I’m grateful for Sadie over at Sadie’s Spotlight for sharing about my novel today on this, the fifth day of my blog tour. Thank you, Sadie! You know the drill…go register for those goodies!
Sorry that I’m getting around to posting this so late, but it’s been a full day.
But hey, I’m about to finish washing the dishes, so that’s something to look forward to, right? (Insert cry emoji here.)
A big thank you to all of you who have bought my book thus far. I’m really pleased with how well it’s done in just four days. Considering what a struggle it was to figure out what this crazy tome wanted to be, I’m amazed.
Two books on my mind today: I’m currently reading Professing Criticism by John Guillory. You can learn more about it by reading this New Yorker article, which is what brought it to my attention. I’m not very far into it, but I’m intrigued.
The second is a novel that just came out in early January, Radical Woman: Gwen John & Rodin: A Novel, by Maggie Humm, and my copy is arriving tomorrow. I can’t wait! You might remember that she wrote Talland House, a novel about Woolf’s Lily Briscoe, a very different Briscoe than mine. I need a nice, thick book to read, and I’m eager for it. I’ll write about it after I’ve read it.
Last night I was visited by an old friend. Well, actually she’s been staying with me for three days, or should I say nights. Insomnia. As a result, today will be a truncated post. You don’t mind, do you?
First up, let me give my deep appreciation to Steph over at “A Dream Within a Dream” for sharing about my book. As always, take a look to enter for that gift card, as well as an e-copy of Southern-Fried Woolf. Thank you, Steph!!
Insomnia not only leaves me exhausted, but she also causes me to doubt everything I’ve said or written. That blog post I wrote? Maybe it was too long, or boring. That email I sent? That was beyond dumb. No wonder it didn’t receive a reply. Why do I bother? That pitch I wrote? Useless. I should give up. (I rarely think like this when I’m not sleep-deprived. Then again, maybe I’m sleep deprived because I’m thinking of these things. Chicken/egg?)
Why can’t insomnia remind you of all of the fun, pleasant things in life while you writhe in bed watching your 200th (I’m exaggerating) YouTube short? Why can’t I write when I’m experiencing insomnia?
Anyway, as a result of my grogginess, today I’m just going to share some fun photos.
First up, here is a photo of two incredible gifts one of my writing besties, Cindy Lane, sent me. We’ve gone on several group trips abroad together, and we were roommates on the organic farm our group visited in Italy. I always wished I had her measured, careful approach to life and writing.
Erin, Cindy, me, and Liza at Spannocchia, in Tuscany. I’m clutching my journal because I participated in a reading that night.
Cindy is an incredible writer. I’ve often begged her to finish her book that I helped workshop in Ireland. I know she’s a busy person, but here’s hoping this is the year! I need that completed novel. (Did you hear that, Cindy? Did you? LOL.)
When I opened the box that Cindy she sent me, I couldn’t stop touching the books. And when I looked inside Lighthouse, I couldn’t help but weep. The first is a holograph draft of Lighthouse including Woolf’s notes. Did you notice that Cindy has reading tabs in Lighthouse! I mean, that’s like being able to discuss a book with a friend when they’re not even there, isn’t it, seeing what they marked? I was incredibly excited to see those. And A Writer’s Diary is a dream for writers. As a fan of Woolf, I cherish it, but also as an author: I can read her thoughts on her writing. Ah, Cindy, you’re the best!
Also, Hubby and I were playing with AI-generated artwork, and asked it to create a country-themed Virginia Woolf. See what it created! Fun! Do you think it looks like her at all? (The program cut the top of her hatted head off, not me.)
Yesterday was Woolf’s 141 birthday, so no wonder I wrote about her in my post then, though I hadn’t intended to!
It’s Day 3 of the Southern-Fried Woolf blog tour! Thanks so very much to Virginia Lee for spotlighting my book! As a blanket statement, if you visit any of these stops you can sign up to win that bookshop.org gift card. Go get it!
While I can’t say I’ve ever been one to pay much attention to Miley Cyrus (I don’t mean that disrespectfully, I’m just older than most of her fans), lately I’m seeing her everywhere. Over the holidays we watched her and Dolly Parton perform “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” together on Miley’s New Year’s Eve show. Those outfits! And if she and Dolly are tight, she’s okay by me!
Then when we watched Ms. Dolly get inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame recently (we’re behind this year), there she was again. (BTW, if you haven’t seen Dolly’s stunning display with her newly penned “Rock Song” complete with – wait for it – an electric guitar, what are you waiting for? I was literally screeching with surprise and delight.)
