I've just finished typing up my highlighted passages from Pat Conroy's book My Reading Life. I have not doubt that I will return to read again and again some of these words, to be inspired, comforted, and encouraged by them. 

I don't want to share too much of the book. But I want to share a few lines with you now before I leave Conroy and move on to completing a project of my own that is calling. I truly just hope that those of you who love books and/or writing will be encouraged from my post to read the book. ​

First: a week or so ago, I trolled Facebook in the wee hours and came across a photograph of a beautiful lacquered vase that had lines of gold criss-crossing the body of the vessel. I read that the vase was an example of the  "Japanese practice of repairing ceramics with gold-laced lacquer to illuminate the breakage.” I found the piece breathtaking. 
     Later when I returned to Conroy's book, I came across this passage: "kintsugi is the Japanese practice of repairing ceramics with gold-laced lacquer to illuminate the breakage.” ..not attempt to hide the breakage... though I have always known that pain was a ham-fisted player in my novels, I didn’t understand that I had used the radiant lacquers of the language to mark the wounds and fissures I had forced upon my characters. …I never knew I practiced the subtle art of kintsugi until Thomas Meyer let me in on the secret. "
       And yes. Isn't that just what many of us writers dream of doing--illuminate the breakage? Turn the pain into something beautiful and breathtaking?

Second: As I completed the notes from the book, I came upon this...stayed with it, even shed a tear over it. 
       " ​I’ve always wanted to write a letter to the boy I once was, lost and dismayed in the plainsong of a childhood he found all but unbearable. But I soon discovered that I’ve been writing voluptuous hymns to that boy my whole life, because somewhere along the line—in the midst of breakdowns, disorder, and a malignant attraction to mayhem that’s a home place for the beaten child—I fell in love with that kid. I saw the many disguises that boy used to ward off solitude, hallucination, madness itself. I believe that the reading of great books saved his life. "

That's all for now. Sandy

     I have just completed a studied reading of Pat Conroy’s book My Reading Life, and I find myself in need of friends to talk with about it. I am not yet sure of all I want to say about the book, but for now, I need to express this:
      I very much loved Conroy’s earlier work: The Water is Wide, The Prince of Tides. I found myself less infatuated with those books that followed, and part of that reaction, I think, was that after meeting him personally/professionally a few times, I was not comfortable around the man. I found him a bit too much (in terms of his public persona)
       But after reading this book, I find there was much more to the man than I found evident on the surface. We do often miss the undercurrents and the deeper intentions and motivations of a person because we are blinded and put-off immediately by what is on the surface. (I have trusted first impressions my whole life, and while mostly those have proven accurate, I do recognize and admit that we sometimes need to take a second look.) I only wish I had in this case. I am now certain Conroy and I could have spent hours long into the days and nights discussing mutually shared opinions and insights about books and writing. We might could have been grand friends.            And that is my loss.
        But, lesson noted and learned.
        So, here’s some of what I found on the pages of My Reading Life:
         * a beauty and passion in his language when discussing books and the people who helped bring him to books and writing,
         * an overwhelming desire to learn--no, to gobble-up--all the good books of the world and to be like those writers. (No matter that I disagree with some of his favorite writers and books, I share this same passion).
        * I found him to be self-honest in a way that surprised me—aware of his public impressions on people. He recognized and admitted his faults as a human being, as well as his particular writing short-comings. (And shouldn’t we all be so aware?)
      * I found him completely in love with and devoted to those people who had mentored and helped him along the way and of the same opinion as I about the dangerous elitism some writers develop, their selfishness, their desire to compete, rather than support, to shut out, put down, or reject those that come after them.
        I was aware that Conroy had helped many other writers along the way get their starts. And I always felt good about that aspect of him, but to hear him validate my own observations of how rare that is was of particular comfort to me. I do not imagine this elitism, nor create it in my mind. It is real. It does exist. Sadly.
     *There is a certain under-tone to this book of Conroy’s that left me feeling a bit sad, yet comforted--sort of like the gloaming part of the day (my favorite time), when we know the day is ending lacking all we hoped to accomplish, yet still, there is the satisfaction of knowing that it was filled with what we could manage, and we are at peace with that and with the coming of the night, there is the promise of another day. I detected in this book, what I believe is, a complete but accepted regret in the man that he could not read all the wonderful literature in our world…there was simply no way…and that made him sad, yet he was so in love with what he had read, and that comforted him. He collected books the way I do…saving them, perhaps on the verge of hoarding them for fear that one day there might not be any to read. Books were his friends, his companions, his comfort, his joy, his security in a world where he often felt so alone. I sensed that most likely this was one of his greatest regrets on leaving this world: that he would not and could not read them all.
      I love that about him.
 
