In the spring of 1989, my life was a mess. The details aren't particularly important. But for the sake of this story, I'll tell you that by summer I was more than ready to leave it completely behind for a week.

I'd been taking writing classes and writing short stories for almost a year while working at my day job in sales promotion for the mega-beer company. Those night classes were my first real exposure to the literary world--beyond my own rather lame attempts to educate myself by reading random books that I knew to be classics. I subscribed to Writer's Digest, that wonderful cheerleader of a magazine that puts publishing stars in so many nascent writers' eyes. And that's where I found my dream come true: a list of writers' conferences that promised camaraderie, knowledge and, best of all, a week removed from the rest of the world.

There were probably a hundred conferences listed for that year. How did I choose? Location, location and price, of course.

The Appalachian Writers Workshop was (and is) at the Hindman Settlement School, in Hindman, Kentucky, many hours from where I was living in St. Louis. But my dad's people, the Philpots, were from that area and I always entertained extremely romantic notions about it. Growing up in Louisville, it seemed a faraway, inaccessible place. Perfect for making up stories about. The notion of going there comforted me, and it seemed liked a friendly sort of conference, if there is such a thing. Plus, it was quite inexpensive. I think I even managed to get mega-beer company to pay for it, though my boss probably approved it because he felt sorry for me (see Line 1, above).

So I sent in the check and registration fee and received, in return, instructions for travel, a schedule, and a bright green photocopied brochure with a picture of someone named Pinckney Benedict perusing a book (his own) on its cover.

What in the world might a Pinckney Benedict be? I asked myself.



The workshop was, indeed, a very friendly place. It was a summer camp for writers where we talked about books and stories and wrote during the day. The workshop format was familiar to me, but the encouraging staff there was a refreshing change from the arrogant baseball writer who had made fun of my "old fashioned" stories in the grad workshop I'd just completed. In the evenings, there was plenty of music, storytelling, gossip (ha!) and much partying in general, drinking in particular, for those who would. The surrounding mountains were beyond beautiful. It was a much gentler introduction to the world of writers outside the classroom than I ever could have anticipated.

And, well, there was that Pinckney Benedict guy. He kept trying to talk to me, and followed me everywhere! But then I discovered he just wanted to talk to me because he was the leader of the short story section of the conference, and that he and I were actually supposed to have a private meeting about the manuscript I'd submitted. Silly me!

We must have hit it off, because, here it is, almost exactly twenty years later and we seem to have collected a couple of children, several houses (not all at once), many pets and not a few gray hairs along the way (okay, one of us has--the other shaves his head so no one can tell). And at the end of July, we'll both be back at The Appalachian Writers Workshop in Hindman (July 26-31). This time I'll be teaching a novel section, and P will be doing short stories. Twenty years. Oh, my.

If you're looking for a workshop this summer, the workshop at Hindman is a very special place for many writers in the region--people who have it tucked away in their hearts because they found good teaching, good friends and lots of support for their work there.

A few folks on this year's staff: Silas House, Ann Pancake, Leatha Kendrick, Gurney Norman, Maurice Manning, and George Ella Lyon. Ron Rash is also making a special appearance.

Sorry, I can't promise you'll meet a potential spouse, but you never know!

**The portrait is of P and me just after Pom was born. It was taken by an amazing photographer named Arturo Patten who was doing a book of author portraits for the French publisher Actes Sud. (He was there to shoot P, but when he learned I was a writer as well, he kindly included me in this one and sent it to us.) Arturo died in 1999. I expect the copyright belongs to his estate. This is my very favorite picture of us.

I won't Twitter. No, I won't! I Twittered for about a month last fall and it nearly drove me mad. Nearly all of my writer friends Twitter regularly as part of the online professional author package that includes a blog or group blog, myspace, Facebook, and a website. And I admire every single one of them. But I can't do it.

Have I mentioned that I'm highly distractible? (See my blog description, above) For someone like me who needs a lot of structure, Twitter is like digital meth. There's too much going on, too much information and way, way too much psychic noise. As a writer, I'm curious. I want to follow conversations and read odd news and know what people are doing. But I discovered that I was spending way too much time reading other people's links and watching videos and trying to think of witty ripostes that would excite witty responses. Twitter feels like an enormous stage to me--a stage where everyone is trying to grab the same spotlight. *sigh* It's exhausting.