A moment: I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but Barry and I were asked to go to Dollywood to help out at the merchandise table of a dear sweet gospel star once, and of course, while that wasn’t something we usually did, we agreed to because of who she was and because who wouldn’t want a free trip to Dollywood? (I don’t often get starstruck, but I remember feeling so dumb telling her how poetic her lyrics are. She was as gracious as you can be.) I remember watching her from the wings of her concert, seeing the absolute adoration on the faces of those in the audience. She was magnificent and beloved.
While we there, the woman’s manager scored us two tickets to see Dolly in concert! We were stoked, but there was only one problem: we had our son, Zack, with us, too. “No worries,” the manager said, “We’ll get him in.” And let us just say that our son had a seat much closer up front than we did, no ticket required.
Most recently, Miley has been coming up in my feed with her song “Flowers.” If you’re me and you have Virginia Woolf on the brain, you immediately think of Mrs. Dalloway and that she said she would get the flowers herself. See, Woolf was ahead of everyone. While there are multiple readings to be made of Woolf’s line, today I choose to see it as Mrs. Dalloway (Clarissa) saying she wasn’t waiting for either her husband or the servants to buy her flowers. The irony is that her husband, Richard, does buy her flowers later in the book, red and white roses, and he means for them to say what he admits that he is too lazy and shy to say: he loves her. (Flowers are a theme in that book, but I won’t go there right now.)
I also won’t get into the salacious side of Miley’s song and the unmitigated shade (check out that gold dress; that’s no coincidence) in her video and the release date of it, but it does occur to me that Briscoe could well have written that song. She’s so strong. (And I really like the song.)
Briscoe has been surrounded by music, country music, since birth. Her father was a musician; she was (no doubt) in the studio with her father during many a session. She writes songs. She plays guitar. She sings. But she’s put that aside. (Am I the only one who wants to scream at her for that? Sure, Michael’s gift is important to the world. He seems to have something special, but that’s not to say hers isn’t just as important, that she doesn’t have just as much to say. A careful reader might pick up something about her and her future with music. Just sayin’.)
I am incredibly thankful for the people who have taken the time to congratulate me on SFW’s release and to let me know how much they are enjoying it. My inbox, my messenger, my phone, etc. is overflowing with the love, and I appreciate it so much. Ah, you do a writer’s soul good.
Day 2 of my virtual book tour for Southern-Fried Woolf is here! So many thanks to Two Cool Chicks for sharing. BTW, you can sign up to win a $25 gift card to bookshop.org over there, too!
There were a couple of neat tidbits that I wanted to dig out to share with you, but could I find them today? I could not. I will keep looking for them.
Here’s a section from a chapter in which Briscoe and her mother go to a conference:
Just last year my mother and I attended a Woolf conference.
Mother’s emails leading up to the ask were uncharacteristically adorned. She writes about the approach of fall, the squirrel activity in and around her cabin, (which she knows interests me), and, oh yes, she will be attending a Woolf conference that weekend.
“Your research would benefit,” she says.
I write back. “Is that your way of asking me to go with you?”
Almost immediately: “If you want to.”
“You don’t have cancer or something, do you?”
“You wish!”
Do I want to share a room with her for a weekend in some predictably armpit hotel? Michael and I just happen to not be on the road then, a fact that is obvious if you track his tour online, which makes me suspect my mother’s been sleuthing. Unless I invent a business meeting or a mystery trip, I have no excuse not to go, and she knows it.
I discover through some online sleuthing of my own that my mother is the plenary speaker for the conference. Somehow, she neglected to mention that.
I agree to go to the conference.
Turns out my mama is a fish in Woolf circles. As in a big fish. As in THE academic rock star – scratch that, the equivalent to me is country star – at this conference. Here in the marbled and chandeliered lobby of the Marriott (town undisclosed due to lack of relevance to anyone with a pulse) with its 60’s- vibed conversation pits and multiple check in/out kiosks that will eventually put desk clerks out of work but to which my mother and the line of introverted academic conference goers gravitate, we are stopped every three feet by people who “just want to say hello” to my mother.
“This is like being in public with Michael,” I say to my mother. She basks in the adoration, unable to hear me. Which, truth be told, shocks me, misanthrope I thought her to be. When we register at the table with the ubiquitous ruffled skirt, we are handed packets of material and a bag of swag. I dig in to see what Woolfies consider fun freebies.
