Dune Buggy Riding in the UAE

What a great time I am having in the UAE! The weather has been unbelievably pleasant for the desert and the opportunities for me even more unbelievable. The 14 ½ hour flight was uneventful except for having to sit next to a hillbilly in overalls who told me about the many times his kid had the colic. Now that’s a topic you want to discuss over processed chicken in cellophane!!!!!!!!

Actually, no matter who is sitting next to you on such a long flight, you simply know better than to start up a lengthy conversation. That is a long time to sit and …sleep with a stranger (that is another whole flying story).  I have known people who got married in less time than this latest flight took.

But now that I am here, it couldn’t get better. The owner of the first school is affiliated with the royal family so the other team chair and I were invited for coffee and dates at the home of one of the princesses, or sheikhas as they are called in the Emirates. The first meeting went so well that she invited us to join her at her farm the next day after work.

The farm is in the middle of the desert, but surprisingly it had some greenery that her mother had planted years ago.  So after a huge meal of native dishes, that was set using china and silver and gold flatwear in a room built from palm trees with a sand floor, we were treated to a camel ride. Yep, my second time on a camel, and this launch wasn’t any easier than the first. Actually it was more difficult. I believe I prefer the two humps over one. (If you had told me 10 years ago that I would be blogging about camel humps, I would have told you that you were crazy—never say never!).

Then came an even scarier adventure—four wheeling on the sand dunes with the princess. Just me and her, bouncing over the Arabian Desert. She drove and I held on to the vehicle for dear life. She told me it made her feel free; I told her it made me feel vulnerable. She seemed sort of lonely, and glad to have a visitor.  I guess it is hard being a princess. We drove for more than an hour seeing the horses, camels, chickens, turkeys, goats and sheep that belong to her family… and then we bounced again over the 30 and 40 foot dunes. I was glad it was a relatively cool day because I was sweating enough from the nervousness. No wonder these people pray five times a day!!

Growing to Like Patrick

Several of you have told me you didn’t like Patrick at the beginning of Keeping Faith, but grew to like him as you progressed through the book. Congratulations, you took the hook. That is exactly what I wanted to happen. Actually, I didn’t even like him at first so what could I expect you to do differently?

The guy had major flaws, but don’t we all? His just hit at the core of our sensibilities, and because of that, we didn’t want to like him. He was reckless and self-centered and immature, although he would have argued with that. But as he aged a little, we all grew to appreciate his failures and why he was the way he was. After all, that is part of what the book is about—how the actions of one person, in this case, the cowardly, sick priest, can intervene negatively in a normal life and basically change it forever.

The priest really could have been anybody who was cruel and mean and ruthless.  He didn’t have to be a man of the cloth to fulfill this role; it just worked for this book. And the book wasn’t meant to try to expose the dark side of the Catholic Church. That too could have been any forum, but again, that’s the one that worked for me.

As you know from reading the newspapers in recent years there have been many “Patricks”; the victims of others who took advantage of the innocent. I realized in reading some of these news articles that when we don’t put a face with a victim, it usually doesn’t have as great an impact. If we know the person, then our reactions are different. It doesn’t mean we don’t sympathize or even empathize, but it generally isn’t at the high level it should be. So I wanted you to get to know Patrick, to visualize him, to see the boy and then the man.

The first Patrick was just an innocent kid, who you probably wouldn’t have noticed in a room of 10 year olds, except for his striking blue eyes that almost took you off guard, wondering what was behind their brilliance. Certainly he wasn’t the cutest kid in the room—that would probably be reserved for the blond or dark haired kid. Instead, Patrick was a gangly red head with a mischievous, captivating personality. As his first grade teacher, you might have recognized him as a disorganized, carefree little guy who would rather pick up a frog than a book. If you had been his fifth grade teacher, you might have noticed a more circumspect boy whose thoughts where somewhere far away, but you wouldn’t be able to put your finger on the reason. That was the character I wanted to build upon. Where it went from there was up to fate for him and imagination for the reader.

Once you begin to get a sense of him, I hope the general themes of the book begin to unfold.  And, just as with the title having a double meaning, there are several themes. I mentioned one in the first part of this blog, and I don’t need to try to influence you as to what they all are because I believe it is important for the reader to have the latitude to draw out his own thoughts, to make judgements and decide the direction the book is taking.

