tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75173916965298531092024-03-05T11:01:38.703-08:00True...a novel by Melinda FieldA young woman. A calculated act.
The close knit bond of extraordinary women
leading ordinary lives. True is a stunning tale
which beautifully weaves these magnetic
characters and their pristine wild environment,
their families and the animals they love,
into what undoubtably becomes a story,
one will never forget.
“A lesson in healing, strength and courage, and above all, the magnificence of true friendship.”Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-38200033950646146412015-04-09T12:48:00.003-07:002015-04-09T12:48:54.554-07:00Spring 2015 ~ WITHOUT READERS, WE WRITERS DON'T EXIST<span style="font-size: large;"> We are having an early spring in the mountains of far far northern California. Time to tidy up and plan for the garden. As I sit upstairs in my writing room looking out across the greening fields, I ponder what strange creatures we writers are. We literally lock ourselves away to make up stories from our overactive imaginations. We give up life to do this! We dive to the depths of our own personal being, dredging up our emotional insecurities, unhealed issues, bravely, but often with great fear. We create these characters that "are us" and "are not us". They become so real that these creations wake us up at night, have meetings without us and rebel if they don't like the way we present them. We labor away in spite of the fact that we will meet, maybe only ten percent of our readers. Words, smoke and mirrors, rampant imaginations, invisible readers, made up stories, and entertaining lies are the tools of this trade. We do so care what readers think and feel about our work and we are so curious about the many different ways one story can be perceived. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Reviews are a way to tap into the minds of the people who read our work. If we can stay open and chain down our egos, momentarily, these impressions become a valuable tool to help us be better storytellers. And yes we also learn from the bad reviews. Those crazy-making ones where we are sure the person reviewing our work could not have possibly really read it! And we wonder why other people take the time to write five paragraphs after declaring the book is bad. So... here are my two latest five star Amazon reviews. I wish I could sit and have tea with these two ladies but I am grateful to read their words, thoughts, and feelings. Without readers, we writers don't exist. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> ~Melinda</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="margin-left: -5px;"></span>
<b>Melinda Field weaves a wonderful connection between a group of women... </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="a-size-base review-text">"After becoming familiar with each
character in the novel, Melinda Field weaves a wonderful connection
between a group of women that embody the spirit of friendship and all
the complexities we experience in human relationships. You begin to
identify the commonalities of human frailties, the joy of communion with
friends, the fears, courage, prejudices, and love that we find in the
people we as readers know and love. I came to feel I knew each of these
characters and began to long to be a part of such close relationships.
There are twists and turns that surprise and move the reader, that draw
the reader into the story. Make no mistake. There are dramatic moments
that take the reader by surprise and make this book a worthy read; an
emotional read. I loved it." ~Linda Bishop</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="a-size-base review-text"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><b>These women form Bedrock together: that which cannot be moved, destroyed, lost, or stolen. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"You're at least 40% through this book before she uses the word 'true',
and its sudden appearance rings like a bell, leaving your nerve ends
tingling, leaving you savoring how that one word rose like a bubble from
the deep, to become the title of this story.<br /><br />A group of women
has formed long before the story begins, and one suspects, long before
they were born, one by one, into the highly engaging world of this book.
What is fragile and rigorous in their personalities runs side by side.
Somehow they keep up with each other in ways we all long for, wishing
we had as strong a bond, as deep a knowing of themselves and each other,
as they do.<br /><br />No matter what sudden storms rage in their lives, in
their families and communities, and across the land, these women form
Bedrock together: that which cannot be moved, destroyed, lost, or
stolen.<br /><br />My favorite part of the book is the deep connection with
animals, nature, the landscape, the seasons. As the horses surge across
valleys and up mountain trails, these women surge through their lives,
creating havoc and splendor, love and tears, facing the trials and
seasons of life and land.<br /><br />Before you start to read, be sure to
look at the author's photograph. It's the best I've ever seen. Before
you read one word, you can tell this woman has really lived, and really
has something to say. Thanks, Melinda Field, I love this book." <b>~</b>Denise Schultz</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-31757731586518360582014-10-08T20:07:00.000-07:002014-10-08T20:07:09.131-07:00Wild Autumn<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> It was a wild summer here in the high mountains of Northern California. We had over sixteen wildfires..homes were lost, thousands of acres burned, some that will not revive in mine or my children's lifetime. Life is tenuous to say the least and the animals have lost much of their habitat. Our property has become a refuge for deer families, raccoons, skunks, bears and even mountain lions. The fact that we don't have a dog is also a draw, but not as much as the luscious apples in the orchard and the water we provide in this time of extreme drought. I absolutely love the fact that I live in such a wild place. In my regional novel True, animals and the their connections to people play a most important part. I was inspired to write about a human/mountain lion encounter after I had crossed paths with one on a hike near my home. Here is an excerpt from True where a woman is taken by a lion.</span></span><div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span> She moved along the path, breathing in the pure air. Arrow was
still far ahead, darting in and out of sight. After scanning the sky, she
decided there was enough light left to stay a little longer. She turned up the
mountain, weaving between giant manzanitas, stopping to stroke the smooth
burgundy skin of a twisted trunk. Her small, muscular body climbed the steep
incline without much effort. She knew that the dog would find her. As she moved
up into a treed cleft, she felt her strong calf muscles flexing inside her blue
jeans. She reached the plateau and paused. This was a favorite place. Light
slanted through the grove of trees in pale silver bars. She could hear Arrow
crashing through the brush. A gray squirrel sprinted, levitating to the top of
a pine, while the dog flew in quivering pursuit. They sang to each other;
Arrow’s yelping and the squirrel’s raucous scolding reached a pitch so frantic
that she laughed out loud. After a few minutes, the dog lost interest and began
nosing the ground. </span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The
circle of oaks was perfectly placed, as if by a landscape architect. She sat
down, her back against a tree. The deep quiet and fading light lulled her.
Arrow lay nearby in his nest of leaves, taking her in with quiet dog calm. The
air was still and cool. Finally, knowing her time here was up, she stood and
zipped her sweatshirt, then bent over to tie the undone lace of her boot. </span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> It
hit her from behind. The powerful force of its streamlined body knocked the
wind out of her, ramming her face hard into the ground. Her knee shattered in
pain; she scrambled on all fours like a crab. Arrow was barking and whimpering.
Turning her head in panic, she caught a flash of tawny fur. She screamed as the
cat lunged again, its claws slicing, cleaving into the skin of her lower back,
while its teeth simultaneously hooked the fanny pack strap and one belt loop of
her jeans. </span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The
lion bounded through the oak circle in a graceful lope, then paused and raised
his head. Clare dangled in mid-air, limp and unconscious. Engulfed in the
lavender glow of twilight, he moved slowly up the mountain. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> <span style="line-height: 150%;"> The
lion patiently made his way up through the steep cliffs. Night had fallen;
above him arced a filigree of stars and an almost-full moon. Sometimes in his
exhaustion he dragged her over brush and boulders. The top of the mountain was
in sight, but the closer he was to the ledge, the weaker he became. It was
midnight by the time he dropped her into his lair. He struggled, loosening the
fanny pack strap and belt from his teeth. He didn’t bother to inspect the
motionless prey. His legs crumpled under him, and he surrendered to sleep. </span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Clare woke at first light, wondering if she had died. The
landscape was eerily unfamiliar. She lay on a rock ledge that jutted out over a
small canyon. Above her was an overhanging stone that seemed like the opening
of a cave but only provided a small shallow shelter. The lion was nowhere in
sight. She could not move. She had never known such extreme pain. Even in
childbirth there were moments of reprieve. This was a tight, hot cocoon of
constant pain. Besides the crushed knee and clawed back, she was covered with
wounds, scratches, bruises and welts. Her clothes were torn, her hair tangled.