I immediately toss the lanyard with my name on it back into the limp canvas bag when it comes into my hands. There’s no way I’m going to wear that. Maybe I’m a lit geek, but there’s no reason to be branded as one outside of the conference. I try not to think about the irony that the bag advertises books but is in no wise sturdy enough to hold more than a couple of paperbacks.
The bag also contains sticky notes advertising a small press (keeping those, thank you very much), stacks of brochures (I promptly toss mine into a nearby recycle bin), a handful of hard candy that is not worthy of bearing the title. These I put on the nearest table. I’ve seen better candy at parades. (I do keep the chocolate ones because inferior chocolate is, arguably, better than none.)
Why did I set Southern-Fried Woolf in 2018? That’s simple – I was told “everyone” was doing it back when I was finishing up the novel. That is, several notable writers decided during the pandemic that it would be easier to set their novels before it since we didn’t know how things would pan out. While I think it wouldn’t have been too hard to have adjusted it back to present time, I decided that I didn’t mind leaving it in 2018. There were very few changes needed, and Twitter had a stronger presence in 2018. In one of my favorite chapters in the book, Briscoe (the book’s main character) live tweets a talk her mother gives at that Woolf conference mentioned above. It was so much fun to write that chapter! Since we’re likely seeing the social platform’s last moments, I see what I wrote as a bit of a time capsule.
Although truth be told, I was the one coming back to a shared hotel room at a conference once upon a time long after midnight, having stayed at the social event until the music stopped. That wasn’t Briscoe or Briscoe’s mom, that was me. My roommate groggily asked if I had had a good time. I said I had, before changing into my pj’s and getting into my bed. (I did NOT go off anywhere with a curly headed grad student named Marshall or anyone else!! I did dance en masse with a group of academics that I didn’t know, which I really enjoyed.)
Also on the timing front: “Find My” was once the “Find My Friends” app, I do believe, so I kept that in the current edition. Until recently, I never paid attention to either version unless I lost my phone. But after having heard about a woman who was only found after an accident through her phone, I decided to share my location with my hubby. I told him he did NOT have to feel obligated to share back. I just wanted him to be able to find me in case I got lost in a snowstorm or something. (Welcome to my life with anxiety; the most outlandish things can seem possible, nearly imminent.)
Making up the titles of the conference lectures was a hoot! I really would love to hear lectures based on those. Tell me, when you read the book, which you like best. (I want to list them here, but they’re one of my favorite parts of the book, so I won’t.)
And I did actually hear someone “sl*t shame” a woman at a conference (not a Woolf conference; I’ve never had the privilege), which I thought was harsh. Being somewhat prudish myself, it was fun to allow Jules, Briscoe’s mom, to be as adventurous as she wanted to be.
The more topical, superficial, speculation on Woolf’s life brought up during the conference scene is modeled after some of the literary podcasts I listen to. I love it when someone enjoys an author’s work so much that they want to think about their day-to-day lives, want to know all the deets. Sure, sometimes it’s a little prurient, but I’d rather see engagement with an author on any level than see her forgotten.
(While it’s not quite the same, I really do wonder why we are shown the Ramsays’ large family without seeing them being intimate with one another, not even a “time-to-put-your-bookmark-in-Mrs. Brady” moment when a lamp is discreetly switched off. I’m guessing they have a pretty great sex life: she’s a withholder; he’s entitled. I can see that leading to some fireworks.)
In case it’s not obvious, one of the bonds that Briscoe and Michael share is a physical one. Science and psychology are discovering that pheromones can keep couples together when common sense says they should part, or so I’ve been told by greater minds than mine, if I understand that correctly. Yet Briscoe says she’s just as lonely after sex with Michael because for him, it’s performative. He can’t get close to people, although we are never told why not. (As the author, I have my suspicions, but I’m not telling. I could be wrong.)
I opted for us to see the couple “together” on occasion in case their tie doesn’t immediately make sense. Initially, the scenes were more detailed, until I realized that all I was trying to convey is that Briscoe is physically drawn to him, regardless of his failings. They’re not particularly sexy scenes; they’re not meant to be. But clearly, in that arena, she’s a happy woman.
How can Briscoe be angry with Michael when he’s more to be pitied than not? She sees him as the human he is and not as her spouse with all of those exhausting expectations. I think one of the most telling scenes of this is when she asks Michael…well, I’ll let you find out what she asks him, but you’ll know it when you read it.