There is no right or wrong analysis. That said, however,  you must know that in some way it is important to see that the book tries to show how each person in this world is connected to another, and how often, unknowingly or without much thought, we can forever make an impact for good or bad. And then that tends to have a domino effect which becomes apparent as the chapters take shape.

chapter 1

Boston, 1962

Patrick woke, startled, hearing a rustling noise. Reaching quickly to push back the heavy canvas, he found it zipped closed. Darkness swallowed him. In the airless, musty pup tent, he felt trapped. Sweat beaded on his forehead, when suddenly he heard another sound and felt the presence of someone.

“Shh.”

Then Patrick felt a body pressing against him and a clammy hand cover his mouth.

“Patrick, you’re a very special boy to me,” and breathing heavily, the whispering voice continued, “Turn this way and be very still,” nudging the youngster forward.

Trembling, Patrick recognized the voice of his priest. Why is he doing this? What is happening to me?

Patrick’s mind was reeling and he found it difficult to breathe as Father Michael slid a hand over his boyish, gangly frame, fondling him for what seemed an endless time. Nauseated, his stomach churning, Patrick lay lifeless when the priest moved away.

“Paddy, this makes a special bond between you and me. You can’t tell anyone. Do you understand?”

His head was pounding as Patrick nodded although he knew it was too dark for the priest to see it move.

Without another word, Father Michael unzipped the tent and left as quietly as he had approached. Patrick lay in his sleeping bag, shaking and hurting, unable to comprehend why this had happened to him. A single salty teardrop fell on his upper lip, followed by a steady stream. He suddenly felt sick, like he was going to throw up. Pushing his head into his pillow, he sobbed until he fell asleep. When he woke he remembered the ugliness of the night. What if someone had seen Father Michael crawling into or out of his tent or heard him crying after the priest left? His priest–the man Patrick’s dad called their spiritual leader–who his dad described as a gentle spirit. There had been nothing gentle about him the night before and Patrick knew he would never see him again as anything close to spiritual. This man had christened him, blessed him and now done this to him. How could a priest be a man of God and Satan all in the same robe? It was so hard for him to think about.

Patrick lay in the tent for a few minutes, not wanting to dress for the day. Yet, desperate to escape the confinement, he pulled on his shorts and shirt and drug himself out. Looking around the camp ground, he saw lines of tents, along with old log tables, scattered with cooking utensils. Beyond that were stretches of nothing more than acres of green wilderness circling the camp. Through gaps in the tall trees and wild foliage, the orange glow from the sun was just appearing in the east, and he was grateful for the break in the darkness. He didn’t see the priest at first and was startled when he heard his voice.

“Good Morning, my lad,” Father Michael said, shifting to look at Patrick as he gave a cursory turn of the bacon just beginning to sizzle in the heavy iron skillet.

“Good Morning, Father,” Patrick murmured meekly, diverting his eyes.

“And how did you sleep, Paddy O’Brien?” the wan, small framed priest asked without emotion. His clerical collar was slightly askew and he looked tired and like he had not been awake long.

Patrick hated being called Paddy. His brothers, knowing how much he despised it, occasionally used it teasingly, but he knew the priest was taunting him, testing his reactions. He looked down again, but not before catching a glimpse of Father Michael’s beady gray eyes that always appeared weak behind his black square framed glasses. His scars from teenage acne had deepened over the years and this morning looked more pronounced than usual.

“Okay, I guess,” Patrick answered, struggling to be polite but wanting to escape. Other boys were beginning to gather and Patrick saw his chance to move away.

Noticing, the priest loosely grabbed Patrick’s arm, “Come, help me make the coffee, lad” he instructed, playfully tousling Patrick’s thick uncombed hair.

As much as Patrick had looked forward to this day, now he just wanted to go home.

He thought back about how excited he had been the day before waiting for the bus to take him and the other new altar boys to Camp Timbers in a small rural area west of Boston.

He had checked his packing list at least three times and recounted the items he was required to bring, carefully placing his clothes and supplies in a small duffle bag that had been his older brother Robert’s when he was Patrick’s age. Although he had wanted a new backpack he knew there wasn’t money so he marked through his brother’s name and with a black magic marker printed his.

But to his surprise his parents had bought him a Timex watch with a brown leather band. Although he had learned to tell time long before starting kindergarten by staring at the kitchen clock while he waited at the window, watching for his father to come home from the fire house, he had never had a watch of his own. Throughout the week before wilderness camp, his dad had cautioned him not to wear it in the lake. “Your mother and I saved for this, and we want you to take good care of it, okay?” They need not have worried because even at ten, Patrick was proud and responsible, and knew finances were tight at home.

