Dogged Deadlines!

I've been Missing in Action for much of the last month. My family wonders where Mom has gone. My neighbors may be asking if I've moved away. Social media connections almost certainly believe I've unfriended them. I've been on deadline.

This particular deadline crunch began with a challenge. I attended a writers' conference in mid-September. A woman I've known for years and have worked with frequently, managing editor at a publishing house that has produced some of my books, attended the same conference. She issued a broad challenge to anyone willing to accept it: The publishing house had a contest going involving three different genres. They sought novellas in each of the three categories, with the best entry in each to be published next year. One of those categories is historical romance and my friend, the editor, challenged me to send her a manuscript.

The problem? She showed me the flyer for the contest and issued her personal challenge on September 14. The deadline for all entries was October 15. Could I write a novella start to finish in a month?

Now you understand why I've been MIA. I've been pushing that deadline. The good news is, the novella is complete at 36,000 words. Three lovely readers and an editor gave it a once-over for me, even when I gave them a two-day deadline to get it done, and I submitted my complete manuscript two days ago, on October 14, actually one day early. It's a good story, too. I did it! But that's about all I've done lately.

What has this experience taught me? For one thing, I can be stubborn about taking on a challenge, even if it doesn't seem realistic. Also, I can write a book in a month if I'm highly motivated. Those are good things to know. Not so good are some of the other lessons, like realizing I can disappear so completely into the black hole of my fictional world that I can practically vanish from the physical world we inhabit. Not good. Not good at all.

I'm back now, remembering where I live and reconnecting with the actual people around me. I'm even working again on my other deadlines, which got pushed back or snubbed altogether during my month of publishing panic. Today, I appear to be just like other people with other jobs, people who work given hours and live the rest of the time with family and friends.

I'm not cured, however. Deadline Fever will surely strike again. One day soon, I'll realize I've spent so much time playing with my imaginary friends that my actual, physical friends wonder what has happened to me. Or maybe not. My friends know I'm a writer, after all.

Susan loves to hear from readers. Write her at susan.aylworth.author@gmail.com, or visit www.susanaylworth.com or her Facebook page, www.facebook.com/Susan.Aylworth.Author. Watch for Amber in Autumn, Book 3 in the "Seasons of Destiny" series, coming early next year. Books 1 and 2, Paris in the Springtime and  Sunny's Summer are available in e-book and paperback formats. Winter Skye will follow soon. Who knows? There may even be an historical romance novella to add to the mix. Stay in touch for updates. 

Mothers & Persistence

Many years ago, my mother travelled with a group from her church to England. On this trip, she visited the birthplace of John Wesley, the founder of the Wesleyan denomination of the Protestant Methodist Church. When she returned, she gave me a few packets of seeds from the shop associated with the site.

Although I was still a student, I had a small garden in my rented suburban house, in which I grew a few flowers, the proverbial and ubiquitous tomatoes as well as a six-foot by ten-foot lawn. I made every effort to plant and grow the seeds but without success. Instead, in an attempt at atonement, I wrote a short story, “John Wesley’s Hollyhocks,” and included it in my Master of Arts Degree thesis in Creative Writing. The opening paragraph begins:

Mrs. Fortinbrough approached the ground, all her weight braced heavily against the brick border of the flowerbed and, stroking the fine, new shoots, raised her face to the window. The girl let the curtain fall back over the window and disappeared. Her daughter was no more interested in this season’s hollyhocks than she was interested in going to church….

This is a story about the relationship between an adolescent daughter and her mother. As we can all imagine and is indicated by the closure of the curtain, the relationship is strained at this stage. Happily, my actual relationship with my mother, though frequently contentious—as is any interpersonal interaction—was healthy and positive. Her passing has not lessened my love for and dependence on her wisdom.

This year, for the first time in nearly thirty years, I have a garden which has eventually proved to be responsive to hollyhock propagation. When I first planted the seeds, directly into the soil in the spring of 2018 with absolutely no response, the letdown was palpable. The soil in these high desert plains is river-bottom clay—as hard as rock when it’s dry. This spring, I started hollyhocks and delphinium among other varieties in the proper potting soil in seedling pots.