She wore only one hiking boot. Infection bloomed pinkly in her body, and the
oncoming fever made her eyes sting. </span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> She
heard a distant rustling across the canyon, then saw the lion weaving his way
back to the ledge. She felt her bladder let go, and a stream of tears slid down
her face, landing in soft puffs of dirt. Her heart pounded inside her small
chest. She could not slow down her breathing. She managed to move herself,
curling inward to protect the soft inner part of her body, even though she knew
she was going to die. Instinct and adrenaline running deep in her brain bent
her into a </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">womblike position, waiting.<br /><!--EndFragment--></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"> The lion moved towards the ledge, lingering at a stream. He
paused, enjoying the sun on his back. </span> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">More and more, his old bones needed warmth. He drank the clear,
cold water and stretched. </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> ~Melinda</span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-10337449847652699072014-04-12T21:07:00.002-07:002014-04-12T21:07:42.536-07:00A Writer's Path...<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Support this new venture… </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">great information </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">and empowerment for writers.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBxT3kmNcNjCzs_7OnxLJ5q6z10lRLeVPqlAivaI3yiWvYl7OI7voHh_B0G7LS9wVEOF6c3FNmIai0WlvmrOvyc7AxiTnOdI13PpVzjz0_SNbcMGb4Av6U7N0JdU7N0YSxa1O1JA0-_iyO/s1600/WritersPathTrue.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBxT3kmNcNjCzs_7OnxLJ5q6z10lRLeVPqlAivaI3yiWvYl7OI7voHh_B0G7LS9wVEOF6c3FNmIai0WlvmrOvyc7AxiTnOdI13PpVzjz0_SNbcMGb4Av6U7N0JdU7N0YSxa1O1JA0-_iyO/s1600/WritersPathTrue.png" height="320" width="251" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.tinyurl.com/writerspath2">http://www.tinyurl.com/writerspath2</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">~Melinda</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-348112984563229482014-02-25T14:58:00.000-08:002014-04-02T00:30:42.032-07:00Spring 2014~ It Happens Every Minute...<blockquote type="cite">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /> A very important part of the story of TRUE involves a brutal high school gang rape, the sad fact that the boys get off without a trial and the consequences the victim, Cat, will face for the rest of her life. Luckily, Cat finds a support system that consists of a group of eccentric, authentic women. Perhaps not so for the women and girls who become a statistic in the global rape epidemic. These thoughts were triggered recently by an ad that appeared in social media. I was warned by friends and editors not to write about rape as a blog post, as it might be, negative, hopeless and controversial or worse that angry men might harass me online far into the next century. CHALLENGE MET! Especially since</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span><a href="x-apple-data-detectors://6" x-apple-data-detectors-result="6" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">Saturday, March 8th</a><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">is International Women's Day.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote type="cite">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Rape happens every minute around the world. It happens in cities, small towns, in rural and urban areas. It happens to children, teens, women of all ages, even grandmothers. Why? Basically females are considered lesser and weaker and therefore fair game. Researching the statistics was shocking. In England and Wales 69,000 women were rape victims last year. In S. Africa 66,000 women were raped. In the U.S. it was 89,246 cases that were reported. These statistics should be doubled or tripled as rape is grossly under reported.<br /><br /> An ad for Anti Rape Wear..Wearable Protection for When Things Go Wrong...popped up on one of my pages. AR Wear is the brainchild of two women from New York who supposedly received $50,000 for developing and marketing their line on a popular crowd funding site. The ad shows models wearing cute boy cut, colorful underwear. The blurb goes something like "Worried about your daughter jogging after dark? Are you a woman traveling alone in a foreign country? Staying in a big city on business?" These underwear are made of a material that can't be cut..they will not slip off easily and have a small lock at the waist band..The very fact that this product is being offered is such a pathetic reminder of the global sexual assault epidemic yet it all seems so very casual.. "Are you a woman or girl, Protect yourself now." There are other inventions. A medical worker in S. Africa (the rape capital of the world) has designed a female condom with teeth. The contraption bites down on the abductor's penis and then must be surgically removed. A group of engineering students in India have marketed a chastity type belt that gives off a hard shock, is equipped with a GPS device and dials the victim's home phone number. Want to be unattractive to potential male attackers? You can buy "hairy legs" panty hose that might turn off a would be rapist. And maybe the most outrageous, The Republican Party's new ploy, Rape Insurance..in case a woman conceives after an assault.<br /><br /> These concepts that are meant to protect women, fail miserably and put the total responsibility for safety on women. Yes, we need to be careful, informed, have studied some martial arts etc. but what is at the root of rape culture? The belief that it is alright to sexually assault women and girls. This primitive idea has existed since the beginning of time and must change Now! We need to educate our young people...father's need to talk to their sons..of course mother's should educate their daughters..and the fear of death or retaliation for reporting must stop. Our male dominated cultures need strong women to stand up in numbers...we deserve political representatives to back us, not take our rights away and attempt to protect the perpetrators. It happens every minute, in cities, small towns, urban areas, in the military and in families. Do what you can in your sphere of influence to change this consciousness. Stand up, speak out, even risk your level of comfort to make this planet a safe place for women now and in the future. Our children are counting on it...</span></blockquote>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-89908916970420658902013-12-08T21:45:00.002-08:002013-12-08T21:45:52.826-08:00Winter 2013<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Big, fat snowflakes are falling in a slow drift over Star Apple Farm. The old growth cedars and pines are draped in pure white. Woodsmoke spirals from the chimney at all times.Yesterday's temperature was 14 in the early morning. The old farmhouse is warm though and we are grateful. It has been a wonder- full year. The large family is healthy and growing their own little ones..four grandsons in four years, the newest is five weeks old and reminds us that innocence is such a lovely and necessary salve in this crazy old world. My novel </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">True </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;">has again passed my expectations reaching more and more readers who have kindly shown their appreciation with five star reviews on Amazon and goodreads. I love it when people write and tell me how it touched them or some aspect of their life... </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">True</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> was chosen as one of the best novels of 2013 by Writer's Path magazine. I am currently working on the sequel and feel honored to "listen in" on these characters who are part of me but also their own beings. Remember this long dark, time nourishes our dreamseeds for the coming year. Love and light to you and yours, Melinda</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Below please find a winter excerpt from <i>True</i>… we never know where or when love will find us… passion happens even in church on Christmas Eve…</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> Emma walked to the old Catholic church. Built of logs in the 1800’s, it was one of the first </span><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS; font-size: large;">buildings constructed in the valley. The town was now deserted, everyone home with their
families. There were no cars in the parking lot; midnight mass wouldn’t begin for a few hours.
She could see the soft glow of the stained glass windows through the falling snow. She came
every Christmas Eve, not because she was a devout Catholic—hardly. She had been the number </span><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS; font-size: large;">one doubter in her family. She came to remember her mother and Gran. Her mother had never
missed a service and had been part of the League of Catholic Women. She had raised her
children with a good deal of love and guilt. Gran, on the other hand, was an old-country Catholic
who, along with all the religious holidays, celebrated the solstices and equinoxes and believed in
the pre-Christian goddess who had become Mary after centuries of matriarchy. Emma, who was
quite the intellectual feminist in her day, liked the fact that a female deity was even included in
Catholicism. She didn’t believe literally in the virgin birth, but she loved the story of it. Once she
had asked Gran, demanding an absolute in her teenage angst, what was the truth about religion?</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> “It’s what is in your heart, Emma. If it’s a debate between your mind and your heart, go with
the heart.”<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> In her heart she knew she believed in the “Great Mystery,” whatever it was, and still she
loved the quiet beauty of a church. She took off her coat in the vestibule. How lucky, she
thought, to be the only one there. She entered the church and paused, taking in the smell of the
damp hymn books and melted wax. Incense lingered in the corners; pine boughs were strung
along the pews. She passed by the bowl of holy water and moved to the front near the altar. She
slid across one of the polished wooden benches and sat for a moment. She was always grateful
that the little church had no crucifix, only a small wooden cross. She vividly remembered the
large crucifix in St. Joseph’s cathedral in San Francisco, the statue of Jesus, his face writhing in
pain, realistic blood painted on his palms and feet. Here, Emma looked at the Madonna of the
Mountain, a simple but delicately carved wooden statue, the compassionate face of Mary gazing
down at her baby boy.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> She got up and moved to the side altar, lighting three candles, her own personal ritual. One
for the past, and all of the loved ones who had crossed: Mother, Father, Gran, her husband,
Ronnie, and their child, Theo. The old pain filled her momentarily. She lit the next candle for the
present, asking for peace on earth. Lastly, she lit a candle for the future, hoping for a good
outcome for Briar, and asking for guidance in the young heart of Cat.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> She was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear Liam’s quiet footsteps coming down the aisle.
But she realized that someone had sat down behind her. She remained facing forward, her eyes
closed, then turned to go back to the pew. Liam looked into her face, the warmth of recognition
spreading across his mouth.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> “Emma,” he whispered. She started down the aisle, but he signaled her to come to him. Her
legs were quivering as she slid in, near him, but far enough away that they weren’t touching.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he laughed quietly, taking her hand. She gently pulled away
to brush hair out of her eyes.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> “Merry Christmas, Liam.” Only silence moved between them.</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> Finally he said, “Did you know that my mother’s uncle carved the Madonna of the Mountain<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;">about a hundred years ago? She’s made of white oak, and the child is cedar. Behind her cloak on
the back right side he carved an acorn, a symbol still important to the Green River tribe. Come
with me; I’ll show it to you.” She felt light-headed as she followed him around to the back of the
Madonna. “Right here, see it? And over here he carved a horse with wings.” She bent to see the
cross-hatched design.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> They both stood up. He looked down at her, his eyes serious, questioning. His braid fell over
the front of his broad shoulder. “Emma, oh, God forgive me, but...”<br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS';"> She was torn, ripped down the middle, panicked. Her heart wanted him so badly, but her
mind screamed, </span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-style: italic;">Don’t! </span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS';">Candlelight flickered a red warning.<br />
</span></span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> “Emma...please,” he whispered, close to her face, “can’t we just...talk about...”<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> Her resistance faltered; her knees went weak; she couldn’t look at him. “I don’t know...it’s
been so long and I’m afraid...”<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> He smelled of soap and cedar. He took her hand and it burned into her palm. The quiet of the
church seemed deafening. Then suddenly she was in his arms, his mouth warm on hers. She
pulled back, but the old hunger consumed them as he kissed her neck and moaned, “Oh, God,
Emma.” The sweet strength of him wrapped around her as he kissed her forehead and cheeks
and her mouth again.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> They heard a car door slam and then another. Father Lawrence’s voice called out, “Michael
and Billy, you look festive. Do you think you can remember the words?” As the priest entered the
church, Emma was walking up the aisle and Liam was seated in a pew. As she brushed past the
priest her eyes were downcast and her face flushed.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> “Merry Christmas, Father,” she murmured.</span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: large;"> “Ah, Emma,” said Father Lawrence, “is your annual visit over already...? </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Be True, Be Free, Stay Wild and Hold Fast</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> MELINDA</span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-54509164709391920832013-09-24T11:02:00.001-07:002013-09-24T11:03:36.422-07:00Autumn 2013<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: large; text-align: left;">With a fat harvest moon and the passing of the equinox, autumn flung a cloak of frost over the mountains and valley. Usually subtle, creeping into summer's warmth day by day, the transition was unexpected and abrupt. We are "putting away" canning soup and juices, spreading out potatoes and onions, hanging herbs on the old kitchen beams to dry. There is wood to be cut, hay to be stacked and just before thanksgiving a new baby will come into our fold...I continue to work on the sequel to </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-large; text-align: left;">True</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: large; text-align: left;">. It is five years later in the Green Valley and the women (and men) are telling me their stories...It is slow going but I am listening intently...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I found a great blog post titled "Why it is good to go slow" here is the link... </span></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.norulesjustwrite.com/why-slow-is-good/"><span style="font-size: large;">http://www.norulesjustwrite.com/why-slow-is-good/</span></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Maybe it will calm down all of us writers with high expectations of ourselves...and following is an excerpt from <i>True</i>...</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"> Be True, Be Free, Stay Wild and Hold Fast</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> MELINDA</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Emma sat in the dining
room sipping the bliss of French roast, grateful that it was Saturday, a day with no patients to
see. She gazed at the garden beyond the big window. A strong wind blew the branches of the
plum tree, and the old window chattered in its frame.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> After coffee, she put on her hooded flannel jacket and went out to the pasture. Mav was
inside his little barn, head down, obviously asleep. “Hey, buddy, come and get your flake.” He
looked up with a low nicker. “Here, have some horse granola too. It’s going to storm, don’t you
think?” she asked, pouring oats over his hay. She leaned into him and he returned the weight of
her affection, then began to chew.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> She walked to the garden and steadied the gate banging in the wind. Putting the garden to
bed was always such a sad day. The winter garden seemed almost a graveyard, holding
memories of the season’s yields and its idiosyncrasies—the volunteer cilantro that had pushed
up in all the corners, and the weird-looking hard green squash with little frowning frog faces.