Twitter is the latest and greatest marketing tool available on the web. All you have to do is make your pitch in 140 (or fewer) characters. I just did a Google search for "Twitter Marketing Tool" and came up with 24,000,000 page responses. 24 million. To improve on its immediacy, one would have to have diodes hooked up to readers' brains to decode electrical impulses.  And, best of all, it's free. Who can argue with that?

The instantaneous nature of Twitter makes amazing things possible: lost things, and lost people found, sobriety maintained, marriages proposed. Can't argue with that, either.

There are a million reasons I should Twitter, given my occupation. Book promotion dollars are hard to come by, and it's important--especially for mid-list authors--to work hard to establish name recognition. But I'm beginning to wonder if writing more and better books wouldn't be a more useful and productive thing for me to do--personally as well as professionally.

There are times, though, when I feel a little left out. Twitter is a massive party, and I've been known to be a bit of a party girl in my life. I tell myself that I could probably just Tweet once or twice a day. All it would take is a rigid re-structuring of my woefully unstructured day and the discipline to turn off Twitter when I was writing--or updating Facebook, or trying to remember how to format my myspace profile. I'm sure I could do it!

I like being accessible to readers and friends, but the truth is that Twitter is one place I can't go. I do check my email several times a day, and my myspace and Facebook messages go straight to my email account.

If you have a burning desire to know what I'm up to, feel free to drop me a line and I'll respond just as soon as I'm able...

just had protag chew off own arm...too much? need decaf now!

hanging at delta gate. woman w/ chihuahua in heat wants priority boardg. help me pls.

sad, strange http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWg2vLEyRZc

home from gym. lunch now--who's in?!

More and better books. That's the thing.

Do you Twitter?

The Benedict family loves its dogs. Longtime readers of my blog will recall many tales of Hrothgar, the (almost) Labrador we adopted from the shelter not long after we moved to Illinois. And just last spring we announced the arrival of Scout, whom we adopted out of a shopping cart at our local grocery store.

Scout--all eight weeks and three pounds of him--sat with his nearly identical sibling in the cart, nearly dehydrated. The family giving the pups away hadn't brought any water with them. Scout and his brother were the last of a litter of seven. We'd been looking quite casually for a second dog, but hadn't been able to choose one at the shelter. We all agreed that we wanted a smallish dog, something that might actually be allowed with us on the couch. And there was Scout, looking winsome and small and darned cute in that cart. Scout's birth family said that the mother of the pups was a Rat Terrier. Seems she was seduced by an unknown stranger.

We took Scout home, buying dog food, a crate, and bed on the way. Fewer than 48 hours later, he was at the vet's office to be bathed and wormed and inoculated, etc. When we picked him up, he weighed 3.5 pounds.


Rat Terriers, said we. They're smallish.

Scout loved to cuddle in our laps. He chewed on Hrothgar like he was an enormous piece of rawhide (still does). He chased balls. He fell asleep curled in the crook of my arm.



Next vet visit, he was 10 pounds. And the next 15. You see where this is going, don't you?

Hm, said we. He's marked like a Doberman. Maybe a miniature Dobie?

Last time Scout went to board at the vet, he weighed a solid 35 pounds. Still, he has an itty-bitty terrier head. But he has a broad chest for a little guy--Overall, he's kind of stocky.

Good God, said we, just last week. He's not part-Doberman at all. He's part-Rottweiler!

Yes, we have one of the only seven Rat Terrier-Rottweiler mixes in the world! It makes sense, of course. He's a backwoods kind of dog, out of a very rural birth family. I've yet to see a Doberman in these parts. But there are Rotties--and plenty of them. I like a Rottweiler, and I've been around enough dogs to know that a dog learns aggression from its pack leaders. If you treat a dog well from birth and train it properly, there's an excellent chance it will be a good dog.

Scout's attitude is all playful, smart terrier. His back end, though, is definitely Rottie. He's kind of ugly. Common, as my father-in-law says. Yep. That's our Scoutie.

Happy Birthday, good dog!

So, 2009 caught me without a New Year's Day blog. I've been ruminating, but mostly I've been freaking out about--uh, change that to carefully planning for--my Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts tour. It starts today, as a matter of fact.

