There is a creaky 1960’s sci-fi film in which humans are slowly being taken over by aliens or ghouls or zombies (I forget which) and the basic transformation process is as so: 1. Infection occurs 2. Human dies 3. Giant human-sized cocoon gestates for awhile, then . . . 4. Cocoon opens, revealing an exact replica of the infected human, only the clone is a zombie-like pod person. That’s the plot as I remember it when I was about 12 years old. I may be off a bit on the details.

But not on the analogy to Facebook and Pinterest.

I HAVE BECOME A FACEBOOK AND PINTEREST POD PERSON.

The transformation is complete. I resisted as long as I could – many years in the case of FB, but only about six months before Pinterest took over my brain.  I claimed I’d never understand people’s addiction to social media; oh, yes, I flirted with Twitter, but that was minor. All very faceless and quick, since I’m techno illiterate and couldn’t figure out how to add pictures to Tweets.  No big whoop. I didn’t obsessively check my Twitter feed, didn’t follow sites like “Crafty Witches” (organic crafts and cooking) and didn’t constantly browse for entertaining and informative tidbits to share with my followers.

Until now.

Bell Bridge staffer Brittany Shirley convinced me to sign up for this thing called “Pin what? Huh?” last year, but after poking around the billboard-like site with all its clickable pictures and links, I was bewildered as to why anyone liked it. I couldn’t figure out how to track down the sources for the pictures, so if I saw a craft project I liked, a book I wanted to buy or a knitting pattern I wanted to get, how the heck did that translate into ANYTHING OTHER THAN A PRETTY, TAUNTING PICTURE OF MY PRIZE???

And why would people build collections of pictures and trade the links and all that sort of hoobity do whatsit?  What was the point?

Then I found a board about knit stitches. Picture after picture of stitch patterns. Click one, and oh, yes, so there’s the source link! And then I would go get the pattern. Some nice person had put all those pattern pictures and links into a handy collection I could browse. And share. I could repin the ones I liked best . . . I COULD EVEN START MY OWN “BOARD.”

Oh, and lookee here: there are Pinterest apps for my phone and iPad. I can take a picture of what I’m knitting and POST IT INSTANTLY to my own little Pinterest audience. Show it off. See if others will repost it. Become famous.

OMG this is fun. And . . . and . . . look at the DIY and Crafts category! Hundreds and hundreds of links to projects I’ve never seen anywhere else. 1001 uses for empty toilet paper rollers. How to make a fabulously glamorous (“Not,” but why quibble?) pendant using dabs of nail polish, glitter, and one of those flat-backed glass marbles you buy by the bag at Wal-Mart.   What to do with leftover tin cans (the ideas are too many to even mention!)

And look at THIS: Authors are making “book boards,” where they pin images of places and people that evoke their story. Links to music, paintings, photographs, maps, related books, and more! It’s like a multi-media readers’ guide you can share with your fans.

I immediately set up a board for my WIP, Shepherd’s Moon. Since part of the story takes place in WW2 Ireland, and involves a German POW in an Irish POW camp, I happily posted historical pictures and links about that time and setting. Then I had the brilliant idea of adding snippets of my story to each picture, as if the picture actually represented a scene from the book.

But . . . people started “re-pinning” my fake histories onto their own history boards, apparently confusing my story for actual fact. Ruh roh. Okay, no biggie, I’ll add a disclaimer at the end of each snippet to let folks know this isn’t from a history book.

Whew. Crisis averted.

All righty, now that I understood how Pinterest addicted people, and how the basic mechanism of sharing endless Internet trivia worked, I went over to my long-ignored, in-name-only, Facebook page. Hey, guess what! It kinda operates the same way as Pinterest. Share stuff—pix and links—comment on it, look at stuff that your many, many “friends” you’ve never met are posting, then share that stuff with people you actually do know.

You can instantly complain about hot news topics and high-five your like-minded fellow complainers; you can laugh at celebrity outfits; you can find out what your vampire name is, your Santa name, your Easter bunny name (I’m Peeps Cadbury,) and even INVENT YOUR OWN “what’s your name?” game. (Yes, I sunk to the level of creating one for my novel, The Biscuit Witch. My Biscuit Witch name is Honey-Butter Gingerbread. My husband’s BW name is Lard Gingerbread. He is not amused.)

