Friday, May 27, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Kristopher Miller review of The Search: Lunis Flower of Hidden
Monday, April 18, 2011
Price Slashed on The Search: Lunis Flower of Hidden
I have drastically reduced the price of The Search: Lunis Flower of Hidden. This is to allow for the lack of paper on my end. It is in ePub for readers. Check for you particular reader to make sure it uses this format.
If you are using a computer and do not have a reader, scroll down on the buy page and download the Adobe Digital option.
Thank you and enjoy this modern day spiritual fantasy inspired by Psalm 23.
If you are using a computer and do not have a reader, scroll down on the buy page and download the Adobe Digital option.
Thank you and enjoy this modern day spiritual fantasy inspired by Psalm 23.
Friday, April 01, 2011
The Search: Lunis Flower of Hidden (Chapter 1)
*NewChapter 1: The Inn
Sheridan woke up alongside a country road where a thick late afternoon fog forced her off the highway the evening before. The unseasonable blinding whiteness was eerie, but not unheard of in Nebraska.
She had been on her way to Omaha for a book signing to promote her first book Living Bedouin.
She wiped the sleep from her eyes. Every muscle seemed stiff and sore. Even with her slight five-foot-four inch frame, curling up in the back seat of her minivan made her feel cramped like a pretzel.
She’d dreamed, but couldn’t remember what she’d dreamed. Peeling her sticky, thick tongue from the roof of her mouth made the icky taste even more like rotten food. She fished through her bag for a bottle of water. Finding it, she swished some around in her mouth then opened the window to spit.
The map showed that she must be within fifty miles of Lincoln. The fog had not lifted. In fact, it was probably denser than the night before. She checked for a signal on her phone again, but she was in a dead zone and even the GPS wouldn’t target her position. She would have to call Michael once she was back on Interstate 80.
She smiled at the thought of Michael. After three years of mourning the death of her husband, Mark, she was finally dating again.
For over a month now, Sheridan had toured Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa and Missouri promoting and doing book signings. Along the way, she stopped in small towns and found church groups and other small town meetings. She set a goal of writing a book about the local communities, from the history of their founders, to the present day remnants of those roots.
The people were hospitable and their community strength often centered on church and family. The differences that seeped into their present day were the unique ancestral histories. With more research, most of which she could do from home, she would have enough material for another book.
Sheridan loved her position with the university, and probably published enough to keep her on faculty. However, she found she enjoyed the writing and particularly the research much more than teaching. Field research was the most fun.
The glaze of fixed concentration cleared from her mind and she could see the fog lifting. Looking forward she saw a sign that said, “Hidden ½ mile.” The sign made her laugh, “Oh why not” she said aloud. It would probably take about a day to research one more town and it might put a nice ending to the new book.
First, Sheridan made a three point turn on the narrow road and pointed her car back toward I-80. The fog bank was still dense in that direction which was disconcerting. She inched slowly forward and soon felt completely lost. Her sense of direction in the fog was
non-existent. With trepidation, she repeated her three-point turn back toward the signpost and found she had not moved much at all, and the fog had dissipated in front of her. She looked behind her into an opaque white curtain. A shiver ran down her back as she drove into the small town of Hidden.
She pulled up in front of an ageless Victorian mansion. The huge double doors were wide enough for three or four men side by side to walk through. She stepped out of the car onto a wooden sidewalk. There was a sign at the corner that read simply ‘Street.’ She stood back and looked at it again trying to find the outline of faded letters or numbers in front of the word. There weren’t any. There really was not much room for anything but the word “Street.”
Oh, she thought, this town is going to be very interesting. She took a slow three hundred sixty degree turn and saw it was the only visible street. She wasn’t sure if there were any alleys, although she did see footpaths. She looked down and noticed she was standing in the middle of the street. “Hmm, guess I twirled.” She giggled.
Sheridan turned her attention back toward the Inn. From her new vantage point, she could see the long wings spreading from each side of the central section. The well-maintained, ancient building loomed imposing over the street.
Standing in front of the great walnut doors, she noticed the left door had a large bronze knocker shaped like a flower that was obviously out of some artist’s abstract mind. The other door boasted a matching bronze plaque, “Hide Inn: Come on In.” She ran her finger over the bronze flower and was shocked that it seemed softer than most bronzes. It was like bronzed baby shoes. She could feel the feathery shape of the petals and even striations of a feather. The grouping of petals was not unlike a lily. The abstract rendition reminded her of a painting she had in her living room of a rose bud in a vase that upon second look was a woman’s hand.
The stem of the bronze flower made up the knocker and clanged like a heavy weight against its back-plate. Sheridan jumped in shock as she heard the noise reverberate through the interior of the great building.
As she waited, Sheridan looked across and down the street noting all the buildings were limestone. Limestone quarries dotted the plains so it wasn’t surprising. What did puzzle her was that the buildings were all the same square design. Except, she noticed, the one across the street that was obviously a church of some kind. It had a sign standing in the yard with the words Angel Choir Chapel. The Chapel boasted a bell tower, but no visible doors
She suddenly realized there wasn’t another soul visible. Maybe she was too early and they were all still preparing for the day. She sniffed the air. It was clean, like after a rain. No, it was cleaner. There were no farm smells, no alfalfa, animal feces, or fuel odors. She slapped the back of her hand when she felt a sting and thought comically that they must have forgotten to remove the insects.
A feeling of deep calm washed over her. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want to question it.
She stretched her arms out and took a deep breath of the fresh air. The feeling of relaxation continued down her entire body as she continued to breathe the crispness deep into her lungs. Then she tensed as she noticed something else in the air.
Sheridan felt goose bumps rise on her arms as she noticed a faint, melody. It had been there unnoticed since her arrival. It was like having the radio in her car on very low and suddenly noticing the music.
The sounds were the most beautiful harmony of voices she’d ever heard. It came from inside the Chapel across the street. It was like a combination of halleluiahs, with an undertone of humming. Her heart lifted and warmth washed through her body. She wanted to go find the singer’s but turned when she heard a movement behind her.
Methuselah opened the door of the Inn. The short, odd, little man looked like he bore the wisdom of the nearly 1000-year-old man from the Biblical comparison. Each crater-like wrinkle seemed to disappear when his smiled. “Good morning young lady. Me thinks you have a problem with reading.” His gravely, hoarse voice belied the youthful agility he displayed with a funny little jump and kick that reminded her of a leprechaun. He pointed to the sign on the door.
“I’m sorry sir, I couldn’t resist the knocker. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“He’s a curious flower, he is for sure.” His phrasing was so quaint she would have to make note of it to use in her book.
His face furrowed with deep wrinkles. His thick, wavy, gray hair nicely trimmed with a full, well-trimmed beard. The old man was somewhat stooped, but she noticed he stood erect very easily. She enjoyed his theatrics, but wondered just how much she could trust the old guy. She tried to gauge his height compared to her five foot four inch length, and she guessed him to be a few inches taller. His smile was playful. The Innkeeper didn’t seem to fit the majestic feel of the Inn.
