Deep Thoughts, Bruises and All.

First of all, Happy Holidays. No matter your outlook or what you celebrate, I wish you renewed joy and well-being.

Okay. Now. To the pressing matter at hand: keeping on in a time when the world rages and each headline is more bizarre than the next.

Every morning, I tune into the national news. I’d rather ostrich myself. Truly. But I do live in this jumbled period of history and construct stories, so I must, if not understand, at least observe.

I wear deep frown lines. Yes I do.

But I also own deep smile lines. Thank the heavens.

I used to be a blind optimist, the kid who found the pony beneath the pile of poop, the woman who trusted in ultimate peace and universal benevolence.

I’d love to say I am still that person. Alas.

My mother once told me I was a new breed, what she called “a bruised optimist.”  This is true. I still hold to the belief goodness and kindness exist, because they do. I bump into strangers in the grocery store, at the gas pumps, in line at some eatery: those who smile and pass a few moments, who seem to long for gentle interaction as much as I do. No social media post can rival the connection between people, no matter how brief.

In this season where hope and hatred bash against the glass in equal measure, I vow to bring bruised optimism to my work, to my interactions, to my world.

My very best to all of you. Should we meet in line for soup, or in some internet media queue, may we all offer balms for bruises.

Sure, I am Southern, but drop the attitude...

This has been stuck in my craw for a while, so I need to get it unstuck.
There is, of course, a bit of a backstory...

Recently, I enjoyed brunch with a good writer friend at a small local eatery. Wonderful company. Of course we discussed our works-in-progress and an upcoming writers' retreat we attend each year. At the next table--inches away--a clutch of men of varying ages discussed books they were reading, or had read. Couldn't help but overhear.

Being the kind of person who often talks to strangers, I stopped by their table on our way out, to compliment them, as the future of the written word is important to me, as a fellow reader and author. The men smiled and nodded, pleased, I suppose.

I mentioned as an aside, that both my friend and I were authors. The youngest man--the one with the loudest opinions--asked what I wrote. When I replied "fiction set in the South," he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'd never read anything Southern." Mean tone. Snarky, huffed laugh. Judgment intended and received. He went on to further talk down this part of the country.

Those of you who know me well, know I am seldom at a loss for words. His comments stunned me mute for a beat. We managed to smile and wish them a good day. After my friend and I stepped outside, all I could manage was "wow."

As with such things, I thought of a handful of rebuttals afterward. How I might have listed notable Southern authors or somehow stood up for us, for myself. I am not one for conflict, being raised to step away from such. Given the current mood in our country, perhaps being able to zip it and walk away is in my best interest, not wanting to wake up dead.

So...here I sit with my indignation still simmering. I don't cotton to simmering indignation; it keeps me from moving on to more useful projects, like the current work in progress.

Just because I am from the South, do not EVER decide I am illiterate, racist, or narrow. Yes, there are things I do not like about this part of the country. But there is much to love, too. Biscuits. Big ones--catheads--with butter and Tupelo honey. Chicken 'n' Dumplings and pecan pie and pickled everything. Country roads carpeted with sugary sand. People who will nod and smile, and wish you a good day and mean it. People who'd rather pass the time on a rocking chair porch, shelling peas and listening to the crickets sing. People who will put down the dang phone and actually look you in the face. People of differing races and creeds who are doing their dadgum best to reach across the abyss and forge a better future.

I feel better now. I'll forgive, but being Southern, I probably won't forget. Somewhere down the line, in one of my novels, I shall get the last say.
Writers do that, you know.

Y'all have a good day.

Rhett DeVane
Southern fiction author
Rhett's website

Writers4Higher Pays Tribute to Piggy the Muse Cat

Writers4Higher Pays Tribute To Piggy

The Muse Cat

If you are an animal lover as I am, you understand two basic truths: all pets are special, and most are more noble than the majority of humans. Every now and then, one particular critter shares your life, one that can practically read your mind, one that digs deep into your heart and shares your spirit.

Such was my muse cat, Piggy.