She’d thought that the seed packet said “Patty Pan.”
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<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Zipping up her jacket and putting the hood over her bed-messed hair, she walked the rows,
saying goodbye. The rosemary looked as if it wanted to spend the winter on a sunny Greek island.
The sunflowers bowed low on their spindly stalks, their hearts an empty geometry of brown disks.
The green beans, now a deadened rust, slumped over the trellis as if admitting defeat. The sky
darkened even more. An unclaimed melancholy swept over her as she stared at the tomatoes,
withered and pleated, deflated like the shriveled balls of old men.
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<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Above the farm the storm gathered, as wind spiraled inward, circled by warm humid air. Moist
clouds rose and cooled; frozen particles found one another and merged. She looked upward as
snow fell softly on her face. </span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-88387997476789973682013-07-17T21:14:00.000-07:002013-07-19T15:32:53.630-07:00SOUL OF A STORY<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;"> I am often asked the dreaded question, "What is your book about?" I have discovered while in the publishing/ printing phase, that writing a brief synopsis for the back cover is a complicated process of distilling down around ninety thousand words into a few paragraphs. This is definitely an art form! Recently I have come to find myself needing to reveal not only plot lines, characters and the who, where, what and why...</span><div>
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;">The following is what I believe to be the soul of the story...</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;"> True is about life and love in all of its beautiful, strange, chaotic, romantic, maternal, collective, desperate, misguided and unconditional aspects. It is about passages, the journeys over a lifetime through childhood, coming of age, womanhood, marriage, mothering, midlife and the great beyond. It is about sisterhood and friendship, our connections to our families, the men in our lives, our animals and most importantly ourselves. True is about the beautiful and the terrible in the same breath. How hardships and illness and abuse and violence and the longing for peace bring us through the fire, scarred but transformed and more whole than we could ever imagine by the realization that we create our own reality. It's a choice, we are either alone or all one...True is about bigotry, narrow mindedness and seeing through the filters of our own convoluted, tunnel vision. It is about young people feeling worthy enough to receive love and old people having to let go of all they have known, and all the between from birth to death. True is about nature, the wild, pristine, raw preciousness inherent in our earth's systematic, artistic perfection. It is about the kindness of humanity and how our deep bonds matter. It is about being connected and fully present in our quest for honest wisdom. True is about love and being true, being free, staying wild and holding fast.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;"> </span><wbr style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;"></wbr><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 24px;"> MELINDA</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-82564736687437377642013-06-05T21:23:00.001-07:002013-06-06T18:28:51.070-07:00June 2013<br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I have been very caught up in the online marketing of True doing all a traditional publisher used to do. Gleaning articles, acquiring reviews, finding creative ways to advertise without money. All the time wondering about time lost, knowing that the most satisfaction comes from creating new stories, that writing is its own reward, and success has many definitions. Sometimes I ponder the energy and time spent with the iPad and look outside and see Summer blazes in all her green glory across the mountains and in the valley. The greenery so hot and bright it almost hurts ones eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The garden just started, grows with the promise of an abundant harvest. Walking up the mountain, the wildflowers sway in a warm wind scattered across the forest’s floor like random jewels. The horses already fat and glossy cruise the pasture grazing as if there were no tomorrow. If only this moment could be frozen in time. The little boys run and squeal through the sprinklers, their small bodies tan and strong. “Gramma, Gramma” they call as they rush to me, their arms full of red, pink and white peonies, “for you” they call. Their innocent faces full of excitement and the pure unconditional love all children possess.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Yes, I know so well to bottle this moment and remember the peace of here and now for outside the world turns in a most precarious way. The powers that be cruel and dreadful, the lives of so many a living hell, our government bereft of heroes attempting to run our bodies, our food supply, willing to prostitute and rape our gorgeous planet. Never has storytelling been more important as we teeter on this unstable time in history. We must write to tell the human condition, to inform, to inspire and burn the candle of hope for the lost and unhealed. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">There is a reason why there are more humans writing than at any other time. We have so much to say, so much to teach and empower. It doesn’t matter whether we write about the past, the present, or the future as we learn from every time. The competition to be read or published is greater than ever, but with the world wide web we can reach out and communicate like never before. Humans are reaching out, speaking up, giving ourselves to educate and inform, and once informed to ACT. Deepak Chopra says the paradigm on the planet will happen because of information on the internet. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So as I reflect in gratitude for my fortunate lifestyle and loved ones, I know that it is ever more important to write about the lives of others, perhaps not so fortunate who are learning and willing to heal and inspire and reach out to humanity in anyway they can. So write writers! A poem, a story, a novel, a film, send it out without regard for failure or acceptance. Words touch people deeply. As we write, delving into our own psyche, looking at what sparks us, even our inner darkness, When our character fails or triumphs we heal! It spirals outward and the writer has no idea of the miraculous circumstance when someone reaches into their library’s free box and reads a story that will ultimately change their life forever.</span></div>
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~MelindaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-20251809222205190502013-04-26T16:41:00.001-07:002013-05-07T14:28:13.768-07:00May 2013<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">The following is an excerpt from <i>True</i>. The story encompasses a year in the lives of several beautifully, flawed, extraordinary women, living ordinary lives. The diversity of their ages (from sixteen to seventy) and their different cultural and spiritual backgrounds, and the social issues they face, brings together a story of their unique and challenging friendship. Set in the contemporary West, the main character Emma, is the hub of the wheel... From Chapter Two</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Emma Cassady’s farm sat in the middle of the Green Valley, on the far west side, on the bank </span></span><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS; font-size: large;">of Serpentine Creek. The creek flowed out of a narrow jagged canyon that cut through the blue- green-grey Serpentine Mountains. The creek was awash with huge boulders and fast water in winter, but now, a week into September, the slow summer wash licked its way over the ever- widening alluvial fan of the rocky bed. The lazy trickle spread itself through the stands of cottonwood and willow that grew along the shore. The big trees, autumn tinged, their leaves beginning to fly, flanked one side of the twenty-acre farm while a narrow, rock-lined irrigation ditch skirted the other. The constant calming sound of running water surrounded the property.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Established in the 1800’s, the small finger of land cradled a varied terrain. At the eastern end of the farm a rivulet wound through red clover pastures and stands of tall oaks. The middle ground was wooded, arched over with both young and mature fir, cedar, and pine. The small forest sheltered deer, grey squirrel, fox, coyote, raccoon, skunk, opossum, and even bear and </span></span><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS; font-size: large;">mountain lions in search of water. Many birds, both native and migratory, traveled the tree tops —woodpeckers, jays, robins, hawks, turkey vultures, ravens and crows. Canada geese nested near the creek during spring flows.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Just beyond the woods, up over a green hummocked pasture, the farmhouse knelt in an old apple orchard. The well kept, two-story, white clapboard house had old bubbled glass and double hung windows framed by faded blue shutters. A gnarled elm leaned into the front porch. The house, more like a cottage, was squat, built on a low foundation of creek rock. A weathered shingle roof peaked up and over the dwelling. Ivy twined itself around the stone chimney. Chinese lanterns, hollyhocks and bleeding hearts grew in the dooryard where a double-dutch back door opened into a large kitchen. Big beams hung with drying flowers and herbs spanned a low pine ceiling. Baskets of ripe fruit and vegetables lined the pocked wooden floor. White cotton curtains hung in the windows. In one corner stood an original cream and green wood cook stove that warmed the drafty room on cold mornings. The chunky stove had four burners and an oven, which came in handy for cooking during the frequent power outages in winter. A round table and four chairs looked out to the orchard and the rivulet. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The kitchen opened into a long, narrow dining room which held only a table and chairs and an oak hutch. The room’s large window faced the garden. A bedroom and bath sat back under the eaves. French doors framed the entrance to the living room, bright with sunlight reflecting off the low cream ceiling. The room looked out to the front porch and the orchard beyond. Comfortable overstuffed furniture circled the simple stone fireplace. Deep chocolate chenille sofas and love seats rested on a flowered wool rug. Tucked back under the stairs was a small office area. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and a bath. A long low library which also served as a guest room fronted the house. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> A few flagstone steps away from the back porch was a large garden that looked west to the Serpentine Mountains. Rather than being laid out row by row, the garden was a lush impressionistic tangle of flowers, herbs, and vegetables. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Emma stood under an umbrella of sunflowers squinting into the sun. She reached up, taking the prickly stalk into her hand, which caused the heavy flower head to shower black seeds on her silver streaked hair. Her strong legs flexed as she snipped the flower and put it in her basket. As she turned towards the gate a large green and gold dragonfly hovered before her, then lighted on the sunflower she had just cut. Slowly, she extended her hand, the Emerald looked up at her and cocked its head. She hummed as she stroked its back, where delicate, copper wings met the long body. A moment of stillness, then the dragonfly levitated and was gone. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Three cats, a long-haired black one, a calico, and a tortoise shell, meowed at her feet. “It’s coming,” she told them as she closed the gate. Before going in, she paused to look at the orchard, the weighted branches bent with red and gold apples, the same trees that she had </span></span><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS; font-size: large;">climbed each summer of her childhood. Every year when school was out her parents would travel from San Francisco to visit her aunt’s family in Green Valley, and Emma would be allowed to stay all summer. Every day, up with her cousins at dawn, they combed the vast mysteries of the farm, exploring its blackberry brambled tunnels, treetops and creek beds, its animals and insects.