I’ve often imagined how sad and lonely a life of fame must truly be, except for those rare occasions when it’s heady. I’ve met my share of celebrities of varying degrees and that’s been my takeaway: privacy is precious and to be treasured. Trust is difficult. Discretion is nearly nonexistent. Not that it’s ever been offered me, celebrity, but I would refuse it if it were.
I also enjoyed Jules having her moment at the conference, and Briscoe witnessing it and her mother’s power in the academic world. I wanted to parallel celebrity in various arenas to validate finding value in anything that means something to us, rather than in what society tells us to value. I believe anything we do well can be counted as art. Well, almost everything. But some things are more a matter of taste.
Then, of course, there’s Jules’s moment of doubt at the conference, of wondering if she has made the right career choice. She admits the truth: she chose the study of Virginia Woolf’s work over her own family. Briscoe tells her that she, Briscoe, is still in her life, but her mother doesn’t accept Briscoe’s glossing over the truth: they are profoundly disconnected. (Could this be yet another reason that Briscoe fell for someone like Michael?) Though this moment is meant to be humorous (you should have seen what word I originally put in the text! I ultimately decided it was too outrageous), it’s another moment of healing.
We learn at one point that (a tiny spoiler here) Briscoe’s father visited her mother regularly after she fled to her lighthouse substitute, the watch tower (which is phallic shaped; let us make of that what we will) but secretly. I think much can be made of that, too, some of it seemingly contradictory. (If I had had my way, we would have seen more of Briscoe’s dad in the book, but it wasn’t to be. It didn’t fit the trajectory. I was surprised to see more of him weaving its way in during the pandemic, and I even ordered a packet of coneflower seeds that I have yet to plant. Hence the photo in this post. But I digress.)
I don’t want to spoil a certain kissing scene in the chapter for you, but I thought it was funny on the page. If it happened in real life, those kissed would have plenty of reasons to object. That, too, was fun to write. Unlike me, Briscoe has someone writing her dialogue. I envy that. I often say I’d like to have a backspace button for when I’m speaking.
The link for my book, again, if you’d like to know more about all that kissing…
Southern-Fried Woolf is HERE!! If you want to buy a print copy, I recommend this bookshop.org link for the best price. (I’m all about that.) Here’s the Kindle version.
Thank you to Mythical Books for sharing the first chapter of my book on this first stop on my tour. I appreciate it so much, and I hope you’ll take a look at their site and grab that sneak peek of my novel.
As I thought over what I posted yesterday, I worried that I had made it seem as if everything about this book was, well, drudgery. (I tend to avoid that word for obvious reasons.) That’s certainly not true.
Once I figured out how to blend the essay with the story, I had tons of fun allowing my characters to misbehave and then pulling them back just a bit. I had a tough time not allowing Briscoe to be more sympathetic. She’s 28, and her everything is being threatened. Considering that, I think she’s plenty sympathetic towards those who have wronged her.
(In the final edit, I got rid of quite a bit of profanity, because I realized it was only there as a placeholder as I helped her gather courage. The more courageous she became, the easier it was for her to say what she felt, to confront those she needed to confront.)
Also, that dear friend that I mentioned in my last post who told me I might have to choose a different topic when I got stuck writing this book really did mean well. He’s a musician, not a writer. I think he just felt for me as he and his beloved heard me try to explain what it was I couldn’t figure out.
And I have a lovely group of people in my life who support my writing, who have read early drafts of this book and who have cheered me on. Any hesitation on the part of mentors was more because of the experimental nature of my book. How can you tell someone how to write something when it’s not your run-of-the-mill novel?
It’s the strangest feeling, knowing that something that I spent so much time and care on is out there now. It’s not a pile of pages I am crouched over at the beach, red pen in hand. It’s not something that causes me to eat half a pack of crackers as I try to imagine how I am going to make this palatable, entertaining, and yet, hopefully, smart.
A kind friend just wrote to tell me he has ordered a copy of my book. I remember Barry and me sitting across from him at a restaurant in Greece near Sounion, just after we had seen Lord Byron’s graffiti at/on the Temple of Poseidon, hearing our new friend’s fascinating tales of his early career. (I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to share, so that’s all I will say, but Barry and I were mesmerized.) We shared a bottle of red while we watched the sun set over the Aegean Sea. It’s good to have interesting friends.
I want to thank all of you who have been on this journey with me, in large ways or small. I am so grateful for all of the wonderful people in my life who have been patient with me as I’ve grown and changed, as I continue to do so, both as a writer and as a person.
