Welcome back to my blogging marathon, LOL! Here’s a link to today’s share. Don’t forget to go enter those giveaways!
Yesterday Uncle Randy and Aunt Brenda, his wife, came in. He’s my dad’s only remaining sibling, and his youngest one, too. It was fantastic to see them and to give them autographed copies of my book.
He and I talked about what he’s reading (H.G. Wells and Frank Baum, lately – I got to tell him that Barry and I know the however- many-great-grandson of Baum). He’s also turned onto Project Gutenberg, I was happy to discover.
While I’m a little nervous about him reading my books (I warned him that they’re a little “spicy”), I was also so happy to see them.
In other news, I managed to get up way early and make my way to the gym. I thought if I made it there before six that I’d have more room and privacy. Ha! I forgot it’s still early in the year. I counted six people already there, and I might have missed a few. Before long, there were ten, and a group of three came in to work together with a trainer. They just kept coming.
As crammed as it was, I figured I’d be better off doing the cardio bunny crud first off to see if things thinned out in the meantime. Those machines are never as popular as the rest of the equipment.
The thinning didn’t happen, not while I was there.
I adore Meghan Trainor, and I opted to do a walking workout on the treadmill in which she led us on the walk and up the “hill.” There was NO music for the first twenty-five minutes. Her story about her life was cool, but not as energetic as I needed so early in the morning. And then there were three songs that pumped me up just as I was supposed to be cooling down.
I also did some leg strength work, though I had a very narrow area to wedge myself. It (kind of) worked.
Don’t get me wrong, I normally love the energy of a full gym. I like the sound of steel, the grunts, the conversation. The music. I like to see what others are doing to pick up tips. I am a sucker for any new equipment and think I have to try it immediately. I even really get along with the gymbros.
But nowadays, things are quieter at the gym. Most everyone has earbuds (as do I) and the music is backed way off. I don’t hear much conversation. And, for the love, please give me a patch of floor big enough for a mat and some dumbbells. That’s all I’m asking for.
After getting completely ready this morning, I found out that the coffeehouse where I typically write and work from is closed again today. So I’m at the library, which is a nice place to be as well, with the books as a cloud of witnesses. When I was here yesterday I had a fun conversation about an author and bid on a basket of books for their silent auction. I also discovered a decorative glass company whose work is featured in their display case. Very pretty stuff.
Anyway, I hope you will humor me as I list what I have already done this morning before 9:30 a.m. I’m doing this because all I can see at the moment is what I haven’t done. (I didn’t necessarily do these in this order)
Woke up an hour early
Made it to the gym
Stayed at the gym though it seemed crowded
Did a cardio and strength workout as well as a cooldown
Made a smoothie, including veggies
Drank a large bottle of water
Filled an ice tray
Washed the Nutribullet
Tracked my food
Weighed myself (why?)
Answered and sent a few messages/emails/texts
Cleaned the upstairs bathroom
Opened the gift I bought for my hubby for V-day and despaired because I’m not sure it’s quite right. Sigh. I can always return it, I guess. But the card is spot on, so that’s something.
Posted my writing and marketing goals
Finished scheduling my week
Packed a snack
Got ready for the day.
Put on (and slaying, if I do say so myself!) an outfit I put together last night – it’s the red boots that are doing it for me
Remembered to pack my umbrella
Meditated (fidgety meditating, but better than nothing?)
Walked to the library
Checked to see if the day’s virtual book tour post was up yet
Oh, and started on this post
I’d say that’s a list to be proud of.
The only downside to working from the library is realizing that they don’t offer caffeine and I didn’t bring any, just my water bottle.
I took yesterday off from blogging. It was a topsy-turvy weekend, so I worked from early in the morning until about 1 p.m. on a project yesterday, then cooked for the week and vegged the rest of the day.
In the middle of my project, I apologized to my hubby and said I had no idea why it was taking me so long to revise, and he smiled.
“What?” I asked.
“You’ve been kind of distracted today.”
Ah, he was correct. I am either hyper focused or easily distracted when I’m working. I did notice I kept making random comments to him. But once he pointed that out, I was able to make a cup of tea and refocus and, in another couple of hours, I had it all revised.