“Well I can see you are going to be an interesting guest.”
“Excuse me?”
As he motioned her through the door, he enlightened her. “I’ve learned two things about you already. You don’t follow instructions and you can’t fight temptation.” His smile grew from ear to ear with a sense of self-satisfaction.
As he lifted his left hand to welcome her inside, she noticed it was a child-sized hand. It looked smooth and soft. His right hand was a man’s hand, rough and calloused from hard work.
“I see you’ve discovered my gifted hands.” He held them both up.
“You sir, are a wonder.” Sheridan smiled as he was chuckling to himself.
He led Sheridan to a large bureau made of cherry wood in a foyer at the end of a long, wide corridor. She noticed doors to rooms off both sides of the passageway. One door was open revealing an office. She imagined the other doors were equally as utilitarian, except one labeled in great polished brass lettering: SHEPHERD’S CLOSET.
Once they entered the foyer, their voices echoed and Sheridan looked up to see all the way to the top of the three-story building with grand staircases curving up to each wing from the base. She felt that she must try to sketch it, however rough her talent.
As she stood at the bureau pulling out her credit card, the old man slapped a ledger on its top.
He turned the book in her direction and glanced at the card. “Take things for granted too I see. You don’t pay until you leave. The amount of your stay depends on what you do with your time here.”
“What does that mean? Do I have to clean the Inn or help paint the church?” The sarcasm seemed lost on the host. Fatigue overruled by humor. She was no longer enjoying the cat and mouse game.
“Nope, Sheridan Easterly,” was all he said. His eyes twinkled like a child playing gotcha with his mother. She could see the game was still on.
Sheridan looked down at the ledger. It lay open to a clean page. It looked brand new, as did the pen that lay on top of it. The pen was a quill and the bottle of ink sat on the desktop next to the ledger along with a clean cloth for letting the excess ink drip before signing. “It fits,” she said. “It looks perfect for the Inn. Now, I understand the lack of plastic.” She chuckled as she signed her name in the style of a calligrapher, which was odd because she didn’t remember ever studying the art.
He grabbed her bag and waved his arm like a scoop signaling her to a grand staircase. “Practical woman, you travel light.”
Nothing much escapes you does it.” Sheridan was getting weary of his banter.
“That’s why they call me Catch.”
Sheridan sighed. “I’ve traveled a lot. The road tends to teach you a few lessons. Catch, is that what you want me to call you.”
“Everybody calls me Catch.”
“Catch” She repeated.
“Did you know that your name, Sheridan, means to search? Are you a searcher, Sheridan?”
He carried her luggage up an ornate staircase. “Yes, I do know what my name means. But, how did you know my name? You called me by my name before I even signed your ledger.”
He pointed to an identity tag on her luggage.
“Oh, that works too.” A deep yawn escaped her as he opened the door to her room. “Excuse me. I guess I’m more tired than I thought.” Sheridan noticed symbols on a wall plaque beside the door. “What is this all about?” Sheridan pointed to the plaque. “It looks like some kind of ancient, symbolic script.”
She traced the symbols lightly with her fingers. The contrast of stiff, dry balsa wood against the smooth, polished wood of the door jam oddly seemed to fit. The symbols seemed familiar. “Hmm,” She became the scientist again. She remembered why she took the detour to Hidden. “These symbols look like an ancient lost language. I’ve seen something like them somewhere.”
“Well, it probably is authentic then.” Catch opened the door.
Sheridan peered into her room and gasped
The contrast overwhelmed her. The new Early American style furnishings of the suite took her by surprise. The bathroom door stood open revealing all the gadgets of the most elegant hotels. She stood in front of the bathroom door and saw a walk in tiled shower, a large vanity complete with ornate mirror, built in hair dryer and plush rug. The bathtub was large enough for two with body massaging jets. “Wow, this is something that I plan to take advantage of right away.” She turned and smiled back at Catch. There were even bottles of her favorite brands of shampoo, lavender soaps, and candles setting on top of the marble counter.
The old man smiled, “Ye didn’t think we were all backward did ye?” Catch seemed to have an endless repertoire of wisecracks to suit his chosen persona. He even added a hitch in his get-a-long to go with the old hillbilly.
Catch deposited her luggage on a bench in a spacious closet. Looking around the room, she noticed a large portrait of the same odd flower as on the doorknocker. The room was like a dream from her youth. The color scheme and design of the room were in her favorite colors and styles.
Thinking of finally getting a chance to call Michael, she noticed there was no phone, television, or even a radio.
“Mr. Catch, I was hoping for a telephone to call my friend in Lincoln. I don’t see any in the room.”
“No need to be so formal, just call me Catch.” He drew in a breath. “We live simple here. We don’t use phones, cars, or any of the things that make the world move too fast.”
“Don’t you have a telephone downstairs for emergencies?”
“I’m afraid it isn’t working, and I don’t know when it’ll be fixed. We have an old two-way radio. I’ll see if we can get that to work.” Catch replied. “You should get some rest and something to eat. You aren’t expected today are you?”
“No, not particularly, my friend is used to me not checking in for a day or two. This isn’t the first spot I’ve been in where I couldn’t get a signal.”
Catch started to leave the room then looked back. “You are here because you are supposed to be here.” He said almost in a whisper as he started out the door.
“What an odd thing to say.” Sheridan thought his statement sounded sinister.
“Enjoy your room, you will find everything you need.”
“Wait, don’t I get a key?”
“No need for them around here.” The old man turned his back to her and continued on his way. He obviously was not going to explain his odd statement.
Sheridan was alone in a lavish room, decorated as if they decorated it exclusively for her, and it puzzled her. She made a deep sigh and looked around the room.
A bath sent warm relaxation through her body. The water gently rolled over each part as she twisted and nearly swam in luxury. Stepping out on the rug her feet sank so deep her foot tops tickled by the deep threads. In the closet, a robe of pink silk slid over her body like a caress.
Sheridan forgot her fears, her anger, her frustration and fell into that welcome calm she’d felt when she first arrived.
The flower portrait on the wall detailed more of the subject. The leaves were heart shaped with red veins. The petals were feathery and white. The artist had painted a yellow-gold stamen as if it shown like burnished gold. She was curious about the designer who could have dreamed up such a beautiful theme for the Hide Inn. Without thinking, Sheridan found herself sniffing at the painting as if she’d inhale the fragrance of the flower.
She pulled her laptop out of her tote and filled two pages of her journal. Tonight she didn’t bother journaling her usual daily report. Tonight Sheridan talked to Michael though her journal, which he would never read. Knowing he was totally innocent of her journal content she allowed herself to admit her feelings for him went beyond friendship. She asked him if they could go beyond the Dean of Sciences and Anthropology instructor friends who go to dinner and a movie once a week. Their occasional lazy Sunday afternoon strolls through on of the many Lincoln parks.
