Back To the Garden

My new book just came out. It is titled BACK TO THE GARDEN. It has nothing to do with gardening. I have tried to stress that at every opportunity I have been given to talk about the book. Still the title seems to have more power than I have.

Yesterday I got an e-mail from a company in Minnesota. They made bird houses. They wanted to know if I was interested in doing a tie-in with their product and my “gardening” book. They seemed to think bird houses and gardening manuals would go hand in hand.

Another company asked if I would be open to having a packet of seeds in each book, which would be provided by their store/company. “Your book could be a conduit to beautiful flowers sweeping the country,” they wrote. Who do they think I am – Johnny Appleseed?

I am not a gardener, have never been a gardener, and don’t want to start now. I don’t have anything against flora and fauna but I am not good with growing things. Even things that are grown elsewhere and then brought to our house, die. We had someone send us a plant a couple of weeks ago and when the florist tried to drop it off the plant put up quite a battle. It had its leaves wrapped around the door jamb and was holding on for dear life.

The plant lost. It came into our home and was placed on the kitchen table where it would get plenty of sunlight. We watered it, fed it, and did all the right things. We had funeral services for the plant this morning.

Growing up my mother would plant things in the yard. She had flower beds and other beautiful planty things. So I wasn’t raised to be a plant heathen. It just happened over time. Perhaps it was me marrying Terry that put the seal of doom on our future plants. She and I share a lack of love for gardening and always when she would try to make an effort it ended badly. She finally gave up after a particularly beautiful azalea plant withered down to its roots.

So here I am an author of a book titled BACK TO THE GARDEN. It is about the “garden of Eden” and not about “gardening.” I gave a talk a few days ago to a nice group of ladies. I stressed what my book was about and that there was nothing in the book about planting gardens or doing any kind of flower work. I vehemently stressed this as I read from different stories in the book.

When I had finished and was packing up to leave one of the ladies in the group came up to me to ask a question. “Do you have anything in your book about chrysanthemums?” she said. “I am always looking for information about chrysanthemums.”

She wasn’t kidding.

                                                                                                                              Jackie KCooper

Jackie K Cooper, the author of BACK TO THE GARDEN is currently on the run, hiding out from the plant police. He is wanted for questioning in regards to the death of various flowers, shrubs and

flowering plants.

Treat and Retreat (were sitting in a boat?)

by Joshilyn Jackson

Last weekend I went on RETREAT with my church ladies up to the actual woods, and fittingly, the theme was A TABLE IN THE WILDERNESS. We left on Friday, and a good thing, too; I was feeling all spiritually clogged and barn sour and hatefully weepy and SO SO SO SORRY FOR MYSELF. I think it was sticking out EVERYWHERE.

My best friend is being eaten by her children’s SPRING activity flood (as am I, best beloveds, as are all parents) and so we hadn’t talked in a couple of weeks. She called me and said , “WOW I CAN TELL FROM THE WORDS AROUND THE EDGES OF YOUR BLOG.THAT YOU ARE ONE RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC AFTERNOON AWAY FROM HEADING UP TO THE TOP OF A WATER TOWER WITH AN OUZI! WHAT GIVES?”

And I was all, “OH! ‘Scuse me! Is my mental illness showing? Here, let me just tug my skirt down…” And so I tried, but I fast realized I didn’t have NEAR enough cloth. I would have needed a hoop skirt to rival Scarlet O’Hara’s at the BBQ to hide all of the FROTHY layers of lacey mental illness I’d wrapped around myself. “WAHHHHH I am a big fat hateful selfish cannibalistic failure of a human being with BAD HAIR WAHHHHH! Who is a sad! Sad! Panda? WHO? MEMEMEMMEME.” Like that.

So I headed off to a an electronics-free woodland spot with a labyrinth and hiking trails down by the Chattahoochee River, and spent three days pretty much alternately marching around in the weeds and praying, and now I feel----retreated. Which is to say “significantly less crazy, with a firmer grasp on my actual priorities.”

The day before I left I thought, “I will go on my Table in the Wilderness retreat in the spirit of BABY BIRD! I will hunker down in a nest and scream and peep with an ENORMOUS OPEN BEAK and be stuffed with the worms of calmness and the worms of happiness and I will be given all good worms! ALL GOOD WORMS FOR ME!”