He came to our home at eight weeks of age, a fuzz ball, gray tabby born in a lumber mill. The name we provided the vet was Sisko, but he rapidly outgrew that title. For the next seventeen years, he answered to Piggy, based on the fact he never met a food bowl he didn’t love. One of his kitten pictures shows him sprawled across a pie tin half-filled with kibble, face down, satiated, and fast asleep. I posted that picture on Facebook years ago, and it traveled around the globe. A while back, I found Piggy in that full-on face plant pose, nestled among other snapshots of equally funny animals. The title of the slideshow compilation: Have you ever been so tired that . . . ?

Piggy was no ordinary cat. Even folks who normally didn’t warm to felines liked him. He came when called, drank from the bathroom sink, ate nearly every human food allowed, carried on animated conversations, and was happiest when he was close to his people. I wrote thousands of words with him reclining next to the laptop, watching me with huge green eyes, commenting every so often.

In winter, he doubled as a toasty lap cover during TV time and a pillow hog in the night hours. Did I mention he was an alarm clock? Oh yes. When he was young, and could still hear the coffeemaker crank up, he initiated a daily, pacing meow-a-thon that nothing could thwart. In his senior years, when age diminished his abilities, he slept in the threshold to the kitchen so he wouldn’t miss the end triple-beep of the Cuisinart. He saved energy enough to hop onto the bed to awaken the lazy two-legged creatures. Humans do serve a function, you see. They possess opposable thumbs for opening cans: vital, since no edible vermin or birds share the interior of the house.

For the past two years, Piggy battled failing kidneys and pancreatitis. Aided by the kindest veterinarian anyone could wish for, Piggy pushed away from the Reaper time after time, with a fierce determination to live.

But a guy gets tired. And he did.

On his last day, Piggy managed to pad down the hall, meow the alarm, and meet us in the kitchen. But he ate only one bite. And, as he had for the past three days, he barely touched his food and did not drink.

This past Wednesday, on a morning as ordinary as any, we had our final chat. I am not sure what he said, as I am a mere human who can’t decipher his language as well as he could mine, but I believe it was last-minute instructions on how to carry forward without him. Along with the other felines and canines that shared this earthly passage, he will be waiting, and it will only be the swish of a furry tail before we meet again.

Godspeed, Piggy, sir. You were a good cat, a faithful muse, and one heck of a friend.

Writers: Write like you are dying.

Write like you are dying? What?

Recently, I attended a beautiful, uplifting memorial service for a friend close to my age. Tim McGraw’s Live Like You Were Dying accompanied one poignant video celebrating his life: his true love, his children, and his passion for adventure.

Each time I am present to wish a person safe passage to wherever they go when they leave here, reality taps my shoulder—is it the left one, where the Grim Reaper hangs out? I forget.

Someday, I will die. Worse, my “people” will die.

Taking Tim McGraw’s words a step further, which I tend to do, shouldn’t I also write as if I were dying? Meaning, write as if that story, novel, paragraph, or blog post could be the last time I represent myself on this planet, in this particular universe.

Seems I am in a rush, like most folks, bunching experiences without pausing to feel, to absorb.

My generation never particularly warmed to “selfie”-satisfaction. If you spend every pivotal moment grinning into the smartphone screen with a scene behind you, I urge you to put the dang device down. Turn around. See, feel, smell, and immerse yourself in the place and time. Later, you won’t need that selfie to recall what you saw. Better, you will add to a wealth of sensations to juice up your art, and your life. For once, you will be smarter than that phone.

Hold up a sec. I need to stop and listen to some Motown. Lift myself from the sadness that drapes me each time I ponder mortality.

There. Better. Fast-paced music does that for me.

Now, where was I headed with this dissertation?

Writing as if I were dying.

Meaning:

·         Producing a chunk of work to be proud of, to leave behind if it is indeed the final snippet.

·         Necessary revisions after the new-love blush of the first draft.

·         Proofing and polishing until the result glows.

·         Finding experts for information when your personal experience is lacking. Don’t rely on Google exclusively.

·         Producing the best work possible. Not perfect—even the top books have an occasional typo. Those pests are eventually routed to the door. But sound—something worthy of being the last great work.

