The world is simply different at night. I love night sounds, the way the air smells. I enjoy life in a relatively safe neighborhood, so I’ve gone for many a midnight walk. You learn things about your neighbors that you wouldn’t otherwise, such as who leaves their dog out, which house the raccoons and possums prefer, and who else is a night owl. The fact that I know who watches Colbert or Letterman tells me whose house I could knock on if trouble did arise on the street.

Music plays a part in the night owl’s journey. If I’m not out wandering into one of the venues here in town, I’ve got it cranked on the speakers, especially if Rachel isn’t home.

I write a lot at night, usually until the creative part of my brain slows, then halts. That’s how I know that it’s bed time. Even then I may not give in, switching over to things like blogs . . . or something that just strikes my fancy.

Tonight it was Plenty of Fish, a dating site. I set up a profile, posted a few pictures. Probably nothing will come of it; I don’t play well on paper, and I’ve never been particularly good at talking with strange men.

Make that men who are strangers. I actually do OK with strange men, geek girl that I am.

Yeah, that’s a writer’s comment. That’s OK. It’s three in the morning, the music is jamming, and I’m wondering if I have another chapter in my head. I’m also wondering if it would be safe to go alone to this little hideaway place in Madison; I hear they have bluegrass jams twice a week….

I’ll probably come to my senses once the sun is up.

Maybe.

But probably not.

1 AM, and I just don’t want the music to stop.

This was not a metaphor for some life issue. As my energy waned, I felt my creativity draining. Yet one of my Pandora stations sang on, in the midst of songs that spurred me on.

I love music. All kinds of music. And this night the songs were cooking, each one better than the last. Finally, at 2:36 am, one of my whirling dervish, tarantella-making songs came on, and I cranked it up, shouting with the chorus, so loud that the air vents in my speakers were whuffing my hair away from my face.

There’s a reason I live in a house.

I needed to sleep, but I literally did not want the music to stop. So I started this entry, typing madly as I sang and shouted as two more great songs followed.

No, I’m not easy to live with. Not unless you like a maniac bouncing around the house at 3am, wanting to dance instead of sleep.

And, yep, in the midst of this mania, I went back to work, typing not only this, but the next chapter of a book that’s been plaguing me.

God speaks to me through music, and I admire songwriters and musicians who can take their art to the highest level, in whatever genre.

Sing to us, speak to us, show us God’s glory. And may the music never stop.

We’re not quite there yet.

Dragon is having a few problems with my accent. So I thought the best way to practice would be to do blogs. First, it would encourage me to blog more often. Second, it would give Dragon more time to learn the nuances of my casual speech. For instance, “field of danger” is still coming out “Off and danger,” “of” is “off,” and “people” is coming out as “command.”

Don’t ask. I’m not sure I even want to know the reason for that one.

This would, of course, mean that my blog readers might find a bit more “life-noodling” in this space than long essays on the writing craft, or how my books came to be. This might not be a bad thing–not that I’m more interesting than my books, but sometimes I get blocked from blogging by trying to come up with something new and interesting to say about my books. The key word there being “interesting.” I could talk for hours, for instance, and the origins, characters, and plot of the Field of Danger, but I’m sure that would get boring after awhile even for the most loyal reader and best friend.

It could also have the added benefit of making me a better speaker, and since one of the things I would like to do as a writer is speak more to conferences, seminars, and women’s groups, this little Dragon could be one of the better things that has happened to me this year.

But I think he needs a name. And, yes, given the difficulty he has understanding me, I definitely think it’s a he.

So. What would you name him? I’m leaning toward something slightly dangerous and slightly soft. Not so much “Puff,” as Paper Bag Princess. Any ideas?

Let’s consider this a mini-contest. I’ll be open to all suggestions for the next couple of weeks. If I choose your suggestion, I’ll send you several of my books plus a couple of bonus things. Chocolate might even be in the offering.

Now, back to work in the old-fashioned way. BIC HOK TAM.

I love words. I deal with them every day, either as a writer, editor, or teacher. All of my life, I have sought to work with words. Even when I was in elementary school, I wanted to be around words. I love the way they sound, how they always transported me into another place, another time, a place where dreams grow and live forever. I want to honor them, and honor this gift that I know came from God.

Lately, I realized that in some ways I have abandoned the gift that God gave me. It’s hard to explain but I know that I need to look deeper into my heart, and write more authentically the things that are on my heart.

Writers are often asked where we get our ideas. So much so that it’s a bit of a cliché. But the truth is the ideas live within us, they grow within us, they are part of us. A skilled writer can tackle almost any topic they choose in almost any format or formula. That’s part of understanding and using your craft and, often, part of making a living at this peculiar and enchanting art we embrace.