I’m still trying to figure out exactly how sites like Pinterest and Facebook, MySpace and Instagram and all the rest can actually build my fan base. Actual professional research has been conducted on this question by Bowker and other companies; it concludes that, so far, social media is a big shrugging “Meh,” when it comes to influencing readers to purchase books by authors they don’t know.

Sadly, I no longer care about that. As long as I get my daily, nightly, I’ll-finish-eating-right-after-I-check-my-status splurge of pure, ecstatic joy from the latest DIY project, Facebook Friending, or shared Someecard, I don’t need success as an author. Or reality. Or a point.

Are these online addictions the modern equivalent of gladiator games? Are we all so distracted by the spectacle that we don’t notice when the emperor is looting the city? Could be, but I hope not. I like to think that we now have unprecedented power to connect with other people world-wide, to share information and education, to raise a cry for the oppressed, and to maybe even save a few lives.

But in the meantime, you can visit my altruistic, highbrow world of “DIY Projects I Can’t Resist,” also “Outfits to knit and crochet for critters,” and “How to dye yarn with Kool Aid.”

I think humanity will be all the better for it.

            To most people, I’m Karen White, the writer.  To my family, I’m Mom, errand-girl, organizer of all things family-related, and repository of all teenaged angst.  To my dog, I’m everything.  Seen through his sweet eyes, I hung the sun and the moon.  Which is why I allow him to stay despite such habits as shredding tissues from the garbage can and distributing the tiny pieces throughout the house.  But I digress.

            I’m also a musician.  My grandmother played the piano, and my mother was a music major in college (for piano and—believe it or not—the alto sax!).  I suppose it was a natural assumption that when I was old enough to reach the pedals, I would start taking piano lessons.

So, at the tender age of five, I began taking lessons.  I actually loved to play.  Or, I should say, I loved the music but not so much the practicing.  Still, I kept at it.  I played in recitals, and in competitions, and even accompanied my high school choir.  But it wasn’t until I was in college that I got really serious about it.

I was a business major, but I had to take several fine arts electives to graduate so I signed up for piano lessons thinking they’d be an easy “A.”  All prospective students had to audition in front of the department head, Faina Lushtak—a Russian émigré who’d once played in Carnegie Hall—to be placed with the various instructors.  She told me my technique was terrible, but that I was very musical with my expression.  I was completely surprised when she chose to be my instructor, her only non-music major pupil.

I did get an “A” in the class—but only through much sweat and tears, and many, many hours of practice (gave me a head start with the experience of toiling for long hours that I would need when I started my writing career).  Despite my grumblings, my playing (and technique!) improved drastically, and even though I would get sick to my stomach every time I had to play in a recital with all of those music majors, Mrs. Lushtak was always proud of my performances.

When I got married, I informed my husband that we wouldn’t have a living room but a music room, complete with a grand piano.  My mother had always wanted one, but because we moved all over the world every few years it wasn’t practical.  I figured it would make sense, then, for me to have one.  Unfortunately, my husband—who played the trumpet in the high school marching band—didn’t agree.  All he could see was the dollar signs, or, as I referred to it, as the “investment” to get a quality grand piano.

We were at an impasse for ten years.  In that time we had four homes, all with an empty living room because I stubbornly refused to buy furniture to put in what I insisted on calling the music room.  When we had parties, I’d borrow chairs and occasional tables and lamps from my neighbors.

And then my daughter turned five and we set up an electronic keyboard in the music room for her to practice on.  As fate would have it, my husband was home early one day when her piano teacher was there and they started talking.  The teacher told us that our daughter was very gifted but that he was afraid she wasn’t developing the muscles in her fingers enough because of the lightweight electronic keyboard keys.

The next day my husband called me from the office.  He’d apparently been doing a lot of research into the best pianos to buy (apparently made in America between 1900 and WWII), and where to buy them in the Atlanta area.  I was dumbstruck.  Within two days, we had traveled to every piano store in the Atlanta metro area so I could play all pianos that met his criteria of a good investment, and my own—amazing sound quality.