I then prepared an area of the garden with compost and other organic material. When I transplanted the seedlings, I had to protect the young plants from the wild rabbits with plastic collars. Once the hollyhocks began to grow above where the bunnies could reach the leaves, the plants flourished.

In many ways, I equate gardening with writing. Persistence is the key to success. As Steven Pressfield remarks in his writers’ guide, The War of Art, procrastination is a form of resistance. Persistence and perseverance get results, just as Mrs. Fortinbrough will get results with her daughter:

…Just as the hollyhocks had needed her care and discipline, so did the daughter. It was not too late for her roots to be tapped and the plant to grow straight again….

When writers gather

Writing is a lonely vocation. Most of it is done either alone in an office or with a cadre of imaginary friends inside the author’s own head. Occasionally, that cycle is broken and a group of writers gather. That happened for me this past weekend in Gilbert, Arizona, just outside of Phoenix. 

I belong to a few different writers’ organizations, each with its own purpose. The conference this weekend brought together members of the American Night Writers Association or ANWA. Founded in October, 1986 by Marsha Ward and five other women, the group served mommies with young children. These mothers also chose to be authors; some were already published and others saw themselves publishing one day. They wrote at night, after the children were asleep, hence the name.

The group that started 33 years ago in a living room now includes 350 members. About half are published authors; the rest aspire to be. Many members have years of publishing experience, multiple book contracts, and designation as best sellers on some impressive lists. Creative energy abounds. It practically buzzes in the air all around us. 

When we combine large numbers of writers—who, by nature, are introverts—with the opportunity to network, teach, and learn, beautiful things happen. I attended workshops on everything from how to create emotional resonance, to writing inspirational non-fiction, to book marketing and taxes; met some multi-talented people, shopped in a store stocked with members' books, and had the opportunity to share some of my own experience in the publishing industry. The weekend inspired, thrilled, impressed and exhausted us all, but it was a lovely kind of tired.

One highlight came when I sat at a table with Marsha Ward, whose vision created ANWA and whose books—dozens of them—grace a number of different publishing platforms and top-seller lists. (That's Marsha in black.) I’ve been to conferences before and I plan to attend more. Every one sends me away refreshed, invigorated, and eager to sit down and write. I can hardly wait to finish Winter Skye. Any day now. . . .

Susan loves to hear from readers. Write her at susan.aylworth.author@gmail.com, or visit www.susanaylworth.com or her Facebook page, www.facebook.com/Susan.Aylworth.Author. Watch for Amber in Autumn, Book 3 in the "Seasons of Destiny" series, coming near the end of September.  Books 1 and 2, Paris in the Springtime and  Sunny's Summer are available in e-book and paperback formats. Winter Skye will follow soon. Stay in touch! 

Dial it Back, Folks

I’m a sucker for a good story.  It’s an occupational hazard for fiction writers, but a great story line wins me over easily. Two of my favorite movies are Moonstruck and As Good as it Gets, both unusual rom-coms, both with Oscars for best scripts. I love a good story in other genres as well.

Designated Survivor seemed like a natural and I loved it—for the first two seasons. Did the show get new writers in Season 3? Or did the producers, seeing their ratings in decline, simply decide it was time to up the ante with saltier language? I put up with it for a couple of episodes. Then, when the F-bomb was dropped four times in the first three minutes, I was done.

Some apologists explained such language was “realistic” in the pressure cooker of the real-life White House. Although I’d love to deny it, I suspect that’s the truth. Who cares? If I wish to be assaulted with obscenity, I’ll take a walk on the campus of our local university. Besides, don’t we all want the people who hold the fate of the world in their hands to be better than that?

To be clear, it isn’t just the language that got me. Characters I had come to care about, even love, were suddenly behaving in uncharacteristic ways, using language we hadn’t heard before, but also changing job titles and love interests, and in one case, moving into a completely new story arc.

