Images from Keowee Valley

Lee Falls, in the Sumter National Forest

My final (I hope) edits for Keowee Valley have been sent back to my editor, who's in the process of going through the novel for small errors and discrepancies. Then it goes to the copyeditor, and then on to the publisher, and then back to me. This summer, I'll be collaborating (though the publisher, of course, has the final say) on cover art. It's a fascinating process, and I continue to be thrilled by it. I can't imagine that this--seeing my novel come to life--would ever get old.

Since Keowee Valley is such a place-based novel, and in my heart I am very much a Southern writer (and we're obsessed with place) I thought I'd add another page to my website, dealing with images from the novel. Here, I've included photos of places and things important to the story. And while the places in the photos may not look exactly as they did 244 years ago, I hope it'll give readers a sense of the journey my protagonist, Quinn, took--into a gorgeous, dangerous, and wild new land.

The setting of Keowee Valley certainly inspired the story. Though the novel moves from colonial Charleston, South Carolina, into the South and North Carolina mountain frontier, and into the deepest reaches of the Cherokee country (present-day Tennessee) and back, the main setting of the novel is a place I dearly love: Oconee County, South Carolina. Today, this part of the Upcountry of South Carolina is dotted with recreational lakes, which were incredibly gorgeous and biodiversely rich river valleys and natural gorges flooded in the mid-twentieth century.

It's a land I've been fascinated with since I was a small child, filled with Cherokee place names, rushing rivers and creeks, unusual plants and animals, and those haunting blue mountains--and I always wondered about the powerful and mysterious people who claimed it as home, long before I ever got there. So, in many ways, that's where the story started.

I hope the images add something special to the "About the Book" page of my author web site. And I hope you enjoy them!

Searching for Wonder Woman

Wonder Woman. My hero (ine).

I have been not-so-secretly obsessed with Wonder Woman since I was four years old, when I got to be her for Halloween. It remains my favorite of many wildly creative Halloween costumes (man, my Mom could sew), and included red rainboots, stars-and-stripes Underoos, and aluminum foil magic bracelets. I felt powerful. At four years old. I never wanted to take it off.

It didn't matter that I was a tiny towhead better suited for a Heidi costume: Wonder Woman was my girl. I loved her.

Wonder Woman has followed me throughout my life, and once lived on a huge poster on the screened-in porch of a cabin in the North Carolina mountains that I shared with six other 20s-ish women. We were outdoor educators (basically a fancy way of saying camp counselors and trip leaders), most just out of college, working through the Fall and early Winter on group programs for middle and high schoolers--in hiking, biking, team-building, paddling, climbing, you name it. The cabin wasn't insulated (in fact, the windows were covered with screens, which is interesting in October in the mountains), and we slept in our sleeping bags in a row of bunkbeds, tobaggons on our (sometimes wet) heads and double layers of socks on our feet. On the other side of the cabin lived the male counselors, and though they were a bit smellier than we were (only a bit), we were a big, happy family, silly and raucous and entirely invested in working with kids and teenagers and living an outdoor life.

I have to pause a moment. Man, I loved that life.

Okay. So, Wonder Woman. One of my buddies in the cabin stuck the poster up on our screened porch, so we could see it every time we left and entered the cabin. Wonder Woman began to feel like a welcoming committee, after sometimes days of being out with 6th or 7th graders, or high schoolers, trekking through the Appalachian backcountry. I started imaginging that she smiled at me, that she'd give me imaginary high-fives when I'd return sweaty and dirty and happily exhausted.

Today, as a 30s-ish woman, I've got Wonder Woman magnets on my fridge, and a ridiculously cool Wonder Woman mug (I'm actually drinking out of it as I write this). It says, in bold, slanting black letters, that "This Amazon Princess Will Not Bow to Any Man!" Awesome.

I'm even teaching my two year-old daughter to say "WONder WOman!" with the same inflection as the '70s TV show theme song. And if you ask her who her favorite superhero is, she'll tell you, just like that.

I am so proud.

But lately, I find myself reaching for my Wonder Woman mug far more often (I used to just drink from her on Friday mornings, when I was feeling especially sassy). I need her magic bracelets, her gold headband, and certainly her invisible plane, now more than ever.

Every modern woman, I think, attempts to be Wonder Woman. Most of us have jobs, families, avocations, homes, and some of us have kids. Though the balancing act of being a modern woman has become a sort of cliche, especially in modern media, we're juggling all these aspects of our lives like a Ringling Brothers' clown riding a unicycle center stage and tossing up tomatoes. The spotlights are blaring and hot, and beyond the ring of light the bleachers are filled with the faces of our family members and friends. We don't want to drop anything.

