Don’t brag about how busy you are. If busy is a negative, do not read on. My busy is so blooming positive, I’m ready to burst.

A few Friday’s ago I bought an adorable monster house and thoroughly enjoyed a three hour French dinner with dear French friends – the way it is suppose to be. The next day I moved out of one small lake home into the adorable monster. Two days later I flew to Nantucket to eat fresh lobster rolls and reunite with several absolutely perfect relatives – yes, there a few. This holiday concluded with a coffee frappe at an ancestral ice cream shop favorite.

Flew home to my younger daughter’s wedding planning celebration and older granddaughter’s third birthday party. Still writing and packing boxes of books to travel from our normal home – there one? – to our adorable monster.

This time busy is a positive.






“Writers need liability insurance!” I was advised. First I researched the definitions of such a monster gamble, then I researched the possibilities.


For years I paid the piper in the extreme. Good Gravy! I will not disclose the amount I paid per book. Embarrassment hurts.

Anyway, a painful realization of some of the trickery from the insurance industry was switched on by my  family source of all important information, our car repairman. He said my homeowners policy should cover me in the odd event that my historical mysteries would offend so much that someone would sue. It took  nine  phone calls and three office, in-your-face, visits, but yes, my homeowners policy does indeed cover my home office “products” – my six novels.

Yet, from under my creation-station desk appeared a new evil from the state in which I live.  “They” want home product producers to have an LLC (lucky lunatic cuties). “They” want to keep track of me, just in case  (Justin Case – my teddy bear). “They” must be worried that I might make money from writing.

“They said my “company” needed a name. LLC

Every year since I got a postcard reminder to renew my LLC online. For two years all went well. Then their website changed. Good Gravy, what a mess.

I reverted to snail-mail. My frustration levels matched my embarrassment. My lack of techo-smarts screamed.



Eras of Dreams

It is sad. My Era#1 is suffering a slow death. My publisher is closing and returning the rights to my SIX NOVELS. Amazon is taking her (his?) sweet time to painfully remove them from their pages. By my estimates, (and I am trying to be realistic, not my forte’ – I do write fiction),  Era #2 will last two years. In that time I will meet my goals: revise my SIX NOVELS  (well, maybe three), draft my new mystery, and blog my political venom more bravely.

Yes, there is an Era#3. I hope. Within that third magical span, there might be new mysteries, agents for my revised SIX NOVELS, and some pleased publishers. This blessed grandmother dreams of healthy and safe futures for my Grand Girls. I dream of automatic rifles rusting away in a barn for banned weapons. I dream of a White House filled with compassion and sanity. I dream of clean water everywhere; especially in eastern North Carolina. I also dream of an end to the use of fracking fossil fuels.

Since my age is nearly fossilized – I understand these things.

Therefore, I may dream of several new Eras.


I avoid 4-way stops. I will drive miles to avoid them. They are not good for my health; mental, physical, or spiritual. Most drivers do not know or practice the vague laws concerning those infamous red geometrical meanies…including me. I do not understand “first come, first serve”, even “the driver on the right should go first” is terribly “ify”.

What if four arrive simultaneously?

A. Stay and Stare?

B.Politely wave one of them through? Which one?

C. Play Chicken?

My writing-world is like this DOT* invention. I have arrived at a four-way stop. On the right is a drafted historical murder mystery. Across from me is a continuation of my Gray Lace series and on my left is an opportunity to rewrite my contemporary romances.

Of course I could back up. Turn around and not write.

I gave up ironing for lent. Could I give up writing?

At the moment I am staring at my choices, but I’m beginning to realize I like to play chicken.


*Department of Transportation



Everywhere in central North Carolina has snow today. Not me. My one-quarter Yankee granddaughter and her one-half Yankee mother are making snow angels. Not me. Another daughter texted her Charlotte pics of snow. None here. This Full Yankee is acting like a spoiled child that I truly am. I want snow! It was fake news, that prediction.

However, a few days ago in my swamp, it was 70 and raining, lovely gray “soothingness”.  It was real rain, not digital. In fact, it came with fog. The electricity decided not to work too, so sounds were sharp. The real rain encouraged writing and my procrastinated-proofreading commenced. It comforted and pulled in my developing characters to plot their lives in my mind then they jumped to the paper.

My swamp critters (alligators, turtles, cranes, and ducks) must have hated the seven day below freezing week. Good Grief. My swamp froze! My writing froze. My characters must have been miserable. I haven’t allowed them to progress through their plots. That is totally unfair. There’s too much unfairness in our world. It stops here.

Unfreeze the characters!




Death of a Beloved

As an author not yet recognized by literary agents from NYC and not smart enough to figure out indie publishing, the closure of my beloved small press, Rebel Ink Press, has put me in the moods and insecurities of life’s typical bumps; death of a parent, divorce, job loss, miscarriage, difficult health diagnosis,  April 15th.

Rebel Ink Press has been quite professional through this. My RIPress (no RIP pun really intended) has promised to honor their contract to publish my most recent novel Golden Leaf. They have promised to return all rights to publish my other novels elsewhere. There’s a word for that – privilege to retrieve what you created. Is that one word?

They have given plenty of time for me to gather my eggs, but I’m nervous about the hen house.

I know nothing. The world of agents, traditional contracts, independent publishing, cover art, promoting my creations, and other monsters have taken on a factory warehouse of fear. I’m studying copies of Writers’ Digest. I should rejoin writer organizations. I should be researching my next project. I should have a glass of wine.

Yet, you’ve not heard the end. I will persevere.



“Is that right?”

October, a long time favorite, is rapidly being swallowed by my Editing Cave. I have spent a phenomenal amount of time in there with Golden Leaf, my soon to be published sixth novel.  I have blessed my editor/publisher, Rebel Ink Press, with my favorite character, Mrs. K, because she whispered, “Is that right?”

Meaning? Definition? From whence has that quote cometh?  You cannot google it. Well, you can try.

My father-in-law, a WWII veteran, knew how to listen. He could listen to a room full of arguing souls, using a sly grin to communicate that he was conscious. He would keep his own counsel, wait for a recess in the noise, and then when all heads turned for his input, one and all heard his quiet voice, “Is that right”.  It was a statement, a strong one, that was understood and later appreciated as… “the end”, cease and desist, what does it matter, a dare to continue, and possibly a there’s more to this story.

I enjoy using his wisdom to end my stories. Thank you, Papa.

Enough! (my father’s quote)