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="column">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS;"> In her early forties Emma had the opportunity to buy the farm after her aunt died. She’d been ready to leave her busy nurse/midwife practice in San Francisco. Green Valley and its familiar roots had called to her at the right moment. She’d loved her life at the farm the last fifteen years. Working out of the house and keeping her practice down to three days a week allowed her to have the time—although there was never enough—to care for the farm and garden and animals. A tremendous amount of work for a single woman but, she thought to herself, </span><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS; font-style: italic;">I wouldn’t change a thing...well, maybe one thing. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: TrebuchetMS; font-style: italic;">~Melinda</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-8749511501827367992013-03-02T14:55:00.004-08:002013-04-13T12:01:23.019-07:00March 2013We are having our first signs of Spring here in the mountains of far Northern California. A welcome and early respite from heavy snows and strong, cold winds...Yes, there will be more Winter but we are basking in the sun's warmth for now. I am focused again on writing a sequel and promoting <em>TRUE. </em>I have run across some very informative and useful sites to share with you kindred writers. Jonathon Gunson's <a href="http://www.bestsellerlabs.com/">www.bestsellerlabs.com</a> has several inexpensive programs to empower and help Indie authors. I took his Twitter for Author's course which was excellent and easy. Twitter has made amazing strides and offers many opportunities for marketing and contacting agents, publishers, and promoters. A strong writing and reading community is here at our fingertips. Jonathon also gives out tons of free insightful tips and info, and as a bestselling author he is generous, authentic, and available for questions and support. Hope Clark is another resource, her <a href="http://www.fundsforwriters.com/">www.fundsforwriters.com</a> is amazing. When you subscribe you will receive an email every week with contests, jobs, marketing tips, and much more. This is free and her total <a href="http://www.totalfundsforwriters.com/">www.totalfundsforwriters.com</a> is even better and is only $15 per year.<br />
<br />
I am off to Texas soon where I will be signing books and speaking at Hasting's Book Store in Midland and at the Unitarian Universalists Church. These events are fun, informative, and lucrative, not to mention that I get to meet other writers. Last year in Ukiah, CA at Mendocino Books I was introduced to a gentleman in his eighties who gave me a hand written poem:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u><em>So Much of My Woe</em></u></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>So much of my woe </em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>goes down to the sea</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>with the river.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>I can never lean against</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>the back-drop of orchard and vineyard</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>framing the valley,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>surveying the contours carved</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>in the flood plain by the current,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>that my heart's most ardent</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>hopes and aspirations </em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>didn't seem like pebbles</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>purified by the flow,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>polished to a high lustre</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>by the stream-surge</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>on its tumultuous journey.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Roll, Navarro, Roll!</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Doug Strong's Chapbook will come out in late Spring.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We writers are everywhere and I wonder sometimes if the best storytellers never even put their work out there...Support your local library and Indie bookstores and take advantage of resource on the internet. There are a lot of people out there trying to make money off of us independents but there are some quality souls who remain reasonable and really care. Let me know of any support you have found and remember...</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
and on the good writing days nothing else matters."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Neil Gaiman</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
~ <em>Melinda</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-15867650929530956142013-01-10T19:16:00.001-08:002013-04-13T12:01:43.888-07:00Winter 2013A clean fresh start, the year begins as several feet of pearly snow covers Star Apple Farm and the mountains beyond. Cold but invigorating, I am busy keeping folks and animals fed. In my writing life I have many goals for the new year. My dreams in the imaginal realms include an agent, publisher, audio book, book trailer, movie producer, and more great reviews...<br />
<br />
In late December I was gifted with an amazing review from IndieReader.com (see <b><i>True</i></b> by Melinda Field). Indie Reader is perhaps the most supportive, informative, and elegant site for independent readers and writers. I can't wait to put my "Indie Reader Approved" stickers on my books...<br />
<br />
I have new 5 star reviews on Amazon...We Indie's are spreading our words and wings and the evolving publishing model is taking notice. As much as we love to hold books in our hands, smell their musty, acrid pages and fall asleep with their sweet weight on our chests, the E-Book will really come of age in 2013. Mark Coker, creator of Smashwords has an excellent article predicting trends for the new year (www.huffingtonpost.com/mark-coker/2013).<br />
<br />
I just finished Barbara Kingsolver's latest <b><i>Flight Behavior</i></b>. She really took on a huge agenda in this story which includes, culture wars, education, and global warming. Her quirky main character, Dellarobbia Turnbow will be a favorite. To see a wonderful live interview with the author go to goodreads.com and look for "live with Kingsolver video."<br />
<br />
I am working away on the sequel to <b><i>True</i></b>. It is five years later in the Green Valley. All the characters have written me detailed letters letting me know their hopes, dreams, sorrows, and lessons in the next book. Although it feels great to be with them again, I'm still working on another novel called <b><i>Hold Fast</i></b><i>.</i><b><i> </i></b><br />
<br />
Oh there is not enough hours in the day to care take, promote, write, and dream...I'll be touring in Texas in March and San Francisco in May. I love that spoken word and meeting interesting and wonderful people. It's always good to come down off of the mountain and travel beyond the pine curtain now and then. I will leave you with a poem from my Chapbook titled<b> </b><i><b>Leafbite</b>.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>Snow Chant</u></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Clean as the breath blown shell</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
a mantle of quiet hovers, then</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
breaks through the sky.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nurturer of suspended life</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
frogs doze deep in mud, she-bear</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
waits for birth of cubs.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Let the crystal captive air slow</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the heat and cold, shield the </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
dormant plants and sleeping creatures below.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh bringer of beauty, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
white skinned sculptures bloom!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Woman of waters, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Come.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Purify all!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the crooks and hollows wait</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
for flakes to thicken and fall... </div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-32402537502807459292012-10-23T12:24:00.001-07:002012-10-23T12:24:28.459-07:00Autumn 2012
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<br />
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Dear True Believers,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s autumn here, black oaks gone scarlet cover the mountainsides,
gypsy birds seed peck the spiraled disks of sunflowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Prepare, prepare, prepare, seems to be
the theme as apples weight down the trees and blackberries gone to ferment
intoxicate the waddling quail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
are gathering here at Star Apple farm, woodpiles neatly stacked, hay in the
barn, and glass jars full of jams, juices, pickles, and soup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s been one year since my novel True
was released.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what a year it
has been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides many five star
reviews, the story of a small town, a girls coming of age, and the power and
beauty of extraordinary and eccentric women living ordinary lives as they cross
through the passages of life from the ages of sixteen to seventy has somehow
left a mark on the hearts of more people than this dreamer ever imagined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Comments and reviews, emails and likes,
have come from all around the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have done readings (and oh how I enjoy the spoken word!) for book
clubs, writers groups, spiritual groups, women’s groups, libraries, book
television, and many bookstores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You have given me such enormous love and support (and I’ve never even
met some of you!) by passing the word or the story onto your mother’s,
daughters, friends and acquaintances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I can’t tell you how many have asked for a sequel with comments like,
“please, surely these women have more to teach us” and “just can’t let go of
the characters,” and “these women became my friends.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We need to know what happens to the girl… etc.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so many many people, both men and
women (a surprise that men bonded with the story too) have said True would make
a great movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is now being
considered by Clint Eastwood, the production company for the documentary called
Buck and the writers of An Unfinished Life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh what dreams may come True, please keep sending your
wonderful positive energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As an
independent publisher, word of mouth and social networking have become paramount
for us brave souls (over a million a year) who are willing to carry out and
work for recognition outside of the dying or rather evolving New York
publishing model.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wake up agents,
publishers, and editors!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a
great time to be independent and Wise Women Ink, a company created with Lani
Phillips, is now “Book shepherding” other writers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And speaking of Lani, no one has given True more love,
respect and belief than she has.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So with great gratitude I thank all the True believers for your support
and allegiance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m at work on the
sequel starting this winter and excited to see what the next year brings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please keep in touch with us on <a href="http://www.wisewomenink.com/">www.wisewomenink.com</a> or my facebook page
True A Novel By Melinda Field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
am available for presentations upon request.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you read the book, a review either positive or
questionable would be greatly appreciated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you read a review on Amazon if you click yes that the