To my friend, I wish you joy wherever your spirit travels. Thank you for the reminder to live, and write, as if I am dying.

Rhett DeVane, southern fiction author and blog master

www.rhettdevane.com

           

Time to let another book go...

The breathless part of releasing a book—hitting “place order.”

It’s a bit like holiday shopping, this book creation deal. I never really feel as if I finish; there’s a point when I just have to stop.

Oh there will be a typo or two or three. No matter that I have gone through the copy a gazillion times, or that I have a jam-up editor, or that I have proofed the advanced copy to find a few last-minute things to tweak.

They lurk, those minor glitches, all na-na-na-boo-boo. Keeping me human. And humble. And imperfect.

In the end, I know I have to release it to the world or never have time to write yet another piece of fiction, to revise and revise and edit and edit.

But my mama speaks up: the expert on everything and anything; the little, kind voice I hear in my head when self-doubt keeps me awake at night; the leader of my cheering section no matter that she’s not on this side of reality now.

“Do the very best you can do, honey. Then rest easy.”

To that end, I nudge my latest novel, Parade of Horribles, into the world. It’s not perfect but it’s mine.

Good travels, little book. Go forth and touch the people you need to touch. I will remain behind, ready to let the muses take over once more.

Rhett DeVane

Southern fiction author

www.rhettdevane.com

Merry and Happy whatever you celebrate....from Writers4Higher

The year's-end holiday in my family revolves around the celebration of Christmas. Wrapping gifts with the involvement of a pet (usually a cat, as the dogs historically only got involved if food was involved), a bit of baking, seeing family and friends, and southern comfort food. Okay, so the traffic makes me a little more nutso than usual, but I do get a kick from the random discussions with complete strangers in the toy aisle. This year, a few of us gathered around a robotic dinosaur that could be "taught to belch and fart." Wow. Sometimes there truly are no words. :)

I am so very fortunate. Period. In all ways. In regards to the Writers4Higher blog, I have been impressed by the posts of my fellow authors and others affiliated with this writers' life. 

The media would have us believe that people are inherently evil, intent on destruction. This blog confirms the opposite: a far greater number of humans are kind, willing to give their time and gifts to uplift, sustain, and inspire. 

I thank you all for that. We are staging our own quiet version of a revolution.

May you have a wonderful holiday, whatever you celebrate. Allow yourself to take a deep breath and enjoy.

See you all in January, with more talented authors and writer-ly folks.

Rhett DeVane
southern fiction author and blogmaster
www.rhettdevane.com 

A Writer's Come Undone--Some Words of Wisdom from a Survivor.

A Writer's Come Undone

A come undone.

If you're from the Deep South, you've heard the slang. If not, stick with me and I will drag you into the light.

Unraveled. Hit the wall. Stumped your toe on the block. 

Come undone.

If you write, you will have at least one come undone during your career. If I call it a career instead of a hobby, I force myself to take it seriously and hunker down to the work.

I do love an analogy, so here goes.

Compare a come undone to a plateau in a weight-loss diet. You've bumped along nicely for a bit, started to view the bathroom scales as a tool instead of a fiend. You've walked every day and avoided the bakery aisle. Then, it happens. You skid onto the plateau. 

Days pass without so much as an ounce slipping away. If you eat one more salad, you threaten to run naked, screaming, to Georgia. (Insert the state line nearest to you here. Mine is Georgia, and thankfully, not too far to run. If I was a runner. Which I am not.)

You rage. Consider giving up and wolfing down the cheesecake bars in the back of the freezer--left over from some long ago occasion, but why quibble.

You don't. You hang in there. Finally, the scale shows meager success. 

Until you hit yet another plateau.

A literary come undone follows the same spastic samba. I clip through the rough first draft, thinking myself somewhat clever. Days pass, months. 

One day, I sit down to the laptop and come undone.

Why am I doing this? Is it a huge waste of time?

I consider pitching the laptop to the curb, watching it arc high, then crash. Brush off my hands and go inside and, I dunno, take up dental floss crochet or clean the baseboards.

But I don't.

I persist. Write pure crap I wouldn't read to a rabid raccoon. Work through it. And guess what? My writing improves. A novel emerges on the other side (in this case, Secondhand Sister.) It is my favorite child, to date.