I still can’t believe that my second novel is out in the world! My copies arrived late last week, and this morning I signed and put “autographed” stickers on a short stack to sell at our local coffeehouse. Over the weekend, two readers wrote to tell me how much they enjoyed my writing, and when you’re having a challenging weekend, that means everything.
I’m calling February my January, since it’s been “book, book, book” up until now. While obviously there are still book-related tasks to do, the hard part is over.
I sat down with a notebook and pen this morning and am plotting out the rest of my year, in big ways and small. Sure, I already have my “23 for 23” list (somewhere; drat it, where’d it go?), but now that this book is birthed, maybe I can spend some time reconfiguring, well, everything.
I have actually already completed one of the things on my “23” list. I had bonus points to use at a store, so I ordered a Nutribullet, something I wanted but knew I didn’t need. But hey, it was free, so why not? I like making smoothies for breakfast, and I wanted to get back in the habit. But I have had it for six months without even trying it. Because I put it on my list, last week I fired it up. It’s handy and does the job just great, but I will complain a bit about its capacity. I like to cram my smoothies full of veggies, and I think I’d have to make two batches if I wanted to get enough in. (I am aware that my blender could do just as good a job, but this one is more fun to use, and it has a handy drink spout so you don’t have to dirty a glass.)
I think in part because of my book, until now, I’ve put fitness on the back burner, a mistake. Yes, there have been injuries and minor health challenges to negotiate, but I could have done better than I have. I’ve been working out, but only sporadically. I got a text from the gym manager the other day saying he hasn’t seen me lately. I told him I’d be back in soon.
Today I messaged my incredibly fit daughter and asked her a fitness question and she sent me in exactly the right direction. While I did not make it to the gym yet today, I have already given myself a task that will take me right past it later, so I will have an extra reason to go. I’d say the odds are 80 % that I will go.
Writing can take a toll on your fitness if you let it. I’m the first to admit that. Hours of sitting, and, if you’re me, snacking to think over a plot point. Maybe with this newest novel I’m working on, I can put less pressure on it (because it should be a hell of a lot easier to write than the last one), and on myself.
I’m also really pumped today because I listened to Mel Robbins’ podcast episode today, and I’m a productivity fiend. She suggested somethings I already knew I should be doing but just haven’t been. Like prepping for the next day the day before!! (Let’s get those workout clothes laid out the night before, Drēma!)
BTW, on the Valentine’s front, I asked Hubby to take me to a wine and chocolate tasting. He said yes! And just in time – his dance card keeps filling with gigs. I’m happy for him and the band. They’re a fun bunch and if you get the chance, you should come hear them.
Here’s hoping that this time next year I can look back at this post and say that I was able to reimplement my fitness routine at the level I hoped to. Here’s hoping that if February is also your January, you’re able to get back on course in whatever way you’d like to, too.
Good morning! Thank you to today’s sharer on my virtual book tour, The Momma Spot.
I’ve been making sun tea all my life, it seems. The recipe is in the drink’s name, but the result is summer in a glass. Since I promise in the book description that Southern-Fried Woolf has plenty of sweet tea, let me make good on that promise.
(Although now that I think about it, this is unsweetened tea. That’s easily enough remedied.)
Sun Tea
A gallon jar. (When I was younger, I repurposed a huge pickle jar. Nowadays, I have one designed just for iced tea with a spout and a handle and everything, LOL.)
4 large tea bags or 8 small, any flavor as long as it’s Lipton
Fill the jar with water. Add teabags and any herbs you might like to infuse it with.
Place the jar in sunlight for four hours or so.
When you bring it indoors, take the teabags out and refrigerate the tea.
You can wait for it to chill (yeah, right) or add ice cubes.
When you want a glass, pour, add your sweetener of choice, and garnish with fruit or herbs. I haven’t added sugar in so long I’m trying to remember how I did it. Probably dissolved a cup in the warm tea before putting it away? Nowadays I use Stevia, mostly.
I will tell you a sad secret that I learned about making sun tea: you don’t actually need the sun. You can put the bags in the jar and forget it in the kitchen and yeah, in a few hours, you have tea. But if you use that recipe, I’m not sure we can be friends.
Cheers!
Drēma
P.S. I know for many of us it’s still kinda cold out to want iced tea, but it makes me imagine the warmer days ahead when I can sit outside and write with a glass. I have photos of batches of my sun tea, but no idea where. Take pics and send them to me if you make any, please!
