To all the family and friends whose lives I've been lucky to be a part of, thank you for being a part of mine. In these upside down times, with frequent storms, calm seas, cloudy skies and brilliant glimpses of the sun, I've been so happy to have had you just a phone call away. Sometimes just a plane ride away. Those times with you were the best.
Through all the times we've partied into the night, crossed swords at times, commiserated and consoled each other, through the sticky days of summer weddings by the lake and the winter mornings we've been buried under a foot of snow, I've valued each and everyone of you. I just wanted to be sure you knew all that.
It's been a long time since I posted on the blog and I've missed it even as I pushed away nagging thoughts urging me to get posting. But here we are.
The last many months have skittered by as I immersed myself in my new book. First I had to nail down the story, which was as ephemeral and capricious as the ghosts I was trying to herd. It's like trying to pin an eel to a rock. When I finally got them all lined up I opened negotiations, in two-way conversations with them, trying to persuade them to be the characters I wanted them to be. They were not having it. No amount of begging, cajoling and temper tantrums worked. They stood their ground. Who would think that those flimsy creatures could be so darn stubborn? One said I made him sound like a girl. So I gave him some muscle, a commanding voice, and Old Spice. He didn't like the way he smelled so we finally settled on Bay Rhum instead. Another one, a girl, wanted to join the Civil War. I pointed out that a young woman of her class, would never entertain such a thought! So she blew up a wagon load of ammo just to prove I was wrong. But the short, silky underwear had to Go. I insisted. At least wear a corset and some long stockings. . . I pleaded. That never happened either. "We weren't all sappy Southern Belles, Ginny. The concepts you people have! Lord have Mercy."
And that was before Sadie Jones, the old wrinkled Gullah cook, root doctor and clairvoyant denizen of the plantation took the reins and gave me a foothold for the beginning of the story. "My boy's comin' home! Mah milk's a rising!" She said. "Dat means he's comin' home."
The youngest son of the plantation, a Lieutenant Commander in the Confederate navy was coming home. And Sadie, his old wet-nurse, was the only one who knew. She was, at that time, about 65 years old and I had no idea how I was going to reconcile the idea of her lactating with THAT. But there was no point in arguing with her.
Finally, I had to lose my control issues and let them tell the story their way. They like the title. WHEN THE SOUTH WIND BLOWS. Which is a good thing because I have no intention of changing it. At least until a publisher thinks differently.
I hope you'll love it and ask you to hold good thoughts around it as I embed myself in the arduous hunt for a publisher.
2019 is two weeks away. I hope it's a wonderful year for you and me and all those we love. And maybe especially for all those we don't love quite so much . . . Let's all hold good thoughts around that. Love changes everything. 2019 in numerology, is the Number 3. Which is the number of love. So, I wish you all a lovely Christmas and a very happy and fulfilling New Year.
And to those people we've loved so much, who are no longer with us, we'll never forget you. We'll always love you. Until we meet again.