The ringing of the giant bell, announcing breakfast, brought Patrick back to the present. Father Robert, the white haired senior priest whose mild manner radiated calm confidence and reminded Patrick of his grandfather, called “Come and get it!” Dispirited, Patrick looked down at the bacon, scrambled eggs and fried toast that filled the oversized pans. Gingerly, he put a piece of the crisp buttery bread on his plate and then a spoonful of eggs as he eyed a vacant seat at the long table. He had to admit that the food smelled good, but he wasn’t hungry and wished he were home in the small, cramped kitchen, dotted with a collection of pictures of fruit in oversized vases hanging strategically over the peeling wallpaper. He knew his mother would have on her old worn yellow checkered apron smudged with flour, bent over the dented stainless steel counter, making Irish soda bread. He could see his dad at the round pock marked wooden table reading the sports section of the daily paper, complaining about missing another Red Sox game.

When the pots and pans and leftovers were put away, Father Andrew stood and announced, “This morning we are going to have a scavenger hunt. Each boy needs to choose a partner”.

Patrick looked around, searching for his best friend Stephen, but before he could say anything, Mikey Kennedy shouted, “Hey Patrick, let’s be hunting buddies.”

“No, come on Patrick, his friend Casey called.

Randy shouted louder, “We’ll make the best team, Patrick.”

Patrick paused, eyeing all three boys, wishing Mikey hadn’t asked first and still looking for his best friend Stephen. “I guess I had better help Mikey,” his voice trailing off. Then in his typical competitive spirit, he added, “And we’re going to beat your butts,” trying to sound more confident than he was feeling.

“Yeah,” Mikey gloated, unable to hide his excitement that Patrick had agreed to team up.

Father Andrew handed each set of boys a list of items to find: a maple leaf, one edible item, a piece of birch bark, three shades of granite rock, an arrowhead, proof of wildlife, a pine cone, a twig of blue spruce, a bouquet of wild flowers and a sign of previous campers. “You have an hour and a half to search. If you’re late, you’ll be disqualified. When you’ve found everything on the list, bring it all back for checking. The winning team will be released from chores for the day and each boy will receive a prize.”

Feeling doomed, Patrick looked at Mikey, who was chubby, all milky white and soft as a marshmallow. On top of that, Mikey usually acted like a big baby. Yet Patrick could understand why. Mikey’s mother hovered over him, some days even bringing his lunch to school and eating with him in the cafeteria. Patrick thought how much he loved his mother, but admitted he would have wanted to die if she had ever brought his lunch and sat down with him and his friends.

After blowing his whistle, Father Andrew shouted, “Take off!”

The boys ran into the woods in all directions. Mikey found a feather and beaming proudly shouted to Patrick, “I got something” holding up a beautifully formed crimson feather.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all Patrick thought. Next, Patrick found berries and then the biggest maple leaf he had ever seen. “Look for rocks, Mikey, over there. There are some by that little stream.”

“I just found a can,” Mikey responded.

Almost 45 minutes had passed when Patrick looked at his list. They still needed birch bark, some blue spruce and a pine cone, which seemed easy enough and there were plenty of wild flowers scattered among the tall grasses, but finding an arrowhead seemed like a stretch.

“I’ve got the tree stuff, Patrick” Mikey yelled.

“Good, now start looking for a mound or heaps of dirt. We’re probably going to have to dig if we’re going to find an arrowhead.”

“Do you really think there were Indians here, Patrick?”

“Well, the Pilgrims were here so there must have been Indians,” Patrick said with confidence.

“Don’t you think all the arrowheads are gone by now, if there ever were any?”

“Who knows, but if it’s on the list there must be some or they are just trying to trick us.”

“I don’t think a priest would do that, do you, Patrick?”

Patrick didn’t respond, “Just keep digging Mikey; we only have about thirty minutes and I’m not hopeful.”

There were four large mounds of dirt and the boys probed with their bare hands, but found nothing. Just as they were about to give up Mikey cried, “Ouch! That hurt; something stuck me.”

Patrick thought he’s whining again, but joined Mikey and quickly began scooping the soft soil. There, jutting out was a grayish arrowhead with one jagged edge.

“All right, we may win!” Patrick exclaimed, but wondering what would happen if another team found one in better shape.