She wrote how she was over her pining for a long dead husband. The explosion took more than her soul mate; it robbed her of the child she’d carried. She would never have a child of her own. Her fingers started shaking and missing keys as she spilled her feelings and doubts about Michael coping with her inability to make him a father. She typed questions to herself answering for him one way, then another. She coached both herself and Michael to move forward.
Was she making an argument to help convince Michael, or was she rationalizing her desires? She didn’t know, but it was all coming out as she tapped the keys missing some and making more typos the more frustrated she felt.
She loved Michael and she knew he loved her. Their love was companionable rather than electric, but just as heart felt and deep. She continued to journal thus until her eyes drooped.
She deleted her entry as she’d intended from the onset. Then she did her usual daily log entry before sliding between the silk sheets.
Sheridan woke up alongside a country road where a thick late afternoon fog forced her off the highway the evening before. The unseasonable blinding whiteness was eerie, but not unheard of in Nebraska.
She had been on her way to Omaha for a book signing to promote her first book Living Bedouin.
She wiped the sleep from her eyes. Every muscle seemed stiff and sore. Even with her slight five-foot-four inch frame, curling up in the back seat of her minivan made her feel cramped like a pretzel.
She’d dreamed, but couldn’t remember what she’d dreamed. Peeling her sticky, thick tongue from the roof of her mouth made the icky taste even more like rotten food. She fished through her bag for a bottle of water. Finding it, she swished some around in her mouth then opened the window to spit.
The map showed that she must be within fifty miles of Lincoln. The fog had not lifted. In fact, it was probably denser than the night before. She checked for a signal on her phone again, but she was in a dead zone and even the GPS wouldn’t target her position. She would have to call Michael once she was back on Interstate 80.
She smiled at the thought of Michael. After three years of mourning the death of her husband, Mark, she was finally dating again.
For over a month now, Sheridan had toured Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa and Missouri promoting and doing book signings. Along the way, she stopped in small towns and found church groups and other small town meetings. She set a goal of writing a book about the local communities, from the history of their founders, to the present day remnants of those roots.
The people were hospitable and their community strength often centered on church and family. The differences that seeped into their present day were the unique ancestral histories. With more research, most of which she could do from home, she would have enough material for another book.
Sheridan loved her position with the university, and probably published enough to keep her on faculty. However, she found she enjoyed the writing and particularly the research much more than teaching. Field research was the most fun.
The glaze of fixed concentration cleared from her mind and she could see the fog lifting. Looking forward she saw a sign that said, “Hidden ½ mile.” The sign made her laugh, “Oh why not” she said aloud. It would probably take about a day to research one more town and it might put a nice ending to the new book.
First, Sheridan made a three point turn on the narrow road and pointed her car back toward I-80. The fog bank was still dense in that direction which was disconcerting. She inched slowly forward and soon felt completely lost. Her sense of direction in the fog was
non-existent. With trepidation, she repeated her three-point turn back toward the signpost and found she had not moved much at all, and the fog had dissipated in front of her. She looked behind her into an opaque white curtain. A shiver ran down her back as she drove into the small town of Hidden.
She pulled up in front of an ageless Victorian mansion. The huge double doors were wide enough for three or four men side by side to walk through. She stepped out of the car onto a wooden sidewalk. There was a sign at the corner that read simply ‘Street.’ She stood back and looked at it again trying to find the outline of faded letters or numbers in front of the word. There weren’t any. There really was not much room for anything but the word “Street.”
Oh, she thought, this town is going to be very interesting. She took a slow three hundred sixty degree turn and saw it was the only visible street. She wasn’t sure if there were any alleys, although she did see footpaths. She looked down and noticed she was standing in the middle of the street. “Hmm, guess I twirled.” She giggled.
Sheridan turned her attention back toward the Inn. From her new vantage point, she could see the long wings spreading from each side of the central section. The well-maintained, ancient building loomed imposing over the street.
Standing in front of the great walnut doors, she noticed the left door had a large bronze knocker shaped like a flower that was obviously out of some artist’s abstract mind. The other door boasted a matching bronze plaque, “Hide Inn: Come on In.” She ran her finger over the bronze flower and was shocked that it seemed softer than most bronzes. It was like bronzed baby shoes. She could feel the feathery shape of the petals and even striations of a feather. The grouping of petals was not unlike a lily. The abstract rendition reminded her of a painting she had in her living room of a rose bud in a vase that upon second look was a woman’s hand.
The stem of the bronze flower made up the knocker and clanged like a heavy weight against its back-plate. Sheridan jumped in shock as she heard the noise reverberate through the interior of the great building.
As she waited, Sheridan looked across and down the street noting all the buildings were limestone. Limestone quarries dotted the plains so it wasn’t surprising. What did puzzle her was that the buildings were all the same square design. Except, she noticed, the one across the street that was obviously a church of some kind. It had a sign standing in the yard with the words Angel Choir Chapel. The Chapel boasted a bell tower, but no visible doors
She suddenly realized there wasn’t another soul visible. Maybe she was too early and they were all still preparing for the day. She sniffed the air. It was clean, like after a rain. No, it was cleaner. There were no farm smells, no alfalfa, animal feces, or fuel odors. She slapped the back of her hand when she felt a sting and thought comically that they must have forgotten to remove the insects.
A feeling of deep calm washed over her. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want to question it.
She stretched her arms out and took a deep breath of the fresh air. The feeling of relaxation continued down her entire body as she continued to breathe the crispness deep into her lungs. Then she tensed as she noticed something else in the air.
Sheridan felt goose bumps rise on her arms as she noticed a faint, melody. It had been there unnoticed since her arrival. It was like having the radio in her car on very low and suddenly noticing the music.
The sounds were the most beautiful harmony of voices she’d ever heard. It came from inside the Chapel across the street. It was like a combination of halleluiahs, with an undertone of humming. Her heart lifted and warmth washed through her body. She wanted to go find the singer’s but turned when she heard a movement behind her.
Methuselah opened the door of the Inn. The short, odd, little man looked like he bore the wisdom of the nearly 1000-year-old man from the Biblical comparison. Each crater-like wrinkle seemed to disappear when his smiled. “Good morning young lady. Me thinks you have a problem with reading.” His gravely, hoarse voice belied the youthful agility he displayed with a funny little jump and kick that reminded her of a leprechaun. He pointed to the sign on the door.
“I’m sorry sir, I couldn’t resist the knocker. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“He’s a curious flower, he is for sure.” His phrasing was so quaint she would have to make note of it to use in her book.