review was helpful, Amazon will work harder for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For now have a love filled holiday season and a magical
winter,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Melinda
Field</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-25699033629153889482012-08-02T14:18:00.001-07:002012-10-23T12:37:02.021-07:00Let's start in the beginning...from Chapter OneGreetings All~ The True Book Tour in May was a great success!! Let it be known that independent bookstores are alive and well! I so enjoyed reading True out loud. Love the spoken word. Every audience was amazing, the conversation was endless. A big warm thank you to the Ashland Public Library, the Oroville Center for Spiritual Living, Mendocino Book Company in Ukiah,and Gallery Bookshop in Mendocino.<br />
<br />
The diverse weather in far Northern California never ceases to surprise me! Roasting last week, cool beautiful day, looming thunderheads above us today~<br />
<br />
<br />
True is receiving wonderful reviews on Amazon and through email, daily! Visit the True Amazon Review page at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/True-Melinda-Field/product-reviews/097620083X/ref=dp_top_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1">http://www.amazon.com/True-Melinda-Field/product-reviews/097620083X/ref=dp_top_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1</a><br />
<br />
I wanted to share some excerpts from True, starting with chapter one...<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Autumn</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Chapter One<br /><br />The girl flipped her long black hair out of her eyes. She stood looking at the empty motel room’s dirty carpet and cracked walls. She’d cleaned it as best she could, hoping that Mr. Monsoon, the manager, would give her what little was left of the deposit. The girl and her mother had lived there for six years, until last week when the cops busted her mother for heroin and prostitution. She opened the window—dusk in downtown Phoenix, the crowded boulevard, a cluster of gangs, pimps and drug dealers, shouting people, heavy traffic, honking horns and the constant screams of sirens. She looked around the place one last time. The big closet with shuttered doors had served as her room. Most of the time she’d slept there on the mattress or listened to the radio.<br /><br />“Goddamn her!” she yelled into the disinfected air of the bathroom. In the daytime she was gone, at school or work, while her mother shot heroin and nodded out in front of the TV. Most nights her mother went out, but once in a while she’d bring a man back; then the girl slept in the tub so she could lock the door. <br /><br />Her mother had been arrested before but her pimp, Eddie, usually bailed her out right away. This time he’d been arrested too. The Monsoons let her stay in their guest room in the apartment above the decaying motel. When her mother was allowed her one phone call, she’d told the girl, her voice soft and weak, “I’m gonna be in for a long time; call your grandmother, Jenny Brown, Green Valley, California.”<br /><br />“No, mom, no way! I’ve never even met her!” she fired back. Then she heard a gagging sound like vomiting and the phone line went dead. <br /><br />At first she’d thought, No fucking way I’m calling the grandmother.” Once when she was ten she’d found a picture in a box her mother kept under the bed. In it, a small dark woman held a little girl who was laughing. On the back it said, “Morning Dove and Mamma, 1959.” She’d asked her mother, who went by “Dovie,” if that was her real name.<br /><br />“It’s my Indian name, Green River Tribe. That’s your grandmother holding me. You too, you’re Indian, maybe more than Mexican, not East Indian like the Monsoons, but more like…” she’d paused, “like cowboys and Indians. But don’t tell anyone, say you’re Mexican, they won’t treat you so bad.” Ever since that day the girl had checked the box next to Hispanic.<br /><br />The last few days she had been desperate to find a way to stay in school and keep her job. She needed to find a safe place to sleep. She’d wondered if the Monsoons would let her rent their guest room, but she knew better; the cops were always on their back for one reason or another. Then, yesterday, after Child Protective Services called, Mrs. Monsoon had drifted across the room, her sari edged in gold, and handed her a cup of tea. She’d moved to the altar that they kept in their living room and lit a stick of incense. “Kali,” she’d said tapping a framed picture, and “Ganesh,” pointing to an elephant god. Then, with her eyes on the floor, in her broken English, she’d told the girl, “Good luck with grandmother,” and handed her the push button phone. Reluctantly, she’d called information; the number was listed.<br /><br />At first, the old woman on the phone didn’t understand. “Dovie’s girl? Where? Arizona? Who? Caterina?” The girl explained about her mother and jail. She bit her lip and fought back angry tears as she spoke the words, “I have nowhere else to go.”<br /><br />It took forever while her grandmother copied down the Monsoon’s phone number and address. For the next few days she’d helped Mr. Monsoon move furniture out of a room, shampoo the carpets, and hang drapes. He’d had another sudden vacancy and she’d worked with him to get it ready to rent. There had been no word from her grandmother. Then, on the third day, Mrs. Monsoon had set a letter with the words Express Mail stamped on it by her plate. She’d held it in her hands a long time, knowing her life was somehow bound to it. She’d left the table and walked out to the balcony to read it.<br /><br />Dear Caterina,<br />Here is a bus ticket to Green Valley.<br />Someone will pick you up at the Post Office.<br />Your grandmother, Jenny Brown<br /><br />It was all happening too fast. She looked up Green Valley, California, on the library computer. Three hundred miles north of San Francisco, a rural, secluded ranch valley… <br /><br />Shit! Did her grandmother live in a tipi? she wondered. Surrounded by three wilderness areas…Boasts a rich history from the gold rush days...Boasts!? Who uses words like that? Who!<br /><br />She straightened her small body, pulled the fitted shirt down over her tight black jeans. She picked up the new black backpack she’d saved all summer to buy, the one that was supposed to be for her junior year, not to carry her pathetic belongings to some godforsaken place. She put on dark glasses and the head phones that plugged into a small AM/FM radio and CD player she carried in her pocket. She almost always wore the headphones whether she could afford batteries or not. Wearing them stopped people from talking to her. She heard Mr. Monsoon’s horn, looked one last time at the room, blinked hard, shouldered the pack and hurried outside.<br /><br />In the parking lot of the Greyhound station, Mr. Monsoon, after double checking that the Honda’s doors were locked, took the backpack from her. He’d worn his brown Nehru jacket and shiny black shoes. She’d noticed in the car that his clothes smelled like curry and incense. She wondered if she’d miss that smell. Probably not, she decided, trying to keep up with his clipped pace. The terminal was packed with people. Buses lined the street, their engines running, the visible exhaust rising up into the orange, dirty ceiling that passed for air.<br /><br />After reading the destinations lit up on the back of each bus, she finally found hers, Phoenix to Sacramento. She pointed and Mr. Monsoon veered with her to the left. Once she’d gotten into line she noticed that Mr. Monsoon kept looking around nervously, adjusting his turban. She saw relief in his eyes when she told him that it was okay to leave her. His face was blank; he stepped towards her, bowed, pressed a ten dollar bill into her hand, turned and was gone. <br /><br />Right then, as Mr. Monsoon disappeared into the crowd, a man in the line winked at her and grabbed his crotch. She looked away, hiding behind the curtain of her hair. After handing her ticket to the bus driver she stepped up into the bus, the heavy air freshener not able to completely cover the faint smell of sweat and dirty diapers. It wasn’t until after she’d found a window seat and stashed the backpack underneath it that reality slammed, her heart raced, she felt nauseous, hot, sweat on her palms and across her lips. She turned to the window and pressed her cheek to the cool glass. <br /><br />Stop! she wanted to yell, Let Me Off! As if he knew, the bus driver buckled the seat belt over his pot belly, glanced in the overhead mirror, nodded, reached out and pushed the double levered doors shut. They closed with a loud intake of air as if the people on board were vacuum packed, sealed in.<br /><br />She woke in the dark, the black windows and dim blue lights more like a space ship than a bus. Most people slept, even the crying baby in the back. After using the cubicle bathroom she ate the food that Mrs. Monsoon had packed—an apple, an orange, and a naan filled with meat and vegetables. She flipped through a People magazine she’d found in the bathroom. “Back to school fashion, looking great in 98.” She fingered a hole in the knee of her jeans and yawned. She watched the wide, dark desert pass by; jagged shadows of cactus were backlit by a half moon. Stretching out her legs, grateful for the space of three seats, her stomach full, the repetitive swish of the tires lulled her and she slept again.<br /><br />———<br /><br />On and on and endlessly on, the bus crossed the swaths of farmland and freeways through central California. Identical freeway towns with carbon copy restaurants, stores, and malls spilled into new suburbs with look-alike houses and beige cars in every garage. <br /><br />The bus stopped morning, noon, and night. She couldn’t tell one Stop n’ Shop from the next, from the people, to the familiar merchandise; they were even arranged identically so you could always find the chips no matter what town you were in. And she wondered, were Greyhound stations located in the worst neighborhoods, or had bad neighborhoods sprung up around Greyhound stations?<br /><br />In the early morning of the second day, they dropped off and picked up passengers in the Sacramento station, where huge, carved balustrades told the story of the discovery of California. A lot of people got on the bus, and this time she was in the middle between an old man who started snoring the minute he sat down and a boy about her age who kept staring at her. She glared at him.<br /><br />Four more freeway hours later, her body cramped and in need of a shower, she tried to read her worn copy of Jane Eyre. Just outside of Churncreek, the bus driver announced over the loud speaker the sighting of Mt. Cloud, fifty miles away. He referred to the double humped mountain reclining on the horizon as She. <br /><br />That was really weird, she thought, giving a sex to a pile of dirt…<br /><br />At the Mt. Cloud Stop n’ Shop she reached into her pocket and counted eighty-three cents. She bought a candy bar, then filled her empty Pepsi bottle with water at the drinking fountain. Outside she stared at the huge mountain, so close she felt like she could have reached out and touched it. 14,351 elevation, said the engraved plaque. She was only about an hour away now. Her stomach growled, so she unwrapped the chocolate, letting the sweet bitterness melt on her tongue. In the bathroom she’d washed up, reapplying the heavy black eye liner and maroon lipstick she always wore. When she came out, the driver had called for people to board.<br /><br />Miles more of brown stubble fields passed, some dotted with a few horses—or were they cows? The old houses seemed to all have a falling down barn nearby. Where the hell were the neighborhoods and shopping malls? After forty miles they exited the freeway into Butte City and drove a short distance past the main street which held a grocery store and gas station. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />Here I go, she thought seeing a sign that said, To Green Valley. Twenty-three miles of steep winding road, unmaintained in the winter.<br /><br />Does it snow here? she wondered. They trundled uphill, nothing but heavily forested mountains on either side. She felt sick, the alien landscape and high elevation twisting in her gut. The summit looked down on a valley imprisoned by mountains. The highway narrowed to one lane, then abruptly dropped. In a few moments, she’d told herself, she would get off this bus, step into a place she’d never been, a place where she knew no one. <br /><br />My life is over! her mind screamed, while the bus’s brakes bleated a series of short shrill shrieks as it hurtled downhill.