“Hurry, let’s go. We don’t want to be late.” Running ahead, Patrick almost forgot the wild flowers.

“Grab that purple stuff, Mikey,” Patrick yelled as he caught hold of two yellow flowers.

Panting, the two boys ran into camp where several of the older boys stood, looking disgusted, their mouths formed into smirks. From a distance, Patrick heard one say, “There weren’t any damn Indians here.”

I need some zzzz's

If you had told me as a teenager that someday I would have trouble sleeping, I would have told you that you were crazy. After all, in those days, I could easily sleep until noon, eat lunch, and take a quick nap before starting my Saturday. But then, as a teenager, I would have said a lot of things in the future were crazy and not going to ever happen to me!

Unfortunately that’s not the case, and sleep is a much longed for commodity in my life these days— something I have trouble finding and keeping. I so agree with F. Scott Fitzgerald’s assessment, “that the worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to…” or Shakespeare’s, “To sleep, perchance to dream, ay, there’s the rub,” as he so eloquently wrote in Hamlet.

Likewise, I concur with the saying by Niblack that “if a man had as many ideas in the day as he does when he has insomnia, he’d make a fortune.” Why is it that everything is major at 3:00 a.m., but I can barely remember it at 8:00, except to know that I was worrying about a multitude of needless, miscellaneous crap??

And on an airplane, when everyone else is snoring and drooling, why am I fidgeting and squirming and watching the few other insomniacs roam up and down the aisles? Who knows? Not me, I’m too busy worrying about getting a few unsuccessful zzzzzzzzzzzzzz’s.

Basically, it’s a hopeless endeavor, but I never fail to try. It makes me tired and sleepy just thinking about it, but as one unknown writer once wrote, “I’m not asleep, but that doesn’t mean I’m awake.” It is all so frustrating, but so it goes………Now, I’ll close and toss and turn, trying to count sheep and turn off my brain. If sleep doesn’t come, I guess I can get up and start eeking out a few thoughts on my computer, and bore you with another blog!

Faith was the catalyst for Keeping Faith

By now, you probably know that Faith is the main character in Promises Kept. (If you would like to download the excerpt, you can by subscribing to my newsletter). Faith was such an easy character to develop because I have known a hundred Faiths. She simply evolved from her East Texas setting, and was actually the catalyst for Keeping Faith.

It is almost impossible to separate the two books because everything is so interwoven. As you follow the blog for the next few months, you will see that I now discuss both books, almost interchangeably at times, because of the characters they share. But that is where the similarities end because each novel is an entirely different story.

Faith was the beginning and the end of Keeping Faith, but she was so much more. The title itself took its name from her character although it was somewhat a double entendre because the name of the book could also be interpreted as referring to Patrick’s faith. Whatever symbolism the reader chooses, Faith is part of the bigger picture. She is and was the glue that held Patrick, Sue, and Alice together over time and place.

So why was Faith easy to portray and others more difficult to develop? There was no single person in my background named or identified as Faith. Instead, she represents so many East Texas women who are strong and determined and even aggressive sometimes. So often, females from small, rural settings are seen as needy and weak. I wanted to change that image with Faith because many of the women I have known from that part of the world are anything but. They are perfect examples of steel magnolias. Perhaps, that characteristic was innate in Faith; maybe it was strengthened by her adversities; the reader can decide.

prologue

East Texas, 1991

Faith O’Brien had been looking for her father for as long as she could remember. From a slight glance out of her upstairs bedroom window at a lone passerby to a concentrated scrutiny of familiar faces she saw each autumn Friday night in the crowded wooden bleachers of the high school stadium, she searched. With a single, faded black and white photograph that she took often from a worn little box that held her only other connection to him–a tiny gold ring he had given her mother the first year they dated, she had tried to picture him, studying every tiny detail of the handsome nineteen year old boy with a crooked grin, leaning against an old, but shiny Oldsmobile.

When she pressed her aunt Alice, as she often did, to describe him better, Alice’s answer was always hesitatingly the same with her reflective voice trailing off at the end. “He was tall, lanky and athletic, with hair the color of a cinnamon stick and eyes like the sky on a cloudless day. Yet even when he smiled, he had a haunting sadness in those eyes that I never understood and can’t explain.”