We ended up with a 1926 Mason & Hamlin (made in Boston) full-size black satin wood grand.  When I played a Chopin Nocturne on it in the store, the resonance of the bass and sweetness of the upper register made me weep.  I knew I’d found my piano.

My daughter played that piano until her senior year in high school and became quite good.  She only continued with lessons through her freshman year in college before quitting completely.  It broke my heart.  But without a Faina Lushtak to push and encourage her, I knew that the pressures of her schoolwork would be too much to continue with piano.

My beautiful piano (my daughter calls it hers, but it’s in my house, right?) sits alone and quiet in the music room.  Every once in a while, my husband suggests selling it, but I clutch at my heart and begin to cry so hopefully he’ll stop asking.  Now that I’m an empty nester, I have plans to begin taking lessons again.  A piano like that is meant to be played, and I long for the joy and solace that my piano music always brought to my life before life got too busy.

In The Time Between, my June release, you might recognize the piano that sits in the middle of the story—a 1926 Mason & Hamlin grand.  It is through this piano that the two protagonists of the story, 34-year old Edisto Island native Eleanor Murray and 96-year-old Hungarian WWII refugee Helena Szarka, bond.  Although from completely different backgrounds, they are united by their love of music, and the feelings and memories it evokes.  It is through their music that they both find truth, peace, and healing.

It was such a joy to pull out all of my old piano music and take a trip down memory lane, much as Helena and Eleanor do in the book.   This is one of the few times that I’ve pulled something out of my own life to write about—and I think it gives the story an emotional advantage.  It is my hope that my readers will hear the music through my words.

Besides being a pianist and writer, I’m also a singer.  I’ve sung in weddings, and also sang in a professional choir for five years before I had to give it up to devote my time to writing.  But if you ask my children, they’ll just roll their eyes and profess no knowledge whatsoever that their mother can keep a tune.  They will never admit that when they were small I’d teach them the words and harmonies to every ABBA song and we’d sing them together in the car.  It was adorable—but don’t tell them I said that.

I write my new adult novels in dual first-person, present tense and my historicals are written in third-person past tense. Making that leap alone is going to be mind-boggling. Can you say hello mistakes! Then of course I’m going from a contemporary college setting to—well Victorian London and the ton. Talk about worlds and centuries apart.

But the thing is I love writing both and in 2014 I’m going to add adult contemporary romances to the mix. It keeps me on my toes and keeps things interesting. I can tell you I’m never bored and I find each genre a challenge in its own way.

Right now though I’m really in love with my new adult characters and stories. Writing about them makes me nostalgic. I love that time before full-time jobs, mortgage payments and bills. I love writing and reading about falling in love for the first time. I love the angst of that time in our lives when we were legally considered adults but didn’t have all those adult responsibilities. That is the reason I made the leap into writing new adult romances.

In THOSE NIGHTS IN MONTREAL (ode to Gino Vannelli), the heroine Rebecca broke it off with her boyfriend of a year, a year ago. She’s done with him and feels more than justified in breaking up with him. But Scott, the hero, wants her back…desperately. And he’s going to use whatever he has in his arsenal to do so—even if it means playing dirty pool.

Personally, I love it when the hero has to do a bit of groveling. I also love it when he doesn’t exactly play fair—if you know what I mean. But more than anything, I love a story about past hurts and second chances and THOSE NIGHTS IN MONTREAL is that kind of story. I hope you’ll give it a try.

What about you? Would you ever or have you ever given your ex-boyfriend, ex-fiancee or ex-husband a second chance?  Comment to enter to win a digital copy of THOSE NIGHTS IN MONTREAL. I’m giving away 5 copies.

Visit me at www.BeverleyKendall.com
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I think I’m supposed to have a grudge against Baltimore. But when I arrive, I can’t remember if it’s because of baseball or football. I don’t hold grudges for long.

I’m in the Convention Center. It’s the end of the day when your feet hurt, and your suit is too constricting, and you just want to lie down and go to sleep because you’re too tired to eat or drink.

That’s me.

Today is one of those days.

Somewhere in the masses a baby is crying.