So many thanks to “Books With a Chance” for sharing a gorgeous photo of SFW on my book tour. I’m always grateful when someone spends time with my book.
Okay, the news I hinted at is now official: Shilo the country band that husband Barry was in over a decade ago is reuniting to celebrate the release of Southern-Fried Woolf! Locals, come hear them Saturday, April 29, 2023, at The Post in Pierceton, Indiana. And, by the way, this author will be there selling and signing books. 😉
I can’t tell you how touched I am that these former band members have agreed to do this. I was on a book marketing call when this idea came to me. Barry and I were on a getaway for my birthday over this past Thanksgiving, so he was in the hotel room while I was on the call. I texted him that I was about to suggest something that I hadn’t discussed with him. When I told him what I had in mind, he wrote back “Oh my…fun!” He was in.
Here’s a promotional video of them just before Barry joined.
Shilo had tons of regional success, and had offers to go on extended international tours several times, but it just didn’t work with enough of the members’ lives at the time, if I remember correctly.
I remember Barry calling me from the Naval Air Station Miramar in San Diego where they were doing a show back in the day. (That’s where they filmed the original Top Gun, btw.) They traveled all over, but that’s a trip that sticks in my mind because of its ties to the iconic movie.
While I can’t wait to share my book with a wider audience during this concert, I’m also a fan, so I can’t wait to hear them together again. I’m happy to have instigated this reunion. For the record, they are having a ball planning it, which does my heart good. Here’s a poster of them from a while back. More promotional materials to come.
Welcome to Day 11 of my virtual book tour! I’ll try to remember to supply the link for the day when it’s available. It means so much to me that these book lovers are sharing about Southern-Fried Woolf.
I do have another story kin to Dolly Parton.
My hubby had a regular Sunday afternoon gig for a time in Nashville, in what was formerly Twitty City, Conway Twitty’s complex. Barry played guitar and sang BGV’s. The kids and I would accompany him to the gigs for moral support.
The host was fond of singing a song that has since been canceled because of the writer’s misdeeds, so I won’t name it here, but at the time, before I knew better, I really liked the song, too. From out in the audience I would sing along when we were encouraged to, and I sometimes imagined singing it onstage.
A time came when the entire music team except Barry left suddenly (that’s such a Nashville thing), and since I sang onstage weekly elsewhere already, Barry suggested me for a slot on this, too. Don’t get me wrong, I was both thrilled and terrified. This was a much larger space; this involved really putting myself out there. I was the lone soprano. Yikes!
We met up with the hastily appointed new music director midweek to rehearse. Though I recognize that I can sing, I have never been overly confident of that ability, so rehearsals especially terrify me.
After a few weeks performing onstage, I wasn’t as scared. (Oddly, my fear doesn’t multiply according to how many people are in the audience. Five or 5,000, my anxiety is at the same level. I guess that’s probably a blessing.)
After one of the shows I was approached by a lovely woman who sweetly told me she really enjoyed my singing. I thought maybe she was just being polite, but it still meant something to me.
When she left me, I pointed her out to Barry as he stowed his guitar in his case.
“That woman told me she liked my voice,” I told him.
He looked for the woman I was talking about, then looked again as she hugged the host of the show. (Hugging is also a very Nashville thing; I miss that.)
“Do you know who that is?” he asked.
I didn’t.
“That’s Stella Parton. I saw her out there earlier.” (My husband has an encyclopedic knowledge of musicians of most genres.)
An accomplished singer and performer in her own right, Dolly’s sister said she liked my voice! Needless to say, my head was kinda big for a few hours after that.
Yesterday I found a cd with a couple of tracks of me singing solo on it. I actually listened to it without judging myself harshly (except on one song, where I was double-tracked singing nasally). It made me feel nostalgic.
When I was nine, I really, really wanted a guitar. I had seen a woman at church play guitar, and I thought it was so cool. I was too shy to ask her anything about it; it seemed impossible that I could learn something so complicated.
By then, I was also writing horrible little songs, but I was writing them from my heart. I had a tiny spiral-bound book full of scribbles. I don’t remember any of them now, but I think there was one song featuring angels and, naturally, wings.
