Autumn 2012

Dear True Believers,

It’s autumn here, black oaks gone scarlet cover the mountainsides, gypsy birds seed peck the spiraled disks of sunflowers.  Prepare, prepare, prepare, seems to be the theme as apples weight down the trees and blackberries gone to ferment intoxicate the waddling quail.  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.  It’s been one year since my novel True was released.  And what a year it has been.  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.  Comments and reviews, emails and likes, have come from all around the country.  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.  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.  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.”  “We need to know what happens to the girl… etc.”  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.  It is now being considered by Clint Eastwood, the production company for the documentary called Buck and the writers of An Unfinished Life.  Oh what dreams may come True, please keep sending your wonderful positive energy.  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.  Wake up agents, publishers, and editors!  It is a great time to be independent and Wise Women Ink, a company created with Lani Phillips, is now “Book shepherding” other writers.  And speaking of Lani, no one has given True more love, respect and belief than she has.  So with great gratitude I thank all the True believers for your support and allegiance.  I’m at work on the sequel starting this winter and excited to see what the next year brings.  Please keep in touch with us on www.wisewomenink.com or my facebook page True A Novel By Melinda Field.  I am available for presentations upon request.   If you read the book, a review either positive or questionable would be greatly appreciated.  When you read a review on Amazon if you click yes that the review was helpful, Amazon will work harder for me. 

For now have a love filled holiday season and a magical winter,

                                                Melinda Field

Let's start in the beginning...from Chapter One

Greetings 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.

The diverse weather in far Northern California never ceases to surprise me! Roasting last week, cool beautiful day, looming thunderheads above us today~


True is receiving wonderful reviews on Amazon and through email, daily! Visit the True Amazon Review page at http://www.amazon.com/True-Melinda-Field/product-reviews/097620083X/ref=dp_top_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1

I wanted to share some excerpts from True, starting with chapter one...

 

Autumn

Chapter One

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.

“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.

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.”

“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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.”

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.

Dear Caterina,
Here is a bus ticket to Green Valley.
Someone will pick you up at the Post Office.
Your grandmother, Jenny Brown

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…

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

———

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.

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?

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.

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.

That was really weird, she thought, giving a sex to a pile of dirt…

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.

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. 

Here I go, she thought seeing a sign that said, To Green Valley. Twenty-three miles of steep winding road, unmaintained in the winter.

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.

My life is over! her mind screamed, while the bus’s brakes bleated a series of short shrill shrieks as it hurtled downhill.

Spring 2012

Spring 2012

            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. 

            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.  But after 50 or so requests I let my overactive imagination go to five years later in the Green Valley.  I had grieved so when I finished True already missing the women and their flawed and beautiful selves.  So- I have begun the sequel tentatively titled Free.  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.  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.  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.  It seems there are 1-2 million writers independently publishing their own work these days. 

            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?  Where are the publishing houses willing to take on a clean well written copyedited completely finished independently printed book to market as their own?  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?  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.  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.  Visit http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/jan/12/amanda-hocking-self-publishing%20Stories  Stories have the power to heal us and the world.have the power to heal us and the world.  Where are the visionary editors agents, and publishers, willing to take on new (or old) writers with a finished product and a worthwhile tale?  One to two million Indie writers hmm, there are bound to be some jewels don’t you agree?  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.  Wise Women Ink is willing to be the change we want to see and soon will be empowering more writers to “do it themselves”.  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.  NOT TO MENTION THE FACT THAT SOMEONE WILL DEFINITELY CREATE ABUNDANCE SCOUTING AND SHOWCASING CREATIVE, INTEGRITY-MOTIVATED, INDEPENDENTLY FINISHED PRODUCTS.  Your thoughts, comments, and stories are always welcome.

-Melinda Field

February 22, 2012

True 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.

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?

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 http://covertwocover.org%20to/ 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~ Melinda

January 31st 2012

With all the predictions about 2012, here is something I wrote that brings it into perspective for me...

　



Anthem

I am the void before time

creations swirling fire

dimensions intertwined

I am the secret one inside

all the stars and all the galaxies flow through my hands like beads

I am all the moons and all the light that shine on every planet's night

I am in you and you are in me

I am in everything and everything is in me

the deer, the rock, the birds, the trees,

the past, the present, the future

ETERNITY.

I am in you and you are in me

You are the lesson that's learned,

the lesson that's not

the slave and the soldier the woman that's bought

The male and the female

the cord untied, the age old dance

of betrayal and pride

The human obsessed, so lost in power

the painful sound of the forests' slaughter

every unkind deed, all of the children with nothing to eat

GREED

All are of you and therefore of me

Women pushed down for centuries

beaten and burned with cruelty

Remember, you carry the seed

With the love of self comes

TRUTH

As you forgive without anger or blame

REMEMBER

woman is the keeper of the flame

In all that you nurture and all that you hold,

let this light help you bring into being

male and female

UNITY

I am in you and your are in me

The illusion of order in the chaotic form

the yearning for peace in the violent storm

if earth doesn't move into bliss, into

LOVE

as below, so above...

Here in this place of sacred choice

sing hope in your prayers

let joy raise your voice

All of your lifetimes'

were lived for this one

Star-born and star-crossed

your crown is the sun

I am the void before time

creations swirling fire

dimensions intertwined

I am the secret one inside

all the stars and all the galaxies flow through my hands like beads

I am all the moons and all the light that shine on every planet's night

I am in you and you are in me

I am the earth that is her body

the air that is her breath

the water that is her womb

the fire that is her spirit

I AM IN YOU AND YOU ARE IN ME





~May we mother the world with
care and compassion~

　

January 2012

All new, fresh, creative and innovative, the New Year lies before us like a field of endless possibilities.
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. 

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.

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.

Here is an excerpt from "True" concerning the above issue:

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.

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.

"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.

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.

"Finally a break in the weather, huh?" She seemed unsteady on her feet.

"Yes, finally, everything is drenched. I checked Mav for rain rot on his back, but he seems alright. How are you?"

"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.

"Oh, God!" said Emma, "poor thing."

"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."

"When is she due?" asked Emma, reaching out to the horse, letting it smell her hand.

"As far as they can figure, sometime in May."

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.

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.

"What’s her name?" Emma asked.

"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."

"What are those scars on her withers?"

"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."

"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.

"So you’re having a lot of nausea?"

"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."

"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?"

"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."

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?"

"Maybe," said Briar, getting into the truck.

"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.

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.

"The measure of a culture's humanity and conscienceness is based on how they treat their animals."

Peace be with you,

Melinda