My first stop is the Carbondale, IL, Barnes & Noble. I'll be there from 1:00 until 3:00 chatting and signing books. I really hope my dentist will come. He and his staff were very helpful when I was writing CMLH. (Also, I'm hoping that he can pleeeeeease squeeze me in before Wednesday!) If you're in the neighborhood, I hope you'll come by, too. I don't know if you've ever been to a signing for a, um, midlist author--but they can be a tad on the lonesome side. One tries not to look too hopeful....Fortunately, I think I'll be at a table that's on the way to the Starbucks Cafe. Plus, the staff at this B&N is just lovely to me--I can't wait to get there!

I have another full-time job, of course. I'll spend the next few days trying to make things a little easier for Pinckney while I'm gone. No matter how old my kids get, it's still important to me to help them organize their lives as much as I can. (Pomegranate and I have already promised each other that we'll talk everyday when she goes off to college.) Maybe I'm over-involved. But their childhoods won't last forever.

The other thing I'll be doing is organizing my travel stuff. I don't have a conference to attend until February, so I don't have much swag this time around. I opted for magnets and business cards with the cover of CMLH instead of bookmarks. Do people like bookmarks? I see them EVERYWHERE at conferences, but I can't for the life of me ever remember checking out a book because I saw it on a bookmark! (There are all kinds of algorithms for product-awareness. I've never been a fan of such calculated planning. See "midlist" above!) I am thinking of having some more journals made up, and Cafe Press will do a pillow, which is kind of cool.

What kinds of lagniappe do you all like to get when you buy a book? I'm curious. (I'm sorry, I can't make Buckeyes--peanut butter and chocolate candies--for everyone!)

Last but not least is the wardrobe question. Myspace readers will recall that I laid out my clothing schedule in blocks for my tour in 2007. Two outfits each day, shoes and jewelry all chosen ahead of time. I'm not so organized in real life, but I'm a little nervous when I'm on the road, so I like to be prepared. Last tour, I wore black and brown and gray. I'm switching out the gray for red this time, just because I can. (Am I boring you? I love to talk clothes. Yes, I am occasionally that shallow--but you knew that already.)

Oh, not quite last. I need to get the final itinerary from Publicist Lisa. Addresses, contacts, phone numbers all in one place. Critical. I also have a couple hotel reservations to make.

I'll do my best to post photos of the tour and let you know what's happening along the way. I have some guest blogging spots--I'll post the links here.

A late-breaking bit of news: ISABELLA MOON is Fresh Fiction's Fresh Pick today. I think it's an auspicious beginning to the tour. Also, I was interviewed at January Magazine yesterdy and expressed my real feelings about olives.

More soon--I hope you'll come along for the ride!

[Suitcase pic from here. Olive image here.]

I am not a crafty person. I nearly flunked out of the adult ed sewing class I took when I was nineteen, am just passable at other needlework, and was a dismal failure at scrapbooking four years ago.

Every Christmas the kids and I do our version of gingerbread houses. I tried actual gingerbread one year, but it was a nightmare. Using graham crackers stuck to boxes with gluey icing works much better. In past years I've been a bit obsessive about these houses, worrying over the placement of every gum drop as though they were going to be graded. (I blogged about last year's here--and I was pretty amazed at how well they came out.) But no more. This year I just left my kids alone and didn't much worry about my own small contributions. We had a great time!

Pomegranate did a hotel:



Bengal did a version of the farm scene we did last year, complete with sugar cone trees--there was one more tree, but Hrothgar snarfed one before I caught him at the table.




Now, I know that the word "Fruitcake" strikes horror into the hearts of many. And given the sodden bricks that pass for the stuff, I'm not surprised. I felt exactly the same way--that is until I had my mother-in-law's fruitcake. It's basically pound cake with fruit and nuts. It's heaven. After eighteen years of marriage, I finally asked her for the recipe. The recipe came to her by way of P's godfather's wife. I share it with you in hopes that it will redeem the spirit of fruitcakes everywhere. (Angioplasty not included.)


FRUITCAKE FOR PEOPLE WHO HATE FRUITCAKE

Ingredients:

1 pound butter, softened
6 eggs
3 oz lemon extract (don't even think about using imitation!)
4 cups flour
1/2 tea. baking powder

1/2 pound dried cranberries (soak in warm water for 1/2 hour, then drain)
1/4 pound white raisins
1 pound shelled pecans
1/2 pound candied pineapple (they no longer preserve it in formaldehyde, so it's okay--you can use the dried/sugared variety as well)

Preheat oven to 325. Grease a tube or Bundt pan, plus a loaf pan.

Cream butter and sugar in mixer. Add eggs and lemon extract. In separate bowl, stir together flour and baking powder.