Although I felt conflicted about praying for something material, I found myself asking God for a guitar for Christmas like he was Santa. Here’s the thing – I really don’t remember telling my parents that I wanted one. For one thing, I knew they didn’t have the money. Maybe I did ask and I have forgotten since, but I just don’t recall saying anything. Or maybe they heard me playing the air organ that I inherited from my grandfather. It came with a book and all you had to do was play the corresponding numbers. Though I couldn’t read music, that I could do.
Can you see where this is going? Yes, I got a guitar for Christmas! I’d love to know how they knew. They bought it from a pawn shop. I treasured that little no-name guitar. Alas, it was before the internet, and I had no one to teach me how to play, so I made very little progress. Also, once a string broke, I had no way to replace it – I knew nothing about strings, but I loved that guitar even as it was.
At a family reunion, a much older cousin who played tuned the guitar and tried to show me a couple of chords, but I could tell he didn’t think much of my little doorstop guitar. I’ve felt guilty for a long time that I didn’t put the instrument to better use, especially since I know what a sacrifice it must have been for my parents to buy it.
I do have my own “grown up” guitar now, but I still haven’t made much progress. I take fits and starts practicing, trying. I can play simple tunes with the grids to guide me, but I play them backwards since I am left-handed, and my strumming is for crap and I have resisted flipping my strings and learning the other way around. I do know several chords by heart, but I have a mental block about putting them together on my own.
Part of the problem is that I live with a guitar god. I’m not exaggerating. Sometimes when he’s playing and I’m in the other room, I have no idea if it’s him or a recording.
While he’s been gracious in helping me whenever I ask, I’m too intimidated to ask, for the most part, unless I’m writing a song and ask what a chord is. See, I can’t even do that on my own. (And he’s probably the least intimidating person I know.)
But songs have been coming to me at the oddest times lately. Hooks are appearing from who knows where. Writing Briscoe has stripped an old layer of callus off that part of me that loves the vulnerability and drama of story songs. Age and experience have made me realize that creating something is its own reward. An audience, while nice, is irrelevant to me at this point, so much of the risk is gone. (And now we have the internet if we’re feeling brave.)
As a matter of fact, during our winter writing retreat in December, Barry and I spent some time developing some of the songs that are in SFW. On one song, he left the room briefly while I was sketching out the idea, and when he came back, I was scribbling lyrics like I was “automatic writing” as if I were at a séance. While sometimes I have a melody when I write, sometimes I don’t. This song came thundering fully formed into the room.
“Play like a train; follow me,” was all I could get out as the words shot out of me.
The man is so accommodating. He played exactly what I was hearing after I hummed it just once.
The song is “He’s Done Nothing to Deserve You,” and while who knows what will come of it, it has a triple stack of vocals at the beginning, like a train, and that “you” sounds like the “woo” of a train.
I don’t have the lyrics handy, but I do know there’s a line that tickles me that might not work in the end, but I’m leaving it for now:
I think I’d rather be alone/Than with this hairless Romeo/Who manages to cheat even while he sleeps
(I know, I’m easily amused. And yes, I’m working on the syllable count. That’s easily enough fixed with pushing or dragging the melody, right? The hair referred to is chest hair, but I don’t think the narrator cares how she insults him. She could probably even say hairy instead and get the same effect. And how is he cheating while he sleeps? I have no idea, but I’ll figure it out. Is he talking in his sleep? Something to do with his phone? Gosh, I’ve missed story songs.)
As I exit the book that has been with me for so long, it feels great to branch out, to stretch. It’s like getting out of a car after a long trip and breathing fresh air. That is not to say I did not enjoy the journey, but it was difficult, it was long. Sometimes terrifying, sometimes confusing. The result is flawed (those damned typo gremlins! What the hell!) but it’s out there now, and I’m proud to have had the courage to attempt it.
While it would be very difficult for me to try to play my guitar right now (for reasons), maybe I’ll try to figure out a way to do it anyway. Just not while Barry’s at home. (He’s nothing but supportive, but it must be agonizing for him to hear me try to play!)
My nine-year-old self was a songwriter. I just didn’t know it. Isn’t it good to know that life gives you more than one chance to explore what you love, especially if you’re detached from the results?
What did/does your nine-year-old you want to do? I’d really love to hear the answer to that.