I walk with my friends. I look back and see a woman carrying a child. My friends and I keep walking. Our hotel is about a mile away through the maze of exhibit halls and skywalks.

We walk for five minutes hearing crying. I’m a mother. I don’t like the sound. I accept it, but I don’t like it. We get to an elevator and the crying in the distance stops. I tell my friends I’m used to the sound of crying. But I’m not.

At the next floor, we continue our walk. We still have another half a mile ahead of us when we run into another friend. We stop and talk for a moment. The elevator opens and the crying starts again.

I see a mom. She is pregnant. She carries a toddler girl on her hip. The girl is crying. Next to the mother a little boy walks. The mother puts down her large shopping bag and asks the boy to carry it. The bag is very big, and he begins to drag it.

There are approximately 2,000 professional people filing past the pregnant lady with the two children. I tell my friends I’ll meet them at the hotel. I go to the boy and pick up the bag. We start walking.

“Thank you,” the mother says.

I think she is French, but I’m not sure. Her accent tells me she is not from Baltimore. She is model tall and waif thin, except for that pregnant belly. The girl is still crying against her mother’s chest. The mother’s face is free of makeup, but she is pretty. I do not look her in her eyes. I feel terribly embarrassed.

I smile at that boy, and he starts talking to me. I’m wearing a neon-pink down coat. It’s 30 degrees outside, the end of winter. He has just been to the aquarium. He likes Diego.

“I like Diego,” I say. He is five years old and pure happiness. If I had not turned back, the boy would have dragged the bag for his mom.

We walk for a long time. Pregnant women carrying toddlers walk very slowly. Little tired boys walk very slowly. Only the boy speaks.

Eventually, we get to their hotel. My hotel is six blocks in the opposite direction. We stand in the lobby waiting for the elevator.

“I have four kids,” I say. This is the first time I speak to the mother. “I used to look just like you, pregnant, carrying a kid, and others trailing behind.”

Suddenly her eyes fill with tears.

The boy reaches up and absent-mindedly touches his sister’s foot. The mother now carries the girl straddled over her pregnant belly. She has wrapped both arms around the girl.

“I think we should have taken a taxi,” she says. These are her second words to me. I remember seeing the aquarium all the way across the harbor. My feet hurt for them. I felt like crying too. My own eyes fill with tears.

“How old are your kids?” she asks quietly. Through her tears she smiles.

“8, 7, 5, and 2. People think I’m lucky when I travel. That I get to sleep alone in a hotel room. But I miss my kids. I’d rather have my kids with me and crying than be away from them. And we have a rule in my house. Crying is okay.”

She nods. She is crying, but her expression is still smiling. Why isn’t it okay for us to cry? The adults?

We reach their floor. 14^th. There is no 13^th floor.

“We also have a lot of fun,” I say. This is true. In our house, we both cry and laugh.

We reach the hotel room. I put down the bag at the door and walk away. I don’t wait for her to find her key. The boy continues to talk to his mother, his sister, the air. I never ask him his name. His sister is still sobbing from fatigue.

I round the corner and still hear crying. I wait for the elevator. I get inside. Even after the doors close I hear crying. If I had seen that beautiful woman any other time and place, I would have thought her too perfect to have miscalculated her journey, too lovely to cradle a crying child.

Some say we only do kind things out of selfishness. We do good deeds to feel better about ourselves and not really to help others.

This is true for me. I am selfish. I helped that woman with her kids, because I recognized myself in her. I’ve also miscalculated the distance on a walk with my kids. I’ve also carried a crying child too many miles.

I’m crying and a little sad. I am embarrassed because I’m still learning to accept help when I need it. I don’t know how I would have reacted if someone offered me help. I might have said “no.”

I’m crying and a little happy. I might have said “yes.” The next time I need help, I will try to accept it. Otherwise, I might miss the chance to walk a mile with a stranger who briefly shares my burden, offers a few words, and then walks away without goodbye.

It’s difficult to know when to offer help. Have you ever helped someone and knew you were also helping yourself? Can you walk away before the thank you or goodbye? Do you want to thank a stranger who once helped you? Tell us in the comments.