SO I went, and that first day, I was very weepy and stompy, and I missed my beautiful Television, and I missed my patient and beautiful husband, and I thought to myself, THIS IS USELESS! Where are my good worms??? I AM HOOTING AND PEEPING! I DEMAND THE GOOD WORMS! I came out here to the wilderness to find a TABLE in it. A BANQUET of sanity and grace spread just for me, and instead I found a table spread with ACTUAL WORMS, and NOT the kind that secretly mean peace, the damp squirmy kind…and here, you see, my baby bird and table in the wilderness metaphors met up and began breeding indiscriminately and had to be abandoned.

So Saturday morning I got up at 6 and put on my tennis shoes and went stomping down the trails with a map, like a moron. Because when it comes to choosing the correct fork while out hiking, a map is USELESS to me. I do not SPEAK map. I might as well take a bag of chicken bones and rattle them together and toss them to the earth and then see how they mystically fall to decide directions. Chicken bones, a map, magic 8 ball… same, same, all same.

But I took a map, and I headed into the woods.

You should know I am not a very WORDSWORTHian type person. I know some people look at a sunset or a mountain or some flowers and they go OH! THE BEAUTY OF THE ERF! OHOHOH! And their eyes get misty and they wander off refreshed. Me? I say, “Dude. It’s a tree with some blooms on it, and come Autumn that tree is going to poop it all off and I will have to RAKE. Bleh.”

But I AM an endorphin person. Hard physical work clears my head and makes me cheerful. SO! Armed with my map and a near psychotic level of optimism regarding my ability to use said map, I marked out a three mile course for myself. Then I put my head down and put my back into it. I am sure there were lots of breathtaking natural vistas along the way, but the trail was hilly and root-infested; I kept my gaze trained directly on the next piece of dirt my feet had to navigate so I could go fast without falling onto my face and breaking it. I moved from a trot to a satisfying canter, tearing along like a little steam engine, puff!puff!puff! very earnest.

A MIRACLE began to happen. Every time I STOPPED and checked the map, I was WHERE THE MAP SAID I SHOULD BE. It was BIZARRE! When the map said I would come to the river, I would come to the river. When the map said I would see the fork leading to the tent campgrounds, LO! There was a fork that led to the tent campgrounds. When the map said the labyrinth would be coming up on my left, THERE IT WAS! MAGICALLY ON THE LEFT! As if the WHOLE labyrinth had grown centipede feet and creeped from where it USUALLY sat to wherever I was inevitably lost and plopped down just as I came around the corner as a gift to me.

THE GOOD WORMS! THE GOOD WORMS ON MY TABLE IN THE WILDERNESS! I crowed to myself, going even FASTER and taking up my mis-mated metaphors again in the fervent heat of my delight.

And the whole thing was so VERY miraculous that I assumed it was Good Worms, and trusted it and put my head down, and stomped on trusting it, so that when I got to my last HALF mile, I came BACK to the same little rotty-looking plank bridge over a creek THREE times before I realized I was absolutely and hopelessly and finally rightly and justifiably Lost. As usual.

I became very bitter. The THEME was a TABLE in the wilderness, not LOST LIKE A MORON IN THE WILDERNESS. Yet there I was, a sad excuse for a metaphorical tribe of Isreal in my Nikes, NO MORE than half a mile from breakfast, but not getting any breakfast, but instead curling round and round the same criss-crossy tracks. I started to HATE that rotty bridge. I decided NO MATTER WHAT I would NOT come back to it. SO I began to choose only the left hand forks, winding myself farther and farther into the moist greenery.

All at once, I saw movement out of the corner of my eyes. The track had wound around to skirt a small clearing, like a mini-meadow, and IN IT, four little deer were eating breakfast. They had all put their heads up at once. And their tails. People think deer have little short tails, liked a dog’s tail that has been docked, but it isn’t so. The have long tails that are furry on two sides and when they lift them and they OPEN like big custodian mops. You can tell when the deer is Thinking Something by watchign the tails. All four stared at me, tails perked.

They were quizzical. They were GROUP thinking, and I could practically hear it: “Do you eat deer? Or are you just one of those TRAIL WALKING THINGS we see? Because if you EAT DEER please to tell us so we can bound away with our MOP TAILS UP? Yes? Yes? No? Okay!” Then three of them put their heads and tails back down and began grazing, with the closest one left to watch me and make POSITIVE SURE I was not secretly a deer eater. The breakfasting three kept glancing at the WATCHING deer to see if it was time to bound, but it never was, as I only stood there, gaping at them.