      So for now, I just need to say that I have found delight and comfort in this book. And I truly am grateful for having discovered the man beneath the public persona. I am sad I didn’t know the man beyond those few brief first impressions, sorry that I did not try to peer through that outer armor, and I am determined to go back and read or reread with a clearer eye and more open heart what I once rejected of his later writings.
     I’m certain I will be typing up pages of quotes from this book and will probably share those with some of you at some point or write about them in an essay or something. It’s what I do with what I read. It’s what I do when I am so moved, so touched.

​      And finally, to Pat Conroy: I hope you’ve found a never-ending library in heaven.

 ​A Visit to ‘The Friendliest City in South Carolina’
by Sandy Richardson
 
     This week, I traveled to beautiful Anderson, SC, to talk about writing and books with the Foothills Writers Guild at the local library.  Approximately thirty-something attendees showed up, an interested and interactive crowd, which I loved. I told a few stories, made a few points about writers, and then we branched off into conversations about heritage, childhood memories, and a number of other things…all very informative and possible story-starters for later works. We can find stories everywhere—that’s for certain.
     One of the biggest thrills for me was listening to three readings from Southern Sass’s latest release:  Wild, Wonderful ‘n Wacky, South Cackalacky.   Jay Wright, ex-president of the guild, read from “The Tonsillectomy” written by David McInnis, Sr.  Jay has a natural, story-reading voice and brought that little-boy character right off the page and into the room with us.
     After the audience wiped tears of laughter from their cheeks, Ryan Crawford entranced them with an excerpt from his story, “Earmouths,” a story, that for me, blends the everyday with the decidedly esoteric in words that hypnotize the senses. I definitely heard several “oohs and ahhs” as Ryan closed his story referencing the death of his father with these lines, “…I’ll look out to a star sometimes and think about how far away it is, and I know he’d already ripped past long ago, his stretched palm having smacked the side of it as he passed by—the viscosity of time—my eyes just now catching that stirred up flame.”
     Following Ryan, was Mary McAlister, Vice President of the Guild, who read from author Peg Bell’s story, “Swamp Biscuits.” Mary’s pacing and inflection sounded so much like the author’s, I had to remind myself that Peg was not present. Mary knew just the right words to stress, to linger on, to clip short. A true story-teller, for certain. Peg, a dear friend of mine, would have surely been awed.
     I got to play school-teacher again with my handouts and more stories after the readings. (A teacher never really retires.) But for me, going to an author talk and coming home with nothing is akin to going shopping and not buying a darn thing. Disappointing. Unremarkable. And while the handouts repeated some well-worn advice for writers, I made sure to include new and valuable direction for those who want to pursue writing as more than a hobby. I hope they’ll explore some of those options.
     It was a fine evening, for certain.
     The next morning, Jay introduced me to Judith McDowell, owner of McDowell’s Emporium, and Travis, obviously the person-in-the-know about books they sell. Quaint and delightful, the Emporium sells both  new and used books in the heart of Anderson. I autographed copies of Wild, Wonderful ‘n Wacky, South Cackalacky, and then Judith and I shared some book-talk about old loves like the Miss Read Series of English tales, and Anne of Green Gables, and Conversations with Amber (because both Judith and I are cat people).
     We also talked of Anderson’s fine group of writers and photographers. Judith’s shop carries and promotes the work of local authors…oh, how I envy that. (Currently, my hometown doesn’t have a single independent bookstore.) I left the Emporium with a new pocket-sized journal and an armload of books, including The Complete Stories of Flannery O’Connor, Beach House Reunion by Mary Alice Monroe, and My Reading Life by Pat Conroy. Obviously, my reading tastes are varied, including, for ‘fun’ the scores of psychological thrillers I devour every year. I could have browsed the shelves and rooms of the Emporium all day, taken home a trailer-load of reading material, and even some fascinating old b&w photos the shop sells. (I soooo wanted to delve into those boxes set out on the tables, but there wasn’t time.) Those old photos can provide wonderful story sparks. But my checkbook demanded I save something for another visit.
     And another visit I sincerely do hope to make.  After all, who can resist a trip to the South Carolina’s “Friendliest City.”
     A huge ‘Thank You’ to the Foothills Writers Guild for a wonderful two days.   
Sandy

Serious writers and readers understand clichés weaken a story. I’m not just referring to hackneyed phrases. Predictable dialog, formulaic plot lines, and stock characters all recycle the expected and the overdone. The term creative writing [which is what we are supposed to be doing J]suggests something new and savvy. Readers expect this from their literature. However, it can be daunting to craft something fresh over and over again from the same 26 letters.
 