In sharp contrast, Alice talked easily and often about Sue, Faith’s mother, and there were photographs of her in assorted old fashioned frames displayed on small tables at either end of the couch and one atop the mantle. A grouping hung prominently on a wall in the small formal living room with pictures of a pudgy two year old mischievously sticking four chubby fingers in the sugar coated frosting of a lopsided birthday cake, a skinny preteen striking a silly pose with girlfriends and a serious young lady accepting her high school diploma at commencement. Together they depicted a sequence of growing up in a long ago life, yet they also portrayed how strikingly similar a daughter now looked–the resemblance, pronounced, straightforward and undeniable except for one distinctive difference–her eyes. No question, Faith had her father’s gentle, searching, telling blue eyes.

The pictures were a constant reminder to Faith of her mother’s indirect presence in their lives, but they also made it painfully obvious that she was not really there, that she was gone forever.

Her disappearance and apparent death and her father’s betrayal of the woman who loved him had not been something Alice had kept from Faith even as a toddler, instead explaining all the circumstances, everything. Everything, that is except why the young man who was her father chose to be a Priest rather than return for his child. That was mystery even she, the adult, couldn’t solve.

And so it was early in Faith’s life that she knew her mother wasn’t coming back, couldn’t come back. But he was out there…somewhere. So Faith kept pursuing, probing, chasing after a shadowy, silent figure from a tattered snapshot and a sketchy past she heard about late at night when she climbed into Alice’s lap with questions only a child could ask. Often after their conversations, she dreamed about him, seeing him clearly, vividly, matching the description Alice had patiently repeated. And always she imagined him holding her hand while she clumsily took her first awkward steps or demonstrating how to shift gears and ease off the clutch as she practiced for a much anticipated driver’s permit and someday at her wedding, walking her down the aisle to give her away. It was always then that she woke up, remembering it was all a dream because one can’t give away what he never claimed.

Though she never mentioned it, Alice also looked for Patrick, making phone calls, checking police records, reading newspapers from far flung places at the local library and contacting state and national politicians, even the Vatican, with no success. It certainly wasn’t because she wanted to see him, but her love for Faith compelled her. Actually pleasing Faith was what drove most of her decisions, and going to the class reunion was no exception.

“You simply have to go,” Faith pleaded.

“Give me one good reason.”

“Because Teresa and Jane are expecting you; probably a lot of people are. Besides, you might even enjoy yourself,” a tinge of exasperation in her voice.

“I’m a mess. Look at me. My hair needs cutting and I’ve gained weight.” Pausing, she continued, “I don’t know, Faith. I haven’t seen some of those classmates in so long, I’m not sure we would have anything to talk about.”

“You look great, and you know it! I’m sure you’ll think of something to say. Haven’t noticed that being a problem for you before now,” she added teasingly, grabbing a diet coke from the refrigerator. “I’m off to Lisa’s. We’re going shopping. You better do the same. You know; something sexy to knock them off their feet.”

Rolling her eyes, Alice acquiesced, “Oh, you’re impossible; I’ll go, but I’ll bet I’m home before you are.”

Whether it was a stroke of luck, a fluke of coincidence or perfect timing, Alice, mellow from the rum and coke, found herself staying long after the official reunion, reminiscing with friends about babies and divorces, career achievements and setbacks, dreams satisfied and goals unmet.

As she had expected, everyone in the little group who sat huddled around the picnic table in the same city park where they had played as children, had had their ups and downs. Tears filled Teresa’s eyes as she talked about her fifteen year old son who had died four years earlier in a hunting accident.

Sparing no expletives, Jane related how she discovered her husband was having an affair with his secretary. And the dark circles under Joey’s eyes told his story before he began. Twenty plus years of binge drinking had taken its toll on the once ambitious student body president. Tapping his foot nervously against the wooden bench, he sipped a 7-Up and looked away from the others, as if remembering the happier times when he was co-captain of the football team and Homecoming King.

“I lost my job and my family. This AA deal is my last straw. I just hope I can hang on.”

The only one apparently unscathed by the years was David, now a research scientist and professor in Minnesota who from all indications had fulfilled the old yearbook prediction of “Most Likely to Succeed.” He sat quietly, silently assessing the casualties and wondering if Alice knew he still loved her. He had since sixth grade when they began walking to the corner drugstore his uncle owned. Every day after school, they slung their books on the counter and drank a coke float before Alice walked the remaining four blocks home. One afternoon he bashfully admitted he had a crush on her, but she had responded only with a whimsical smile and asked to copy his math homework.