It is true I do not care for sunsets or mountain views, but I have a weird affinity for animals. I don’t mean I am some sort of DEER WHISPERER with a magic connection. I am never going to be a GUEST LOON on Psychic Pet Detective. My friend SARA is like that---everywhere she goes, animals fall in LOVE with her. She practically has little birds hurl themselves through her window glass so they can help her make the BED, for the love of Pete --- and I envy that. I WISH I had that. But I don’t have it.

What I have is a heart that answers the site of something wild existing in its place. I thrill to it like some people thrill to the music (yawn) or sunsets (COMA yawn). I once hiked 5 miles up a mountain and then slogged another mile down through a muddy creek, peeping under every rock I could find to see this little native-to-Georgia rare red salamander. And then I saw him! I gently lifted rock number umpty-hundred-and-three and there, THERE at last, there he was. I saw him for at least THREE nanoseconds before he went OH HOLY CRAP! and goozled sideways and then whipped away so fast my eyes could not follow him. I set the rock back down and slogged my way back down the creek to the trail and hiked home, completely happy. And that was for a two inch slightly slimy object with no visible eyelids.

So I was beside myself over the little deer. The trail took me around the mini-meadow in a circle and I walked it, and all the way, the deer watched me. They were BROADWAY deer, very choreographed. As I circled and the watcher deer got farther from me, they would swap out, so it was always the CLOSEST who put her pretty head and her mop tail up in case I sprouted fangs and leapt at them. And the former watcher deer would fold her tail down and drop her head and keep breakfasting. It was utterly charming.
After I completes my circuit, I followed a random path leading away from the meadow and within two minutes I started to smell bacon and within five minutes the trail dumped me out of the woods directly behind the building where they served breakfast. By then I wasn’t baby bird anymore, and I didn’t need to scream or peep or demand or even to be fed. I had been fed already, in some lost way, and it held. It held me all weekend, and it is holding still. That day I went inside and I had eggs and I had peace. The end.

I I wish I had a pithy thing to say to tie it all together. But nope, all I have to tell you is that I saw some deer, and for me, it was a gift. Then I went to have breakfast, and I had eggs, and I had peace.

Any other ending would only prove that eggs may taste great with cheese, but epiphanies don’t.

Bestselling novelist Joshilyn Jackson lives in Powder Springs, Georgia with her husband, two kids, a dog, a scurrilous kitten, and a twenty-two pound Main Coon cat named Franz Schubert. Both her SIBA award winning first novel, gods in Alabama, and her second novel, Between, Georgia, were chosen as the #1 BookSense picks for the month of their release. Her third novel, The Girl Who Stopped Swimming, which People Magazine calls “a treat” and Entertainment Weekly gave an A-, released in March of 2008.

A Reviewer's Life

For years I have been a film critic. I see three movies a week and I write my opinion for several newspapers, websites, and then I appear on TV once a week and spout off there too. I say what I think and let the chips fall where they might. After all it is only my opinion which is no better or no worse than anyone else’s. Occasionally it gets awkward as when I recently interviewed Will Ferrell just after I had seen his bomb “Semi Pro.” All through that interview I was praying he would not ask me what I thought.

Still for the most part I can do my movie reviews with no thought as to what the actors think. Brad, Angelina and I do not do lunch. It has been a while since Julia called, and I really just don’t get George Clooney. So there is nothing personal to be worried about when I rave or rant about a movie.

But I also do book reviews and those can be a problem. The problem is I know a lot of authors and consider some authors to be really good friends of mine. In many cases I review their efforts and in some cases I like what they have done and in others I do not. Believe it or not I say what I think. If I didn’t what good would the review be. It would just be a false pretense of a review.

Can that be awkward, absolutely. There was a book I reviewed several months ago. It was a book I had looked forward to reading because I knew the other works of this woman. I liked everything I had read and the information about the new book made it sound interesting.

As I was reading it I thought uh-oh, I am in trouble. I absolutely did not like it and when I wrote my review I said so. Again it is just my opinion and nothing more. My comments were not going to make or break this lady’s career. It has been awkward when I have seen this person since then. We never mention the review but talk about other things.