Suddenly, instead of watching “people” I cared about, I saw actors reading lines and being moved around on a set. The suspension of disbelief that lets us slide into fictional worlds went out the window. That transition started for me when their version of the White House began sounding like an NFL locker room.

In my first career as an academic, I learned to use ten-penny words when two-penny ones work fine. As a writer of romantic fiction, I’m sometimes tempted to use those words, since they now come fairly naturally. When I catch myself, I deliberately dial it back—not to dumb it down, and not because I don’t respect my readers. I do, very much.

I choose not to use words that draw attention to themselves, words that pull my readers out of the story. I want my characters (and even my narration) to use language that moves the story forward. In effect I’m saying: “Dear Reader, please love my story, not my impressive vocabulary.”

As a consumer of other writers’ fiction, I ask the same when it comes to obscenity. If that’s the natural speech for your characters, I’m not your audience anyway. If you suddenly need to up your ratings, please do so with a fascinating twist in your story line, not with verbal assaults or manipulating your characters. You’ll win me over easily when you do.
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Susan Aylworth is the author of 18 novels currently available as e-books. PARIS IN THE SPRINGTIME and SUNNY'S SUMMER, the first two books in the "Seasons of Destiny" series, are also available in paperback. Book Two chronicles the aftermath of the deadly Camp Fire. She lives in northern California with Roger, her husband of 49 years. She loves hearing from readers. Find her at www.susanaylworth.com, @SusanAylworth, on Pinterest and Instagram, and at www.facebook.com/Susan.Aylworth.Author. Watch for AMBER IN AUTUMN and WINTER SKYE, both due by year's end. 

By the Beautiful Sea

Independence Day week was hot where we live in California's Central Valley. We opted to enjoy cooler weather and different scenery on the coast--an excellent choice. In the lovely villages of Ft. Bragg and Mendocino, we encountered perfect weather, beautiful scenery, and small town Americana. From Mendocino's Volunteer Fire Department doing its annual fund raiser with food for the parade-watchers, to George Washington reading the Declaration of Independence from the steps of the Masonic Hall, to a juvenile gray whale hunting just off-shore at the nearby state park, we spent a refreshing week appreciating the beauty and diversity of our state and nation. In these images, I share some of my favorite memories, hoping you enjoy too.

 Some of the locals posed for us, both in the sea and at the parade in Mendocino.





Everyone flew the flag.

Susan Aylworth is the author of 18 published novels. Her latest is SUNNY'S SUMMER, a novel set in the Sierra foothills near her northern California home which examines the aftermath of the devastating #CampFire. She lives with her husband of 49 years, Roger, and one old, arthritic cat. She loves to hear from readers. Find her at www.susanaylworth.com, @SusanAylworth, susan.aylworth.author@gmail.com, or facebook.com/Susan.Aylworth.Author. Also on Pinterest and Instagram.

Thoughts on Father's Day

Father's Day has come and gone again. Since my own dad's passing in 2012, I always find a bittersweet element to this nationwide celebration. Of course I honor my husband, the father of my children, and do my best to help him feel appreciated. Now that all of my children are parents, I honor the fathers of my grandchildren as well. Somehow, it isn't the same without a dad of my own.

So I spend part of each Father's Day remembering my dad. Born in 1922, Dad grew up in a small farming community nestled in a valley of the Gila Mountains. Born on the Arizona side of that valley, he grew up on the New Mexico side, near Silver City. Throughout his life, he loved driving through well-tended fields of productive farmland. He was even more thrilled by the pastoral scenes. Whenever I drive past fields of green grass where Black Angus cattle graze peacefully, I think of my dad, knowing how much he would love that sight.

He gardened throughout his life, also tending fruit trees, berry vines, grapes, and other crops. He and Mom chose homes with a little land around them, so he always had animals to tend. My sibs and I grew up on healthful, organically grown milk, meat, eggs, and produce whose provenance we all knew well, since we had helped to grow it (sometimes, when Dad let us or insisted).