I don't have a solution for this. If I did I'd sell it on t-shirts. At the moment I'm caught up in my own wonderful but bone-tiring roles of writer, teacher, mother, wife, student--and I don't feel that I'm doing anything well.

And so, for the thousandth time in my life--including senior year of college, when in order to graduate, I desperately needed to pass a math test that looked like hieroglyphics; or, for that matter, when I was in labor with my daughter for 20 hours--I am calling on Wonder Woman. I need her back in my life, go-go boots, booty shorts, bustier and all.

Because she's my favorite superhero. Because she deflects bullets with her wrists. Because, I think, she gets me.

6 Reasons Why Writing a New Novel is Like Trying to Get In Shape

1. You have to actually do something in order to make things happen.

(You know, write, walk, run, fast like a Hollywood ingenue before the Teen Choice Awards.)


2. You have to let go of the past.

(But in my old novel.... But in my old pants' size....)


3. You have to resist temptation.
(Why not another teen vampire novel? Why not another Reese's Peanut Butter Egg?)


4. You have to be a bit selfish with your time.

(Mama can't make Play-Doh cakes with you this afternoon because she'll be writing, dear heart. Mama can't visit the tadpoles in your classroom on Tuesday, sugar-roo, because if she doesn't get to the forest she'll look like Play-Doh. The white kind.)


5. You have to recognize that, for the most part, the process will sucketh mightily.

(I'm staring at my blank, dusty computer screen wishing I'd decided to join the Peace Corps. Or the circus. I'm staring at my muddy trail runners wishing I'd decided to take up water aerobics. With my elderly neighbor.)


6. Sometimes, you have to take a break.

(Step away from the computer, Quasimodo. Step away from that story line, because it's giving you hives. Drive directly past the trailhead and pull over, sit on the riverbank for a while. Or turn the car around and head to the gelato shop.)

The Forest for the Trees: Editing a Novel. Or, the Coffee I.V.

“When you write a book, you spend day after day scanning and identifying the trees. When you’re done, you have to step back and look at the forest.”   
 ~ Stephen King, from On Writing

Throughout the month of March, my editor at Bell Bridge Books and I have been deep in the editing process with KEOWEE VALLEY. This has been a month of late nights and early mornings, of less exercise and more time at the desk, of red-rimmed eyes and deeper wrinkles. I wouldn't change it for a thing.

William Faulkner, notorious drinking writer that he was, once said that when he was writing, he "always kept [his] whiskey within reach." I can relate to this. If not for the toddler, husband, dog, house, and job, I'd likely spike my coffee in the morn and partake heavily of the vino at night. But my drug of choice, especially during the editing process, is straight-up coffee.

Coffee. Sweet, sweet nectar of the gods.

The first time I drank coffee was finals week my freshman year at Clemson University. My dorm-mates and I had plugged in a coffee pot in the study room on our hall and had a friend wedge a chair under the door knob outside, to lock us in. I had a lot of excess energy in those days, and I'm pretty sure I remember my friends beating on the door, begging the girls outside to get me out of there after I'd had a few cups. I'm pretty sure there were random push-ups, jogging-in-place, and the singing of "The Star Spangled Banner" involved. I'm sorry, college friends. So very sorry.

Now that the editing process is (basically) over on my novel, I can say I know without a shadow of doubt that there are two things every author needs after her novel's been bought:

1. Coffee. Lots of it. Perhaps entering through an I.V.

2. A great editor.

Luckily, I have both of these. Not the I.V. of course. That would be icky.

College, now that we've broached the subject, was the first time I ever dreamed about what it'd be like to work with an editor. I'd been writing novels and novellas (mostly in spiral notebooks under my desk in science classes) since I was 11 years old, but until I became an English major and began having real discussions about my writing with my professors, I'd never considered the nuts-and-bolts realities of writing as a career.

Up to now, oddly enough, despite the fact I've published work in newspapers, magazines and literary journals, and have been lucky enough to win some awards, I'd never really had my writing edited. Unless you consider the copyeditors at the newspaper where I worked right out of college standing over my desk late on Sunday nights, frowning down at me. The conversation usually went like this:

Them: "Uh, Katie. You can't use this word. It has three syllables."

Me: "Why not? It's a great word."

Them: Silence.

Me: "Shouldn't we elevate the standards of our readership? You know, write to our readers' best selves?"

Them: Silence.

Joking aside (though that was no-lie, real conversation I had several times as a 23 year-old reporter), they still didn't really edit my writing much. No one ever did.

Until now.

Until my novel. My baby. My sweet little 450+ page darling.