Another problem is I like to review my friends’ books. I am a firm believer in publicity being the root of success in the publishing world. Now you have to have a good product but after that you have to get the word out about your book. Reviews and publicity are crucial so I like to get my friends’ titles out there whenever possible.

I have been to a lot of Festivals, writing courses, other assemblies of authors and fans and have gotten to know a lot of writers. And most of the writers I have gotten to know, I have liked. From my reviews I have started correspondence with many national writers. We e-mail back and forth and act like friends. From this I have begun to anticipate the next Jeffery Deaver novel, or the newest from John Lescroart, Jodi Picoult, Harlan Coben, etc. I have to make an actual concentrated effort to pick up books by new authors.

Finally there is the problem of the self-published author. My newspapers do not want a review of a self-published book and neither does my TV station. I am sorry it is like that but it is. I get copies of self-published books every week and I hate to set them aside, but it is the way things are.

I love to read. I love good writing. I love seeing talent shine. If I ever review one of your books please remember I am only being honest - and it is only one man’s opinion.


Jackie K Cooper’s latest book is THE BOOKBINDER. His fifth book THE SUNRISE REMEMBERS will be published this fall by Mercer University Press.

FIRST READERS

Margaret Maron

And no, I’m not talking Dick and Jane and "Look, look, Jane! See Spot run." (Although I have to admit that I loved those, despite the weak plots and stereotyped character roles—Father coming home with a briefcase, Mother always there in the kitchen with her frilly little apron tied around her very unmatronly waist.)

No, I’m asking who is the first person to read your work-in-progress? The one who casts the first critical eye on the pages you’ve slaved over?

Are you part of a writing/critique group? Do you give it to someone only after the book is completely finished or does someone read the pages of a daily printout?

I began thinking about this when I heard a recent interview on NPR. Anne Patchett described how Elizabeth McCracken is her first reader and that she writes primarily for herself and for McCracken, who gives her helpful comments.

Kathy Trocheck (aka Mary Kay Andrews) sends each chapter to her editor as soon as she writes it because she wants the instant feedback.

Carolyn Hart’s first reader is her trusted agent, but only after the book is finished. Ditto Dorothy Cannell and Elizabeth Peters.

As a self-taught writer who wasn’t much of a joiner in those early days, I never showed my work to a critique group. To begin with, once we moved to the country, it was too much of a hassle to get dressed and go into any town where I might find one. Too, I had heard that such groups often consisted of people who weren’t all that good at writing, but were experts at pulling apart another’s work in mean-spirited ways. I knew I didn’t have the self-confidence to withstand anything like that. So I stayed in the country and sent my stories off to faceless editors who could accept or reject without my having to see their sneers.

This worked just fine until I edged my way into writing novels. At that point, at that length, I needed a little feedback, and voila! There was my intelligent, literate, and normally kind husband. The only drawback I envisioned was that he didn’t read much fiction and the fiction he did read had nothing to do with mysteries. On the other hand, he did enjoy Mystery! on PBS, so I began giving him chunks of the book.

It was a disaster. A divorce-in-the-making. I would hand him a couple of chapters and they would come back all marked up. And not tactfully marked up either, but a total line-edit with editorial suggestions and changes. My mild-mannered art professor turned into a draconian defender of literature, complete with lectures. The discussions got a bit heated. I have no problem taking editorial direction from an editor or agent; from a husband was a totally different matter, especially when I thought he was missing the whole point. "I’m not asking you to correct my punctuation," I said crisply. "All I want to know is whether or not it’s working. Are the characters believable? Are the plot elements meshing smoothly? And would you please put down that effing pencil and just read?"

But he was constitutionally unable to read without that pencil in his hand. He truly intended merely to mark a passage for discussion later, but the simple mark soon morphed into a paragraph. He would decide that I had overlooked a crucial scene that needed to be there and he would helpfully write that scene. Had he waited until the next page, he would have discovered that I had not overlooked it, but by then he was so enamored of the scene he had written (which was usually nothing like mine) that he was ready to defend it to the death. This is not to deny that many of his suggestions were useful and extremely on-target. Some of them were pure gold, which is what kept me coming back even though it was often a frustrating experience. At times, I would tell him who the killer was so that he could understand why a seemingly minor character kept coming to the foreground. When he knew who the killer was though, then it all seemed too obvious. If I didn’t tell him, he never guessed.