Dad loved horses. As a pre-teen girl with horse-crazy friends, so did I. When I was a young teen, he bought a sweet old mare who gave my sister and me some interesting rides. Then Dad traded Belle in on a young, "proud-cut" gelding who had a little too much spirit for my taste. I rode Star occasionally and my sister liked Star better, but Dad loved him. As a young man, he had ridden on cattle drives. In his early adult life, he had worked for the U.S. Forest Service, often riding in to the fire lines, leading a pack mule that carried additional supplies. A spirited horse was exactly his style.

He was a teacher who had never really wanted to teach, whose students all adored him. He made up fantastic stories that he set in the history of the nation or the world, making the history he taught personal enough that his students could grasp and appreciate it.

Because of his birth in 1922, Dad was the right age to go to war with the Greatest Generation. He joined the Navy and became a sailor who was violently ill whenever at sea. He did better when assigned as a radioman and tail gunner for a small airplane in a smaller air field on an even smaller island in the Pacific. He seldom spoke of his war experience, usually only to say he had never been in combat. When he was in his 70s, he finally began to talk of the side of the war he had seen, including plenty of death and sorrow.

He adored babies. Whenever the family gathered, Dad gravitated toward the little people. Almost every child born in our extended family up to the date of his death has been held, rocked, and sung to sleep by my father. When my own grandchildren cry now, especially that inconsolable cry all babies sometimes manage, I wish for my father to soothe them. I wonder, sometimes, if he might be there.

On this most recent Father's Day, I cooked a special meal for my husband, sent e-cards to all the other fathers in the family, and let them all know I love them and appreciate the fine work they are doing in raising the next generation. But in my private moments, I thought of my dad. I probably always will.

Susan Aylworth is the author of 18 novels currently available as e-books. PARIS IN THE SPRINGTIME and SUNNY'S SUMMER, the first two books in the "Seasons of Destiny" series, are also available in paperback. Book Two chronicles the aftermath of the deadly Camp Fire. She lives in northern California with Roger, her husband of 49 years. She loves hearing from readers. Find her at www.susanaylworth.com, @SusanAylworth, on Pinterest and Instagram, and at www.facebook.com/Susan.Aylworth.Author.

Memories of Mom

We've just passed Mother's Day, my first without my mother. She passed last July with me at her side. She was 93, blind, and in constant pain from a broken arm that could not be immobilized. That made it easier to let her go, but it hasn't taken the sting out of her loss.

As we drew near the annual holiday, I found I missed her more each day. Many times I found myself wishing I could just pick up the phone as I once did. Even though I can't, I do sometimes still talk to her when no one else is watching. Oh, how I wish I could hear her replies!

Of course, with the missing come the memories. An early one comes from when I was about four. Some of the kids in the neighborhood were into the books featuring Doctor Dan and Nurse Nancy. Looking at them, I told Mom I might like to be a nurse. Teasing me, she said I was too squeamish for that. I took umbrage, insisting I'd grow out of that, and she said, "Then why not be a doctor?" In the mid-50s, this was not a popular position, but Mom saw no reason why her daughters couldn't do anything her sons could. That attitude stuck with me.

Around that same time, our family was in a car accident. On a narrow, graveled mountain road, Dad skidded on gravel, went up onto the side of the mountain to avoid plunging down the other side, and rolled the car as a result. When the dust settled, we crawled out through the windows to take stock. Dad was okay. My little sister had some bruises, but she was fine. So was I and Mom said she was. Since it seemed no one was injured, we all hiked to where we could summon help. Only after we were home did Mom mention the stiffness in her neck. It turned out two vertebrae were fractured. She lived with neck pain the rest of her life, dealt with it, and seldom said much about it.

Mom made most of my clothes, even when I reached the age for formal dances. My "homemade" prom dresses were every bit as stunning as my friends' off-the-rack examples or even moreso, since Mom was excellent at the sewing machine. Both my sister and I benefited, though Mom stopped short of tailoring my brothers' suits. I'm certain she could have.

It seemed Mom could do everything well. She and Dad laid their own circular driveway, studded with pebbles gathered at the beach. She made rag rugs and eclairs and the best apple butter you can imagine. She painted walls and pictures, canned mountains of fruits and vegetables, and did most of it while teaching full-time. Hundreds of adults can read today because they were in Mrs. Hubbard's first grade classes.