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-11346372020200856102012-03-28T16:13:00.001-07:002012-04-07T11:12:31.573-07:00Spring 2012<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISeKgl_t7kpDOfB4Er-eMVNfwdWHhiap9nx_0xqDHlBSj8jnZTcOAJo5Fa37wZMWwya68jHO3hczg1X7TQ7k0pm2fteq6VW2l6eCfdjgfw-Ijd7lJCWx54gVf21iSu6MILwKnyleoIrlX/s1600/Maverick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISeKgl_t7kpDOfB4Er-eMVNfwdWHhiap9nx_0xqDHlBSj8jnZTcOAJo5Fa37wZMWwya68jHO3hczg1X7TQ7k0pm2fteq6VW2l6eCfdjgfw-Ijd7lJCWx54gVf21iSu6MILwKnyleoIrlX/s320/Maverick.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Spring 2012 </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Spring in the mountains- frost in the mornings and night, but yellow budded ears on the lilacs, apples nubbed with future summer fruit the season of hope and promise the relief of lightness- less fires to build, less clothes and shoes and hats and gloves to wear and less dark days… More moisture needed but the first daffodils bloomed in the orchard and the horse’s winter coats are beak-flown and woven into nests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>True the novel has traveled through its first winter and was received with positive comments and a unanimous request for a sequel- something I had not intended as I began a new story titled Hold Fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But after 50 or so requests I let my overactive imagination go to five years later in the Green Valley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had grieved so when I finished True already missing the women and their flawed and beautiful selves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So- I have begun the sequel tentatively titled Free. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lani and I are busy finding every arsenal to promote True believing our vast so-called limitations are really assets and a good story will find its way out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are thirteen 5 star reviews on Amazon and I’ll be hitting the road in May to tour bookstores and libraries in northern California and along the coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you think your community might enjoy a reading and book signing with a bonus presentation on our three sets of wisdom cards for women, please let us know at info@wisewomenink.com.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems there are 1-2 million writers independently publishing their own work these days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My question in these times of transition as the old NY publishing model fades and the Indie and e-books surge forward is- where are the open-minded, trusting writer’s agents ready to help launch a new era in literature and publishing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where are the publishing houses willing to take on a clean well written copyedited completely finished independently printed book to market as their own?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shall we unite so that people who already have a platform and are willing to promote themselves can find camaraderie and networking opportunities in the Indie world of books?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am frustrated by literary agents limited query requests- one chapter, a first page, a letter or email, no unsolicited manuscripts and never a mention of a completed novel that only needs a publishers stamp of approval.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps the key is to completely circumvent the old way as has genre writer Amanda Hocking who has made millions independently publishing on Amazon and kindle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Visit <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/jan/12/amanda-hocking-self-publishing%20Stories">http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/jan/12/amanda-hocking-self-publishing%20Stories</a> Stories have the power to heal us and the world.have the power to heal us and the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where are the visionary editors agents, and publishers, willing to take on new (or old) writers with a finished product and a worthwhile tale?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One to two million Indie writers hmm, there are bound to be some jewels don’t you agree?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as they say the most enlightened people are usually hidden away out of the public eye, sadly some of the best stories will never be read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wise Women Ink is willing to be the change we want to see and soon will be empowering more writers to “do it themselves”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With agents, publishers, publicists, bookstore owners, and freethinking supporters, opening to a new way to put writers out there, the world of literature would become so much richer, diverse, and free of the 1% syndrome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>NOT TO MENTION THE FACT THAT SOMEONE WILL DEFINITELY CREATE ABUNDANCE SCOUTING AND SHOWCASING CREATIVE, INTEGRITY-MOTIVATED, INDEPENDENTLY FINISHED PRODUCTS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your thoughts, comments, and stories are always welcome.</span><span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">-Melinda Field</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-60974892929763469272012-03-01T09:33:00.000-08:002013-04-02T22:33:19.368-07:00February 22, 2012True has taken a life of its own. My visualization comes from the cover, I picture the story flying away on the wings of the butterfly.<br />
<br />
Feedback has been positive and interesting. I'm surprised that men have like it. (see reviews on Facebook and amazon.com) although basically a woman's journey, there are both flawed and wonderful male characters. The interaction between the men and women whether violent and psychotic or the tender feelings exchanged between High School sweethearts Emma and Liam now 58 experiencing EE (you didn't know what EE is? It's elder erotica :)) Anyone out there wanting to address this? <br />
<br />
So True is going out into the world, to agents, publishers, authors I admire, Bradbury, Kingsolver and the spirit of John Steinbeck. And as the story tells itself to a growing number of people through bookstores, (Winter River in Bandon Oregon just took it) Amazon.com and Wise Women Ink, I am going out with it! I have been invited by a local advocacy Library group,CovertwoCover <a href="http://covertwocover.org%20to/">http://covertwocover.org%20to/</a> to spend March 10th from 6-8 pm to discuss True and my experience along with Lani Phillips, in the independent publishing world. I'm excited to (and nervous) discuss my diverse writing path with the good folks that come out. Talking about an inward, introverted creative process that took 9 long years to finish is a switch for my brain, To bring something so inner and intimate out is a challenge but I am enjoying the adventure. My friend and fellow writer Donna gave me a necklace recently that is a antique typewriter key, actually it is the SHIFT key on a chain, I will remember to wear it. Putting ourselves in new, sometimes scary situations helps us to grow. I hope you are also focusing on inner and outer growth and that you can be joyous in the process~ MelindaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-46765193658343351922012-01-31T15:11:00.000-08:002012-01-31T16:29:30.433-08:00January 31st 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div align="center">With all the predictions about 2012, here is something I wrote that brings it into perspective for me...</div><div align="center"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOr6_B2-b9aOSbxYAqGQQ2q20Da9pPrKs-en0d_lBXrUkuGVPW26zkccja5IwHrfVL1T3rMPbazoVtmCr29AJjviMIHomFI62bQiiFuLTzbWQsBSNWHnVMFMeyQeNvFa5ztbDb2o24iFX/s1600/purpose+mixbook.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOr6_B2-b9aOSbxYAqGQQ2q20Da9pPrKs-en0d_lBXrUkuGVPW26zkccja5IwHrfVL1T3rMPbazoVtmCr29AJjviMIHomFI62bQiiFuLTzbWQsBSNWHnVMFMeyQeNvFa5ztbDb2o24iFX/s400/purpose+mixbook.tif" width="400" /></a></div><div align="center">Anthem</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">I am the void before time</div><div align="center">creations swirling fire</div><div align="center">dimensions intertwined</div><div align="center">I am the secret one inside</div><div align="center">all the stars and all the galaxies flow through my hands like beads</div><div align="center">I am all the moons and all the light that shine on every planet's night </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">I am in you and you are in me</div><div align="center">I am in everything and everything is in me</div><div align="center">the deer, the rock, the birds, the trees,</div><div align="center">the past, the present, the future</div><div align="center">ETERNITY.</div><div align="center">I am in you and you are in me</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">You are the lesson that's learned, </div><div align="center">the lesson that's not</div><div align="center">the slave and the soldier the woman that's bought</div><div align="center">The male and the female</div><div align="center">the cord untied, the age old dance</div><div align="center">of betrayal and pride</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">The human obsessed, so lost in power</div><div align="center">the painful sound of the forests' slaughter</div><div align="center">every unkind deed, all of the children with nothing to eat</div><div align="center">GREED</div><div align="center">All are of you and therefore of me</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Women pushed down for centuries</div><div align="center">beaten and burned with cruelty</div><div align="center">Remember, you carry the seed</div><div align="center">With the love of self comes </div><div align="center">TRUTH</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">As you forgive without anger or blame</div><div align="center">REMEMBER</div><div align="center">woman is the keeper of the flame</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">In all that you nurture and all that you hold,</div><div align="center">let this light help you bring into being</div><div align="center">male and female</div><div align="center">UNITY</div><div align="center">I am in you and your are in me</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">The illusion of order in the chaotic form</div><div align="center">the yearning for peace in the violent storm</div><div align="center">if earth doesn't move into bliss, into</div><div align="center">LOVE</div><div align="center">as below, so above...</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Here in this place of sacred choice</div><div align="center">sing hope in your prayers</div><div align="center">let joy raise your voice</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">All of your lifetimes'</div><div align="center">were lived for this one</div><div align="center">Star-born and star-crossed</div><div align="center">your crown is the sun</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">I am the void before time</div><div align="center">creations swirling fire</div><div align="center">dimensions intertwined</div><div align="center">I am the secret one inside</div><div align="center">all the stars and all the galaxies flow through my hands like beads</div><div align="center">I am all the moons and all the light that shine on every planet's night </div><div align="center">I am in you and you are in me</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">I am the earth that is her body</div><div align="center">the air that is her breath</div><div align="center" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">the water that is her womb</div><div align="center" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">the fire that is her spirit</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I AM IN YOU AND YOU ARE IN ME</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div align="center" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div align="center"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4KSpFKVI5GGwoIrOdJonQgDurC9IgWx_oE8XycWK2O4H6azuTrh1ECd06LlZxN9xlFQzk-ybDyfK2Q-oiz255ZIVHd6-rLPwoGaffS4HAAwckVMU_8fNDyWfp9nKM5b69x-123FEGEmr/s1600/DSC_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4KSpFKVI5GGwoIrOdJonQgDurC9IgWx_oE8XycWK2O4H6azuTrh1ECd06LlZxN9xlFQzk-ybDyfK2Q-oiz255ZIVHd6-rLPwoGaffS4HAAwckVMU_8fNDyWfp9nKM5b69x-123FEGEmr/s640/DSC_0001.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div align="center">~May we mother the world with <br />
care and compassion~</div><div align="center"> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-87468516818558425872012-01-03T11:15:00.000-08:002012-01-03T11:15:40.002-08:00January 2012All new, fresh, creative and innovative, the New Year lies before us like a field of endless possibilities.<br />