“A nail is driven out by another nail.  Habit is overcome by habit.” – Erasmus

Okay.  Three weeks ago I issued the 21-day challenge.  The object, write every day for 21 days in order to form a habit.  In all honesty, I did not write new pages every single day.  But, I did do some type of work on my book every day, whether it be scene drafting, brainstorming or editing.

And remember that list of 21 suggestions on how to keep moving forward?  I discovered which ones worked, which ones not so much, and found a few that should have been on the list.

Plot first has, and probably always will be, a big one for me.  I’m not a pantser.  However, free writing for discovery worked very well.  I’d forgotten about a little gem called Write or Die.  This free online program lets you set a time/word goal and consequence and then pound away at the keys for all your worth until your times up.  The screen changes color, flashes and loud noises alert you to the deadline – and in one extreme consequence – your words begin to untype themselves!  It’s a fun way to challenge yourself to what are basically writing drills, freeing up creativity and busting through barriers.

One idea that worked particularly well for me was using my Neo Alphasmart.  This handy device is so easy to just grab and go, whether it’s to the coffee shop down the street, outside on the porch or just another room in the house.  The screen only allows you to see a few lines of type at a time which discourages re-reading and therefore editing your work as you go.  It syncs easily with the computer when done so integrating new pages is a snap!  I’ve had my Neo a few years now and love it.  Plus, it keeps away the obvious computer distractions like email and surfing the net.

I have my cozy writing nook, but like to move around the house as the mood strikes.  And of course I have my story playlist for setting mood.  Focusing on dialogue to get the scene down, then going back to flesh it out and leaving a story question to be answered at the next writing session both worked well.  I also should have added a tape recorder to the list.  Yep, sometimes I use the memo ap on my phone, but I also have a small hand-held recorder that I grab if I’m going to be on the road for a long while.  Driving on the highway is one of those left brain tasks that never ceases to get my characters talking.  I figure why not speak dialogue out loud?  I can work through an entire scene this way.  Or sometimes I can just outline a few scenes or throw ideas around until something gels.  Then, when I get the chance, I transcribe my recording.  You’d be amazed at how much work can be accomplished this way.

So, how did you do?  Did you write 21 days in a row?  Discover any new methods for getting words on the page or inspiration?  Have you learned how to develope other good habits?

One month from today, my debut book releases.  I’m thrilled! I’m excited! I’m worried.

I worked fifteen years before finally landing an agent. I worried. Will no one ever want me? Will my craft never meet the bar that seems to get raised every year? How many books will I write before I get it right? Do I need a website before I sell? A platform?  I sweated. I waited.

Then, I got an agent.

I waited 6 months after that to sell. I worried. Will no one ever want me? How will I live with the embarrassment of letting down the agent who took a chance on me? If I do sell, will I like my editor? Will I be able to deliver? How will I handle deadlines?

Then, I sold.

I waited 18 months for the book to come out. I worried. Did I get a good deal compared to other debut authors? Would I get a good cover? Did I get a good print run? Am I going to have decent reviews? What if no one likes my writing? What if I let down my publisher? What if I throw a party (book signing,) and no one comes?

The book WILL come out in one month.

Then I’ll worry. If my sales numbers aren’t good enough, no one is going to want to sign me for another contract. What if my next book in the series lets down my readers?  What if I don’t earn out? Sell through?

I do know it’s normal to worry, and what I worried about last year, won’t matter, next year. Like the pain of childbirth, it fades. Only to be taken over by new worries.

I spoke with a NYT bestselling author friend of mine who finaled for a RITA award (which she went on to win.) She gave some perspective. I was over-the-top excited for her, and couldn’t figure out why she didn’t seem as excited as I was.

She said, “I worry. It’s wonderful to be nominated, but what if I don’t win? I’m letting down my editor, and my publisher. I’m raising expectations, and if I don’t win, it’ll be worse than if I hadn’t entered.”

See? You’re never done. I’ll bet Nora, Jodi, Clive, et al STILL find things to worry about!

Wouldn’t you think, at some point, we’d get it? You’re never done worrying.