Like most mother-daughter relationships, ours was complicated. I was the oldest child and was therefore expected to be perfect, an expectation I found impossible and confining. Mom and I saw the world in very different ways, a matter which bothered her endlessly.

Nevertheless, as this Mother's Day came and went, I missed her. Terribly. And wished I could share a few minutes with her once again. If you still have your mother, why not give her a call. Today, while you still can.

Too close to the action

        My husband and I recently spent 14 months living in Kayenta, Arizona, and working in addiction recovery programs. We loved the work, the people, the beautiful views of Monument Valley...in fact, just about everything! But our time there ended and we left to come back to our permanent home.
          Our first day back in northern California was November 1. The Camp Fire started one week later. Although it did not reach our home, it burned within five miles of us. We were on alert for possible evacuation and the park only one-third mile from our home was closed in the event evacuation became necessary. We saw the black smoke clouds, thousands of feet high, rolling down at us from the ridge and for days we lived in skies so dark, the streetlights stayed on day and night and everyone who had to be out driving used headlights.

For most of three weeks, we did not go out unless we had to. When we did, we wore hazard masks. Worse, we heard the stories and saw the videos from friends, people we knew well, who lost everything: homes, possessions, businesses, pets. Some people we did not know lost family members. At least eighty-five people were killed in the fire, the most destructive and deadly in California history.

Then came the floods. Although this area hadn’t seen measurable precipitation in nearly two-hundred twenty days, the skies opened in a series of “atmospheric rivers” that poured rain and snow across the region for months. In the fire zone, what was left by the flames washed away in a series of floods and debris flows. A friend was among the archaeologists who went into the debris zone to rescue the ashes of the dead before the floods could wash them away.

In the months since then, my husband and I have visited the burned-out areas, viewing only a few of the two-hundred eleven square miles consumed by the flames. We have participated in relief efforts and have tried to extend our help and sympathy to all those affected. Yet we feel helpless in the face of such overwhelming, destructive natural power.

My newest book is SUNNY'S SUMMER, due out in May. It deals with the aftermath of the Camp Fire. I told my husband, "I have to write this. I have to." He warned me not to. “It’s too soon,” he said. “The experience is too raw for too many people.”
Then I wrote a short sketch of the story line and showed it to a friend affected by the fire. She did not lose her home, but the flames burned up to her back porch, she was evacuated for nearly a month without knowing whether her horses were alive, and when she returned, her whole home had to be professionally cleaned due to smoke damage. What couldn’t be cleaned was an uninsured loss. (As a side note, a neighbor who did not have to evacuate cared for her horses. They are well.)

My friend, who had experienced the fires, said, “Write it! You must! People have to see that others are experiencing the same things: the horror, the loss, the guilt…oh, the guilt! Yes, write it. Maybe it can help with some healing.”

I usually try to make my work timeless so it can fit into anyone's experience. In the new book, tied to exact times and places, I tell the story of fictional people who are experiencing the aftermath of the Camp Fire. I hope their experience can help others to heal. Writing it has been cathartic for me.

Susan Aylworth is the author of 17 novels currently available as e-books. SUNNY'S SUMMER, due out in May, is her 18th. She lives in northern California with Roger, her husband of 49 years. She loves hearing from readers. Find her at www.susanaylworth.com, @SusanAylworth, on Pinterest and Instagram, and at www.facebook.com/Susan.Aylworth.Author.

Why I Write and Read Romance

by Fran McNabb

Not everyone will agree with my opinion here, but that’s okay. Everyone has different likes and dislikes in the books they choose to read and write. Mine happens to be the romance genre. Recently my husband and I watched a rather long movie, almost three hours long. The time didn’t bother me, but the ending did. We watched a soldier fight his way through a bloody war and spend months walking home to get to the woman he loved, just to be killed after only one night with her.