The best advice I have for people wanting to write creative stories is to examine real life. The teenager with a crush, the eccentric aunt, or the over-bearing mother… these tropes of literature often veer off script when they play out in the real world. It is when our expectations are disappointed that we find life interesting. It is these stranger-than fiction moments that make a series of events into a story.
 
In South Carolina, we are blessed with an abundance of people and places that are too amazing to be products of imagination. This is the drive behind Wild, Wonderful, 'n Wacky South Cackalacky, the latest book from Southern Sass Publishing. Sandy Richardson and I discovered a book’s-worth of amusing tales that surprise and delight.  Instead of inventing stories, we sought out true events. If you are from South Carolina, or have spent any time in this great state, you might recognize characters in the book. However, the quirky and uniquely SC mannerisms, dialect, and actions of the people captured in these pages defy easy categorization. It is too simplistic to use the trite phrase “the book wrote itself.” (Such a lie is never true.) But the stories already existed, waiting patiently for two determined editors to collect them and bind them into an anthology.
 
While Wild, Wonderful, 'n Wacky South Cackalacky is not a book of fiction, the idea behind the book is valid for all types of creative writing. Next time you are sitting in a waiting room, stuck in a long line at the grocery store, or have a layover at the Atlanta airport, take a minute to evaluate the people around you. Try to write stories in your mind about the characters you see. Force them into the clichés you think you know, and sit back and watch. In real life, they will most likely do something out of the ordinary, beyond your cliché. That is when you have material for a scene or the basis for a rounded-out character. That is creative writing.

​An honors graduate of journalism from TCU in Fort Worth, Texas, Susan Doherty Osteen, has worked for a variety of newspapers and non-profit organizations.
In 2010 after more than a decade of collaborative research, she published Tracing a Legacy, a 950 page tomb chronicling her family’s ranching empire from County Donegal, Ireland, to the American Wild West. Her essay about her mother-in-law is published in His Mother.
Susan lives in South Carolina with her husband and two children. She continues to write for regional publications and is working on a three-part novel, as well as attending graduate school at USC Columbia in the MFA program. 

 
 
 
      I do a lot of thinking in the shower. And not so long ago, the final rinse spraying over me, I thought, I can write this morning….or I can do something else. Anything else.
After scrubbing the glass door, which was clean enough—clean enough for me anyway—I located a brush and perused the grout. That’s my story: a writer who resists writing. A writer who will do nearly anything to avoid writing. Too often, I choose the uninspiring chore over the blank page, click Facebook rather than the Word icon, elect mindlessness over mindfulness.
     Here’s my trouble: writing is not only a calling, it’s also a discipline. Like prayer or meditation, writing demands a particular kind of devotion and energy. For me, the process is rife with frustration and disappointment, and the work, done alone in an intuitive place that is not nearly so tangible (or as simple) as a basket of dirty laundry, requires leave-taking from to-do lists in order to enter a creative space. And, unfortunately, that illusive spot will not be summoned with a snap of the fingers. I am not much good at sitting and staring, but I do a lot of both in those hours I give over to the effort of placing one sentence after another.
     So, why?  Why write at all?
Because, sometimes, what rises from your labors comes close to what you had hoped to say, and, oddly enough, those kinds of pieces come through and not totally from us—we’ve only gotten out of the way. That is how I feel about my story in His Mother! Women write about their mothers-in-law with humor, frustration, and love.
     Marian Lovatt, my own mother-in-law, was a character long before I put her into words, but as I wrote about her, and now when I read my pretty true version of her  in print, I remember that I’m not doing nothing when I sit and stare and wait on whatever a writer waits upon, I am listening.
 
 
     Kathryn Etters Lovatt earned her M.A. in Creative Writing and English from Hollins University. She continued her studies at Hong Kong University, where she taught American Studies. A former winner of the Doris Betts Prize, she also won Press 53’s short story prize. A Virginia Center of the Arts Fellow, her work has most recently appeared in North Carolina Literary Review on line and moonShine Review as well as in the anthologies Serving Up Memory, What I Wish I could Tell You and His Mother, and Wild, Wonderful 'n Wacky, South Cackalacky. She received SC Arts Commission’s individual artist grant for prose in 2013. She lives and writes in Camden, SC.
 