It’s just two tree-lined blocks from where my fiancé and I live in a building that’s stood since before the Civil War. And as it so happens, this coffee shop is the oldest coffee shop in the city. Seeing how this is the second oldest city in the country, it’s got me thinking this is an especially historic hitching post for those of us with a caffeine dependency. Here in the historic district, you’re never far from SCAD, (that would be the Savannah College of Art and Design), so the walls of the café are decked with ornately painted canvases for sale, showcasing everything from beautiful ladies in flowing dresses, to fountains, to little children gazing curiously out of windows. The walls of the café are plaster and exposed brick as old as the antebellum building itself, while eclectic tile floors and aged timber ceilings lend their own sense of depth and age.

Mismatched teacups and mugs, stained glass, and shelves and shelves of colorful pottery and loose teas, tea pots and knickknacks grace the walls. Patrons lounge in vintage swing-back upholstered and wooden chairs, tucked here and there in front of antique wooden tables that look very much like something I would have found in my great-grandmother’s basement. It’s seriously as if the place were lifted up from a scene in a Harry Potter film and set here, so close to the river that once in a while you manage to catch sight of a very tall ship peeking up over the buildings lining the water.

Every few minutes a horse-drawn carriage trots by outside my window, carrying tourists hunkered down in softly padded seats as they gaze up at streams of Spanish Moss reaching down from massive live oaks framing Chippewa Square. I’ve come to find that the city of Savannah feels more like a park with buildings planted down into it than the other way around. Everywhere you walk moss-draped live oaks, azalea bushes and overflowing flowerboxes are there to greet you.

Here inside, soft music is playing and the hum of conversation fills the room. Colorfully dressed people are laughing, smiling. Everyone looks happy. Every last person. Art students are sketching in their pads, clothing designers are hovered over swatches of fabric, and other writers (I can tell they’re writers by the giant coffee cups and inspired, yet frazzled expressions) are tapping away at their computers. There’s a vibrancy here that never sleeps, hopefulness in the air that invites you to dream, to breathe, to do your soul’s work.

It’s taken a long time to get here. It’s been a crazy, wonderful, blessed year of tests and obstacles, treasured gifts and true love. We made it through.

My fiancé and I are finally home.

And now I settle down to write.

Please help us celebrate our anniversary by visiting Brenda Novak’s On-Line Auction for Diabetes Research.  You will find TONS of fun and fabulous items to bid on….even a Vera Wang bag stuffed full of books from many of us here at It’s Only a Novel, including some from reviews!  The auction will be going on the entire month of May, so be sure to stop by frequently.  <G>

Today’s the one-year anniversary of It’s Only a Novel.  I can hardly believe it.  How fast a year goes by!  It’s been a great wild ride; a HUGE learning curve on putting together a website (I’m still figuring out how some things work) meeting the challenges of keeping posts updated through several life changing events this year, finding guests, going from Tete’-a-tete’s to book reviews.  But you know what?  It’s all been worth it.  Because I’ve gotten to “meet” so many super nice people like you, reading this post.

One of the best parts of this blog is that I’ve had the privilege to get to know and hang out with some of the most amazing writers!  All my wonderful guests, to be sure, but It’s Only a Novel wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for the kind-hearted, ever-faithful, eight talented writers blogging with me.  Thank you, ladies!  You are THE BEST!

If you haven’t taken the time yet, you can read their bios on the contributor page, or click on their pictures to the right that link to their individual web pages.

But to update you on recent events….

Ann Hite writes gripping southern gothic literary novels, winning Georgia Author of the Year 2012 for her debut novel, Ghost on Black Mountain.  Her next novel, The Storycatcher will be released Sept 10, 2013 and her third, Lowcountry Spirit will be out August, 2013.  If you haven’t read Ann, YOU ARE MISSING OUT.

Deborah Smith is the New York Times bestselling author of A Place to Call Home, Sweet Hush, A Gentle Rain, and one of my favorites – The Crossroads Café.  This amazing, talented, soft-spoken woman has written more than 35 romance, women’s fiction and fantasy novels.  She is also a founding member and current VP and Editorial Director of Belle Books and Bell Bridge Books.  Her newest release, Biscuit Witch, the first installment of The Kitchen Charms Trilogy will be available later this month.