I did not major in creative writing. I grew up at the feet of master storytellers. Everything I've learned has been by trial and error, heavy on the error. Critique groups, beta readers, trusted author friends and editors: all have helped me limp my way along. 

None of us perform this art in a vacuum, though it seems very lonely at times.

And we all will stall at some point. If not, we're not digging in hard.

Breathe. Embrace your come undone. It will pass. The writer that emerges on the other side will gain a seasoned patina she, or he, didn't have before.

One more thing: come undones and chocolate mix well, for me. Find your crutch and lean on it. For a beat or two.

Then get back to that manuscript.

It's only a come undone, honey.

Rhett DeVane

Southern Fiction Author

www.rhettdevane.com

Writers4Higher takes a new direction...whoot!

Well now. I've taken a little break from the blog and it's time to put on my running shoes and head out.

The Writers4Higher blog is my way of giving back, of highlighting some mighty fine literary folks.

Up until this point, I have focused on authors. But what about all of the other hard-working people in this field? Yep, they deserve recognition, too.

So tune in. In addition to more talented author types, you shall be introduced to editors, designers, and marketing people. If I can tie down a muse long enough to ask a few questions, maybe even one of those wispy types.

It is true; we never do anything alone. Without the aid of other experts, a writer is just someone else yammering in a vacuum.

My best to all of you, and thanks for reading the Writers4Higher blog.

Blogmaster and Southern fiction author 
Rhett DeVane
www.rhettdevane.com

Writers4Higher features Rhett DeVane

Welcome to Writers4Higher

The purpose of the Writers4Higher blog: to feature authors in a new light, a fresh look at the way writers use their talents and life energies to uplift humankind. Writers4Higher doesn’t promote religious or political views. Authors are asked to answer three simple questions: simple, yet complex.

This issue, Writers4Higher features

Rhett DeVane, the humble

Writers4Higher blog master.

It’s been two years now. The Writers4Higher blog has gained its legs and is going strong. I am thrilled to see people from across the globe tuning in to read about the fine featured authors. Hosting this blog has greatly enriched my life, as I have met so many talented, kind people.

Seems only fair that I answer my own probing questions for this two-year anniversary post.  Here goes:


1. Tell me about yourself. Your book(s), your life, your inspiration.

I am a born and bred Southern woman, from the somewhat rolling hills of North Florida, United States. Originally, from the small town of Chattahoochee, Florida, I have called Tallahassee my home for over thirty-five years.


In my professional life, I am a dental hygienist. This field has provided financial stability and the opportunity to get to know many quality people. I love my patients, and after all of these years, consider them friends. Bless their hearts, they have listened to me as I discussed the latest plot lines, characters, and upcoming releases—mixed in with their care and the required home care instructions, of course.

I look for humor. And I don’t have to search far. Seems I can’t help tripping over some wild situation, some crazy family story, or newspaper article. Humans provide more than enough inspiration for my stories, and the occasional dream.

My latest novel, Suicide Supper Club, found its seed in a funny conversation with my sweet mama. I was her caretaker for the final five years of her life, and we discussed everything, especially end of life issues.

My small-town upbringing provides the inspiration for my writing. I scrape through memories, ask questions of relatives, and keep my eyes and ears open at family gatherings. At one time, they ran from me. Now, they come forward.

2. Where do you see your writing taking you in the future?

Wherever it leads, I shall follow. I have a number of novels in first draft, ready for revisions. Not only my Southern fiction series, but middle grade fiction as well: two middle grade fiction series are in the works. Elsbeth and Sim, book one in the Tales from the Emerald Mountains series was released in October of 2013, with plans for book two in the fall of 2014. I pen a few reviews for the Tallahassee Writers Association blog, as time permits, and have reviewed novels for Southern Literary Review.

3. How do you use your talents/time to help others?

For my fellow authors, I host this blog—Writers4Higher. I see my fellow authors as friends, not competition. I have met so many fine people, and hope to meet more. We are put on this earth to help each other. Through Writers4Higher, I promote this philosophy.