To paraphrase Lily Briscoe says in Lighthouse, for better or for worse, with this novel, I have had my vision.
The other day I stared out of the kitchen window and allowed myself to celebrate finishing this novel. I allowed the pride of creation to fill my eyes, acknowledged the bravery of sharing something that is so precious to me.
This novel has been the most difficult thing I have written so far. Those I respect most either thought it a dubious idea in the beginning (because of the essay aspect and/or because it’s not straight literary fiction) or were mum, which was worse. I had one dear soul, when he heard how lost I was in the woods of my idea a few years ago, say, “I think you’re just going to have to choose another idea.”
I’m here to tell you, his kindly meant words made me more determined than ever to birth this stubborn child. I had to find a way to thank Virginia Woolf for all she has done for me. I had to help others see that she’s ours, too. We don’t have to have PhDs to claim her. Our affection is just as valid.
If you’re not familiar with her work, dive on in! This is an invitation to that, too. I’m not a scholar, just a fan.
Tomorrow begins the public life of Southern-Fried Woolf. My first novel, Victorine, was published at the beginning of the pandemic…yikes! At the time, I thought, “Aha, I will schedule only online tours in the future, so nothing can go wrong.” Reader, something (some things) went wrong.
Between bad weather (in California, of all places) causing delays and a nasty case of the flu over here, and the frantic, last-minute revisions to my book that I already told you about, I was really worried about meeting my launch date. (Self-imposed, but still, things were already in motion.)
But here we are, tomorrow is launch day, and you will be hearing from me quite often in the coming month (like, almost daily), so buckle up, as I share links to my book tour.
So many, many thanks to Jaime over at Rockstar Book Tours for setting up this fantastic tour. She is truly a rockstar who took a chance on this humble, country-inspired novel.
By the way, yes, authors still read as they’re writing. After too many fluffy books and movies during my illness, I needed something meatier, so I settled down with my friend Patricia Hudson’s wonderful book, Traces, about Rebecca Boone, Daniel Boone’s wife, and two of his daughters. It’s excellent, very tenderly written, and obviously it highlights those often neglected by history, something I wholeheartedly advocate. Barry and I will be interviewing her next month, so more later on her.
As proof that I am feeling better from this dastardly flu, last night I sang karaoke (at home, alone; I know, I’m a total loser) songs of some of my favorite country singers: Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton, on and on. I must admit that some of my pop favorites joined the chat, too.
I was trying to find a sweet song to record to send to my daughter, but I couldn’t find one that spoke of love but wasn’t romantic. Am I going to have to write one?
Today’s singing was what I call the “smooth” singers: Carly Simon, Carole King, Karen Carpenter, Ella Fitzgerald. A whisk, by the way, makes an excellent faux mic while you’re cooking/singing. Dear Reader, have I just invented a new Olympic sport? 😉
And remember that crisis with my third novel I mentioned a few days ago? When I cut away the dross this week, yup, that particular relationship is the one that’s currently central. That wasn’t my plan, and no good can come of it, but it has to play itself out. I guess that’s what we call tension, which is crucial to keeping a reader. I mean, I already know the book’s ending, so I suppose I will just have to plot backwards. (No, I’m not telling you the ending, though it’s sweet of you to care. Besides, it might change between now and whenever I finish the first draft.)
By the way, have you seen Kristen Cruz’s coffee singing videos? I’ve been watching her for a while now, but just thought to mention her to the hubby today. She. Is. Amazing!
Here’s the crass part (not really, because I think you will enjoy my book) where I provide you with the link to preorder my second novel, Southern-Fried Woolf, available in both print and ebook formats, tomorrow, January 23, 2023.
Hello, third novel. Writing time is a precious commodity, and I’m not trying to squander it, but what am I supposed to do when my husband is ever lovin’ shredding in the next room, and it’s so absorbing that I’m finding it really difficult to write?!
He’s prepping for a special reunion concert to celebrate the release of Southern-Fried Woolf. That is all I can say for now, and maybe even that is too much. (Details to come!!! I’m SO EXCITED!!!) P.S. The photo of Barry below is from, oh, a few years ago, and when I took it, I told him to “look like a rocker.” So that’s why he looks so angry. He’s holding his Charvel, a guitar I had bought him that Christmas and that was later stolen when we lived in Nashville. 😦
Dear Mothballs and Melancholy (the working title of you, dear WIP), of course I want to spend time with you. I went to bed thinking about you. I woke up thinking about you.