I thought it'd be harder, I really did. Family members used to joke with me over the holidays when my writing career was in its youthful beginnings (everyone knew I wanted to write books): "How are you going to feel about being edited?" they'd ask, as if I wouldn't be able to take it.

The truth is, when it came time--finally--for my first novel to be edited, I was more than ready. I relished the process. Because good editors, great editors, make your work better. And if you've an editor like mine, who actually takes the time to explain the choices/changes because she remembers what it was like to be a first-time author, you learn infinitely. And you get better.

I like the King quote at the top of this post because 1) I'm in the forest a lot, and 2) I now know what he means... in a way I wouldn't have years ago.

Because I've been writing an historical novel, I get lost--happily--in research. I like knowing what tree grew where along the Cherokee Path that my protagonist takes into the wild backcountry, like learning about the deadly sandbars her ship would have to pass at the mouth of Charleston Harbor, love discovering that there were black wolves, panthers and elk, and even bison roaming the South Carolina Upcountry in the 1700s. This sort of stuff is my literary crackrock.

I'm also a fan of words. Big, beautiful words that some folks may have to look up. (Can you see my old copyeditor frowning? She wore a permanent scowl when it came to me. Also a uni-brow.) My editor showed me that there's a place and time for these words. That sometimes, readers don't want to look things up; that sometimes, these types of words distract from the flow of action, eject the reader from the story like a big, fat stone in a medieval catapult. And no writer wants to catapult her reader over the moat. Especially me. I want them to keep reading.

This is only one example of the many ways I'm learning about popular/commercial fiction versus literary fiction, about how to make a story better. About how to respect my readers. I've got a heckuva lot to learn. And I've had a great editor guiding me. (Thank you, writing gods. The sacrifice will be left by the back door.)

There's much more work to be done on KEOWEE VALLEY before it's published in September. And I'll keep y'all posted. But for now, it's back to my coffee and my next novel. Where, hopefully, I'll have learned enough to consider the whole darn forest.

 

My Favorite Tyrants

So this has been a very, very long week.

If you've been reading along, you may remember that I once referred to my 2 1/2 year-old daughter as a gorgeous little Russian despot. A tyrant  with bright blue eyes and a killer left-hook.

Well. The Czarina has returned. Let me just say that this week involved all of the following:

tantrums
hitting
screaming
no no no no no no no no NO I WON'T!
running into parkinglots
late nights
early mornings
time outs
spankings
fingers caught in windows
broken toys
migraines
pizza

I know that God laughs at me. I mean to say, laughs with me.

No, at me. These days it's definitely at me.

This is okay. My life is pretty funny. And sometimes it's difficult not to laugh when your stubborn little Mossad-agent in training decides to stage all-out war.

But Mama is tired.

So, for today, in honor of my little Czarina, a list of 6 of my favorite tyrants of all time:

1. Cleopatra

The world was hers. She ordered men around like puppies. And she wore great eyeliner.















2. Genghis Khan

A big, bad meanie. Basically created the Mongol Empire and conquered most of Eurasia. And did it with a Fu Manchu.


3. The Lady MacBeth

Wild, erratic, nutso. At least in Shakespeare's version, intent on world domination.

4. Vlad the Impaler

The inspiration for Dracula. One scary son of Pete. (The name says it all, really.)


5. The Emperor Nero

Supposedly fiddled while Rome burned and liked to capture Christians. Enough said.  
















6. Czarina Wylie. Ruling Despot of Turnpike Road.

Notorious for tantrum-throwing (usually in front of visiting dignitaries), plate-launching, and yogurt-tossing. Also refusing to hike any further.

Endings

Note: If you haven't read or watched the final installment in the Harry Potter series, there are spoilers ahead.

Last night, my husband and I finally watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2. In the midst of summer travels and work and toddler-wrangling and life, we'd missed it in the theatre. Not only had neither of us read the final book in the series, we'd also managed not to ask or overhear just how the whole saga ended. So when we sat down, excited, in our dark living room with our newly HDified TV, we had no idea what was going to happen.

I realize we're behind the times. But bear with me.

I was sure that J.K. Rowling was going to kill Harry. I thought, this is the only reconciliation for such a myth and magic-laden epic: sacrifice the boy. Save the world.

Happily, I was wrong. And the movie ended as it should have--our focus on the faces of three true friends.

But this made me, today, ponder on endings. Crafting a beautiful, memorable, and above all satisfying ending has to be one of the toughest things about being a writer. Creating an ending for a series must be even more difficult, considering that your readers have made a major investment in the lives and times of your characters.