As I continue on this writer’s journey, I will continue to gift a portion of my royalties to benefit charities I hold dear. To this end, I frequently donate to local people of my choice. I know where the money goes. I like that.


Would you like to find Rhett?

Check out the links:

Rhett's Website
Order Suicide Supper Club on Amazon
Order Elsbeth and Sim on Amazon
Rhett's People on Facebook

Be sure to visit the Writers4Higher Market! We have gear for the writer in you.

The Writers4Higher Market

Rhett DeVane

Fiction with a Southern Twist

Writers4Higher blog

Rhett's Website

Rhett's funny Southern Blog

My Writing Process: A Blog Tour Interview

My Writing Process: A Blog Tour Interview

A big thank you to my author friend Nancy Hartney, short story writer found at website: http://nancyhartney.com/ or her blog http://nancyhartney.wordpress.com/ .

Her collection of short stories, Washed in the Water, was released in June 2013. Described as "gritty," the stories meander through violence and beauty among her hardscrabble characters as they traverse their religious and social landscapes. Since release, Washed in the Water has garnered rave reviews on Amazon.com, GoodReads, and the Deep South Magazine http://deepsouthmag.com/2014/02/literary-friday-edition-92/ .

Rhett DeVane

The "Four Questions" (and my best-guess answers):

1) What am I working on?

I always have multiple projects in various stages of completion. Guess that helps stave off boredom. Like most writers, I relish creating that magical first draft: the time when I adore every word and I am the most amazing author to ever breathe life into characters. Ah, the blush of new love. Then I let a manuscript simmer, and the riff-raff floats to the top. But I am growing to like revisions. Might as well. Revisions are like that unbalanced aunt who shows up drunk for the family reunion, draped with a scarlet feather boa and ready to get down with her bad self. She’s part of the family and you have to learn to live with her. Besides, doesn’t she add interest?

The next in my middle grade fiction series, Dig Within, will pass through my critique group and into its third set of revisions. I plan to have it completed and in production by the fall. The next Southern fiction book, Secondhand Sister, idles in my files, awaiting a turn through the group, and my red pen. Not to mention my line editor, a patient, kind soul who has had more than a bucket of laughs from my errors.

Marketing my two latest books, Elsbeth and Sim (middle grade fiction) and Suicide Supper Club (Southern fiction novel), is further stretching my brain. If we buy dementia-free years by acquiring new skills, then learning to market has provided at least a few months’ reprieve. Thank goodness for my author friends. I watch what they do, then do my best to mirror.

2) How does my work differ from other of its genre?

Truly, there is nothing new, only an author’s unique spin on age-old human storylines. My twist comes from my Southern upbringing in a beloved North Florida town with a state mental institution on its main drag. I understand “colorful.” I descended from a long line of storytellers, and I have been writing since I was old enough to hold a fat pencil.

I have been told my humor is what sets me apart. Laughter flowed easily in my family of origin; still does. We look for the funny side, and this trait has buoyed me, and my characters, through some horrendous trials.

Though humor permeates my work—both the Southern fiction and middle grade pieces—I don’t shy from serious subject matter. My first novel, The Madhatter’s Guide to Chocolate, featured a hate crime. My fiction includes death of loved ones, child pornography rings, end-of-life issues, cancer, and suicide. The middle grade work features environmental issues, family ties, bullying, and self-subsistence.

3) Why do I write what I do?

Might as well ask why I breathe. To stay truly alive. To make sense of the things I perceive in my world. To add a little shimmer of light and humor into the universe. Heaven knows, we need all the light we can summon.

I don’t like to be corralled onto a certain “platform.” The experts want a writer to choose one direction, one genre, and run that into the ground. I suspect this is why many talented authors grow stale, why their novels start to sound identical after a few years. I enjoy the challenge of penning both Southern fiction and middle grade chapter books. Two collections of short fiction rest in my line-up. I don’t see myself writing non-fiction, but who knows?

As long as it makes me happy, and I do my best, who is to tell me what to write? The muses are in control. I shall follow their lead.

4) How does your writing process work?