Let us commit to loving ourselves more, (because world peace starts with self) to not just tolerate our families but respect them for who and where they are... right now. Because everyone probably is doing the best they can in the moment. Let us celebrate our neighbor's diversity without fear or ignorance, while we reach out to those who are in need and express a kind word, to friends and strangers alike, and please please allow us to see animals as the incredible beings that they are. <br />
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I was saddened to learn that horses may once again be slaughtered to be sold for food in foreign countries. Horses have been the most abused animals of all, even though their gifts to man allowed for a huge leap in human evolution.<br />
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Their exploitation in racing sports, as transportation in many third world countries and the abject abuse of pregnant mares and their foals, so that millions of women can ingest mare urine as a means of hormone replacement therapy is cruel and unnecessary.<br />
<br />
Here is an excerpt from "True" concerning the above issue:<br />
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<span lang="EN"><div align="justify" dir="ltr">Emma stood in the rain at the edge of the creek that was wild with fast water. Typical for February, it frothed with mud the color of coffee and cream. She looked west to the Serpentine Mountains. Snowmelt flowed down through the narrow canyon and braided its way into the wide, rocky creek bed. She was waiting for Briar, who was bringing the promarin mare any time now. Yesterday Emma and Cat had cleaned out the other stall in Mav’s little barn. She’d gone to the feed store and bought vitamins and supplements for the pregnant horse. She knew Mav would be glad for the company. </div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">The rain let up to a slight drizzle as she walked back towards the pasture and corral area. The bay gelding was standing quietly. She moved against him, scratching behind his ear; his eyes closed and his lower lip twitched loosely.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"You’re going to have a friend," she told him, "won’t that be nice?" He seemed to listen to her, his large brown eyes opening wide as she spoke. "This horse has had a rough time, not spoiled rotten like you, huh, big boy? We’ll give her and her foal some shelter for a while, okay?" She realized then that she could have just as well been talking about Cat and her situation. The horse and foal would take care of themselves, but Cat—that was going to be more complicated, especially with the fiery attitude the girl had shown of late. And then there was Liam and Midnight; what would they think? And how would Cat feel, knowing that the son of one of Emma’s best friends was involved in the rape? The enormity of her commitment to the girl overwhelmed her.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">Dark purple clouds boiled overhead as she walked to the corral. She saw Briar’s truck and trailer coming down the road. Mav ran to the fence and whinnied as Briar pulled into the turnaround. Briar stepped down from her truck slowly.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"Finally a break in the weather, huh?" She seemed unsteady on her feet.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"Yes, finally, everything is drenched. I checked Mav for rain rot on his back, but he seems alright. How are you?"</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"I’m okay, just really nauseous from the chemo. My friend Marlene didn’t show up until after eleven; guess there was flooding along the interstates." She unlatched the doors of the trailer and Mav called again. This time the mare answered him as she backed out. She stood bewildered, looking at the unfamiliar surroundings. She was pathetic, a large dull brown horse with patches of hair missing, almost 100 pounds underweight. Her ribs jutted from under loose skin, and her hipbones stuck up at sharp angles. Her pregnant belly hung down, as if stretching all of her skin with its gravity.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"Oh, God!" said Emma, "poor thing."</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"I know. We unloaded her in the dark, but when I got a good look at her this morning, I was shocked. It’s amazing she still has the foal."</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"When is she due?" asked Emma, reaching out to the horse, letting it smell her hand.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"As far as they can figure, sometime in May."</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">Mav was beside himself, running the length of the fence and calling to the mare. "Okay, okay, let’s see how you two get along." Emma opened the gate as Briar led the mare into the corral. "I’m going to leave the halter on her, just in case," she said, unclipping the lead rope. The mare immediately kicked her hind legs at Mav, warning him not to come too close. He snorted and backed off, taking her in. </div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">The contrast was pitiful. Even at twenty years old, Mav’s shining red coat and the quick flick of his tail radiated health, while the mare had such a low life-force, not just in her body but in her eyes as well.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"What’s her name?" Emma asked.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"Candy; here’s her record," said Briar, getting a manila envelope out of the truck. "Candy Barr, approximately ten years. She’s been at the factory in Canada for five years. Before that it looks like she had one, two, three different owners. This will be her sixth foal. No wonder she’s in such bad shape."</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"What are those scars on her withers?"</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"From what I understand, the mares are cross-tied with some kind of strap over their withers to keep them in place. The scars must be where the harness rubbed her. Like I told you, these mares are hooked up to catheters twenty-four hours a day. The factory farms are huge, housing maybe five hundred mares at a time. It’s a thriving business, as you can imagine, with women all around the world on estrogen therapy. The drug companies are cleaning up, and here is the end product," said Briar sighing, pointing to the mare who now just stood off to one side, head down. "They kill their foals as soon as they’re born. After four or five babies, they kill the mares too. My friend Marlene knows a rescue group up there, and sometimes they can get a few of the mares out."</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"I wonder if women would take the drug if they knew," wondered Emma out loud. "Well, I haven’t fed Mav yet; let’s give them a nice flake." It began to sprinkle, but Emma and Briar stood by the fence watching the two horses eat.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"So you’re having a lot of nausea?" </div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"Yeah, I just feel like shit most of the time. I’ll have the chemo and just start to recover, and then I’ve got to go again the next week. I’m not complaining; I know I’ve got to do this…I’m just so tired."</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"I know, honey," said Emma, putting her arm around her. "It’s awful, but it will end. Have you seen the oncologist, heard any reports on your progress?"</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"Not until week after next," Briar sighed. "I’m gonna go home and go back to bed. Thanks for fostering Candy, and I’ll help out as much as I can. Dr. Alice will come check her out next week, and Harry will trim her feet soon. Mav looks happy."</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">The two horses were eating from the same pile of hay. Emma saw a ripple under the skin of the mare’s belly. "Look at that!" she said, "what do you think? A little foot, maybe?"</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"Maybe," said Briar, getting into the truck.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"Briar, you’re coming for lunch Friday, right? Everybody is; we’ve all got cabin fever. It’s potluck, but don’t you worry about bringing anything. Take care and rest, alright?" Briar nodded and pulled herself up into the truck.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">Emma turned and left the two horses in the corral. It had started to pour again; she pulled her hood closer around her face as she walked through the pasture. Back at the creek she squatted down, spread her hand over a round stone, and picked it up. She rose and aimed. The rock spun into the air and landed with a splash. She threw another and then another. Something about throwing the rocks into the dark water and knowing they were being carried away made her feel better.</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr"><br />
</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">"The measure of a culture's humanity and conscienceness is based on how they treat their animals." </div><div align="justify" dir="ltr"><br />
</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr"><br />
</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr">Peace be with you, </div><div align="justify" dir="ltr"><br />
</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Melinda</span></div></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-17232967243702263922011-11-24T12:19:00.000-08:002011-11-24T12:19:37.131-08:00November 24th 2011<span style="font-size: large;">Happy Thanksgiving to all ! Sitting here quietly I am reminded of some things that I am so thankful for...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My two year old grandson's tiny hand in mine, his pure joy, excitement and innocence as we cross the meadow to visit the horses.</span><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: large;">My five month old grandson's baby belly laugh~ </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: large;">The graceful, warrior's light that emanates from two of my dear friends living with cancer.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: large;">The growth and acceptance that comes from the sometimes painful relationships in our lives.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: large;">Our increasing ability to "live what is" (See Byron Katie's website <a href="http://www.thework.com/">Byron Katie~</a> ) but still "be the change we want to see" (Gandhi).</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have gratitude for being able to create and express myself, and so thankful our little company with a large vision is still viable. Here are some of the wisdom cards I would love to share with you...</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AA-tRd4SPqExfsfQSZbRTM5LDiPmGmNN2PLKKBBLwL3vy66eDLlfTtEc8dfuO5-ETBdDgt5gr41HOxY97zdunkNe8ItPqdiEi2uItpeKIGfAHW1VXTXfN05mTHqOiN6IpauQW5u-M6qh/s1600/%25237+Autumn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AA-tRd4SPqExfsfQSZbRTM5LDiPmGmNN2PLKKBBLwL3vy66eDLlfTtEc8dfuO5-ETBdDgt5gr41HOxY97zdunkNe8ItPqdiEi2uItpeKIGfAHW1VXTXfN05mTHqOiN6IpauQW5u-M6qh/s320/%25237+Autumn.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Autumn</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">After all the nurturing, weeding and pruning,</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">we can now reap the harvest of ourselves.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">As the vibrancy of colors soften,</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">this is a time for readiness and anticipation.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Falling leaves remind us that change</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">is the only constant.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Gather and prepare.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">From the Wisdom of the Crone~</span><br />