Chop nuts and pineapple. Mix fruits and nuts together.

Add flour mixture to butter mixture a cupful at a time. Add fruit and nut mixture. Mix well.

Bake pans on center rack in oven. Put a pan of water on a lower rack as well.

Test loaf pan doneness with a toothpick or cake tester after 1 hour. Baking time for both will be around 1 and 1/2 hours for both pans.

____

I hope your holidays are full of blessings and that the New Year brings you and the ones you love peace, prosperity, fulfillment, and contentment. Thank you so much for sharing your time with me.

Laura

So, two bits of news....

Target has picked the paperback of Isabella Moon for its Breakout Writers program! Beginning in February, you'll find IM right next to the, uh, shampoo and video games at my favorite store. Unfortunately, I doubt that Mrs. Obama will see it there because I expect her Target shopping days are over for the next several years....But I'm still wildly excited because Target is my happy place! IM will be on the shelves there beginning in February, right after Valentine's Day.

And there's love from Booklist for Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts!

Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts.
Benedict, Laura (Author)
Jan 2009. 352 p. Ballantine, hardcover, $25.00. (9780345497697).

Roxanne , Del , and Alice have been friends since childhood, with Roxanne taking the dominant role. Roxanne is a force to be reckoned with—whatever she wants, Del and Alice will go along with, however reluctantly, from the usual teenage misbehaviors to witchcraft ceremonies in the park. When the girls are 13, she convinces them to back up a ruinous story about one of the priests at their Catholic school. Defrocked and furious, the priest disappears, and they keep it a secret between themselves. Years later each meets a mysterious man named Varick, and within moments of their meeting, Roxanne's, Del 's, and Alice 's lives begin to unravel. None of them know what he wants from them but they can't help giving it to him. Why is Varick here, and most importantly—who is he? Don't let the title fool you: though it sounds like a Cary Grant film, Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts is extremely scary. Benedict has written a very suspenseful, tense, and sinister second novel.

Off to hang out with the kids who are home all Thanksgiving week! What are you up to?

Early last November, I was nearing the end of a seven-week of tour for Isabella Moon. When I finally returned home—after a week in Alaska, thirteen reading/signing events, twenty bookstore drop-ins, and four thousand miles of driving through Virginia, Kentucky, Ohio, Illinois, Michigan, and Missouri--I collapsed in a heap in my bedroom and could barely be dragged out of it for a week. My mind was so scattered and I was so distracted that I could hardly write. Laundry went undone, and we ate out way too much. But I recovered and my family recovered and we made it through the year just fine.

When I looked back at the events of the past year, I pondered writing a long, heartfelt essay about how my life was changed by the publication of my first novel. My life has changed alright, but the most significant way in which it has changed is in my obligation to my readers—My second novel, Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts, will be out in a few weeks and I'm way behind on the writing of number three. So, as I'm a big fan of lists, here's a quick and dirty sketch of what I've learned over the last twelve months:

My agent is a treasure.
A good agent is worth her weight in gold. My conversations with my editor are always focused on editing my work because my beloved Agent Susan handles everything else. She does all the truly hard work. When I get worried and start fretting about things over which I have no control, she gently reminds me that my primary job is to write. If she hadn't reminded me of this frequently over the past year, Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts would not be coming out January 6th.

To take my own press with a grain of salt.
At first it was kind of fun to read all about my bad self in the press and to discover the many nice things (and not so nice) said about me and my novel. There were times during the year, though, when I felt like the newspaper and magazine interviews written about me seemed like they were actually written about someone else—someone who was way more together than I actually am. The truth is that I procrastinate, lose stuff, say regrettable things, get perfectly silly after two beers and get very nervous when I have to get up and talk in front of a room full of people. I am the same person I was before I had a book contract.

As a writer, I have very little control over how many of my books are sold.
Many other writers will disagree with this statement, and that's just fine. I know writers who have done end-runs around dilatory marketing departments and gotten themselves into big-box stores. I know writers who carry boxes and boxes of their books in their car trunks and hand-sell them everywhere and spend the rest of their waking hours doing online promotion. Sometimes these things work. Mostly they just sound exhausting to me. There are limits to what writers can and should do, and those limits will vary from writer to writer. The most important thing is to write the best book one can.