Haywood Smith, New York Times bestselling author of the Red Hat Club books, Queen Bee of Mimosa Branch, Waking Up Dixie and many other humorous novels featuring middle-aged heroines, is one of the most down-to-earth, true Southern, charming women you will ever meet.  But you already know that from her writing, don’t you.  <g>   Her newest release, Out Of Warranty, pokes fun at aging in the face of today’s health care system.  She’s currently at work on a sequel to Queen Bee of Mimosa Branch; Queen Bee Goes To College.  And, if that’s not enough, she’s recently rereleased her award winning, critically acclaimed historical novels Highland Princess and Dangerous Gifts as e-books, with more to follow.  Let me just say, modern day humor aside, this woman knows how to write a historical romance!

Jean Willett, award-winning, three-time Golden Heart Finalist, not only writes edge-of-your-seat suspense novels, but also has a charming, lyrical voice for women’s fiction with mystical realism.  Be on the lookout, because this smart, savvy, gifted writer is going to take the world by storm!  I can’t wait to see her first book on my keeper shelf.

Karen White, New York Times bestselling and multi-award winning author of Learning to Breathe and The Beach Trees, including over a dozen more stunning southern women’s fiction novels, takes storytelling to a new level.  She has a true gift for weaving together past and modern day story threads that will leave you struggling between savoring each word and hurrying to read the next page.  She’s THAT GOOD!  Her newest release, The Time Between will be out June 4^th.

Kimberly Brock, didn’t just make a splash with her debut novel, The River Witch, she blew through the southern literary world like a high-powered hurricane, leaving readers swept away by her voice, her charm and her poignant tale of regrets and secrets set in the Appalachian foothills and Sea Islands.  She’s not just the next NYT bestselling author; she’s the quintessential southern girl-next door.  As genuine as she is genius!  And as I hear tell, hard at work on her next novel. <g>

Laura Drake, award-winning author, sold her first three books in quick succession!  Her debut novel, The Sweet Spot, a poignant family drama set against the Pro Bull Riding circuit, is a Romantic Times Top Pick, and releases May 28, 2013 from Grand Central.  Her second novel in the Sweet on A Cowboy series, Nothing Sweeter, releases December, 2013.  Her Road Home, a Harlequin Superromance, will be available in August 2013.  Laura is a powerhouse of energy and enthusiasm, and ass-kicker extraordinaire!  Those who have her in their writing corner know what I mean. <G>   If you haven’t already pre-ordered The Sweet Spot, you should.  Don’t be fooled into thinking this is all about cowboys and bull-riding.  This is a story about loss, grief, redemption and reclamation.  You don’t want to miss it!

Nicki Salcedo is a two-time winner of the Maggie Award of Excellence and a 2012 Golden Heart finalist.  Her debut novel, All Beautiful Things, will be published by Bell Bridge Books late 2013.  This woman is one of the hardest working, most dedicated mother, wife and writer I know.  She can be COUNTED ON!  Which is no small thing in today’s world of busy and busier people.  Her writing is authentic, daring, eloquent and deliberate.  Have I piqued your interest?  Good.  Be one of the first to pick up her book and see if you don’t agree.  You won’t regret it – promise.

Brenna Lauren, who had to step back from being a regular blogger (but will hopefully make an appearance more often in the months to come) was an integral part of getting this blog started.  During the course of this past year she’s had several moves, started her master’s degree program, a new job, is planning her wedding, AND is putting the final touches on not one, but two novels.  Whew!  Oh, to be that young again.  <g>  Her writing is fluid, lyrical, deeply emotional and timeless.  I’m sure we’ll be hearing great things from her very soon!

While I, too, am an award winning author with short stories in the anthologies, Homecoming at Mossy Creek and Sweeter Than Tea by Belle Books, and A Cup of Comfort For Weddings, by Adams Media, I am much humbled that these amazingly talented women take time from their busy schedules to blog with me here at It’s Only a Novel.  Thanks again, ladies!

Simplify is defined as making something easier or less complicated. I’ve found that when focused on my writing there comes a moment when all my spinning plates come crashing down. All those multi-tasking lists and errands are scrambled amid the shards of a life upended. Life hits all of us sooner or later. From job loss to sick children and aging parents or in-laws to something closer to all writers –writer’s block, mute characters and impossible deadlines. Any number of things can cause our schedules to slide off the desk into the trash and destroy our focus.