But right now, besides being distracted, I kinda want to turn a firehose on a couple of characters, though, because you know I have been trying to push them further apart, and now what’s happening? WHAT’S HAPPENING? You know, I know you do. Is this your doing?
Go to your corners, I’m saying to them, but these two… I write anti-romances, don’t you know? Not on purpose, but it’s what I seem to do. (You wouldn’t know I’ve been married over 30 years, and yes, I enjoy being married!)
If this MC were my friend, I would give her a stern talking to. I’m worried for her heart. Though I do not enjoy playing the author card, if need be, I will. (Maybe. I’m kinda philosophically opposed to telling my characters who they should be and what they should do.)
Tell me this, book, if I am “creating” you, then how come the more I write the more I “know” about you? It feels more as if I’m excavating something that already exists.
Okay, enough. This rant came from adding one word to my manuscript. When she repeated his name, I knew all was (potentially) lost. She’s hooked, g-d it, and now I have to unhook her. If I can.
Eh, this is a first draft, likely one of many. I suppose I can wait and see what happens. Hitting “delete” doesn’t cost anything.
In the meantime, lunch time has come and gone without any food, and though I should probably make something, if I do, that lovely music from the next room might stop as the musician wanders out to see what’s cooking. Literally.
Only ten days now until my second novel, Southern-Fried Woolf, comes out! I’m so excited, and yet as I said on a book marketing call today, “I’m so f*cking tired.” Though it elicited laughter, I meant it. (P.S. Profanity is part of the company culture and is perfectly acceptable, nearly encouraged.)
A few things to share with you, very exciting things. The first is, I ended up a runner up in the Page 100 Competition! What??? Yippee! Many thanks to the too-kind Louise Walters of Louise Walters Books. I’m so honored and thrilled.
And…more fun! I received a silver award from Literary Titan. I am so pleased. I submitted my book for a review over there, not realizing it was also automatically entered into an awards program. What a lovely surprise!
It occurs to me that you might enjoy my preface to the book that explains why I wrote it and what I hope to have achieved with it. So here it is:
The book by Virginia Woolf that I most want to read is one that, alas, I cannot, because it does not exist in final form. She conceived of a bold experiment, a novel-essay, that she wanted to call The Pargiters. It would have been just what it sounds like: the alternating of fiction and fact in one book concerning women’s rights (or lack thereof) and their intimate lives.
No one knows for certain why she abandoned the attempt, but it couldn’t have come naturally to such an accomplished novelist, switching between the two in the same book. And it’s not as if she didn’t have her say about women’s rights: all of her writing is full of challenges to society’s viewpoint and expectations regarding women. Ultimately, however, she folded the novel portion of her novel-essay efforts into the 1880 chapter of The Years without finishing her initially conceived project.
This novel of mine is intended, first of all, as an homage. This is my love letter to Woolf’s writing. It’s also an invitation to those unfamiliar with Woolf to learn a bit about her. I am no Woolf scholar, though I deeply admire her writing, fiction and otherwise. There is such beauty, such depth of thinking and feeling, to her work. Such precision. I love her daring style, how she attempted so many forms of literature. I learn every time I open one of her novels. I learn about not only writing, but about what it is to be human.
Woolf’s novels are not immediately accessible, at least they weren’t to this reader, who grew up primarily on Reader’s Digest Condensed books and Harlequin Romance novels, on the exciting boxes of eclectic books my father brought home from auctions. I didn’t encounter Woolf until college, and it took discipline to settle down with her essays. Then I read Orlando, that strange and wonderful novel, and I didn’t know what to make of it or Woolf, though I knew the writing was gorgeous and that it spoke beyond the obvious, something I craved.
It wasn’t until I read Lighthouse that I quit being too intimidated of Woolf to read deeply. I re-read the novel numerous times, and even now I return to it for poetic prose and wisdom. It’s as much mine now as anyone’s, something that can (and should) be said of all of the arts. That’s one of the reasons I married Woolf with country music in my novel.
Whether before or after you read Southern-Fried Woolf, I invite, nay, implore you to read Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. And while you can read my novel and fully understand it without reading Lighthouse, these books speak directly to one another, an open case of intertextuality.
Why the title Southern-Fried Woolf? First of all, yes, I am worried that people might think I can’t spell “wolf” when they see my novel’s title. But I wanted to combine two very unlike things, creating a fusion of literature, if you will. Since my husband is a musician and we lived in Nashville for five years, I thought Woolf and country music would be very different sensibilities to rub together. That excited me. It’s a way of honoring two very different sides of myself, too.