P.S. I am at about page 200 of Radical Woman, and I’m still really enjoying it, but since just yesterday I mentioned the mildness of the sex scenes, I feel I should warn you that in the very next chapter that I read, things heated up considerably. The book calls for it, and it’s well done, so no shade intended, but I thought I should add that caveat.
How is it Day 10 of my book tour already?! Please take a look at the post on More.Books.Yes.Please’s Instagram. I’m grateful for the share! As ever, sign up for the giveaways over there, too.
I will have more to say about Maggie Humm’s excellent Radical Woman featuring the artist Gwen John and her relationship with Rodin later, but let me say for now that it’s bringing up unexpected emotions. I put her book down and just stared at the wall last night after reading a passage full of desire and love. It wasn’t explicit; that’s not my bag, and not hers either, I’d guess. (I told you, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I’m kind of a prude. The only reason my characters aren’t is because I give them full permission to be themselves. I’m just the scribe. I don’t mean that I am prudish about what I read so much as I’m shy to write anything too graphic. It’s hard to imagine that your Sunday school teacher from childhood might read the R-rated and above stuff!)
Humm does such a nice job of capturing the romantic despair of waiting hopelessly for a visit, a glimpse of the beloved even in a park, as John sees Rodin, a letter from a distant lover. It’s very well done.
Living with two such “dukes up” main characters in both of my books for so long has left me feeling tired and having to remind myself that I am not the one who is jaded. When you write a character, you allow them to rule you, up to a point. I’m just now beginning to realize that I am free to be myself again. I’m softening up. I’m opening to sweet feelings in literature again.
Remember how I said a few days ago that I’ve been wrestling with writing a certain relationship in my third novel? Well, Humm’s novel is making me see how much I miss reading books with romance in them. I don’t mean romance novels per se, but the tenderness and longing, the anticipation of a glance in them, both the waiting for and the fear of the touch of a hand on your own in new love. Wishing you had the nerve to reach out yourself, knowing you never will.
What if I allow Rebecca, my main character, to experience someone who leaves her unable to speak around them, someone she can’t be in the same room with without shaking, and yet as difficult as it is, she’d give anything to be in that room? There’s nothing wrong with creating a tender character capable of feeling deeply, is there?
Sure, you need the will-they-or-won’t-they, but even literary fiction can have a happy ending, can’t it? (I am open to a wide interpretation of just what a happy ending looks like; ask Briscoe about that.)
Anyway, these are my musings at the moment. As always, thank you for stopping by!
Please visit the gorgeous post over on Instagram created by A Blue Box Full of Books. She pairs Southern-Fried Woolf with a copy of Mrs. Dalloway! It gives me goosebumps to see my work side by side with Woolf’s.
One of the quirkiest characters in my book is Briscoe’s mother Jules. Let’s get into it.
Julia Buttersford Jenkins “of the Massachusetts Jenkins,” she tells singer Velvet Wickens when she meets her for the first time. (If you’re guessing that I borrowed her last name from Taylor Jenkins Reid, you’d be right. But please don’t tell Taylor. I’m pretty sure I made up Buttersford, but it’s just begging to be a name, so no regrets. It gives upper crusty, which is what I was shooting for. ;-))
Why is Jules from the East coast? That’s easy. I was born in New Jersey of parents who moved there from West Virginia for work. I spent the first eight or so years of my life there, and it holds a special place in my heart.
Why does Jules speak with so many accents? She suits her accent to the situation. She may not care about what she wears, but she cares about how she sounds. She enjoys it, and I quite admire people who have a wardrobe of accents. When she pulls out her Southern accent at the conference, it’s because she knows that’s what the attendees will respond to. When she greets V. with her best East coast accent, it’s to intimidate her.
Jules is an original. She’s outspoken, lusty, and smart though she does live alone on Blair Mountain. Maybe you know that Blair Mountain that I mention in my book is real, although I don’t know about the current condition of the fire lookout tower and the cabin.
Will you indulge me in a quick aside about forest fires, first? Every few years it seemed a forest fire threatened the mountains where we lived in West Virginia (my parents moved back there after the plant where my father worked closed down when I was about eight). One fire came so close to our house that volunteers wet the roof to keep the house from catching on fire. The fire did engulf the cemetery on the hill just beside the house. I was heartbroken because I have a set of twin brothers who died at birth buried there, and I was only ten(ish) during the fire and very tenderhearted. (Of course there was only a superficial burn of the cemetery, and no permanent damage was done.)