David knew even then she would never feel the same about him, but it didn’t stop him from caring, though he never mentioned it again. He knew too well it wasn’t going to happen now either, yet he still enjoyed smelling her perfume as it wafted toward him when the gentle summer breeze filtered through the tall pines. He watched the corners of her mouth turn up when she giggled and thought how much some things never change. But, now he listened intently as she somberly related Faith’s interminable, but fruitless search for her father. After a long pause, he said softly “I have an idea,” stroking a stubby salt and pepper beard that fit his craggy face perfectly. “There’s a colleague of mine at the university who is experimenting with a new computer search engine, Gopher, as in our mascot. It might just open up some leads,” he added, wanting desperately to help.

»»»»»

When the call from David came two days later, Alice’s voice quivered as she thanked him and said goodbye. She turned slowly, reaching to place the phone back in its cradle, but her shaking hand missed its mark, and the receiver dangled as limply as she felt. She was torn; relief and apprehension overwhelmed her, and for a minute she felt old and tired and wished she hadn’t pursued this. What if he turned his back again, rejected Faith after all these years? What good could possibly come from finding a man who had tossed aside his own child like a throwaway toy—a man who was seemingly more interested in the souls of others than the heart of his offspring? The answers might not be easy to accept, but she knew Faith O’Brien was determined to get them. She called out to her, “Hon, your search is over; your father is in Maine.”

Gary Lynn?

A friend, who knows me well and read Keeping Faith, said she thinks she has me figured out as to why I like to write and spin stories. She said it is because as a kid I played by myself a lot and had an invisible friend. She may be on to something because I did play by myself a great deal because there were no other kids my age in the neighborhood and no cousins or siblings close to my age.

And I will agree that I had an imaginary friend, but he was NOT invisible!!! I saw him all the time. His name was Gary Lynn, and we played together often. He didn’t like paper dolls like Betsey McCall—anybody remember her in McCall’s magazine? And paper doll were one of my favorite past times, so on those days, he stayed away, but when I played in the dirt with my little plastic cars and such, he was right there!

Yep, I was quite an eclectic little kid. I loved dolls and had a huge collection. I even had a three bedroom, two bath miniature doll house with little people to match. So I spent hours in the floor, moving small furniture and miniature figures around.

Pam and Sam were my twin three year olds when I wanted more life size “babies,” but my very last dolls were Barbie and Ken. Barbie even had a corvette and loads of clothes. At that time, Mattel was a bit behind on Ken clothes so my Aunt Lucille made him a suit and a couple of shirts.

Come to think of it, I had lots of toys. Looking back, I think now my mother bought them to keep me out of her hair because I can remember asking her over and over, “What can I do?” She would say, “Well, why don’t you clean your room or fold those clothes for me?” And that’s all it took. I was off. I wasn’t sure where, but I wasn’t hanging around her, taking any chances.

One of my all time favorite things was my little pink metal kitchen that included a sink, refrigerator and stove. There was even plastic food to go with it. If there had been a Food Channel then, I would have believed I was Rachel Ray or Paula Deen, y’all!

But, then there were days I couldn’t wait to be outside, and if the weather was good, outside was almost always my preference. I ran with the wind to my back, kicking balls, playing soldier and riding my bike. I can remember putting playing cards on my bicycle spokes with clothes pins to make my bike sound cool. And also, I played pony express using my bike to make “deliveries.”

We lived on a big hill so I was forever rolling down it or “shooting” at cars with my play guns. Often, I wore my Dad’s old Air Force hat that he had worn in the Philippines during World War II, and with a plastic machine gun, I pretended to shoot the Japanese. I realize that doesn’t sound very politically correct today, but war is hell, and I was waging it!

But, I also liked to curl up with a good book or comic book and read. Once, I wrote my own book which I wish I still had, because I remember writing it, but I can’t remember what it was about, which may be a good thing! I put it together with string wound through the holes I poked in the side of the typing paper.  Maybe that is when my wanting to be a writer and author all started.

As you can see I was all over the map in my play interests. And I didn’t always play by myself. I sometimes had friends over, and we did many of these activities together. But I also had Gary Lynn. I can’t remember when he left for good, but I do remember him and exactly how he looked.