Yet, when the stories that live and breathe within, the ones that dig at your heart to be written, they must be released with all the skill and glorious talent which God has showered down. No matter what path they take.

That’s where I am today. At the head of an unknown path I must take. All I know is that God will always be there to light the way.

In the meantime, I want to talk a bit about Caralinda, Tennessee. Like most writers, I base places and people on locations and folks that I know well. Most heroes are blends of this, that, and the other guy that I know. Likewise, Caralinda is a combination of several small towns in northern Middle Tennessee.

Specifically, April’s cottage is based on a real home. Corn fields really do run right up to the edge of the yard, and a field road cuts through the middle of them, so that the first thing you hear in the morning is the clanking of farm machinery on the way to work. I’ve walked the corn fields, felt the cut of the blades.

The idea for the book also came from a couple of real experiences, which I can’t share here (it would give away the ending!). But the general inspiration for Field lies in the people, small towns, and farms of Robertson and Sumner counties, here in Tennessee.

Writers don’t have to look far for ideas. Usually they’re cropping up all around, even right next door.

Please check it out.

I’ll be back shortly. Friday.

Promise.

———————–

The Onion Chain

Darly didn’t cry. This surprised her. She’d heard stories of other girls who had gone through this, girls who had shed tears not only during but for days after. Darly wondered about this as she watched one long, yellow strand after another fall to the floor. Why should she cry? After all, it didn’t hurt; Darly actually found the process kind of fascinating.

The smells of the beauty shop burned her nose and eyes, and she squinted and tried not to rub them. The room seemed to shimmer as the glare from the overhead bulbs scattered over a dozen mirrors, and Darly let her gaze wander over the strange and wonderful pots and bottles, jars and vases. Juanita kept a clean shop, but it was old, and the counters were cluttered with thirty-year-old remnants of her profession.

Cheap vinyl chairs were accented by cold, harsh chrome arms and legs, which poked holes in the stained and cracked linoleum. The bubble dryers lined the far wall, and Darly’s mother Carlene sat under one, the tight curls of her permanent locking into shape as she watched Juanita work on her daughter. Darly smiled at her, and the worried gaze on Carlene’s face eased some.

Juanita liked to talk, and Darly thought it was funny how the snips of the scissors punctuated the rambling stories about the various small-town women who had caught Juanita’s interest. She seldom talked about men, Darly noticed, unless they were drunk, cheating on their wives, or in trouble with the law. Darly couldn’t decide if Juanita hated men or just liked to talk about people in trouble.

“Why in the world that boy’s mama named him Cain I will never know.” Snip. “He is certainly living up to the name.” Snip. “I know you’re too young to understand, darling—” Snip. “—but men can really deal you misery if you don’t get a good one.” Snip. “That Cain—” Snip. “—he’s running around on that wife a’his, gonna drive her crazy, for sure.” Snip. “You doing ok, honey?”

Darly nodded, watching Juanita in the mirror. She squirmed a bit on the hard board that rested across the arms of the chair, boosting her high enough for Juanita to work without bending over. The board was black, covered with several coats of enamel paint that made Darly’s thighs stick. Her shorts rode up as she squirmed, and Darly wondered why Juanita didn’t get a chair that pumped up and down, such as the ones in the barber shop her daddy went to.

Snip. “Sit still, hon. I don’t want to make a mess of this. Lord, you’ve got the thickest hair! No wonder your mama’s having it cut for summer.”

Darly winced. She did love her hair. But Alabama summers were not kind to thick hair, and by suppertime, she always smelled like a wet dog. For a while, Carlene had washed and rolled it every night while they watched the flickering black and white images on television, turning the long mop into frilly ringlets. Darly had liked the way it felt on her neck and back every morning, and she sometimes stood in the window, letting the breeze twist and flip the curls. It made her feel pretty, and not many things did that.

But they had moved. The house was bigger, with more work for Carlene, and all the neighbor kids were boys. Darly had tried to fit in, only to find that her curl-laced ponytail was constantly getting caught in tree limbs or in the chains of swings. It was also a convenient handle for the boys when they tired of her. And school would start in mid-August, with no cross-ventilation in the hot, dry rooms.

Snip.

The blonde silk landed on her shoulder, then slid lightly down the plastic drape around her shoulders and landed in a spiral on the floor. One of the waiting customers clucked. “Lord, if I was losing that much hair, I’d be a mess.”

Juanita shook her scissors at her. “Hush, now. Darly’s being a big girl. No tears. She’s doing just fine.”

“It’s just hair,” Darly whispered. “It’ll grow back.”

Juanita took a deep breath of appreciation. “That’s right, child. You keep that brave attitude.” She twirled the chair around with a flourish. “There! Done! Don’t you look cute!”