Why did Briscoe’s mother end up in West Virginia? When I first encountered Blair Mountain as a child, it was peaceful and pastoral, unlike its brutal history. It was the site of The Battle of Blair Mountain which was fought between coal miners who wanted to unionize and coal company owners who retaliated with deadly force.
If you know anything about West Virginia, you know about the nasty doings of those coal companies, how they treated their workers like beasts and made them so financially dependent on them that they couldn’t leave. (If you’ve ever read Irving Stone’s novel about Van Gogh, Lust for Life – I highly recommend it – it’s much the same scenario that the miners face in that book. It’s probably another reason Lust is one of my favorites. )
(Can you tell I had relatives who were coal miners? My father’s father, Thomas Jefferson Sizemore, was called The Coal Miner Poet.)
I remember visiting the grounds of the lookout tower on Blair Mountain as a young girl first with a church group, not knowing the site’s history. We had our church picnic there and if memory serves, one of the ministers picked up a spent bullet casing and said something about the battle, but it didn’t stick with me at the time. I think I was more charmed with exploring the cabin that the tower keeper lived in, wishing I could live in it. I did climb partially up the tower, but I don’t remember if I was too scared to continue up (heights!) or if I was called away. Likely it was the former.
Now, of course, I know more about the battle and the lives lost. It’s sobering.
Thankfully, the mountain is now on the registry of historical places after a coal mining company allegedly tried to decapitate the mountain, initially getting that designation reversed.
In my mind the mountain will ever remain that peaceful place on that day of the church picnic, the place with Jack in the Pulpits flowers and Queen Anne’s lace just off the path, and the sound of country gospel as the church people sang “I’ll Fly Away” and “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder,” accompanied by two men with acoustic guitars that were decidedly not in tune with one another, not that it hindered the singers’ zeal.
I will always see, in memory, the huge green utility wire spool laid on its side, a table for holding fried chicken, corn bread, and jugs of sweet tea. And the hand pump where we were instructed to wash our hands before eating. Its action enthralled me, and I wanted to play with it, though I was too well behaved to do that.
In my imagination, someone who Jules works with at the fictional University of Nashville knew of this place and offered it to her for the duration of her Woolf project which was only supposed to take a short time but that, I think it’s plain, may never get finished. She would have to give up a life that she’s quite happy living if she did finish it. The incentive is just not there.
Since Jules is from the East coast, you’d think she’d want to return there and find a real lighthouse instead of her makeshift one. Maybe not, though. We’re only given scraps of her life: her parents owned a soup company and were disappointed that she wanted nothing to do with it. The parents died in a boating accident before Briscoe could meet them. Are you as curious as I am to know what that was all about? I’m not planning a sequel any time soon (read: never), but I have questions.
One of the things I find most touching about Jules is that she carries on an “affair” with her own husband behind her daughter’s back, presumably to keep her daughter from false hopes that the family will ever live together again.
It’s not a real failing on Jules’ part, not being warm and motherly. It’s just who she is. Since Jules needs no one, she cannot comprehend that her daughter might need her. And yet that’s what makes Michael all the more alluring to Briscoe. Briscoe falls for his stage presence as much as anyone. She believes that his excess passion shown onstage carries through his life. She doesn’t understand that’s the only time he feels.
We get a big hint of this when he wipes his mouth with his shirt after she kisses him for the first time. I want to beg her to run then, but she just doesn’t know any better. (Is it just me or do you think that she marries WAY too young?)
Jules and her daughter bond over matters of the head, not the heart. This book is as much about a young woman who wants her mother’s attention as it is a woman who wants her husband’s undying love. It’s about learning what you can and can’t live without. I can’t say more, or I might issue spoilers, and that’s a no-no.
Though Jules sees the torment her daughter is going through with Michael, she lets her daughter live her own life, even when she can see that her daughter is coping with very unhealthy methods indeed. She believes in giving people the freedom she herself insists on. She just doesn’t see it as her place to interfere beyond the few attempts that we see.