Send Me Your Picture With Keeping Faith

As we embark on the publishing of novel two, Promises Kept, I am going to change my blogging a bit, but never fear; it will better than before and a little more all encompassing. As you can see the web site is already undergoing some changes so that is a start to the new look and feel. I will continue to highlight some of my life experiences and travels on a regular basis, but beginning this week, the main focus will be on my books.

Some of you have asked why I write, how I develop my characters, where the settings will be and so forth. So, I will try to answers those questions, plus a whole lot more. Also, I plan to put more excerpts from both books as a “tease.” See, my goal is for you to really want to read everything I write!!!

I want you to be impatient and anxious to read the next book or blog. So, for the next several months I will weave information about the books and all things related into a couple of blogs a week. I will have three blogs a week, coming out Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, giving you Saturday and Sunday to catch up—and me too!!

The Monday blog will be book related; the Wednesday blog will generally be about something going on in my life and similar to what you have been used to reading, and the Friday blog will be devoted to an excerpt from Keeping Faith. Starting next Friday, the book will be serialized in snippets beginning at the Prologue. But, if you are planning to read the whole book that way, you better have loads of patience, because it may take up to a year to finish. See, once again, it is to get you interested or refresh your memory, not to replace buying the book. But, if you are cheap and in no hurry, enjoy!!!

Hopefully, these changes will help broaden my audience to include those curious about my plots, characters and process of writing. I promise to make the blogs interesting and light. You know by now that I have to have humor spread about in heavy doses. After all, if it isn’t fun for you or me, there isn’t much sense in having a blog.

As I make these changes, I would love to have your input, along with direct questions that you might have for me concerning the books. You can write your questions and/or suggestions in the comment section of the blog. I will either answer it there or in a subsequent blog.

The most important people in this process are those of you have been my loyal readers, and therefore, I want you to like what you read and continue to support this endeavor, which is so important to me. Also, I would love for you to email me pictures of you holding or reading my book or upload them to my Facebook Fan Page, and I will feature you in a blog. Don’t be bashful. Be the first!!

Promises Kept

Thought you might like to know that the sequel has gone to press, and the waiting begins. No wonder my hair is falling out! Now it’s anybody’s guess when it will actually be released, but if it follows a similar timeframe as Keeping Faith, then hopefully it will be out by mid-April. Here’s another sneak preview…

PROMISES KEPT is Faith’s story—the story of an unforgettable young woman whose life’s journey has been filled with uncertainty, of searching for people and answers that others take for granted. Compassionate, courageous, strong-willed and persistent, she never gives up, showing strength, commitment and character beyond her years. It is also the story about the power of the human spirit, of family and friends and love.

Determination and grit are the two forces that propel Faith O’Brien. After finding the father she never knew and graduating law school, her only focus is bringing down the priest who abused her father as a child. She wants revenge for the demons he alone created. She wants him so far behind bars that no other young boy will ever have to fear his touch. And to do this, she, the neophyte attorney, is willing to take on a veteran, highly experienced and shrewd Boston lawyer who will go to any means to win a case. But, he underestimates her passion for justice, her fight for right against a wrong.

Because to her, there is nothing more crucial, more important, more pressing than this cause… until she meets and falls madly in love with Tyler England. Soon, her fighting instincts are called on like never before. Only this time her intelligence, perseverance and resolve may not be enough.

Promises Kept is the second book in a two-part series. It is written as a sequel, but can also stand alone.

I realize now they were living that part of their lives through me, and enjoying what they were never really able to do. They did travel in the States, Mexico and Canada, but never ventured further than that. I get my “go” gene from my dad who would have taken off to lands unknown, but mother was most comfortable at home.  Dad always dreamed of going to see the Holy Land; Mother couldn’t imagine being on an airplane that long, (actually she hated flying anywhere) and when they were finally financially able to go, they were past the age where they would attempt it.

It’s just as well. I know now that Mother would have hijacked the plane after the first four hours and demanded the pilot land somewhere, anywhere fast, so she could get on the first bus home.

No, they were best at home, waiting for my calls, anticipating what my next place would be, living vicariously through me. And that’s okay because I never travel that they are not on my mind. I take pictures of the scenery and think of them. I eat a new dish in a foreign country and know Daddy would not have agreed that it was good—after all it wasn’t “Momma’s cooking. I drag my bags behind me looking for someone who speaks English to tell me the right direction to go, and know that would have made them uncomfortable.

But, I thank them for giving me a sense of adventure, of courage to go to new places and see new things, most of the time as an independent traveler. And I know they are watching over me when I veer off my path.