One of my favorite historical authors, Sara Donati, ended her acclaimed Wilderness novels by utilizing a series of news articles and obituaries in her fictional town's newspaper--a newspaper her main protagonist, the heart of the series, had founded. It was a poignant and lovely way to close the book on a host of memorable and beloved characters.

But there are other ways of doing this. Cinematically, it just seems easier.






Butch and Sundance went out guns blazing.

Thelma and Louise drove a car off a cliff.

                                         And Rhett decided he didn't give a damn.

Movies have the luxury of outside influences--musical scores, set direction--to aid in just how deeply their endings affect a moviegoer. But writers have only words, and those words had better be the right ones if a reader is going to close the book truly changed from what he or she has read. This is no easy task.

Anton Chekhov once said, "Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass." And writers, as much as moviegoers, want to be there in that world and in that moment--whether they're captive in a dark theatre or huddled under the covers, reading by flashlight. They want to see the light on the broken glass.

I'm still not certain if I love the ending of the Harry Potter series, book or film. And this is interesting to me, because I'm utterly in awe of J.K. Rowling, profoundly moved and fascinated by the widths and depths of her imaginative powers. I can't read her novels or watch the films based on them without grinning hugely, even at the dark parts. My God, that woman has a gift.

But I wonder, at times, if it's possible to truly write a great ending. And has anyone ever really done it successfully? Or do we leave this to our readers, assuming that--despite our best efforts as writers--they will find a sort of imaginative closure off the page, in the recesses of their own imaginations?

Favorites List: Things I Love About Life-Long Friends

This afternoon my daughter and I are headed to Charlotte, N.C. to visit two of my oldest and dearest friends. One of these women I have known since birth, and another since I was in kindergarten. Years ago our parents forged a bond of friendship (involving quite a lot of adult beverages, Motown, and beach/lake time) for which I am forever grateful.

I'd include photos here, of our parents and us, but that could be trouble. Instead, I'll share one of our favorite places:

The Lawdy Mercy, Garden City Beach, S.C.

All friendships are blessings--some of the greatest in this life. Whether old or new, friends bring color and relief and magic to our everyday spinning through space. But for today, here's to life-long friendships, and life-long friends!

10 Things I Love About Life-Long Friends:

1. They don't let you lie to them.

When you've been friends so long that you learned to potty-train together, you forfeit all subterfuge.

2. They really, truly think you're beautiful--and say so.

This one's important: No matter how fat or thin you grow, no matter how your belly and boobs change after childbirth, or how many wrinkles form at the corners of your eyes, these friends see you as you were 20 years ago, and as you are now. And they love you for it all.

This is especially important in the case of my particular friends, because I suffered the zit and braces-filled adolescent years with them. Years when my mouth and my nose were too big for my face. Years when I had bouffant bangs. The year of the perm.

3. They know how to mix your drink.

Heck, they know what you like to drink, how you like to drink it, when you like to drink it, and when you need a drink.

4. They share with you.

Their clothes, their shoes, their children, their vacation houses, their favorite new music, their secrets, their recipes. Life-long friends love you like family, and when they find or have something or someone else that they love, they want you to be part of it.

5. They're there for you, good times and bad.

This is a biggie. When you are, and have been, friends for life, you endure it all together: weddings, funerals, births, cancer, moves, job losses and gains, hearts merged and broken. Whether you're in the room or over the phone, or a thousand miles away from each other, you are there. And there's nothing more important than this.

6. They make you do things you don't want to do--but they do them with you.

Even if one of these (many) things involves a lot of wine, a sunset over the marsh, a band, a microphone, and maracas.

7. They put sunscreen on you.

This cannot be overstated. Lathering someone up with sunscreen is tedious, annoying and messy. You have to really love another person to commit to making sure they're not going to get fried in hot pink patches. I've estimated that these friends and I have been putting sunscreen on each other for about 20 years.

8. Their hearts break and swell with yours.

When you hurt or get hurt, life-long friends feel it too. This is different than being there in spirit or being there physically when something happens in your life.

The simple fact is, when you've been friends this long, you're part of each other's DNA. You feel for each other like family... really, in many ways, like something more than family, because you've chosen each other. And it doesn't matter if you don't talk on the phone every week, or if there are years when you see each other only once or twice. When they hurt, you hurt. And you're on your knees, in the dark, begging for their relief. When they rejoice, you rejoice. And you send your love out into the stratosphere like shouting into an emotional bull horn.

9. It doesn't matter how far apart you live, or how long it's been since you've last been together. When you get together, it's as if time has stood still, and you pick up right where you left off.

We have lived as close as half a mile and as far as 700+ miles apart. We've gone months and even years since being together. It just doesn't matter: our connection is rooted in the blood.

10. You are forever friends.

Really.