I find Jules refreshing. She lives life on her own terms and yet somehow comes off as commanding, sometimes intimidating. She’s an expert in her field, and relinquishes a fortune because it comes with conditions. She fully claims her life, and I can’t help but admire that.
TW: Talk of A Character’s Eating Disorder, Discussion of Virginia Woolf’s Possible Anorexia
Thank you for visiting my blog on Day Eight of my book launch! I’m delighted to have you here.
First of all, let me say that though I have the utmost sympathy for those struggling with eating disorders, I haven’t ever had to fight that battle and am not an expert on the topic.
One of the reasons I included an eating disorder in my book is because Virginia Woolf’s great-niece Emma thinks it could well be that her aunt suffered from anorexia, as, sadly, does Emma. From some of the journal entries by Woolf that I have read, I suspect the same. She speaks of being forced to eat, of not wanting to swallow anything. I even think that her infamous wrangling with her servant Nellie might have had to do with Nellie trying to make Woolf eat.
I think it’s important to consider what might be coloring an author’s writing. There are such subtle strokes of Woolf’s anorexic tendencies in my book that I’m not even sure I could find them myself, but I know they’re faintly visible in the domesticity and the ”angel in the house,” the ideal Victorian woman who cared for her spouse, children, and the kitchen exclusively. Was Woolf desperate enough to kill her by any means so that she, Woolf, would be free to write? Did she try to starve the angel? (I could say more, but this would get long, and time does not permit. Suffice it to say, my Briscoe is not only Lily trying to “see” the Ramsays, she’s also Woolf, in a limited sense.)
I knew from early on in the writing process that my Briscoe is obsessed with her weight (that I can unfortunately relate to), but her eating disorder only gradually emerged. In fact, I was kinda surprised by it until I thought about it. She is tolerating some major crud in her personal life, and while you might be able to rationalize it, in my opinion, your body can’t lie.
Add to that the pressures of being in the public eye, a celebrity’s wife. That means being scrutinized. She shares that people have even told her that Michael could “do better” than her. And since her rival is teeny tiny, she casts about for anything to blame but her husband. She settles on the size of her own ass.
I can relate to thinking you’re overweight when you’re not. Here’s a photo of me just a few years ago when though I knew I had lost weight, I thought I was still way too big. I was shy to have a full-length photo taken of myself. (Now I’d love to be that size or even just be able to work out like that again! I miss those active days. But it kinda pains me to even see this pic.)
(The photo’s a little blurry. This is at an art exhibit in Chicago that my mentor said I needed to visit to research my first book – she even lent us her pied-à-terre to stay at during our visit.)
No one has commented yet on what I see as Briscoe’s outrageous assertion that she’s “fat.” Most women aren’t considered plus sized until size 12, if labels mean anything, and I don’t think they should. I want it to be clear that Briscoe cannot see herself properly, and I think this does a good job of exemplifying that. (Sight or shortsightedness is certainly a theme in the book, an important one.) We know by seeing how she views her body, that she probably isn’t seeing those around her quite as she should. (First person can be limiting; I had to use my authorly wiles to tease out whatever I could.) She worships her husband’s admittedly legendary musical gifts blindly, excusing him repeatedly until she can’t anymore.
Let me say as an aside that I am not half as cynical as Briscoe appears to be, but I believe that her cynicism is only superficial. She keeps hoping against hope that she’s wrong about Michael. I’m pretty sure we all want to yell at her that she’s not. As an author, it’s difficult to follow your character on self-destructive journeys and not want to stop them, no matter how much you know that this is the trajectory that they have chosen. The bullet is out of the gun now and there are only so many places that it can go at that angle, you know?
It’s hinted that Briscoe’s eating disorder first emerged when her mother left the family, and that she has battled it off and on for years, between bulimia and anorexia. From what I have read, eating disorders are often on a continuum, and I think this is what is happening for her. The more she goes against her beliefs, the worse off she is. She switches from too much cake (I did give her my personal vice there; any time I hear the word cake, I’m in) to not being able to eat anything.
That ultimate sacrifice that she makes for art…no, no spoilers here, but she shocked me with that! Obviously that triggered the worst of her eating issues, and why wouldn’t it?
In the end, it’s this very illness, however, her eating disorder, coupled with love and loyalty from an unexpected source that I believe saves her. But you have to read the book to figure out what that means.