Darly, just a bit confused about the “brave” part, looked over at her mother. Carlene’s eyes were clinched shut, as if she were steeling herself against a great pain.

The ride home was quiet, except for a faint tune from Petula Clark that faded in and out of the metallic speakers in the dash and the rush of the wind through the windows. Darly kept feeling the ends of her hair and rubbing her shoulders and neck. The air was unexpectedly cool against her skin, and she felt almost as if she were naked. Carlene, who drove with one hand and repeatedly patted the heavily starched curls on her head with the other, glanced over at Darly every time she had to slow down for a tractor or big truck. When they got out at the house, Carlene leaned down and hugged her daughter. “You really were brave.”

Darly nodded and looked over her mother’s shoulder at the two cats napping in the sun beside the carport.

“You want me to wash the short hairs off your back?” Carlene asked.

“When’s supper?”

Carlene’s eyes narrowed. “About an hour.”

“I can wait.”

“You going to run off already?”

Darly grinned and nodded.

Carlene sighed and straightened. “Don’t go too far. I don’t want to have to hunt you down to eat. And change the cats’ water. I forgot this morning, and I’m sure they’d appreciate something cool in this heat.”

Darly bounced away from her mother, skipping over to the two big cats, one black and one orange, who languished in their sun-filled paradise. Plenty of food they didn’t have to catch, plenty of birds to chase for fun, free run of a lot of land, clean water everyday, and people who left them alone to just be cats. Well, except for the girl who sometimes wrestled them into doll dresses and insisted they stretch out in a baby buggy. It was an indignity they tolerated, sometimes better than others.

Darly bent over and scratched their tummies, and the cats, who never seemed to understand that their names really were “Susan” and “Shadow,” stretched lazily. They stood up and followed Darly to the faucet on the side of the brick home, where their battered plastic bowls soon contained food and fresh water. They snacked as Darly leaned against the wall, watching them and feeling the heat of the brick on her back.

The house, nudged into a slight mounding of Alabama’s sandy soil in the middle of a two-acre pine-grove, had a retaining wall that extended off each end of the house, giving the still-settling mound more support. Practical, but also the source of great dreams. Darly walked the narrow top of the wall almost every day, very glad her mother couldn’t see her trying out for the position of circus tightrope walker, high-rise construction worker, or mountain climber.

Leaving the cats behind, Darly tiptoed along the wall, finally leaping forth out of Amelia Earhart’s plane at the last minute, parachuting into the wildness of the back yard.

The back yard, which also doubled as a medieval kingdom, antebellum plantation, wild west ranch, or World War II battlefield, depending on the day and the availability of her brother Kip and his friends, was mottled with the growing shadows of late afternoon. Darly ran wildly through the cooling grass toward the edge of the grove. Her favorite spot waited just beyond the trees, with the unceasing patience of an empty playground. There the rolling ground leveled out, the trees had been cut away, and the grass grew thicker since the septic tank lay only a few feet below the smooth earth. When it rained, the yard became mushy and spotted with dark clumps of wild onions that sprouted up faster than the grass after a close shave by her father’s mower. Darly loved the tart smell of the onions, especially when the blades were crushed between curious fingers.

This was the sole flat spot in the yard, and it had become the home for most of their outdoor play. Kip’s WWII camp, featuring a foxhole, a ragged tent, and broken crates from one of her father’s long-distance truck runs, clustered near the closest trees. The newly painted swing set they had gotten for Christmas glistened in the waning sun, but Darly ignored it, heading straight for an old wooden telephone cable reel, which Rother Jasper had found on the side of the road somewhere. Resting between the camp and the swings like a giant, scarred yo-yo, it had become a familiar and loved play spot for Darly. She knew every inch of its scratchy, water-stained planks. After all, they made up her favorite battlements and her wildest cowpony.

Grabbing a handful of onion blades, Darly scrambled up on the reel, spreading the fragrant weeds on the sloping mound in front of her. Grimacing, she plucked a small splinter out of one hand and flicked it away. Settling again, she fluffed her short hair again and scratched her neck, wondering how long it would feel strange to her, the air on her neck, the lack of silky strands over her shoulders.

Working carefully, Darly sorted the blades, matching up the lengths, into groups of three. Sitting very still so the reel would not rock, Darly braided the onion blades together. As the sun dropped and the first fireflies began to bounce in the trees nearby, Darly vanished into her own thoughts.

Juanita had said she was brave. She wasn’t really sure what “brave” felt like. In school, they had been reading about people called “brave.” Amelia Earhart was brave. She chose to fly even though it was dangerous. Daniel Boone was brave, coming into Indian Territory for his land and his freedom. Was “bravery” a choice of doing something even though it was dangerous? Did I choose to be brave today? There was no danger. No choice.