"I don’t care who dunnit," he would say in matching frustration. "All I care is if it flows smoothly and realistically."

Both of us came away from those sessions bruised and wounded, until halfway through the third or fourth book, he said, "I can’t do this any more. Our marriage is more important than any #%*&@#$ book."

It was then that I had a stroke of pure genius. Instead of giving him parts to read, I read them to him aloud.

For the last few years, when I finish a chapter, we have lunch together and I read. If he has questions or objections he can voice them then and there, but there is no pencil in his hand, and I can say, "Just wait. I take care of that a little further into this chapter." I may still disagree with the comments he makes, but I have learned that if he interrupts me to question a point, then I need to take another look at that passage.

As a bonus, reading the chapters aloud lets me hear the dialogue in a way that reading only with my eyes does not. It keeps my characters speaking naturally in clipped sentence phrases that might otherwise become too pedantic, too formal, too wordy.

Best of all, after 24 novels, the marriage is still intact!

So who’s your first reader?

[Margaret Maron’s last novel, Hard Row, examines the lives of migrant workers in farm camps where the landowner cares so much about the bottom line that he loses simple human decency. Visit her website at www.MargaretMaron.com]

Southern Mystic

I was raised by women who believed in Jesus and could tell the future. The Jesus part was easy. It was as expected as heat lightning on a summer night. We were southern and Jesus ran through our blood like pine sap through the trees. You would think the nature of God would draw more questions for the asking. More back-chilling, spine-tingling mystery but this was not to be the case. That was the black and white of it. The cut and dried. Family Bible on the table. Prayers called out over food and footsteps. Sunday go to meeting. Jesus was no mystery. Jesus was real. This future shrouded in forebodings and signs of all kinds, that was the mystery.

Now, the men in the family knew no future other than the day at hand. They were rough and tumble guys. They fished, they hunted, they told lies and alibis. The telling of things to come was not a part of them. Hard work was a part of them. Alcohol was a part of them. They were made of up three parts survival and one part mischief and so while the men stayed grounded to the earth, the women were the mistresses of all manner of things that were a part of food and babies. Of blessings and dinner on the ground. Of signs and wonders. Of dreams and fore-tellings. And the women drank this portion of their cup in without complaint. Carried the burden where it led them. And the men let them carry it, following from a respectful distance, shuffling on the edge of mystery.

These women of mine could tell things by the weather. By the way wild animals appeared and disappeared. They could call the sex of the unborn by the way a woman walked, could tell if it was man child or girl child coming. They could find a missing husband cold turkey in the middle of the night three cities away, and in some cases, they could they could tell fortunes. For them the veil between time and distance and other worlds was thin, more gossamer than brick.

Like the morning that my Grandmother rose from a troubled sleep and announced at the breaking of the biscuits, “Last night I had a dream of muddy water.” She paused, took a sip of her coffee, slid the biscuit through tomato gravy and looked up. “Go on,” Aunt Leaner said and so she did. “I was standing on a bridge looking for something, looking up and down that creek. The wind was dead and silent. The water was full of mud and sorrow. Barely moving.” She looked up at each of them, her eyes passing over my head that barely cleared the table’s edge. “I never found what I was looking for.” Then the circle of aunts shook their heads, went tsking with their tongues, and picking up worry. What would come next? A sick child? Dead animals? A husband hurt or worse? And the worry would continue until, sure enough, the dream would fulfill itself. Bad times, once on the distant, foggy horizon would land.

I slept with Grandmother on the frequent nights I went to visit. Tiny thing lying in that iron bed with the windows open, the sound of old fans stirring the hot air. Eyes open, I’d look out the window across the dark field and into the woods. As I lay there, unable to sleep, the sole survivor of the day, still wakeful, still watching, I’d see thunderstorms move across that field toward us until thunder shook the house. Until lightning was upon us. Until the air hissed, cracked, and rolled. Until I thought we were going to die. And on my Grandmother slept, breathing in and out, exhaling sights unseen over me until I finally drifted off into a southern, mystical sleep of my own.