That said:

The only person who really, truly cares about a writer's career is, well, the writer.
There is always another writer waiting in the wings, someone who has written something just as good—or even better. And so writers must do what they reasonably can to construct their own careers and not whine when they think they are being treated badly. There are no Svengalis to take blossoming writers in hand and lead them to commercial success. To borrow an old EST Training phrase: You are responsible for your own career experience! I've had to decide what my own idea of success is and pursue it, rather than use someone else's definition.

And, unfortunately:

Publishers don't have a magic formula to sell books, either.
This was a big surprise to me. Yes, co-op money will get a book better face time in the bookstore with potential buyers. Yes, a good gimmick or timely topic will sometimes get a writer on the Today Show. But there are never guarantees. There are many highly-touted books that end up in remainder bins, to the dismay of both writers and publishers. (If you see my book in a bin for cheap money, buy it! Even cheap hardcovers last a long time and make wonderful gifts. Those pesky red stickers peel right off! But, uh, please don't drop me an email to tell me you saw it there. It stings. Just a little.) It's good to keep in mind that publishing houses are corporations and corporations need to consistently improve their bottom lines. They are not thoughtful caretaking entities. From writing to promoting, they will take every bit of energy a writer has to offer—and it's nothing personal.

Most bestselling writers deserve to be bestselling writers because they work at it all the time.
I have met many amazing, successful writers in the past year. They are some of the hardest working people I've met in my life. They are generous to a fault and often put their work ahead of nearly every other personal consideration. And they never whine. Well, almost never—they're only human.

It's foolish to be jealous of other writers.
I watched with horror as my publisher devoted more resources to other writers' books than they did to mine when it came out. Sometimes I pouted about it, but soon realized that my distress was only costing me time and energy better spent working. My religious training came in handy here: there's a parable in the Bible about the owner of a vineyard who, in the morning, hired a number of workers at a given day rate. Later in the day, he gave late-arriving workers the same pay that he gave the first workers even though the latecomers only worked for an hour or two. When the first workers complained, the owner said, "Didn't you agree to work for that rate?" He was the owner and he could pay whatever he wanted. Every writer has to make his or her best deal and live with it.

Publicists are worked to death.
Be nice to them. Remember to say, "thank you."

It's not necessarily a good idea to hire an outside publicist for one's first book.
They're way too expensive to make a real difference nationally, but are often useful in smaller markets. I didn't do this, but asked a lot of people because I thought about doing it.

I have to stay away from my Amazon and Barnes and Noble pages.
The fluctuating numbers there are like some kind of dangerous drug. They thrill me then break my heart—all in the space of any given twenty minutes. Too stressful!

If one believes the good reviews, one has to believe the bad reviews, too.
Just a fact of life. A few reviews of Isabella Moon were unbelievably cruel and they wounded me deeply. Others made me unreasonably happy. I read way too many of them (though I was amazed and pleased seeing how many of them were out there) and even sought them out. Many times I lost confidence in myself and in my writing because they affected me so profoundly. Reading one's reviews really is a bad idea. But I'll probably continue to do it anyway.

Book tours are a whole lot of fun, but not particularly glamorous.
I love, love, love meeting readers and book groups and bookstore staff. There are few things more gratifying than walking into a bookstore and connecting with someone who is excited about my work. Sometimes signings can be quite lonely affairs for the author (I've discovered that this happens to well-known writers, too.) and won't meet anyone's expectations. It's hard when that happens. And it's a challenge to sleep in a different hotel bed each night and an even bigger challenge to not to indulge in the small, dangerous comforts of vending machine donuts and delivery pizza when one gets back to one's hotel room. But there was that moment when I walked into my spartan Roanoke, VA Hampton Inn room to see that my frequent-guest status meant that I got a bottle of water and a pack of Oreos!

Oh, and pack light. Always.
I schlepped a lot of heavy suitcases through airports and hotel hallways. I always regretted overpacking. I got better at packing light as the year went on. I only took five pairs of shoes to New York for Thrillerfest—down from eight the year before.

Independent bookstores are filled with wonderful people who care about books—but the big stores are, too.
I always feel so at home at an independent bookstore. When I was in Denver for Left Coast Crime last year, I visited Murder by the Book, one of the coziest, most welcoming bookstores in the country. I wish I could have spent the whole day there just browsing and reading and chatting about mystery books with the owner. I've heard many writers and readers complain about big stores simply because the stores are attached to large corporations. But most of the people who work in them love books just as much as the folks who work at independents do. I'm grateful for all of them!