Especially no choice. Carlene had wanted her hair cut. End of story. End of choice. Darly had learned a long time ago, at least two or three years, that Carlene was far more stubborn in some ways and about some things than she was. Darly felt proud of her mother, however, for never saying, “Because I said so!” which she’d heard from her friend’s moms. She always had a reason.

She felt proud.

Darly frowned. Do we choose to be some ways? Do we choose to have some feelings? Or do they just happen. Where do they come from?

“Darly, you think too much.” Kip’s words. He’d laugh at some of her questions, but he usually answered her the best he could. Seven years older, Kip held the wisdom of the world.

A breeze flipped her new, fine bangs.

“I choose not to miss my hair.” That decided, she finished her task. She turned eighteen blades into six braids, then looped them together to form a chain, which was just over two feet long. She held it up, admiring it, and tried to imagine what it was going to become.

A basket. A grass mat. A rein for her cowpony.

“DAR-LEE!” Carlene’s voice echoed through the trees.

“Coming!”

A soft whisper of air twisted the braid, the same way the early morning stirrings through her window had made her curls dance. Darly stared, then draped the chain over her ear, letting it dangle, resting on her shoulder. Silky. Soft. Darly sighed, then turned and slid off the reel. As her feet sank into the grass with a slush, she lost her balance and had to dance forward to keep from falling. The onion chain fell, smashed beneath one size 8 sandal.

Darly knelt and tried to pull it from the wet tangle, only succeeding in pulling it apart. She stood up, ignoring the mud on her knees, and headed for the house. Kip was not needed for this one. There was no choice about what she felt. It was just there.

She was going to miss her hair.

I wanted to be a doctor, and took every science course I could in high school, going as far as enrolling in pre-med biology and chemistry classes in college. Then I hit calculus . . .

I wanted to be a vet . . . OK, that lasted only until the first series of allergy shots . . .

I wanted to be a musician. This involved more than a decade of piano, flute, piccolo, guitar, vocal, and bagpipe lessons. I sat first chair flute for two years in my high school band, even taking a turn at directing when I was a senior. Now I’m really good with the penny whistle . . .

I’ve had classes in Spanish, German, and French. I used German as my translation language for my master’s degree. Now I know just enough of each to get me in a great deal of trouble . . .

In college, I went through FIVE majors: music, mass communications, theater, pre-med, and English. I couldn’t even make up my mind about a MINOR – I wound up with an interdisciplinary minor, Modern European Studies, which included two classes each from the political science, history, and foreign language departments . . .

Sounds a lot like I can’t really make up my mind, doesn’t it? But, if you’re a writer, you know where I’m going with all this.

I started spinning yarns and making up imaginary friends before I could read, and I’ve been typing out stories since I turned ten. God knew, and so did I, what I would be. The world said, you’ll never make a living at it. So I followed other interests, other dreams, even as I scribbled in my closet at night.

Truth is, I am a writer. It’s the one thing I do better than anything else; it’s the one thing I CAN make a living at, provided I work hard enough and stay open enough to what works and what doesn’t. As long as I listen to HIM, and absorb the rest, I’ll be OK.

Because the rest was not, definitely not, a waste of my time. Everything I’ve done; every experience I’ve had or will have, is merely fodder for the writing.

So if you have moments when you’re a little unfocused or blocked, or if you have kids who just can’t quite make up their minds about the future, embrace the moments and each luscious experience. Then put your head up, focus on Him, and keep going.

It’s worth the journey.

This is not a bad thing. It just takes discipline. Determination.

Today I watched a documentary about Harlan Ellison, who was one of the first writers whose prose knocked me on my butt and showed me what being a writer meant. Listening to him, reading his words is much like being sucked into an irresistible vortex. He may sometimes set my teeth on edge, but I still find it virtually impossible to look away. He scrapes my writer’s nerves to the rawest envy, desire . . . and encouragement.

He once said the line that I’ve adopted almost as a mantra when I talk to new writers, when I try to explain that there are no shortcuts just because you’re talented, no easy path when you write from the heart: “Any writer who CAN be discouraged, SHOULD be.”

If you are a writer, you will write, no matter who says otherwise. And in the next two weeks, I am most determined to edit what needs to be edited and write what needs to be written – and meet those blasted deadlines.

Been listening to Stephen King’s ON WRITING in the car, as much as I can. I’m not a King fan, but this book is awesome. If you are a writer, or like his style, you should take a look. It’s even inspired a blog-to-come, when I have the time.

Love you all – thanks for the prayers – be back as soon as I can.