When I published my first book, it wasn’t just a book. It represented three simple words on my bucket list: Write a novel. I had already planted the seed for my book with a short story I wrote in 1974 for a creative writing class in grad school. I titled the story “Chinaberry Summer.”
Within the story’s few pages, I imagined two eleven-year-old cousins, a girl and a boy, trying to survive a long July homecoming and family reunion service in a country Baptist church in rural Georgia, all while the girl suffered from the heat in the sanctuary and the infernal scratching of her new dress with its stiff lace trim and the elastic smocking in the back of her slip rubbing red marks across her shoulders. The boy suffered from an itchy cast on his arm that was broken in a bike wreck during a bully’s chinaberry attack. I tried to capture the essence of growing up with a perfectionist Southern mother who always worried about “what people will think.” Probably nobody was thinking about anything except hoping their fire and brimstone preacher would hurry up and quit yelling at them so they could hurry to their family reunion and eat dinner on the grounds.
Years later, as I approached retirement from my teaching career, I continued to think about my dream of writing my novel. I had read countless student essays and taught creative writing and journalism over the years. I left my high school teaching days behind me and moved on to a part-time teaching position at Columbus State University in Columbus, Georgia. Even more essays to grade, but I found a second part of my career that I really enjoyed—teaching college-aged students as well as nontraditional students who were older or who were either active duty military service members or military veterans.
I began to plan my book. Where would I start? Then I remembered “Chinaberry Summer.” Over the years, the short story was lost, but I knew the story line, so I rewrote it. And there they were— my two main characters, Sissie Stevenson and Spud McKenna.
There are those who may find me strange for this belief, but fiction writers understand my logic. Sometimes a writer must stand aside and let her characters write themselves. I added characters that I never imagined when I wrote that first book (and the next one, too). They wanted to be born. They had things to say. They wanted to be heard.
Like my character Sissie, I love reptiles and amphibians. I appreciate spiders. (Sorry, Spud, I don’t love them, but I value them.) Through Sissie and Spud, I was able to create a story that provided an opportunity to include my critter friends as characters in my book. Orb weavers and black widows are important in my writing. Turtles and snakes round out my list of creatures who, like so many humans, are subjected to needless suffering caused by people who refuse to acknowledge their worth.
I wrote and rewrote, polished my manuscript, and asked my husband to read each chapter. I let an eleven-year-old girl write the book, Sissie Stevenson—as my character, not as the adult me. The more I worked on the book, the more I felt compelled to speak up for those who have no voice. Not just for animals, but for children who are victims of school bullies, verbally and physically abusive family members, and, sadly, some teachers who see nothing wrong with humiliating students.
At last, the book was ready. The publishing process, filled with rejections, seemed to go on for years until I discovered a university colleague and friend, Johnny Summerfield, who owns New Plains Press in Auburn, Alabama. I will forever be grateful to him for believing in me.
Then came the excitement of the book launch. One of my favorite places to visit is Columbus State University’s Oxbow Meadows. I had visited there before, and I loved walking among the snakes and turtles or visiting with the alligators and tortoises. What better place to launch my new book. I reserved the venue and invited guests.
As the launch date approached, nagging questions ran through my mind. “Who do you think you are?” “Why would anybody be interested in what you have to say?” I wasn’t a published writer. I wasn’t a literary giant. I whispered, “Lord, send me a sign. Please.”
On the Saturday morning of my book launch, I needed money to make change for my book sales, so my family and I stopped by a branch of our bank on the way to Oxbow. The bank stood among a number of brand-name stores in a busy shopping complex. Behind the shops, new apartments were nestled in a wooded area near a small creek surrounded by a lush, manicured lawn that extended out into the shopping area. And there, in the middle of the lawn, was a large turtle, out for a morning stroll in the sun.
I had my answer. I could no longer worry about what people might think of me or my writing. I had found a purpose. I must speak for those who have no voice. I must advocate for kindness and ecological concern for reptiles and amphibians. And spiders. And I would do that through the voices of two children, my fictional characters in Chinaberry Summer.
Many people came out to Oxbow for my book launch, and they visited with animals enclosed in the safety of their animal habitats. I sat on stage and read to children and adults in the audience. I was wearing an orthopedic boot because, in the midst of everything, I’d had surgery on my left foot. I signed my books surrounded by all sorts of snakes in their glass enclosures. Children and parents had the opportunity to learn about snakes and why they are so important to the health of our environment, not something to be feared and killed.
After that book launch at Oxbow Meadows, I decided on the spot that writing one book wasn’t enough. I had much more to say, and so did the people and critters who inhabited my first book. I had to write another one. And another book was born.: Chinaberry Summer: On the Other Side. And in that book, more characters came to life. I let them speak.
But I didn’t stop there. I wrote a children’s picture book called Feannag the Crow. Through Feannag’s story, the young crow and his new critter friends help children learn to be kind to animals and to make diverse friends.
Often, we are our harshest critics. We must be the ones to turn off the negativity and self-doubt inside our own minds. No one can accomplish that task for us.
Who do I think I am? I’m a writer.
Now on to more books!