Grrrr. I was mad. The romance writer in me would never have let that happen. I know the point of the story. War is horrible. It shouldn’t be romanticized, but the writers and producers could have made their point another way. I won’t name the movie because it was very well done except for the ending. It depicted the brutality of war. The characters were well developed. The story line was intricately woven. Too bad the ending ruined it—at least for me.

The romance genre is predictable, at least for the endings. Getting to that satisfying ending should not be. I love to read a romance with a unique plot, interesting characters, and, yes, a happy or at least a satisfying ending.

On my website I have a couple of paragraphs about romance and why I write in that genre. I explain that I like a good story that brings me to an "aaah" ending, or leaves me with a tear in my eye or a smile on my face. I like to feel good and be entertained by the books I read or the movies I watch. There’s enough bad in this world so I like to think my books can bring a little joy to someone’s life.

Let me know how you feel. Do you like a feel good ending in your books or one that leaves you with the harsh reality of life?

FRAN MCNABB loved spending time in the city library when she was in junior high. She found the shelf with Avalon’s family-friendly romance novels and read every one of them. Ironically, she started her writing career by publishing with Avalon in 2006. Today she has nine published books, all in the romance genre. Visit her at www.FranMcNabb.com or at mcnabbf@bellsouth.net.

Real (?) People in Books

by Sandra Carey Cody

One of the questions writers are often asked is: “Do you use real people in your books?”

There’s no simple yes or no answer to this question - at least not for me. My characters are cobbled together out of bits and pieces of a lot of people, myself included.  The old actor, Nathaniel Pynchon, introduced in Put Out the Light is a good example. He isn’t anyone I know. He’s arrogant and self-centered. He isn’t nice, but I think he’s interesting. He says and does the mean, hurtful things that I don’t allow myself to say or do.  And, frankly, it’s nice to have a place to release my nasty impulses where no one gets hurt.

Sometimes, a fictional character is the result of a glimpse of another human being. On a recent trip to the grocery store, I was in line behind a young woman with two children - a baby sitting in the seat of the cart and a little girl. I’m guessing the child was about six. When it was their turn at the checkout, the mother put their items on the conveyor, the store clerk rang them up, and, without being told to, the little girl started bagging the groceries. Young as she was, she knew what she was doing. First, she very carefully arranged an assortment of canned goods in the bottom of a bag, then she proceeded to place lighter, more irregularly-shaped items on the base she had constructed. When the bag was full, she selected another and filled it with the same meticulous precision. I watched, amazed, and wondered what her story was. Was she just naturally organized? Had her mother or another adult coached her? If so, for what reason? Old-fashioned character-training? Or had a special family situation made it necessary for her to pitch in beyond her years? Did the child enjoy what she was doing? Had she any sense of her uniqueness? She was certainly different from most of the kids I've encountered in checkout lines; there was no whining, no begging for some of the treats that stores place so enticingly at child-eye-level. I glanced at the mother. Apparently, she took the child’s help for granted. I don’t mean that she seemed indifferent. She smiled at the little girl and nodded approval, but didn’t seem to find her child unusual. 

This incident lasted no more than fifteen minutes, just a small interlude in a round of everyday errands, but it stuck in my mind. The child will probably show up as a fictional character some day. She'd make a perfect amateur sleuth - smart, competent, someone who slips under the radar and is under-estimated until it's too late. When the story is written, chances are her appearance and actions will be completely different than the incident I witnessed. To tell the truth, I don't remember how this particular child looked. I'm imagining pigtails, but that might change. I doubt I’ll use the supermarket setting but, wherever it unfolds, that little girl's spirit will be present.

            So ... back to the original question: Do I use real people in my books? I’m not sure. Every idea comes from somewhere and I suspect most writers would have a hard time tracing the finished product (or character) back to its genesis. 

Obligations and Wants

 by Fran McNabb

                      

            I’m excited to once again be back as a regular on Classic and Cozy taking the fourth Thursday of the month. If you follow the former Avalon authors on this group, you know that Leigh Verrill-Rys has filled this space for a long time. Like most of us on this blog, Leigh had to let go of some of her obligations to find time for other endeavors in her life. We’ve all been there. In fact, for the last year or so, I, too, stepped away from the blog to catch up with life, which brings me to the point: How do we know what is important in life?

