Here’s what’s so awesome: One of my nonfiction pieces has been nominated for the Dead Mule Best of the Net 2011 awards!

I LOVE the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and am deeply honored – especially after reading    [Continue reading]]]> I’ve just come back from Boston, so I can say/write wicked awesome when I mean totally, completely-and-in-a-good-way awesome.

Here’s what’s so awesome: One of my nonfiction pieces has been nominated for the Dead Mule Best of the Net 2011 awards!

I LOVE the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and am deeply honored – especially after reading the other works that have been nominated. Good stuff – wicked good stuff.

You can check out Alton the tree guy’s story here: Make It About The Money.

Natasha Drew = Natasha Alexander. I had a change of heart over my pen name earlier this year. But it’s still me!

The tourists are gone; the locals and eccentrics are out in force once again.

Phew. I’d begun to think the world was made up solely of People From Away slathered with sunblock and lugging beach chairs, cabanas, umbrellas, coolers, boogie boards, corn hole games, plastic shovels, radios, cheese curls, small children and high expectations to    [Continue reading]]]> I’m back.

The tourists are gone; the locals and eccentrics are out in force once again.

Phew. I’d begun to think the world was made up solely of People From Away slathered with sunblock and lugging beach chairs, cabanas, umbrellas, coolers, boogie boards, corn hole games, plastic shovels, radios, cheese curls, small children and high expectations to the beach, too intent on having a fun vacation to talk with anyone around them.

So it was a relief to meet Diane on the beach a couple of days ago. Diane’s from around here, but she’s lived in a lot of different places in her sixty-one years. We were talking about the McMansions built right smack on the shoreline that bite the dust – or sand – during a hurricane when she launched into this story.

Diane talked a lot, and I tried to capture the essence of what she said while leaving out extraneous details. I did make a couple of edits, especially after The Man said, “She didn’t say ‘condom,’ she said ‘rubber’ and when you said ‘What?’ I thought to myself, ‘Oh, God, do we have to spell it out for you?’”

Hmmph.

Anyway, here’s Diane’s story:

“You are not your stuff – I was lucky enough to learn that more than 20 years ago. I was a single mom, my kids were grown and so I sold my house, sold everything I couldn’t fit in my car. I packed it to the gills and headed for Los Angeles.

“Somewhere in New Mexico, I was driving along and listening to music, loud, singing along with the radio and not really paying any attention to the noises the car was making. Then the car started shaking and smoke started coming out of the engine. I pulled off the road just as the car died.

“It was a Friday afternoon – it’s always a Friday afternoon when these things happen – and there I was, alone by the side of the road with a dead car in the middle of nowhere New Mexico. And I had to be in Los Angeles to start my new job first thing Monday morning.

“Eventually some guys stopped and offered to drive me to the closest town. I looked at my car – every damn thing I owned in this world was in it. My mom’s jewelry, my diamonds, everything. I couldn’t even remember where in the car I’d hidden that stuff and didn’t have time to look for it anyway.

“I looked at my car and thought, it’s okay. It’s just stuff. So I got into this pick-up truck with a couple of strangers and left everything I owned by the side of the road in nowhere New Mexico. They dropped me off at a service station and I walked in and the place was full of – men.”

She said ‘men’ in a way that made me know Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp were not among those present.

“I gave them the keys to everything I owned in my life. Then I got a ride to Albuquerque and managed to get a flight to L.A. in time for my first day of work.

“A week later, I flew back to Albuquerque so I could pick up the car. I’d arranged to get a ride back to the service station with this guy – I had this weird feeling about getting in his car with him but I did…

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this stuff – once we got on the road I looked down and saw there was a rubber on the floor of the front seat. He’d just gone on about how he’d cleaned up the car special for me. And I’m thinking, you cleaned up the car and left that thing there? I had no idea what would happen next and I was really uncomfortable when he pulled off at a rest stop. I didn’t know if I should jump out or what.

“‘Do you want something to drink? Eat?’ he asked me when he stopped the car.

“‘I just want to pick up my car – that’s it!’ I practically screamed it at him. I insisted that was all I wanted to do and he pulled back onto the road.

“He never touched me, never tried anything beyond stopping. I guess he thought it was worth a try though. Still, I was mighty glad when I could get out of his car back at the service station.

“And there was my car, all fixed up and ready to go. As far as I could tell, all my stuff was there, too, right where I’d packed it.

“Later I called my brother and told him my tale. He said to me, ‘Didn’t you get the car serviced right before you left?’

“I hadn’t thought of that, but he was right – I’d gotten it checked, gotten an oil change a week before I’d left for L.A. And then there wasn’t any oil in the engine – that’s why it died.

“So I called Toyota, told them what happened, told them I had all my receipts. And they ended up paying for the whole thing – the car repair, the plane ticket – all of it.

“But I got a whole lot more out of it. When I first drove away from my car and watched everything I owned grow smaller and smaller in the distance, I realized it was okay, that I didn’t really need any of that stuff, that I could get by with practically nothing. I still can.

“You are not your stuff.

“And knowing that is worth way more than all of it – my jewelry, my clothes, all my things – put together.”

This launch is such a big    [Continue reading]]]>
It’s official! I’m excited to announce that Just Desserts: Greed. Lust. Death. Tiramisu. is now available for purchase – and your reading pleasure – as a Kindle Book from Amazon, a Nook Book from Barnes & Noble and an eBook for other ereaders AND as a PDF download from Smashwords.

This launch is such a big deal that cities and towns across the U.S.A. are celebrating with live concerts and massive fireworks displays all week-end long! At least I think it’s for my book launch – maybe something else is going on as well.