Welcome to Day Seven of my blog tour, sponsored by Madame Writer of Wrongs. So many thanks to her for sharing my book! https://www.madamewriterofwrongs.com/
First up, I just discovered that Southern-Fried Woolf has been chosen for the 2022 Somerset CIBAS Long List for Literary and Contemporary Fiction! I’m so pleased and honored!
One of the pleasures of writing fiction is exploring characters very different from yourself. When I was younger, unlike Briscoe, I wanted a large family. In fact, when I was in school in West Virginia I rode the bus every day past a huge, abandoned house that I always wanted to make into another Plumfield, the school for boys that Jo March created beginning at the end of Little Women, and, more so, in LittleMen. But in my case, I wanted to make a home for children without parents.
I didn’t think it was fair that any child should ever feel unwanted, so I decided that when I grew up I would buy the “big green house” I called it in my head and renovate it and fill it. (I was testing actual house names but never landed on one.)
At the time, I didn’t realize it was a house with a historical background. It belonged once upon a time to Cap Hatfield of the Hatfields and McCoys feud, I’ve since discovered. (You can read more about Cap.)
Here’s a “before” photo of it from the West Virginia & Regional History Center. The house was beginning to show signs of ill repair even when I knew it, but it still seemed like something that could be salvaged at that point.
The last time I saw it in person twenty-some years ago, it looked more like the photo below that I found on Pinterest. I’m not sure if the house still stands, and I’m afraid to ask anyone. Obviously, at this point it is beyond repair and probably should be razed, but I don’t want to think about that.
I spent many an hour in my head renovating and refurbishing that house, admiring its bones, outfitting it with strong walls and flowing curtains.
I would read books with the children I would populate it with, I decided. I would take them wading in the creek and I would cook a country breakfast for them every day. There would be bedtime stories and fireflies. We would take walks and go into the mountains for picnics, pick wildflowers. They would learn to love the hillsides of trilliums as much as I did. I would share my reading rock with them. I would give them a safe harbor and life would be beautiful.
My writing would be much like Jo’s, I thought, confined to weekends and nights. They would be truly mine, these children of my heart, because I believe that love comes from the heart and not the genes. (Even to this day I favor TV shows with large families.)
While I did not end up with the twelve children that I aspired to, and alas, I did not buy the house and renovate it because life carried me elsewhere, my hubby and I did adopt two children, so that’s pretty cool. It was actually our children who told us that they didn’t need more siblings, isn’t that funny? (I don’t think they wanted to share us.) To be honest, I’m guessing twelve might have been a bit too many, even for me.
Here’s a photo of the kiddos just after we moved to Nashville. It still delights me! I take immense pride in my children, and I consider them to be a large part of my legacy.
In Southern-Fried Woolf, Briscoe claims not to want children, but isn’t it more likely that she thinks Michael would be an absentee father, and that their life isn’t suitable for bringing up children? It’s easier for her to just say that she doesn’t want children, I believe. What do you think?
Why is she studying the Ramsays so carefully? It’s not just the parents she’s curious about. She’s never had siblings; she doesn’t have children. I think she’s very much weighing the very things that Lily weighs in To theLighthouse.
This is Day Six of ye olde blog tour. The lovely Kat of Cornwall, England, has shared about my book on her website, and I’m so grateful. Yes, please sign up for prizes and read chapter one if you haven’t yet over there! And thank you, Kat!
Today, Barry and I recorded a podcast episode with historical romance author Anne Armistead, another writer friend. (The episode will be out as soon as I can find time to edit it, so probably the middle of February? We try to put one out every two weeks.)
She, too, visited Paris this year, and we were able to compare visiting in June (which we did) versus in November, which is when she visited.
My dear husband is filling his schedule up before and around V-day with band gigs. I told him I suppose that’s okay, but he’s going to owe me when he does have some time off. Where should I make him take me? We went to Chicago one year for Valentine’s Day. (This was supposed to be his “dad band” phase where he only plays a few times a year. Hmmm…LOL.)
My copy of Radical Woman by Maggie Humm came in today. I love the look and feel of it. I have a feeling that tomorrow, while DH and his merry men practice music, I will be reading.
I’m working on a longer post for tomorrow. I just don’t want to rush it tonight.
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