As authors we all try to juggle the demands of living. Some of us might be raising children or grandchildren, some work full time, and all of us strive to enjoy life while still finding time to write. How does anyone find the time to do what is important to them?

I’m a retired teacher. When I worked, I seemed to be much more productive than I am now. How could that be? I was away from the house for over eight hours a day, had two boys who were active in school and in sports, and a husband who loved to fill our house with friends every weekend. Needless to say, life was interesting, yet I found time to write regularly. I think the key was time management and being organized. I had to write lesson plans, grade essays and tests, and most importantly, I had to be involved with my boys and their pastimes. And, yes, I had to write and I did.

Maybe because I was younger and had more energy, I was able to do everything, but besides that fact I think the key was making the decision that I wanted to be a published writer. After that decision, I carved out the time in my busy schedule. That time might have been four in the morning while the kids were still sleeping or in the middle of the night when I awoke with an idea. I’m not sure how I did it, but I’m sure determination played a big part.

Today I don’t work outside the home, but I seem to stay busy. Most things I do are not necessary, but they are things I want to do. I do want to write, but compared to my earlier years, I'm not as productive. So, back to my original point: How do we know what is important in life? That’s easy. No matter how old you are, family should come first. Their needs and wants are important, but then what we want to do should come next. If it’s finding time to write, then we should make sure that time is there. If it’s volunteering someplace, then find the time to do it. Wants are important. They are the things that keep life interesting and moving along.

So, Leigh, we all understand what you’re going through. I hope all of your life’s callings let you find time to write and to one day come back to Classic and Cozy.

FRAN MCNABB -  Fran lives along the Gulf Coast and often uses that setting in her books.

Presently she has nine published light romances. Her latest book, A SOLDIER'S HONOR  is also set on the coast. Come visit with Fran at www.FranMcNabb.com or contact her at mcnabbf@bellsouth.net

A few small adjustments

On the last Saturday in August, my husband and I arrived in Kayenta, Arizona. We have come here, to the heart of the Navajo Nation, to work in an addiction recovery program called The Good Way. We are already learning to love it here, but there are a few differences between our new home in Kayenta and our former home in the Sacramento Valley. We are making some small adjustments.

For one thing, we are adjusting to an entirely different kind of natural beauty. Our former home was surrounded by brilliant green rice fields and peach orchards. Here we are less than a half-hour's drive from both Mexican Hat and Monument Valley.






  In California, our garage was about four feet above street level. We had a nice, smooth concrete driveway that rose gradually from one level to the other.

Here the street above our home is substantially above our home--about fifteen feet or perhaps a little more. Our driveway is somewhat different as well.

The cattle guard at the bottom is also a difference. Here the livestock roam freely while the people are fenced in.



Our little city car is getting used to driving on pitted dirt or gravel roads as well.



Our living space is also somewhat smaller than we had grown accustomed to. How much smaller? We are living in half  of the building shown below. We have decided to call it cozy.

  

Much is different here on the Navajo Nation. We are adjusting to the weather as well. (When the wind blows here, it really blows! Dust storms are common.)


We are getting used to driving two hours in one direction or three in another to get anywhere with major shopping centers, but that's okay too. Everyone here does that--unless they're shopping in the Kayenta Township flea market, open every Wednesday.

Much is indeed different, but people here have been wonderful, warm and kind. We are learning to "walk in beauty," a reference both to the Navajo Beauty Way and the sandstone formation just above our home, known locally as The Toes.

May you also walk in beauty.

Susan Aylworth and her husband, Roger, are full-time missionaries serving in the Navajo Nation. They have recently moved to Kayenta, Arizona. They are the parents of seven and grandparents to twenty-five. Susan is the author of fourteen novels. Find them at Amazon or at other e-book platforms or at www.susanaylworth.com. You may also reach her @SusanAylworth on Twitter or at susan.aylworth.author@gmail.com.