyful, and polite. I had excellent help at the front desk and we got people in and out slick as greased owl shi . . . uh . . . well you know.

Time flew.

New author: Ruth Burkett Weeks

All week I lived in the past: “This time last Friday night I was at a banquet watching my name and picture flash on the big screen for new, published authors.

Last Saturday afternoon, I was at an autograph party signing copies of my book.

This time last Saturday I was at an awards banquet, eating steak, drinking rum, and accepting awards.

Eat, Drink, and be Merry!

“This time last week” was my mantra all week long.

Soldiers From the Mist by Ruth Burkett Weeks

Gurus say it isn’t healthy living in the past; we should live in the moment instead. Yeah, maybe, but sometimes the past is the only thing that makes the present bearable.

First Place, First Honorable Mention, Second Honorable Mention

Arkansas Ridge Writers Rule

Dixie Turns 30+

2011-04-25T18:25:00.000-07:00

Dixie Dandelion is not only a rootin’, tootin’ cowgirl, but a Taurus as well. Born on April 25^th , Dixie is down to earth, sometimes dramatic, always charismatic, solid, a tad nuts, loyal, compassionate, and spontaneous.

In honor of Dixie’s 30+ birthday, the Dandelion gang threw her a birthday party complete with a dandelion cake, fuzzy navels, and . . . rifle shooting!

Every cowgirl and cowboy worth their salt has a trusted, loyal sidekick. The Lone Ranger had Tonto. The Cisco Kid had Poncho. Roy had Dale. Marshall Dillon had Chester and Festus, and so on so on. So, it is only fitting that Dixie has a sidekick as well. In this case, however, Dixie has more than one: Deadeye Morrill, Bigfoot Pam, Doc Ned, Booger County Patty, The Duke, Kim, and many more.

The point being, Dixie would be nothing without her gang.

Thanks Dandelion Gang for a great 30+ birthday!