​On Writing Your Truth
Two years ago, I published His Mother! Women Write about Their Mothers-in-law with Humor, Frustration, and Love. The work on that project spanned ten years. I knew from the start that many women I knew would not be able to participate. I was told as much by several. Why? They feared the backlash and talk that would result if they wrote a truthful piece.
Those of us raised in the South are particularly susceptible to that kind of fear. Why? Because we are raised to hide ugliness and “unpleasantness” (as it is often phrased) in order to preserve the façade of perfection. We don’t want people talking about us or our family except in glowing and envious terms. We don’t “air our dirty laundry.” And in spite of what Julia Sugarbaker said, we do not parade our “crazy” on the front porch or in the living room. No, not at all. We call it “eccentricity” and admire it from a cool, but dutiful, distance.
But in my research on the subject of mother-in-law relationships, I found overwhelmingly that the relationship was terribly misaligned. Despite the jokes and television series and hours of long private conversations with our best friends about the problems inherent in the relationships, the realiaty is that on the whole they were overwhelmingly positive. So, I persevered through the process of publication.
That time span was a good thing for me. In my own situation, my story about my mother-in-law changed four times. Those revisions followed the path of her slow demise and the shifting of my relationship with her. My story went from outright anger and resentment, to one of honesty and acceptance, and finally, to one of forgiveness. And that was good for my soul, if not for the story itself. 
HOWEVER. And that’s a big HOWEVER. Since the publication of the book, I have had to field questions, mild scoldings, and down-right hurtful remarks about why I chose to reveal private, “for family only” experiences to be devoured by the public. I have always answered these with truth: “My husband suggested that whenever I’m confronted about this story, I should refer the questioners to him or to relay to the questioner exactly how my husband would answer, and that is: ‘She could have written far more and very much worse.’”
I take comfort in the fact that my husband approved every single draft I wrote. In fact, he often asked me why I didn’t tell about when she did so and so or reveal how she handled this or that. My answer to him was always, “First, I think I’ve revealed the most important things. Besides, some of the other stuff, people would just say I lied. They wouldn’t believe it.” 
We always share a good laugh over that. Truth is stranger than fiction.
Some people asked me if all of the story was, in fact, true. Had I not thrown in a bit of fictional writing to jazz things up a bit? To titillate? To sell more copies? 
The answer is an emphatic NO.
Every word is true.
Why would I make things up when the truth was already so “jazzed, titillating, and would sell like crazy?”
I remember years ago when I first began writing to publish my work, every lecture, course, or book on writing warned of this situation—tell the truth, and people are going to eat you alive. A writer friend of mine, Ryan Crawford, just wrote a true story (“Earmouths,” published in Wild, Wonderful ‘n Wacky, South Cackalacky) and made this statement which I have printed and hung in my study: “You get really honest with folks, and they’ll turn on you every time.”
True. Very, very true.
I thought I’d grown tough enough to take the negative remarks that happen sometimes and are made by both critics and readers. And for the most part, I do well at shrugging them away. But today, I heard one that infuriated me. (And yes, I trust the source that informed me, implicitly. And yes, I know who made the comments.) This was the situation:
“I heard Sandy’s story in His Mother is downright nasty.”
“Uhhh….nasty? What do you mean ‘nasty’? It’s a story about her relationship with her mother-in-law.”
“I know what it’s about. We’ve discussed it at my book club time and time again. It’s nasty. She shouldn’t have written it.”
“Well, ummm…I’ve read the whole book. There’s nothing ‘nasty’ in any of the stories. In fact, most are really sweet. Have you read the book?”
“No. But my book club has discussed her story over and over. It’s nasty. I don’t want to read it.”
“It’s not nasty. It’s a true story, and it’s a story of her being sad that her mother-in-law was so mean and missed out on so much love because of it. It’s about Sandy finally being able to forgive her for all the hateful things she did. It’s not nasty at all. It’s true that it tells some pretty personal things that happened in terms of her mother-in-law’s actions toward others in the family, but it is certainly not nasty.”
“Well, that’s what they say in my book club, and I’m not reading it.”
My response to this: Have any members of this book club read it? I probably know most of the women in this club. If they have read it and feel this way, my first response is to snap: “How in the world did they miss the regret, the sorrow, the forgiveness so entwined in that story. Do they know how to read? Do they understand what they read? And how is it 'nasty'? 
But I won’t say any of that. I will simply state what my husband advised me to state, “I could have written far more and very much worse.”
Those opinions sting, of course. But the thing that troubles me most is that people go about spreading these kinds of blatant opinions when they have not even read the story. And not just my story—other stories—good stories with worthwhile messages. What is that all about? Censorship? Jealousy? What is so ‘nasty’ about truth? About honesty? About being real? Where is the ‘nasty’ in any of those things? 
Now, had this person (or anyone in the book club) honestly read the book and my story and created an honest critique or review based on facts taken from the writings or facts from anywhere to contradict what I wrote, then that is another thing altogether. Further, why don’t they post that honest review on Amazon or somewhere and substantiate what they say and be “man or woman” enough to sign a name to it. (It might push sales higher! --you know that old titillating thing again.)
Like I always told my children, “I can deal with the truth. But there’s no way to deal with a lie.” And this whole opinion is just that—a lie. This person claimed something about the story and hadn't even read the story. 
Readers may not like the story. They may not relish telling their own stories, but they should actually read it before voicing and spreading an opinion about it. 
Furthermore, comments like this are sort of like the political battles that rage on Facebook and Twitter and any number of on-line forums. There’s a lot of opinionating going on based on very little fact and research. The all-powerful “they” say something, and people repeat it as the gospel truth.” But spreading untruths and denigrating a book, a person, a place, a thing just because “they” say it, is simply stupid. It is a ‘nasty’ thing you do when you do it. Much like gossip, or political rantings. 
I am proud to say I am not “A Nasty Woman .” I do not write nasty things made from lies.
But maybe I’ll write a second volume of this book…wonder what “they” would say if I told the “far more and the very much worse”? hmmmm….. 
Happy reading y’all. 
And if you are a writer: Happy, truthful writing. Be brave. Be fearless. But be advised that “they” are out there and will turn on you. 
Nevertheless, go for it! Write your truth.
 