His face furrowed with deep wrinkles. His thick, wavy, gray hair nicely trimmed with a full, well-trimmed beard. The old man was somewhat stooped, but she noticed he stood erect very easily. She enjoyed his theatrics, but wondered just how much she could trust the old guy. She tried to gauge his height compared to her five foot four inch length, and she guessed him to be a few inches taller. His smile was playful. The Innkeeper didn’t seem to fit the majestic feel of the Inn.
“Well I can see you are going to be an interesting guest.”
“Excuse me?”
As he motioned her through the door, he enlightened her. “I’ve learned two things about you already. You don’t follow instructions and you can’t fight temptation.” His smile grew from ear to ear with a sense of self-satisfaction.
As he lifted his left hand to welcome her inside, she noticed it was a child-sized hand. It looked smooth and soft. His right hand was a man’s hand, rough and calloused from hard work.
“I see you’ve discovered my gifted hands.” He held them both up.
“You sir, are a wonder.” Sheridan smiled as he was chuckling to himself.
He led Sheridan to a large bureau made of cherry wood in a foyer at the end of a long, wide corridor. She noticed doors to rooms off both sides of the passageway. One door was open revealing an office. She imagined the other doors were equally as utilitarian, except one labeled in great polished brass lettering: SHEPHERD’S CLOSET.
Once they entered the foyer, their voices echoed and Sheridan looked up to see all the way to the top of the three-story building with grand staircases curving up to each wing from the base. She felt that she must try to sketch it, however rough her talent.
As she stood at the bureau pulling out her credit card, the old man slapped a ledger on its top.
He turned the book in her direction and glanced at the card. “Take things for granted too I see. You don’t pay until you leave. The amount of your stay depends on what you do with your time here.”
“What does that mean? Do I have to clean the Inn or help paint the church?” The sarcasm seemed lost on the host. Fatigue overruled by humor. She was no longer enjoying the cat and mouse game.
“Nope, Sheridan Easterly,” was all he said. His eyes twinkled like a child playing gotcha with his mother. She could see the game was still on.
Sheridan looked down at the ledger. It lay open to a clean page. It looked brand new, as did the pen that lay on top of it. The pen was a quill and the bottle of ink sat on the desktop next to the ledger along with a clean cloth for letting the excess ink drip before signing. “It fits,” she said. “It looks perfect for the Inn. Now, I understand the lack of plastic.” She chuckled as she signed her name in the style of a calligrapher, which was odd because she didn’t remember ever studying the art.
He grabbed her bag and waved his arm like a scoop signaling her to a grand staircase. “Practical woman, you travel light.”
Nothing much escapes you does it.” Sheridan was getting weary of his banter.
“That’s why they call me Catch.”
Sheridan sighed. “I’ve traveled a lot. The road tends to teach you a few lessons. Catch, is that what you want me to call you.”
“Everybody calls me Catch.”
“Catch” She repeated.
“Did you know that your name, Sheridan, means to search? Are you a searcher, Sheridan?”
He carried her luggage up an ornate staircase. “Yes, I do know what my name means. But, how did you know my name? You called me by my name before I even signed your ledger.”
He pointed to an identity tag on her luggage.
“Oh, that works too.” A deep yawn escaped her as he opened the door to her room. “Excuse me. I guess I’m more tired than I thought.” Sheridan noticed symbols on a wall plaque beside the door. “What is this all about?” Sheridan pointed to the plaque. “It looks like some kind of ancient, symbolic script.”
She traced the symbols lightly with her fingers. The contrast of stiff, dry balsa wood against the smooth, polished wood of the door jam oddly seemed to fit. The symbols seemed familiar. “Hmm,” She became the scientist again. She remembered why she took the detour to Hidden. “These symbols look like an ancient lost language. I’ve seen something like them somewhere.”
“Well, it probably is authentic then.” Catch opened the door.
Sheridan peered into her room and gasped
The contrast overwhelmed her. The new Early American style furnishings of the suite took her by surprise. The bathroom door stood open revealing all the gadgets of the most elegant hotels. She stood in front of the bathroom door and saw a walk in tiled shower, a large vanity complete with ornate mirror, built in hair dryer and plush rug. The bathtub was large enough for two with body massaging jets. “Wow, this is something that I plan to take advantage of right away.” She turned and smiled back at Catch. There were even bottles of her favorite brands of shampoo, lavender soaps, and candles setting on top of the marble counter.
The old man smiled, “Ye didn’t think we were all backward did ye?” Catch seemed to have an endless repertoire of wisecracks to suit his chosen persona. He even added a hitch in his get-a-long to go with the old hillbilly.
Catch deposited her luggage on a bench in a spacious closet. Looking around the room, she noticed a large portrait of the same odd flower as on the doorknocker. The room was like a dream from her youth. The color scheme and design of the room were in her favorite colors and styles.
Thinking of finally getting a chance to call Michael, she noticed there was no phone, television, or even a radio.
“Mr. Catch, I was hoping for a telephone to call my friend in Lincoln. I don’t see any in the room.”
“No need to be so formal, just call me Catch.” He drew in a breath. “We live simple here. We don’t use phones, cars, or any of the things that make the world move too fast.”
“Don’t you have a telephone downstairs for emergencies?”
“I’m afraid it isn’t working, and I don’t know when it’ll be fixed. We have an old two-way radio. I’ll see if we can get that to work.” Catch replied. “You should get some rest and something to eat. You aren’t expected today are you?”
“No, not particularly, my friend is used to me not checking in for a day or two. This isn’t the first spot I’ve been in where I couldn’t get a signal.”
Catch started to leave the room then looked back. “You are here because you are supposed to be here.” He said almost in a whisper as he started out the door.
“What an odd thing to say.” Sheridan thought his statement sounded sinister.
“Enjoy your room, you will find everything you need.”
“Wait, don’t I get a key?”
“No need for them around here.” The old man turned his back to her and continued on his way. He obviously was not going to explain his odd statement.
Sheridan was alone in a lavish room, decorated as if they decorated it exclusively for her, and it puzzled her. She made a deep sigh and looked around the room.
A bath sent warm relaxation through her body. The water gently rolled over each part as she twisted and nearly swam in luxury. Stepping out on the rug her feet sank so deep her foot tops tickled by the deep threads. In the closet, a robe of pink silk slid over her body like a caress.
Sheridan forgot her fears, her anger, her frustration and fell into that welcome calm she’d felt when she first arrived.
The flower portrait on the wall detailed more of the subject. The leaves were heart shaped with red veins. The petals were feathery and white. The artist had painted a yellow-gold stamen as if it shown like burnished gold. She was curious about the designer who could have dreamed up such a beautiful theme for the Hide Inn. Without thinking, Sheridan found herself sniffing at the painting as if she’d inhale the fragrance of the flower.
She pulled her laptop out of her tote and filled two pages of her journal. Tonight she didn’t bother journaling her usual daily report. Tonight Sheridan talked to Michael though her journal, which he would never read. Knowing he was totally innocent of her journal content she allowed herself to admit her feelings for him went beyond friendship. She asked him if they could go beyond the Dean of Sciences and Anthropology instructor friends who go to dinner and a movie once a week. Their occasional lazy Sunday afternoon strolls through on of the many Lincoln parks.