And I really wanted to write about country music. The richness of storytelling in the genre speaks to me, and having been brought up in the South for part of my life, it has been with me since childhood. I’m especially interested in songwriting. Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash, on and on. Classic country forever!
While I don’t pretend that what I have written reaches Woolf’s original intent in writing a novel/essay (mine is very much a novel with a light essay component), it does match mine, and I am thankful to have, as painter Lily Briscoe does in To the Lighthouse, “had my vision.”
Also, my book is officially on preorder, if you’re so inclined.
The happiest of holidays to all of you who celebrate! I hope you’re having/have had the best of times with those you love.
Hubby and I are about to celebrate another anniversary, yay, and I finally made Christmas dinner today (long story). While my cheesy cornbread can’t touch my daughter’s, it was fluffy, sweet, cheesy, and warm; I offset the sweetness with a bit of hot sauce and, of course, the cheese. It really worked. (Though what I wouldn’t have given for Mia to have made her version for us; alas, over the holidays she was traveling home from a business trip.) (I’d offer you the recipe for mine, but I have to admit that it was an upscale box mix I was gifted, and I just added cheddar cheese, corn kernels, and sugar to it.)
I’ve been proofreading and polishing my second novel, Southern-Fried Woolf, coming out January 23, 2023. I am on my fifth read through of it since I received my advance reader copies. It may not end up perfect, but I’m determined to get it in the best shape possible. I will, as Lily Briscoe says, have my vision.
I’m finding plenty of last-minute bits to omit, clarify, and improve. And I’m getting excited to share it with you all!
What became SFW began almost 16 years ago. How is that possible? It has grown up alongside other novels and short stories, a few poems. It started as a bit of prose which wanted to be a poem, became a short story, then a novella, and this final form, which is (mostly) a novel.
While I continue honing this for just a couple more rounds, I also wanted to share this podcast I was on recently, Pages & Platforms, where I talk about my experience in Goal Getter School.
Sorry if there is nothing sparkling to this post, but I spent most of the day proofreading, and as happy as I am to have done so, my eyes are plenty tired.
I really want to share with you the books I received for Christmas, but I want to do it after I take a photo of them. Give me a few days…
Did you receive any special books or gifts over the holidays? Please share your favorites here!
Happy Reading,
Drēma
Copyright 2022, Drema Drudge, all rights reserved.
I shared a sentence of author Rick Neumayer’s review of Southern-Fried Woolf the other day with you. I am incredibly honored that he spent such time with my writing. It’s hard work, reviewing a book (I did it for a publication for a time and discovered I prefer reviewing books on my own time and dime), and I am so pleased to have someone give such careful attention to my novel. Below, I am including excerpts of the rest of his review, but not before we talk about pumpkin cheesecake!
This morning’s project was preparing the aforesaid pumpkin cheesecake, baked for a family gathering tomorrow. I’ve never baked this before, and it looks a bit splotchy to me, so I have my doubts about it… I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. (My photos of it don’t want to load. I’m taking that as a sign not to share an image of my efforts here. I hope it tastes okay.)
A friend of ours in Nashville brought this cheesecake to our house for Friendsgiving dinner one year. The poor guy has since passed on, so I have created only a loose interpretation of what I remember his recipe to be. And I couldn’t for the life of me find one of his “secret” ingredients, despite hunting the internet and sending my dearest on a grocery store scavenger hunt. So here’s hoping.
Another holiday staple: my KitchenAid stand mixer, pictured below, that Barry reminded me today I have owned for nearly 25 years! He bought it for me for Christmas one year (I asked for it; we don’t buy one another practical gifts unless requested).
It’s a workhorse and I could not imagine my kitchen without it. This may be strange to say, but I’m fond of it. I’m not saying I do have a pet name for it, but I’m not saying that I don’t.
I used vanilla in the cheesecake today, and I had to dig out a new bottle, tiny in comparison with those Barry used to bring home from his business trips to Mexico. He would bring me what I would swear were quart-sized bottles of the pure stuff that he bought for $2 a bottle! One would literally last me years.