When I am hot on the path, I write for a few hours each day. No set word count. I have tried using an outline. The muses chortled. Instead, I allow them to take my fingers to task, sit back, and let it flow. One of my Southern fiction novels generally takes about three months for a first draft. I allow it to sit for at least four weeks, then dig in for the word and scene kill.

After that, the manuscript falls under the scrutiny of my trusted critique group, the Wild Women Writers. More revisions, chasing the typos like sprayed cockroaches. Finally to my line editor. Then back for more culling for critters.

If I’m lucky, I have a published book. Then I find those last illusive typos that keep me from being perfect. No worries about remaining humble. Writing is the best way to never be full of yourself.

Well, gee, that was fun! Thank you, Nancy Hartney!

************

Next week, April 7th, tune into these three talented author friends' blogs, where they will carry on this fun blog tour:

Malcolm Campbell:

Malcolm R. Campbell is the author of paranormal and fantasy short stories, including “Emily’s Stories” and “The Lady of the Blue Hour,” and the comedy/mystery novel “Jock Stewart and the Missing Sea of Fire.” He lives in northeast Georgia.

Website Link: www.malcolmrcampbell.com

Weblog for the blog hop: Malcolm’s Round Table: 

http://knightofswords.wordpress.com/

Melinda Clayton:

Melinda Clayton is the author of Appalachian Justice, Return to Crutcher Mountain, Entangled Thorns, and Blessed Are the Wholly Broken, as well as the self-publishing guide Self-publishing Made Simple: A How-to Guide for the Non-tech-savvy Among Us.

Clayton has published numerous articles and short stories in various print and online magazines. In addition to writing, she has an Ed.D. in Special Education Administration and is a licensed psychotherapist in the states of Florida and Colorado.


Weblog for the blog hop: www.goodreads.com/author/show/4447391.Melinda_Clayton/blog

Susan Mary Malone:

Award-winning writer and editor Susan Mary Malone is the author of the novels, I Just Came Here to Dance and By the Book, as well as four co-authored nonfiction books, including What’s Wrong with My Family?, and many published short stories. A freelance book editor, forty-plus Malone-edited books have now sold to Traditional publishers.

Website link: www.maloneeditorial.com
Weblog for the blog hop:www.maloneeditorial.com/blog/editorial-tips/

Holiday Hair...and Best Wishes from Writers4Higher

Holiday Hair

At times, I can feel my life shifting. My feet planted in the St. George Island surf. The waves sluicing around the scalloped edges, chewing away at the sand, depositing it across the tops until only the arches show.

I thought about this as I thumbed through old photo albums, searching for bits of captured Christmases. I wanted to write a poignant piece about family and love and good food and Mom with her homemade eggnog, some with the whiskey-ed “nog,” some without. And nobody ever got poisoned from drinking raw eggs. Imagine. Different times.

Remember those thick books of photos? When we actually printed out pictures and pasted them on pages, instead of zipping them to some magical cloud where they linger like digital ghosts? When hardly any of the shots were perfect because we didn’t have redo’s if Grandma decided to blink, or if the baby was distracted by the dog chewing up tinsel.

We didn’t have planned “photo bombs” where folks inserted themselves into otherwise perfectly posed shots. All of the pictures contained random elements and the unexpected. No need to fake a bomb. Every family gathering was a ready minefield.

I thought about how life is picking up the pace, with more runway behind instead of out front. How people have blipped from this side of the veil to places I can sense, but not see or touch. How nothing remains the same.

Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes not so much.

Then I noted one element in all of the pictures. One wonderful, magical, delightful element.

 Holiday Hair.

The first picture.

Me at six. Printed flannel P.J.s and fuzzy boot slippers. I wear twin six shooters. A Roy Rogers shirt and pants lie in a ripped box at my feet. Good job, Mama and Daddy. Who can be a proper cowgirl in a fringed and very sissy Dale Evans skirt? I straddle a long box, tearing at the paper. My expression is intense. A stick pony with a white vinyl head waits inside. I will ride to The Great Plains and back on that horse.

And the hair.

Toni home perm hair.

Naturally flat for the first two inches, then frizzy as a scared cat’s tail for the next six. Someone has tied a red bow around one clump. To quote the Grinch, that frill “will be the first thing to go.”