She wrote how she was over her pining for a long dead husband. The explosion took more than her soul mate; it robbed her of the child she’d carried. She would never have a child of her own. Her fingers started shaking and missing keys as she spilled her feelings and doubts about Michael coping with her inability to make him a father. She typed questions to herself answering for him one way, then another. She coached both herself and Michael to move forward.
Was she making an argument to help convince Michael, or was she rationalizing her desires? She didn’t know, but it was all coming out as she tapped the keys missing some and making more typos the more frustrated she felt.
She loved Michael and she knew he loved her. Their love was companionable rather than electric, but just as heart felt and deep. She continued to journal thus until her eyes drooped.
She deleted her entry as she’d intended from the onset. Then she did her usual daily log entry before sliding between the silk sheets.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Interview with Author Sally J. Walker
Interview with Sally J. Walker about Her New Book AWriter’s Year
By Glenda K. Fralin
The following is an E-interview with Sally J. Walker about her new e-book, A Writer’s Year.
Sally is an accomplished writer and educator. She has covered a number of genres through her writing career including Screenwriting, Romance books, Poetry, and more. She also does professional editing.
With all that, Sally seems to find a way to balance her life with family, community, and spirituality.
Sally has been President of the Nebraska Writer’s Guild and is ready to hand over the reins. That does not end her leadership in NWG and other organizations.
Sally has the ability and willingness to help fellow writers.
Sally I know this is supposed to be an interview about your new e-book A Writer’s Year. However, one question must come first.
How are you and how are the penguins?
Working on being thinner with only incremental accomplishment but will NOT give up. Continuing to attack my daily lists with intensity. Carpe diem! My four grandkids or “My Penguins” I have babysat since they were born are already making requests for what we will be doing this coming summer. I “ran kites” for them just last week when school was out and it took two days to recover! It was worth it.
A Writer’s Year is unique for you isn’t it? What makes it different from other books you have written?
I have written fourteen novels (two published and four more coming out later this year) that range from contemporary Young Adult fare to romantic westerns to romantic suspense. Of course, there are the “books” that are actually short stories included in the Bell Ringer literacy series for the Fiction Works, too. Those are also romance and westerns. A Writer’s Year is a collection of nonfiction essays about whatever struck me about my own writing life that particular day, though I did work to vary my topics. That was an adventure in creativity all by itself. I did a lot of self-analysis.
I devoutly apply myself to the study and practice of many forms of writing in an on-going effort to challenge myself to be the best I can be. I DO NOT want to compare and contrast myself with anyone else. I have enough to keep pushing myself in poetry, fiction, playwriting and screenwriting, as well as to be a clear, succinct writer of nonfiction for magazines, my on-line classes and when explaining myself on-line. The article word-counts and e-mail/Facebook entries have taught me to keep it simple, direct, short and relevant. When I had to translate my on-site lectures to the condensed on-line lesson format I continued to exercise restraint and selectivity of how much to explain and what examples to use. The evolution of the essays in this collection was a natural result of all that “training.”
I love that this book is a journal you wrote about writing throughout the year. What made you choose to do such a journal, and later to publish it?
Originally, it began as a challenge to myself to write something meaningful every day as a sort of personal devotional or, yes, a journal. As I discussed the idea with fellow members of the Nebraska Writers Workshop in Ralston, NE, they suggested I post each day’s musings on their list-serve. That ended up committing me to doing it for the entire year. Sometimes members would comment on what I wrote. Other times there was a dead silence that made me think “Yikes! That was a bit too much!” But I persevered, sometimes being a bit more profound, sometimes just plain silly, sometimes focusing on a pet peeve, sometimes showing vulnerability or pain . . . all those pathways any writer treads in their writing journey.
It was written throughout 2007. I periodically shared an essay here or there, even a few on the Nebraska Writers Guild blog site in 2010. Then my publisher started nudging me, so I gave it to him fall 2010. It is only in electronic formats now. He will consider a print edition after it’s been out for about six months, but may decide to just do it electronically.
23 of the essays have also been contracted to be reprinted as a column in the newsletter/magazine for an organization affiliated with AARP, the Coalition for Dementia Alternatives-America. Those essays were selected because of their relevance to activities that trigger or stimulate memories and creativity. My concepts coincide with many of CDA’s programs and give specific directions for applying the creativity. They don’t speak down nor rely on medical or intellectual jargon. I guess that’s because I wrote them from my heart and my day-to-day application.
In the January 1 entry, you outline an approach you titled How to Have a Fulfilling Year as a Writer. You describe a 3-part approach as D: Dreaming, P: Planning, and E: Executing. Please describe these elements for us.
To me, those are the three steps to taking an idea from a glimmer of an idea to words on paper (or a computer screen). No one knows for certain exactly where a creative thought or image comes from or what triggers it. When working on my degree in writing, we had to read a collection of essays written by all kinds of artists and scientists who tried to explain their own creative process, especially where the very first thought came from. The answers were as unique as the people. How does one explain thought association, I mean to the origin of the first synapse in one’s own brain? But the FACT that the image or concept happens is REAL. As a “Creative” I know when it happens. I know when something isn’t worth contemplating further . . . but the spark that jumps from one thought to another that forms into words and more images that is the “Dreaming” phase that has to be nurtured with lots of creative stimulation. Some people require wallowing in nature, others in silent darkness, others in music, others in “people watching” and others in cinematic images or books. The original thought or image blossoms into possibilities of “What if . . .” The images, the word, the characters and the stories actually POSSESS the creative mind until dreaming becomes a sort of haunting that nags at the creative to DO something more that merely toy with the thoughts.
So, the creative person begins to document and give structure to the dreaming. Yes, I have met Creatives who believe they “go with the flow” and move directly into the “Executing Phase.” But when I have questioned the serious Creative I have found they have trained their mind to do the structuring, the general outline before the project was attempted. I have also found that the trained, serious Creative is very selfish with time and effort. That means they do not want to waste either on a random, disorganized project. So, whether the creative person is an intense documentarian of plans (in Character Profiles, story research and story outlines like mine) OR a mental organizer, I have consistently found BOTH approaches in the professional artists who seriously pursue their art forms as a career. Life is too short to leave creativity to chance. More is accomplished when the Dreaming turns into the commitment of a Plan.
Many a professional writer has given the perpetual advice of applying the seat of the pants to the chair and putting down one word after another on a regular basis. All the fantastical dreams in the world with meticulously planned stories are for naught if they are not written. Here, too, I have found a variety of execution disciplines. Some people need a specific place, others specific tools and others the motivation of money. There is no one system to execute except to “git ‘r done.” It takes commitment and discipline. It takes ignoring the other demands on time and energy. The writing becomes the priority. Period. If “life” intrudes and rips the writer away the soul screams to return to the task and return one must. It matters not if the execution is imperfect or does not get published/produced. It does matter that the dream that was laid out in a plan has become a reality for the writer!