These days people ask me about where my inspiration comes from. About how it can be steeped in signs and wonders and yet have characters and settings so real readers tell me they can pull up a chair by the fire, and be right there. Well, just look at me. No, look closer. See the little kid. Yes, that one. The quiet child moving through the shadows of whispers and skirts. See the long fingers of women weaving through my hair, hear those low tones being spoken over my head. Those are stories being told. Visions being cast. Layers of life being laid down through my skin, grafted to my bones. That quiet child so still, so silent, taking it all in. And now, the writer in me lays it down again one simple word at a time. What you see running through those pages, those words that pull like an undertow, that’s a generation of women and men touched by mystery and grafted to the earth by hard work, raw life and strong love. These are my people and this is what they’ve given me. And, I am so very, thankful.

River Jordan is storyteller of the southern variety and has been cast most frequently in the company of Flannery O’Connor and Harper Lee. Jordan’s writing career began as a playwright where she spent over ten years with the Loblolly Theatre group. Her second novel, The Messenger of Magnolia Street, (Harper Collins, Harper One) was published in January 2006. Kirkus Reviews describes the novel as “a beautifully written atmospheric tale.” The Messenger of Magnolia Street was applauded as “a tale of wonder” by Southern Living Magazine who chose it as their Selects feature for March 2006.

Ms. Jordan teaches and speaks on ‘The Power of Story,’ around the country and produces and hosts the radio program, Backstory with River Jordan, on WRFN, 98.9 FM, Nashville every Saturday at 4:00 - 6:00 CST.

She has just finished a new work of fiction and lives with her husband in Nashville, TN. You may visit the author at www.riverjordan.us

The Accidental Author

I have been a published writer now for eight years, and I still can’t believe it. There is something strangely bizarre about the whole thing. Now don’t get me wrong, I have always loved to write. I wrote in high school for our newspaper and I did so also in college, but that was just having fun with words. I never in my wildest dreams thought I could be “a writer.”

Well passing my time through life I had other occupations such as lawyer, personnel director, movie critic, etc. I still review movies but I have let the other career fields go. They didn’t satisfy whatever need there was in me. Then along came writing and I do believe it is what I was born to do.

I became a published writer by accident. At the time of my life that my writing career started I knew several writers. Jackie White, Ed Williams and Milam McGraw Probst were the three who influenced me the most. They were published writers and to me they were icons. I was in awe of them.

For years I have been keeping a daily journal of sorts. I write down full stories or just snippets of ideas, but I write down something every day. When a reporter friend of mine told me I should try to get the stories from these daily journals published, my three friends encouraged me every step of the way. They were there when I sent out five letters to a variety of small publishers. They were there when one showed an interest. They are still here and are my close friends to this day.

Once I began this accidental career I had the chance to meet more and more writers. They have all been supportive and encouraging. One of the most important people in my writing career is St John Flynn. St John is the host of Georgia Public Broadcasting’s “Cover To Cover.”

When my first book, JOURNEY OF A GENTLE SOUTHERN MAN was published, St John asked me to come to Atlanta and record some of my stories for “Georgia Gazette,” a weekly radio program on GPB. Having my stories read on the air made my name better known than anything else possibly could have – okay maybe Oprah would have brought me more fame but let’s talk reality.

Later St John invited me to be the guest writer on “Cover To Cover.” Now the man is either delusional or he thought it would be a hoot to have someone on to talk about writing who doesn’t have a clue as to how his career came about. But I went on the show and St John asked only questions I could answer. That is his brilliance, he knows how to particularly interview each person he has as a guest. I mean he couldn’t ask Terry Kay and me the same questions.

Speaking of Terry Kay, there is another idol of mine. When I signed with Mercer University Press after my second book had been published, they agreed to publish my third book HALFWAY HOME. They also asked me who I wanted to write the introduction. I didn’t have a clue. They then asked me who my favorite author was and the name Terry Kay immediately came to mind. So ask him, they told me.

I had Terry’s e-mail address or I got it from his website. I sent him a three paragraph e-mail telling him why he shouldn’t write my introduction. I told him he was too busy, too famous, too tired, too kind and a million other things. Then I sent it to him. He replied immediately and said he would do it. Now that is class!

Through the years I have met people like Patti Callahan Henry who just exudes encouragement. She has a group around her that includes Mary Alice Monroe, Marjory Wentworth, and Patti Morrison. They all adopted me and made me feel like a part of their world.

Yes I came into this world of writing by accident but since I have landed I have never felt so secure. Writers are good people. I have yet to see a competitive streak among authors. I have other writers telling me all the time about book festivals, book stores, and the like. They offer suggestions as to how I can make my books better known.