What’s Just Desserts about? Among other things, it’s about greed. And lust. And death. And – you guessed it – tiramisu. Here’s the short blurb you’ll find on each publisher’s site:

Vince Fantozzi is stuck in a dead-end rut, kowtowing to his dad’s every demand while he watches his own life slip away from him.

Until Shirley and Jack move in next door.

Suddenly, the pursuit of happiness – or maybe some decent lasagna – shoves everyone into the fast lane and turns Vince’s life on its edge as he careens down a road he never thought he’d travel, accompanied by an eccentric bunch of fellow travelers.

Just Desserts is a novella, so it can slip easily into an empty hour time-slot in your life. I tried describing it as a “one beer beach read” until I was reminded that I drink very slowly, so it might be a “two beer beach read” – especially on a hot day.

Practically none of the genre categories the publishers offer work for me, so here are a couple of my own descriptors to add to “fiction, general” and “fiction, humorous”:

• sort-of-noir
• Carl Hiaasen lite
• noir: over easy
• Southern-fiction-but-not-really

Just Desserts probably fits into “dick lit” as well (yes this category exists) since it’s edgy and funny and I blow stuff up but no, I can’t go there. I just can’t. Y’all understand, I hope, and bless your hearts.

Here’s what some of my beta readers have to say about Just Desserts:

“I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t Dennis Lehane goes South. Great fun.”

“Grows on you and keeps you curious about what is coming next.”

“I love it! It’s ready for prime time.”

“I like it, Mom.” (I know, what else could he say?) “Especially the last couple of chapters, because I had no idea what was going to happen next.”

Curious? Let me know what you think. You can read the first two chapters by clicking JUST DESSERTS EXCERPT at the top of the page. Then I hope you’ll order and read the entire book.

Now go watch some Just Desserts fireworks and join the celebration!

When you and the guy walking across the top of    [Continue reading]]]> The Man and I recently got back from our spring road trip. We had our usual quirky time – we like back roads and waterfalls and dams and fish hatcheries and of course we met enough characters to people a couple of novels (I hope).

When you and the guy walking across the top of the Holston Dam are the only people in a two-mile radius, you tend to get into conversation pretty easily.

This one started with, “That sure is a purty dog.” (Rule #1 for fiction writers: Get a dog, preferably a purty one.)

The guy said he came to the dam every day to meditate and pray. It was easy to stand on the far side of the dam and feel a supreme peace as you looked out at the placid lake caressed by green mountains – as long as you could ignore the massive amounts of rock and blood, sweat and tears that made it all possible.

“My uncle worked on building this here dam.” He pointed to the sloping wall. “Guy’s buried somewhere down in there. Fell in and they tried and tried to get him out.” He shook his head. “Almost lost some other fellers too, trying to pull him out. Back then they just didn’t have the equipment they got now and it was too dangerous. Didn’t make sense to lose a couple more guys to save one already gone.

“So his bones and everything is still right there inside that wall.” He was silent for a few minutes.

“That there lake’s ‘bout 250 feet deep in places – built the dam and the water just kept rising over houses, trees, whatever else was left down there. Water’s cold, too – not much above 32 degrees.”

He pointed to a section of the spillway wall. “A catfish – mebbe 200, 250 pounds got stuck right there in the intake valve back then. They didn’t have no way to deal with something that size, weren’t expecting nothing like that. Mebbe it was more’n 250.” He shook his head again.

“No telling what all’s in that lake.”

He rubbed Polly’s head once more before getting back in his truck. “Purty dog.”

~

The narrow road curved around to follow the bends of a fast-moving stream. Where they both straightened out a bit, we saw what looked like a series of home-made wooden dams straddling the stream.

We stopped to take a closer look. Below each dam, there was a wooden corral-like box crowded with fish, all trying to swim upstream. We were at a trout farm. We were also trespassing, and when we saw someone staring at us from their front door, it felt like time to move on.

Later we passed the State Fish Hatchery and pulled into the parking lot. It was hot, and the guy who ran the place told me to bring Polly inside the building. “My dogs love it in here,” he said and Polly seemed to as well. It was cool and fresh spring water bubbled through a channel along the floor before flowing into the large concrete fish tanks.

Mark (that’s not his name but he reminded me of a Mark) started talking about what the fish eat and how fast they grow and when and where the fishery staff release them. It was interesting, but once he stuck his hand in his pocket, I forgot everything he’d just said.

He pulled out a round tin.

Oh no he isn’t…
Oh yes he is.

A single well-practiced move and he opened the tin, pulled out an enormous wad of tobacco and crammed it into his cheek. Without pausing in his narrative one tiny bit. He just kept talking, looking like a lopsided Alvin the Chipmunk on steroids.

By now, there were four of us who’d been listening to him but I think we were all wondering the same thing: where’s he gonna spit that stuff out?

Oh no he isn’t…
Oh yes he is.

Mark kept talking and then his mouth did a quick sideways flk-splat into one of the fish tanks. He talked some more and then flk-splat into another fish tank. Then flk-splat into another.

Honestly, in the greater scheme of things by the time those trout make it out to open water and then into the frying pan, their nicotine cravings will be long gone.

Still, later that night in the Copper Kettle Restaurant, I considered the house specialty, pan-fried local Rainbow Trout, only briefly.

“I’ll have the catfish plate.”

When I got out    [Continue reading]]]> Today I had a meeting on the Pottery Barn/Ann Taylor/Williams-Sonoma side of town. I left the house early enough to swing by Eddie Bauer first to see if I could replace the cargo pants I must have tossed in the bag for Goodwill by mistake, but I couldn’t.

When I got out of the car I noticed I was parked between two distinctively different bumper stickers:

I brake for apparitions of Mary.

and

I’m not wearing pants.

Really, you can’t make this shit up.