Your January 3, entry is one that I find personally interesting: Writing as Mental Therapy. The therapeutic value you describe is more than just setting down and throwing a bunch of curse words onto a page because you are angry. What you describe is an integral part of your writing process. Please describe here, why this is so important in developing your characters.
I wrote my first short story the second semester of First Grade. I remember having characters and stories drifting around in my mind since I was a toddler. I can focus and still recall some of them. No lie. (The psychology principle is that a human forgets nothing, but merely stores it away until the memory is needed.) Okay, so add to whatever my mind was evolving in childhood--fed by TV, movies, books—a lifetime of meeting people, both in passing, at work, at school, and as family and friends. I took away bits and pieces of every person I encountered. Some I liked, some I loved, some I feared, some I disliked, and a handful I truly never wanted to EVER encounter again. In truth every human impacted my self-concept and my awareness of how to relate to the world. I added them to my mental storytelling arsenal.
I think of writers as being amateur psychologists for we motivate and manipulate characters. Since the vast majority my life experiences have been imperfect, I have discovered as a writer I could change an experience for a character, inside and out . . . when I could NOT have any “do-over” my own experience. Think about how much power that gives me over “life” even though it is a fictional life. I create a fictional character from the bits and pieces I have collected in my mind and do what I want with them. The trick is to manipulate the experience so that it is credible or believed by the reader. Ah, so I can change the cause-effect to ultimately achieve the end result I want. We certainly can’t do that in REAL life, can we? And, here’s the kicker, if a writer doesn’t like a character or the events of a story, IT CAN BE CHANGED! Now, if that is not “Mental Therapy,” I don’t know what it is!
Sally, I could ask you questions until I’ve gleaned your book, but that isn’t my purpose here. Instead, I would like to go back to the beginning where I made a small effort to credit your expertise. Considering the topic A Writer’s Year, please give us a biography of Sally J. Walker and her accomplishments.
Well, there’s my website at http://www.members.cox.net/sallyjwalker.
What isn’t there specifically, I guess is that I was born in Exira, IA, to a poor farm family and went to various schools in Iowa and Nebraska as my father worked as a farm hand. He was groundskeeper for four years at Omaha’s Peony Park with its huge pool and playgrounds, but returned to farming. When he finally left the land in 1957, my folks bought a house in LaVista. I paid for my own dance lessons, participated in every school activity I could and worked as an editor for our school paper while being a part-time receptionist at the local small town paper. With my parents discouraging thoughts of college, I graduated from high school in Papillion in 1965 and married at 18. My first husband was an unskilled worker and wanderer. My employment credits included clothing store clerk, waitress, insurance company file clerk, insurance claims secretary, and nurse’s aide.
In New Mexico, a patient honored me by making arrangements for me to attend the University of Albuquerque School of Nursing. I took a one semester writing course and won fine arts honors for a short story. At that time I also became a member of a volunteer search and rescue group, beginning my fascination for emergency medicine and earning my climbing certification with the Marine Reserves. After graduating with my Associate Degree in Nursing in 1973, I divorced and worked to be accepted in the Nurse Practitioner Program. However, I came home for my 10 year class reunion in 1975, fell in love with the incredible man I am still married to and moved back to Nebraska. We raised three daughters from our home in Ralston, while I continued to work as a full-time critical care R.N. I finally, finally retired from that part of my life in 2006 (because of a knee injury doing Scottish Highland dancing, but that’s another story).
Along with all the usual family-oriented stuff of Girl Scouts, church and community service, I started part-time work in 1977 on a degree in creative writing at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. The head of the drama department got a grant from the national Endowment for the Arts for the production of the play I wrote under him in an independent study. And in 1985, one of my senior thesis stories was critiqued by visiting speaker Richard Ford (before his Pulitzer) who encouraged me to expand the work into a novel. LETTING GO OF SACRED THINGS was published in 2001 with some really nice literary reviews. My 1994 romance THE HEALING TOUCH was nominated for the best audio book of the year but was runner-up to STAR WARS. In 1998 a western screenplay THE LONELY MAN was one of the 233 quarterfinalists out of the 4,442 entries in the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Science’s annual Nicholl competition. I’ve had a smattering of obscure poetry recognitions, too. One of my favorites is one religious poem’s “Honorable Mention” by the Episcopalian Journalists. Another was when an editor of a publication of the C.S. Lewis Society compared my poetic style to the great Gerard Manley Hopkins. I’m sure that Jesuit priest was spinning in his grave. My attention to detail caught the eye of publisher Ray Hoy of The Fiction Works who moved me from copy-editing to Editorial Director in 2000 when he expanded his company. The hours have varied from part-time to over-time. I can proudly say that TFW does not practice nepotism. Every work published there has been stringently evaluated, including my own.
I am an advocate of professional writers commiserating and working with other writers as much as possible. With the sponsorship of the library in Ralston, I founded the Nebraska Writers Workshop in 1985 that continues to meet weekly to discuss and share poetry, scripting and fiction. One of my greatest joys there is mentoring some very talented teens. I joined the Nebraska Writers Guild in 1989, the same year I joined Western Writes of America. In 1991 I paid my first dues to Romance Writers of America, later serving in several local chapter positions. My literacy publications made me eligible for Active membership in the Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators in 2005. One of the honors of my life was my 2007 election to the presidency of the Nebraska Writers Guild, a prestigious organization founded in 1925 by some of Nebraska’s literary greats. My four years of responsibility have not been taken lightly especially considering NWG grew from 67 dues paid members to over 175 in 2011.
Since a lot of the Nebraska Writers Workshop required prepping continuing education material for brief discussions, I accumulated material that evolved into the constantly up-dated Write-Now classes I have taught locally, nationally and now internationally on-line. What a hoot that has been! I certainly don’t profess to know everything about writing, but the one thing I do know is that I can infect others with my addictive passion for writing. I hope I am still learning and pouring out carefully crafted writing when I’m 103! Right now I stand on the shoulders of the many fine people who have encouraged, taught and critiqued me, especially the remarkable Lew Hunter (retired UCLA Film Department head) and my team of agents. I am humbled by everyone’s belief in me!
Sally thank you so much for taking the time to do this interview. As inspiring, as you are too many, I am one who hopes to inhale a modicum of your passion for the craft. I also hope to learn from your devotion and skill. I know many people, including me, whom will benefit from your book A Writer’s Year.
Dear Readers: Sally J. Walker’s electronic book A Writer’s Year may be purchased from the following sites:
The Fiction Works
http://www.fictionworks.com/ebooks.htm
Amazon for Kindle
http://www.amazon.com/A-Writers-Year-ebook/dp/B004S2CGXA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1300301682&sr=1-1
By Glenda K. Fralin
The following is an E-interview with Sally J. Walker about her new e-book, A Writer’s Year.