<a href="http://www.wisdomofthecrone.com/">Wisdom of the Crone</a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm59u4BB1mPQzuVYaRcUzYhredNUlwrY_A-_gVeTSgr3Unh7oLzYxbr_nDennEaErtCBian3VxcsFEe9Dq-SDQEO8KRG_PHYp9Y0fVtpnxUWhTCgE1LS8P8H7eruuj_AeIjS8SzkbKVSOw/s1600/gratitude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm59u4BB1mPQzuVYaRcUzYhredNUlwrY_A-_gVeTSgr3Unh7oLzYxbr_nDennEaErtCBian3VxcsFEe9Dq-SDQEO8KRG_PHYp9Y0fVtpnxUWhTCgE1LS8P8H7eruuj_AeIjS8SzkbKVSOw/s320/gratitude.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Gratitude</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Be grateful for the gifts in your life:</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">For the air you breathe, the body that sustains you</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">and your family that loves you.</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Welcome even the hardships, knowing they are lessons you must</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">learn for your soul's growth.</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Out of thankfulness rises awareness for the less fortunate.</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Remember to give, serve and help others.</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">With gratitude we can create constant happiness.</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">From The Wonder of the Mother</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.wonderofthemother.com/">Wonder of the Mother</a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I also wanted to thank you all for your appreciation and support after reading "True". Your impressions, emotions, opinions and comments mean so much...If you are inclined, I would love it if you would write a short review and post it on Amazon.com</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">P.S. "Our Crone" horse Elvira is better!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Have a wonder-full holiday~</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Blessed Be</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Melinda</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyPA7XdsiGfj-KFuZl3yXHvH8uZnJxlvvQ3oG5MV9EzDHJBBJQBcTRm7G6Qfeu2s2SPqIQtqGI9AJoDGNoGV-gspcbu4nn0qKGHx9XkYm4pBGHqQUX2c6319yldJGUPw0OFcsa-KHpXNv6/s1600/DSC_0058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyPA7XdsiGfj-KFuZl3yXHvH8uZnJxlvvQ3oG5MV9EzDHJBBJQBcTRm7G6Qfeu2s2SPqIQtqGI9AJoDGNoGV-gspcbu4nn0qKGHx9XkYm4pBGHqQUX2c6319yldJGUPw0OFcsa-KHpXNv6/s320/DSC_0058.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Elvira and the girls~</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-32714545953811864322011-11-01T14:52:00.000-07:002011-11-06T07:31:41.990-08:0011-1-11<span style="font-size: medium;">The wheel of the year has turned as have all the trees in the valley, to vibrant burgundy, yellow and orange. We've had frost, and the garden is laid to rest for this season. Our apple crop is abundant and cider making is under way. The hay is snug in the barn and wood (seven cords, thanks to my son-in-law) is neatly stacked. True has been out for a few weeks, I am so grateful that people have taken the time to read and share it. The feedback has been positive and the reviews are coming in (see Amazon.com) Like a birth, you hold and shelter the baby until you are ready to share it with the world. I look forward to readings and book signings in the near future.<br />
<br />
Wise Women Ink will be giving discounts to any book club who will be ordering True. Anyone can contact Wise Women Ink if they would like to purchase larger quantities of True at a discount as well. Many people have suggested that True would make a great movie, so anyone out there with contacts in the entertainment industry, let us know!<br />
I ask that you pass the book on through Facebook and consider sharing it for Christmas. <br />
<br />
There have been so many comments about the book cover and interior design, thank you Lani Phillips and Jill Voges for your focus and inspirational art work and design. <br />
<br />
On a sadder note, one of my horses, Elvira is not doing well and we will be deciding soon if her time on this earth is finished. She has been such a giving companion over her 33 years, as a ranch horse, kid's horse, barrel racer and trail horse. She served humans with an open willingness and spirited heart, I am grateful she will be forever remembered, as she plays an important role in True. Bless our animals and all they give to us. ~ Melinda<br />
<br />
Here is a review that was sent to me by a wonderful gentlemen, I am so thrilled to share it with you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I admire art excellence, and I am envious of the fortunate souls that can create it, be it writing stories, making music, or painting pretty pictures. Thus, I was first impressed by the beautiful and intricate photograph on the cover, by Lani Phillips. But dont' let the cover fool you. "True", by Melinda Field is not a novel about butterflies and flowers. No, it is the hard hitting fast moving story of the sometimes happy, sometimes tragic, sometimes sad, and always interesting adventures of the Hidden Horse Sisterhood. Ms. Field is a talented and often brilliant writer, who made me see what the women saw, hear what the women heard, and feel what the women felt. I smiled when they were happy, feared for their safety when they were threatened, and I wept with them when they were sad. I heard the creak of the saddles, smelled the wonderful aroma of the sweating horses on the trail, and felt the sting of campfire smoke in my eyes. I inhaled the perfume of the tall pines, and was refreshed by the cool waters of alpine lakes. <br />
So, as a grizzled old coot, who spent most of his life in a testosterone dominant environment, I was surprised, I was impressed, I was moved. I can only say " Ms. Field that ya done good, ya done real good girl. The Hidden Horse Sisterhood lives!"<br />
<br />
"Chief" Robert Butler</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-70668992351968053722011-10-07T14:16:00.000-07:002011-10-07T14:16:13.153-07:00True is here!<table _yuid="yui_3_1_1_8_131802011814066" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody _yuid="yui_3_1_1_8_131802011814065">
<tr _yuid="yui_3_1_1_8_131802011814064"><td _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_131802011814067" valign="top"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The books are here! After nine years of writing and revising, endless hours of ruminating and imagining, not to mention making the time in my incredibly full life, the books are here! After a year of copy editing, book formatting, designing a cover, writing the synopsis on the back, literally thousands of decisions and an endless trek through grammar hell, True is here, physically, held in my hand and it is beautiful, a silky, sensual and rich paper package. And somewhere in a literary parallel universe where stories wait to be born, my precious characters are rejoicing and so am I, so grateful to be able to share it with you and hopefully you will want to pass TRUE on to others...</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1A4EG3a-y0UHC11Ov6B1NM_iwwtDGjAdjDRkl-dXq7svs-nWRJewV7OEzQy8tpcVQFEdXjWaDazhrgacOdaMPyNh5TehROAw1uL8GjGe7wTyTSHoFbs2MCnTB2bdWOyndOndErKsgQShO/s1600/DSC_3749a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1A4EG3a-y0UHC11Ov6B1NM_iwwtDGjAdjDRkl-dXq7svs-nWRJewV7OEzQy8tpcVQFEdXjWaDazhrgacOdaMPyNh5TehROAw1uL8GjGe7wTyTSHoFbs2MCnTB2bdWOyndOndErKsgQShO/s320/DSC_3749a.jpg" width="199" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia;">P.S. I will let everyone know all the details of where to buy True, next week~</span></td></tr>
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<div class="contentbuttonbar msgview clearfix" id="contentbuttonbarbottom"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-35703497067757189562011-09-09T10:27:00.000-07:002011-09-11T13:34:47.627-07:00A dream come True~<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcPIQUHqvXOezVUzGl4aY8t-53-5_MjF2kghWPxZIbAWYKy91W0_0RDzHfMLQmeL6NslnnztctY5HJ9nHyer0Sz0oXAPYYIKTqiWcJfZsQboTTzmnP20JEVxAL453qktbSKfSCr37gfa8/s1600/DSC_3700a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcPIQUHqvXOezVUzGl4aY8t-53-5_MjF2kghWPxZIbAWYKy91W0_0RDzHfMLQmeL6NslnnztctY5HJ9nHyer0Sz0oXAPYYIKTqiWcJfZsQboTTzmnP20JEVxAL453qktbSKfSCr37gfa8/s320/DSC_3700a.jpg" width="212" xaa="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I have been a writer since I was a child. I came in with a great need to communicate. I have always known that the ability of a story to transform ourselves and the world, word by word is truly powerful. In my 64th year I am grateful for such a rich life and creative path. I have been lucky to have a 35 year marriage, 5 children, grandchildren and a lifestyle lived in such a beautiful and natural environment, that it takes my breath away.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My creative path traveled through many different genres; poetry, short stories, decks of wisdom cards for young women, mothers and grandmothers, and now my debut novel, True. Women, their role on the planet at this amazing time in history, their ways of coping with a worldwide patriarchal society and their generous enduring nurturing spirit, frustration and anger have always been at the center of my work. Perhaps this is because I had no sisters, and my mother died when I was just 18. With no strong female role models I was required to <em>trail blaze</em> my way through the female passages of life, such as young womanhood, relationships, marriage, birth, mothering, menopause and the great mystery of death. I have been gifted though with incredibly supportive women friends and later with a wildly "young at heart" step-mother. I have learned so much from my daughters, who haven't had to experience the limitations that my generation and generations before me dealt with. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The story of True had possessed me for nine years. Animals have always given me a sense of comfort and kinship. I was a girl-child obsessed with horses, and my relationships with them have been magical. The female characters in True, who are extraordinary women leading ordinary lives came through me so to speak, literally if you will, revealing themselves, even as I slept. I would awake to Cat demanding that, "I need to say this and I have to do that." or half awake in the morning I'd hear Lilly talking to her horse, Joe. While walking in the mountains near my home, I'd suddenly "see" Midnight on the path ahead of me...and the men, I have learned so much from my male characters, even the bad ones. They showed me that they could be both gentle and masculine in the rough world of rural life. My characters had meetings without me! I'd be in the flow of writing and read back a sentence or paragraph shocked by what I saw, saying out loud to myself, "What? You are going to do that?". "Really?"...I suppose all writers become attached to the characters they create, but when I finally finished the book, I felt so sad and missed them, as if they were real people. As they struggle and rejoice and are taken in by the human condition of love, loss, fear, birth, death and beyond, I am grateful that although they are <u>totally fictional, </u>they somehow do justice to some of the fine people and animals I have been so fortunate know... Melinda Star Apple Farm September 9th 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7517391696529853109.post-3100590239992168312011-08-31T16:15:00.000-07:002011-08-31T16:21:11.430-07:00True, a novel by Melinda Field<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin;"><span style="color: #444444;">When sixteen year old Cat's mother is sent to prison in the fall of 1998, she is forced to leave the streets of <city w:st="on">Phoenix</city>, <state w:st="on">Arizona</state> to go live with her Native American grandmother whom she has never met, in a remote mountain valley in <place w:st="on">Northern California</place>. After a devastating incident, Cat is taken in by nurse/midwife Emma Cassady, and becomes an integral<span style="color: black;">,</span> yet controversial part of her circle of horsewomen friends,<span style="color: yellow;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #444444;">Midnight, Lilly, Clare and Briar</span></span>. Emma's decision to foster the troubled girl, disrupts her serene life, as do her feelings for a man who broke her heart decades ago. Lilly, blindsided by change, and her fragile sister Clare must deal with their aging mother, Dora, who is leading a secret life at the local nursing home. Midnight, culture keeper for her small tribe<span style="color: cyan;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #444444;">is forced to </span></span>face the truth about her only son<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black;">;</span> </span>while Briar, a fearless horsewoman and trainer becomes the circle's greatest teacher. Over the course of a year, these authentic women and their ties to their families, animals, their pristine wild environment and each other, inspire an unforgettable story that will be passed from friend to friend and mother to daughter. </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Cochin;"><span style="color: #444444;">"The beautiful and the terrible are magically united by "True's" honest wisdom. "</span></span></b></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00334735138182552035noreply@blogger.com1