 
 
            

“And one day, the girl with the books became the woman writing them.” 
                                                Kristen Costello
 
            I came across this quote on Pinterest yesterday and fell in love with it. I pinned it to my board I named “ME.” Because it is. ME.
            My nose stayed in books throughout my grade school, middle school, and high school years. Summer vacations: I packed books. Family trips in the car: I packed books. Study hall on my schedule: I packed books.
            I’m sure my parents must have worried over me. I was the quiet child, they said. "She reads a lot," they apologized. My teachers sent home notes that I daydreamed a lot. My friend's parents would say with a sort of sad smile, "I forgot she was even in the house." 
            Classmates would come over to get help before writing papers for school because they all knew I had really read the book--the whole book! I'd start talking about the stories and hours later, their eyes glazed and fingers sore from taking notes, they'd leave with enough information to do the assignment. I often told them it would be easier if they'd just take notes in class and read the books themselves, but no...they had me for that. I loved retelling the stories. And they knew it. 
          Of course, it wasn't all nerds-ville. I had plenty of friends.  I did my share of partying and dating and all the other things teenagers do. I was even a cheerleader. But I never got too cool for books. NEVER.
            When I went on my honeymoon: I packed books: When I went to the hospital in labor with both my children: I packed books. When I went to my children's Little League games, dancing lessons, guitar lessons, tennis lessons, shopping trips with them and they didn’t want me to “help” them choose clothes: I packed books.
               I spent hours in a parked car waiting on one child or another, shivering in the cold, or sweating in the heat and humidity of South Carolina weather. But I always had a book to read.
            When I taught school and took my own lunch with me: I also packed books. Now, when I travel to visit friends or family: I pack books. When I drive on long trips: I pack books (in the form of DVD’s).
            I can remember only a few situations in my life when I didn’t have at least one book with me, usually more, Even now when I take my Kindle, I also pack a real book—just in case the Kindle dies, and there’s no power source, or worse, some maniac takes out the power grid!
            I love my Kindle. It can store lots and lots of books. But because I really do fear that downed-grid situation, I still buy real books, too. I have stacks of them to be read. And yes, I still buy more. I fear being in this world without my books.  
              But, I digress…back to the quote.
           I saw it, pinned it, copied and pasted it. And I have thought about it for hours today. How blessed I am. All those books and now to be writing them and even publishing them.
             My dream. My passion.
          How fortunate I am to be able to sit at my desk for hours at a time and work really, really hard, but not for a moment consider it work.
            How absolutely blessed. And thankful. And humbled, I am.
 
Jeremiah 29:11 “for I know the plans I have for you," 
declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
 
Thank you, Lord.