Sally is an accomplished writer and educator. She has covered a number of genres through her writing career including Screenwriting, Romance books, Poetry, and more. She also does professional editing.
With all that, Sally seems to find a way to balance her life with family, community, and spirituality.
Sally has been President of the Nebraska Writer’s Guild and is ready to hand over the reins. That does not end her leadership in NWG and other organizations.
Sally has the ability and willingness to help fellow writers.
Sally I know this is supposed to be an interview about your new e-book A Writer’s Year. However, one question must come first.
How are you and how are the penguins?
Working on being thinner with only incremental accomplishment but will NOT give up. Continuing to attack my daily lists with intensity. Carpe diem! My four grandkids or “My Penguins” I have babysat since they were born are already making requests for what we will be doing this coming summer. I “ran kites” for them just last week when school was out and it took two days to recover! It was worth it.
A Writer’s Year is unique for you isn’t it? What makes it different from other books you have written?
I have written fourteen novels (two published and four more coming out later this year) that range from contemporary Young Adult fare to romantic westerns to romantic suspense. Of course, there are the “books” that are actually short stories included in the Bell Ringer literacy series for the Fiction Works, too. Those are also romance and westerns. A Writer’s Year is a collection of nonfiction essays about whatever struck me about my own writing life that particular day, though I did work to vary my topics. That was an adventure in creativity all by itself. I did a lot of self-analysis.
I devoutly apply myself to the study and practice of many forms of writing in an on-going effort to challenge myself to be the best I can be. I DO NOT want to compare and contrast myself with anyone else. I have enough to keep pushing myself in poetry, fiction, playwriting and screenwriting, as well as to be a clear, succinct writer of nonfiction for magazines, my on-line classes and when explaining myself on-line. The article word-counts and e-mail/Facebook entries have taught me to keep it simple, direct, short and relevant. When I had to translate my on-site lectures to the condensed on-line lesson format I continued to exercise restraint and selectivity of how much to explain and what examples to use. The evolution of the essays in this collection was a natural result of all that “training.”
I love that this book is a journal you wrote about writing throughout the year. What made you choose to do such a journal, and later to publish it?
Originally, it began as a challenge to myself to write something meaningful every day as a sort of personal devotional or, yes, a journal. As I discussed the idea with fellow members of the Nebraska Writers Workshop in Ralston, NE, they suggested I post each day’s musings on their list-serve. That ended up committing me to doing it for the entire year. Sometimes members would comment on what I wrote. Other times there was a dead silence that made me think “Yikes! That was a bit too much!” But I persevered, sometimes being a bit more profound, sometimes just plain silly, sometimes focusing on a pet peeve, sometimes showing vulnerability or pain . . . all those pathways any writer treads in their writing journey.
It was written throughout 2007. I periodically shared an essay here or there, even a few on the Nebraska Writers Guild blog site in 2010. Then my publisher started nudging me, so I gave it to him fall 2010. It is only in electronic formats now. He will consider a print edition after it’s been out for about six months, but may decide to just do it electronically.
23 of the essays have also been contracted to be reprinted as a column in the newsletter/magazine for an organization affiliated with AARP, the Coalition for Dementia Alternatives-America. Those essays were selected because of their relevance to activities that trigger or stimulate memories and creativity. My concepts coincide with many of CDA’s programs and give specific directions for applying the creativity. They don’t speak down nor rely on medical or intellectual jargon. I guess that’s because I wrote them from my heart and my day-to-day application.
In the January 1 entry, you outline an approach you titled How to Have a Fulfilling Year as a Writer. You describe a 3-part approach as D: Dreaming, P: Planning, and E: Executing. Please describe these elements for us.
To me, those are the three steps to taking an idea from a glimmer of an idea to words on paper (or a computer screen). No one knows for certain exactly where a creative thought or image comes from or what triggers it. When working on my degree in writing, we had to read a collection of essays written by all kinds of artists and scientists who tried to explain their own creative process, especially where the very first thought came from. The answers were as unique as the people. How does one explain thought association, I mean to the origin of the first synapse in one’s own brain? But the FACT that the image or concept happens is REAL. As a “Creative” I know when it happens. I know when something isn’t worth contemplating further . . . but the spark that jumps from one thought to another that forms into words and more images that is the “Dreaming” phase that has to be nurtured with lots of creative stimulation. Some people require wallowing in nature, others in silent darkness, others in music, others in “people watching” and others in cinematic images or books. The original thought or image blossoms into possibilities of “What if . . .” The images, the word, the characters and the stories actually POSSESS the creative mind until dreaming becomes a sort of haunting that nags at the creative to DO something more that merely toy with the thoughts.
So, the creative person begins to document and give structure to the dreaming. Yes, I have met Creatives who believe they “go with the flow” and move directly into the “Executing Phase.” But when I have questioned the serious Creative I have found they have trained their mind to do the structuring, the general outline before the project was attempted. I have also found that the trained, serious Creative is very selfish with time and effort. That means they do not want to waste either on a random, disorganized project. So, whether the creative person is an intense documentarian of plans (in Character Profiles, story research and story outlines like mine) OR a mental organizer, I have consistently found BOTH approaches in the professional artists who seriously pursue their art forms as a career. Life is too short to leave creativity to chance. More is accomplished when the Dreaming turns into the commitment of a Plan.
Many a professional writer has given the perpetual advice of applying the seat of the pants to the chair and putting down one word after another on a regular basis. All the fantastical dreams in the world with meticulously planned stories are for naught if they are not written. Here, too, I have found a variety of execution disciplines. Some people need a specific place, others specific tools and others the motivation of money. There is no one system to execute except to “git ‘r done.” It takes commitment and discipline. It takes ignoring the other demands on time and energy. The writing becomes the priority. Period. If “life” intrudes and rips the writer away the soul screams to return to the task and return one must. It matters not if the execution is imperfect or does not get published/produced. It does matter that the dream that was laid out in a plan has become a reality for the writer!
Your January 3, entry is one that I find personally interesting: Writing as Mental Therapy. The therapeutic value you describe is more than just setting down and throwing a bunch of curse words onto a page because you are angry. What you describe is an integral part of your writing process. Please describe here, why this is so important in developing your characters.
I wrote my first short story the second semester of First Grade. I remember having characters and stories drifting around in my mind since I was a toddler. I can focus and still recall some of them. No lie. (The psychology principle is that a human forgets nothing, but merely stores it away until the memory is needed.) Okay, so add to whatever my mind was evolving in childhood--fed by TV, movies, books—a lifetime of meeting people, both in passing, at work, at school, and as family and friends. I took away bits and pieces of every person I encountered. Some I liked, some I loved, some I feared, some I disliked, and a handful I truly never wanted to EVER encounter again. In truth every human impacted my self-concept and my awareness of how to relate to the world. I added them to my mental storytelling arsenal.