To simplify my life is to make it less complicated. In order to achieve a less complicated lifestyle, I’m making a list so that I can work my way through all the ways I need to simplify.

My list includes:

–my multiple closets and cabinets

–downsizing my book collection [tough but necessary]

–sorting my tubs of writing, which includes years of writing, various computer stages [remember 3.5 disks?]

–organizing thousands of photographs.

Of course, it would help greatly if everyone would be on board the same train. And since that is a Disney dream, I’ve decided to start with the most important – declutter my closets.

There are five stages we go through when decluttering our spaces according to Courtney Carver’s blog—http://bemorewithless.com/fivestages/

Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Action and Freedom.

I’m all for reaching the Freedom part and skipping the anger and bargaining stages. I know every piece of clutter I pick up, pull out or look at will have some bargaining power, but I will persevere and remove it from my sight. If after a week [no three months for me], I don’t miss it. It’s gone!

Just think of the freedom and space created when we allow ourselves to release and let go. By simplifying my life in other ways, I’ll find that focus that keeps escaping, respond when my creativity calls out for one more scene, allow that shitty first draft and enjoy creating something great.

Change takes our time and effort—21 days to change a habit. What are you willing to change today to simplify your life?

Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline

Publisher: William Morrow Paperbacks

Literary Fiction/Women’s Fiction

Inside Cover:

Between 1854 and 1929, so-called Orphan Trains ran regularly from the cities of the East Coast to the farmlands of the Midwest, carrying thousands of abandoned children whose fates would be determined by pure luck.  Would they be adopted by a kind and loving family, or would they face a childhood and adolescence of hard labor and servitude?

As a young Irish immigrant, Vivian Daly was one such child, sent by rail from New York City to an uncertain future a world away.  Returning east later in life, Vivian leads a quiet, peaceful existence on the coast of Maine, the memories of her upbringing rendered a hazy blur.  But in her attic, hidden in trunks, are vestiges of a turbulent past.

Seventeen-year-old Molly Ayer knows that a community-service position helping an elderly widow clean out her attic is the only thing keeping her out of juvenile hall.  But as Molly helps Vivian sort through her keepsakes and possessions, she discovers that she and Vivian aren’t as different as they appear.  A Penobscot Indian who has spent her youth in and out of foster homes, Molly is also an outsider being raised by strangers, and she, too, has unanswered questions about the past.

Moving between contemporary Maine and Depression-era Minnesota, Orphan Train is a powerful tale of upheaval and resilience, second chances, and unexpected friendship.

Review:

This story moved me.  Vivian’s tale made want to hug my own children and never let them go; alternately thankful that they never had to experience such upheaval in their lives, and wanting to reach out to the less fortunate children in today’s world.

Ms Kline’s powerful prose will take you from the depths of despair; put you in the shoes of a child who has no hope but to depend on the kindness of strangers and very little expectation that that type of kindness even exists; to the profound peace of being loved and the personal acceptance that everything that happens to us in life, and the way we choose to react, makes us who we are.

Like many others, I had never heard of the Orphan Trains.  As I read about the children’s initial journey I was intrigued, when I got to the part where Vivian’s name was changed for the first time (she was born as Nimah, an Irish name no one can bother to pronounce, then changed to Dorothy, then eventually Vivian) I began to realize the full impact on the history of these families, how future generations would evolve, how difficult it may be to ever find their roots.  And, of course, by the end of the novel this does come into play a bit (no spoilers here!).

The real meat of this story, for me, is found in the theme of family – what it means to each of us, how precious it is, how difficult it can be to fit in, to find yourself.  And that while our heritage is vitally important, it is our life experiences that mold us.  It was a joy to see how Vivian and Molly’s relationship developed, to watch them discover their likenesses despite their differences and become true friends.

This novel is full of rich history, vivid details, challenging circumstances and rewarding insights.  I highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys reading about the triumph of the human spirit!

Many thanks to SheReadsBlogNetwork and publisher William Morrow Paperbacks for the opportunity to review this novel.  All opinions are my own.