I love this life; I love this world; I love these people. Everyone has a story in them. I just hope everybody gets the chance to tell his or her like I have been able to do.

Jackie K Cooper's newest book is THE BOOKBINDER. His next book THE SUNRISE REMEMBERS will be published in November of 2008 by Mercer University Press.

FINDING YOUR TRIBE

Okay, let’s have a show of hands. How many here grew up thinking you must have been adopted in your cradle because there was no way in this world that you belonged with this group of people? Nevermind that they insisted you were the spitting image of your mama and that you had your granddaddy’s blue eyes and your granny’s straight hair. Surely they had stolen you from the gypsies. How was it possible that you had been born into a nice prosaic family who didn’t daydream, who didn’t laugh at wordplay, who would listen impatiently when you tried to explain why a line of poetry could move you to tears and then tell you to get out there and grass the corn or start shelling those beans? Somewhere your real family were surely sitting in swings and wondering why you didn’t bring your book out and spread a quilt under the trees and spend the day reading. Right?

Ruth amid the alien corn.

Okay, maybe that’s a small exaggeration. (I am, after all, a fiction writer.) My parents did insist on my taking a full share of the daily chores; but in fairness, they loved to read, too, and didn’t complain too much when I said, "Just one more page and then I’ll do the dishes/sweep the porches/feed the chickens, etc."

But if any of my friends and fellow classmates read or wrote for pleasure, they never mentioned it. After a while, I quit talking about it because I didn’t want to seem too weird. I learned to fit in. I was even part of the in-group, such as it was, but it never felt real. I fell in love with my husband because he was the first guy I ever dated who could talk about books and music instead of cars and sports. How sexy to hear a man speak eloquently of Hart Crane, Thomas Wolfe, Shakespeare! He didn’t laugh when I said I wanted to write and he was as elated as I when that first short story sold.

But I still had vague longings for more people like me. I can remember hitting thirty and thinking, "I now have all the friends I’ll ever have." And they were good, kind, loving people, but . . .

Always that but.

Eventually, I stuck my foot into MWA and, hey! Here were a couple of people and....yes! Sisters in Crime! Malice Domestic! Bouchercon! And suddenly there they were—my tribe—in their multicolored gypsy wagons, their flashing wit, their inclusive laughter. Speaking the common language that sounded so incomprehensible to those not of the blood.

Most writers work in solitude, but all of the writers I know also have at least one good writing friend nearby with whom they can go have lunch and bitch and moan about publishers, reviewers and tiring promotional trips. Email lets us keep in touch with a farther-flung circle of close writer friends whom we may not see more than once a year. They’re the ones with whom we exchange cartoons and pertinent YouTube videos and indignant "Did you see this????" when a publisher tries to steal all rights in perpetuity. We exchange recipes and cold remedies and cheer when PW gives a good review, and impugn the ancestry of the reviewer who wrote a nasty one. We stretch our publicity tours so we can spend a night or two in each other’s homes. We bounce ideas off them, hash out plot problems in hour-long phone calls, and read their short stories to see if they work.

Over the years, these friends truly do become much closer than the families into which we were born.

Dorothy Cannell, who’s closer to me than my own sister, and I gave a presentation at St. Hilda’s (Oxford) this past summer. Late that afternoon, I was sitting in the Senior Common Room, having a delightful chat with Colin Dexter, when P.D. James entered. "You must excuse me," he murmured as a blissful smile spread over his face. He almost bounded across the room to her and they embraced and then sat down next to each other, clasping hands. You could see the years of friendship that underlay their easy talk and spontaneous laughter. Two members of the same tribe.

If you want further example of tribal members finding each other, consider the Rock Bottom Remainders, a pick-up band composed of such writers as Amy Tan, Roy Blount, Jr., Stephen King, Scott Turow, Ridley Pearson and Dave Barry. (http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/04/arts/music/04rema.html?_r=1&oref=slogin) They make the best-seller lists with predictable regularity, but which do you think gives them more pleasure?

I know that if I had the choice of being #5 on the NY Times Best Seller List or playing a banjo with the Rock Bottom Remainders, I’d sign up for banjo lessons tomorrow. Wouldn’t you?

(Margaret Maron lives in eastern NC. She has written two mystery series, one set against the NY art scene, the other about a district court judge in NC. She's currently running late on her 27th book.)

Website: www.MargaretMaron.com