I think of writers as being amateur psychologists for we motivate and manipulate characters. Since the vast majority my life experiences have been imperfect, I have discovered as a writer I could change an experience for a character, inside and out . . . when I could NOT have any “do-over” my own experience. Think about how much power that gives me over “life” even though it is a fictional life. I create a fictional character from the bits and pieces I have collected in my mind and do what I want with them. The trick is to manipulate the experience so that it is credible or believed by the reader. Ah, so I can change the cause-effect to ultimately achieve the end result I want. We certainly can’t do that in REAL life, can we? And, here’s the kicker, if a writer doesn’t like a character or the events of a story, IT CAN BE CHANGED! Now, if that is not “Mental Therapy,” I don’t know what it is!
Sally, I could ask you questions until I’ve gleaned your book, but that isn’t my purpose here. Instead, I would like to go back to the beginning where I made a small effort to credit your expertise. Considering the topic A Writer’s Year, please give us a biography of Sally J. Walker and her accomplishments.
Well, there’s my website at http://www.members.cox.net/sallyjwalker.
What isn’t there specifically, I guess is that I was born in Exira, IA, to a poor farm family and went to various schools in Iowa and Nebraska as my father worked as a farm hand. He was groundskeeper for four years at Omaha’s Peony Park with its huge pool and playgrounds, but returned to farming. When he finally left the land in 1957, my folks bought a house in LaVista. I paid for my own dance lessons, participated in every school activity I could and worked as an editor for our school paper while being a part-time receptionist at the local small town paper. With my parents discouraging thoughts of college, I graduated from high school in Papillion in 1965 and married at 18. My first husband was an unskilled worker and wanderer. My employment credits included clothing store clerk, waitress, insurance company file clerk, insurance claims secretary, and nurse’s aide.
In New Mexico, a patient honored me by making arrangements for me to attend the University of Albuquerque School of Nursing. I took a one semester writing course and won fine arts honors for a short story. At that time I also became a member of a volunteer search and rescue group, beginning my fascination for emergency medicine and earning my climbing certification with the Marine Reserves. After graduating with my Associate Degree in Nursing in 1973, I divorced and worked to be accepted in the Nurse Practitioner Program. However, I came home for my 10 year class reunion in 1975, fell in love with the incredible man I am still married to and moved back to Nebraska. We raised three daughters from our home in Ralston, while I continued to work as a full-time critical care R.N. I finally, finally retired from that part of my life in 2006 (because of a knee injury doing Scottish Highland dancing, but that’s another story).
Along with all the usual family-oriented stuff of Girl Scouts, church and community service, I started part-time work in 1977 on a degree in creative writing at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. The head of the drama department got a grant from the national Endowment for the Arts for the production of the play I wrote under him in an independent study. And in 1985, one of my senior thesis stories was critiqued by visiting speaker Richard Ford (before his Pulitzer) who encouraged me to expand the work into a novel. LETTING GO OF SACRED THINGS was published in 2001 with some really nice literary reviews. My 1994 romance THE HEALING TOUCH was nominated for the best audio book of the year but was runner-up to STAR WARS. In 1998 a western screenplay THE LONELY MAN was one of the 233 quarterfinalists out of the 4,442 entries in the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Science’s annual Nicholl competition. I’ve had a smattering of obscure poetry recognitions, too. One of my favorites is one religious poem’s “Honorable Mention” by the Episcopalian Journalists. Another was when an editor of a publication of the C.S. Lewis Society compared my poetic style to the great Gerard Manley Hopkins. I’m sure that Jesuit priest was spinning in his grave. My attention to detail caught the eye of publisher Ray Hoy of The Fiction Works who moved me from copy-editing to Editorial Director in 2000 when he expanded his company. The hours have varied from part-time to over-time. I can proudly say that TFW does not practice nepotism. Every work published there has been stringently evaluated, including my own.
I am an advocate of professional writers commiserating and working with other writers as much as possible. With the sponsorship of the library in Ralston, I founded the Nebraska Writers Workshop in 1985 that continues to meet weekly to discuss and share poetry, scripting and fiction. One of my greatest joys there is mentoring some very talented teens. I joined the Nebraska Writers Guild in 1989, the same year I joined Western Writes of America. In 1991 I paid my first dues to Romance Writers of America, later serving in several local chapter positions. My literacy publications made me eligible for Active membership in the Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators in 2005. One of the honors of my life was my 2007 election to the presidency of the Nebraska Writers Guild, a prestigious organization founded in 1925 by some of Nebraska’s literary greats. My four years of responsibility have not been taken lightly especially considering NWG grew from 67 dues paid members to over 175 in 2011.
Since a lot of the Nebraska Writers Workshop required prepping continuing education material for brief discussions, I accumulated material that evolved into the constantly up-dated Write-Now classes I have taught locally, nationally and now internationally on-line. What a hoot that has been! I certainly don’t profess to know everything about writing, but the one thing I do know is that I can infect others with my addictive passion for writing. I hope I am still learning and pouring out carefully crafted writing when I’m 103! Right now I stand on the shoulders of the many fine people who have encouraged, taught and critiqued me, especially the remarkable Lew Hunter (retired UCLA Film Department head) and my team of agents. I am humbled by everyone’s belief in me!
Sally thank you so much for taking the time to do this interview. As inspiring, as you are too many, I am one who hopes to inhale a modicum of your passion for the craft. I also hope to learn from your devotion and skill. I know many people, including me, whom will benefit from your book A Writer’s Year.
Dear Readers: Sally J. Walker’s electronic book A Writer’s Year may be purchased from the following sites:
The Fiction Works
http://www.fictionworks.com/ebooks.htm
Amazon for Kindle
http://www.amazon.com/A-Writers-Year-ebook/dp/B004S2CGXA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1300301682&sr=1-1
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Uninsanity
I come here today from out of some weird recess of my brain. I hope to find some uninsanity. Oh, I know you think I used it wrong. I should say lack of insanity, or something to that affect. The truth is, I believe, uninsanity is that for which I grasp. Deinsanitize could be a better word. We are inundated with delusions and fantasy, misjudgments, and instability that we thrust upon ourselves through television, news reports (if you can call them news), and perpetual political mind games.
The only place where I find the precious uninsanity I seek, is a closet in my brain where I shut myself away in prayer, and meditation. Some say that is the definition of insanity and escapism. Oh what they miss. If my little brain closet is where I am most insane, it’s the best escape I know from the insanity we pour over our heads every day.
The only place where I find the precious uninsanity I seek, is a closet in my brain where I shut myself away in prayer, and meditation. Some say that is the definition of insanity and escapism. Oh what they miss. If my little brain closet is where I am most insane, it’s the best escape I know from the insanity we pour over our heads every day.
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