Photo number two.

Skip ahead a few years.

Outside after the gifting frenzy, before the family dinner. I pose, legs planted again, only this time on either side of a Stingray bicycle with chopper-curved handlebars and a banana seat. The trees behind me, stripped of leaves. It’s gray and cold, judging by my puffy coat with the rabbit fur-lined hood.

Do I have that hood snugged over my head? Oh, heck no. Wouldn’t want to mash down the basketball mound of rat-teased hair. My older sister must’ve had beauty salon leanings. There’s enough Aqua Net shellacked on that ’do to stop a meteor.

I must like it. I didn’t bother covering it up.

Photo number three.

The last picture of my family of origin before some faded away. Only we didn’t know it then.

I stand, my feet planted on either side of my sweet Golden Retriever Omega. I lean toward the La-Z-Boy recliner where my father sits. My mom perches on the other side on a chair we dragged from the dining room, leaning with her arm curled around his. My older brother and sister stand behind Daddy’s chair. We manage to all smile at once, no lidded eyes, no distractions. Even the dog faces the camera and grins.

My hair looks normal. But I know it’s not. Beneath the fuzzy Santa hat, hides my version of a mullet. Didn’t recall ever having one, but the pictures from that time prove me wrong. Memory has a way of shading in the not-so-attractive times.

Daddy tells me I’m beautiful, that I look just like Farrah Fawcett. Which I do not. I am tall and a little pleasantly plump. And my straight hair will not do all that wispy, curled layering Farrah managed to carry off so well. And I’m not petite, or famous.

Thank God for Santa hats. And fathers with eyes of love.

I think this year, that I shall fashion some wacky style. Maybe add some streaks of color. The advantage of this time period: loads of hair products guaranteed to lift and separate, and my over-fifty self, devoid of shame.

I’ll put it in line with the rest of the holiday hair masterpieces.

Picture number four.

Make them wonder one day, “What was Aunt Rhett thinking?”

*****

Whatever you celebrate--I wish you safe, wonderful holidays filled with joy and laughter, and maybe some Holiday Hair. 

Tune in next year, when I welcome more talented authors to the Writers4Higher family.

Rhett DeVane

Creator and moderator for Writers4Higher

Author of Southern fiction and Middle Grade fiction

www.rhettdevane.com

Happy Thanksgiving from Writers4Higher

Thanksgiving…hmm…gosh, there’s so much to be thankful for, I have a hard time picking out just one. Health, love, family, friends, food, shelter, job and a love for writing. Thank heavens, I am blessed to have a heaping share.

No matter if I grouse a bit about not being a svelte woman, or having an elephant’s share of smile lines, or dealing with texting drivers—any of the minor complaints peppering daily life—I really don’t have anything monumental to tally. Everyone snarks a bit. Keeps us from blowing up. We are human, after all, and thus flawed. Don’t the imperfections make us unique? I think so.

One of my favorite people came into the office this past week. Advanced age has robbed her of her eyesight and strength, but not her humor or love of life. She’s a writer too—we’ve shared many talks about this over the years—but can no longer pen her poetry, or read, due to failing vision. Still, she listens to audio books and comments about how “lovely” the words sound. She still has her British accent, even after many years in the United States. Her polished speech pours out, light and musical. I could listen forever, if we both had more time, which I fear we do not.

Her daughter and son recently culled her best poems from her computer files, compiled them into a collection entitled Pieces, and self-published a few copies. The day I received my copy in the mail, I cried. Though she had shared the lead poem “Pieces” with me, I had not read the others. Beautiful words from a beautiful woman. I cherish the book.

“Different people have told me which poem they like the best, as if I wrote that one just for them,” she said. “Poetry does that, resonates somewhere deep inside.”

So this Thanksgiving, I offer up praise for the people I have been honored to know. Such a variety of folks, all ages, all unique. 

The “lovely” line-up of talented authors that have joined me on this blog.

I thank God for allowing them all to grace my life.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Rhett DeVane

Writers4Higher blog administrator and fellow author.

www.rhettdevane.com