What I did not use in my version of the cheesecake today was cloves, something many things pumpkin boast. While I will eat a dish (or drink tea) that contains cloves if I must, I do not myself cook with them, and I avoid them whenever possible. This stems from happening upon an apple pomander in my parents’ coat closet when I was a child. The smell struck me in the lungs and I thought I’d never shake the pungent scent. I identified it again not too long after when my dad made our Christmas ham, and I wondered how this strange spice had come to take over our house.
Here is an excerpt of Rick’s wonderful review of SFW. I hope it tempts you to take a closer look at my forthcoming book. My biggest ambition with this novel is to acquaint those who might not be familiar with Woolf’s work with it, and to entertain those who already are. You have no idea of the years and iterations involved in the final result.
“Drema Drudge’s Southern-Fried Woolf is an uproariously funny, deeply insightful, and engagingly complex novel on many levels. To use the writer’s own metaphor, the story consists of two tangled, loosely coiled, and knotted threads that defy simple explication. It will be best understood as a yarn of separate skeins whose meaning is not so much clearly defined as left implicit.
Although not strictly a stream of consciousness style, Southern-Fried Woolfreflects to some degree Virginia Woolf’s acclaimed experimental method of narration. Drudge’s novel depends heavily on Briscoe’s interiority, which is wildly emotional and nonlinear…
Many other characters in Southern-Fried Woolf (also the title of Briscoe’s thesis) are nuanced and entertaining, with foibles, eccentricities, and the ability to rationalize the abominable and the unpardonable. In Michael Chambers, for example, we are given a portrait of the worst possible kind of country-rock star, a man whose only redeeming qualities are his musical talent and primitive charisma. Velvet Wickens, on the other hand, the whimsically drawn aging country diva, is so self-involved and predatory she seems unable to see anything not filtered through cornpone sentimentality and her own self-interest. There are many others who enliven the tacky tapestry of the Nashville music scene. The city itself is like a character in the book and we can’t help but recognize its bumpy trajectory from hick town to hick metropolis.
Despite being driven nearly mad by her husband’s peccadilloes and her own self-loathing, Briscoe continues attempting to complete her highly ambitious graduate thesis, which is on Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse. Ironically, Briscoe worries about using the word madness in relation to Woolf because= it can be seen as making light of mental illness. While a single word choice perhaps should be the least of her worries, she does find some solace in reflecting on Woolf’s work, which makes her dislike her own life “a little less and find it deserving of examination.”
Referring to Woolf’s book as a failed attempt at a novel-essay, Briscoe nevertheless admits being thrilled by the complexity of Woolf’s “sentences and point-of-view shifts” that raise the novel’s mundane subject matter to a worthy level of scrutiny. We learn during a flashback that Briscoe’s obsession with Woolf began during childhood, when she discovered she was named after a character in To the Lighthouse. At age 12, Briscoe asked her mother to read the book to her. This was during a visit to a decommissioned forest fire tower in West Virginia, where her mother fled after abandoning the family. Julia Jenkins supposedly went there on a grant to finish her own book on Woolf, but never came back.
After first reading To The Lighthouse, Briscoe claims she read it six more times because a single reading wasn’t enough to appreciate the novel’s “intricacy and cleverness.” Nor to understand it on a basic plot and character level apparently; such is the downside of stream of consciousness. With characteristic humor, Drudge has Briscoe recall that she was in high school before (she) realized Woolf wasn’t her own subject like Science.
Doubtless there is much more to be said of this rich, relevant, and riveting novel, as well as many conclusions to be drawn from all this as to its meaning. But in the spirit of Woolf and Briscoe, I think I would prefer to wait until I have re-read Southern-Fried Woolf the requisite six more times.” — Rick Neumayer, author of Journeyman and Hotwalker
Again, my deepest gratitude to Rick. If you get a chance, check out his books. They are engrossing reads full of atmosphere, place, and heart.
P.S. Hubby’s fill-in gig last weekend went great! I’m hoping to post about it tomorrow, but time…hint: there was dancing (not by him)! Right now Barry’s watching previously unseen footage of The Who at Woodstock, so he’s a pretty happy camper. He’s also telling me he does not play like Pete Townsend. I said he’d better not; I’ve seen how Townshend’s hand bleeds after those windmills.
And yesterday, we watched the documentary If These Walls Could Sing, directed by Mary McCartney, which seems like a documentary that should have already existed. Not many of us have baby pictures of ourselves in Abbey Road. She does. It’s worth a watch if you’re interested in the history of recording and/or Abbey Road.
The happiest of weekends to you!
Drēma
Copyright 2022, Drema Drudge, all rights reserved.
dremadrudge.com 
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