Conferences are a heck of a lot of fun. Community is important.
If you're a reader or an emerging writer (or both), take some time to attend a conference. It's a wonderful way to get out from behind the computer and meet people and talk about books. Writing is a necessarily solitary pursuit, but it's good to get out sometimes. Book publishing is an industry, just like health care, manufacturing, etc. and networking is important. (Hint: all the meaningful business is done in the bar after all the panels!)

My favorite live interviews are radio interviews.
Television interviews scare me. I could sit and talk into a radio microphone all day.

I miss my family when I'm away from them. A lot.

I spent a too much time worrying about marketing my work this past year, and not enough time writing.
While I did finish my second novel, Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts, this year, I'm glad I got a start on it the spring before Isabella Moon came out, or I never would have made my deadline. I'm better organized now.

Online social networking is a distraction.
I'm on Myspace and Facebook. I dropped Twitter because it distracted me from writing. I love meeting new people online, but I would get much more writing done if I spent less time socializing. And, in the end, that's how I got to have a debut year in the first place.

I wouldn't give up my blog for anything.
It's my link to the outside world, the best way for me to communicate what's on my mind on a daily basis.


The last year was an astonishing adventure. Dream after dream came true for me. Finally—after many years of writing—I was able to come in close contact with the people I was writing for. I'm very grateful whenever someone takes the time to read my work. If I had it to do all over again, I think that the only thing I would do differently is to spend a couple extra days in Alaska (after the Bouchercon Conference) to see the sights. I feel a little cheated that I didn't even see a moose!


(I wrote this piece for Tia Nevitt at Fantasy Debut blogspot. She was kind enough to have me there last year when I was a newbie. Here's the link to the piece there. It's a fun site!)

Happy Halloween, my dears! Hope you're off to do something wickedly fun tonight. We're trick-or-treating with Bengal and carving pumpkins.

Just a reminder that El Pollo Diablo, our favorite dead pirate, is visiting at my Notes From the Handbasket blog today. Come by and say howdy!

Be safe. Have fun!

It's Halloween Week--YAY!!!!

Over at Notes From the Handbasket (where it's still Octoberguest!), my Official Stalker Joe P. Frick will be guesting tomorrow (could there be ANYTHING more frightening?) And--wait for it---EL POLLO DIABLO will be making a special appearance on Halloween! I hope everyone will come by and say "howdy"--If you comment, you'll be entered to win books from Octoberguest!s and $100 Godiva and Harry and David giftbaskets. (Yes, I'm shameless...)

Yesterday I had my 30-second spooky story, My Beloved, air on NPR's Weekend America. Here's the link. You can listen to the story, but the complete text is on the site. They actually had me edit it in the studio. Talk about editing under pressure!

Bengal is a soldier for Halloween--He wanted to be a SWAT officer, but I didn't get out early enough to get his size. I'm still pondering my costume.

What will you be doing for Halloween?

PS--I'm busy planning the tour for CALLING MR. LONELY HEARTS in January. Chicago, Cincinnati, Houston, Ft. Wayne, IN, Carmel, IN, Nashville, St. Louis and, of course, Carbondale are on the menu. Hope you can come out!

What's my favorite thing about being published? Those brave women at Texty Ladies interviewed me today. They came up with some great questions--Hope you'll stop by their place! (About the answer to the favorite thing question--Yes, I confess that I am that shallow!)

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On Sunday, Hurricane Ike took an ancillary spin through the midwest and knocked out our power for thirty-six hours. Fortunately, midwestern hurricanes are rare. We're more prone to earthquakes and tornadoes around here. Ike made us a tad grumpy, and we lost some groceries and have a yard full of sticks and limbs--but otherwise we came out just fine. If I were a paranoid sort of person, I would suspect that Ike was sent here just so I'd have to clean out my refrigerator. (A clean fridge is a beautiful thing!)

Unfortunately, Hurricane Ike was far more malicious down south.

Pinckney and I want to encourage everyone to donate money to help the people whose lives were devastated by Hurricane Ike. To give you a little incentive, we'll match donations--up to a total of a thousand dollars--made by October first to the organizations listed below.

The first is the American Red Cross. There are thousands of people who generously volunteer every day for the Red Cross--from disaster relief to blood drives--but the organization also needs cash. They can purchase and distribute supplies faster than any one individual can.

Or, if you're as fond of animals as I am, you might want to support Hurricane Ike animal rescue efforts. Galveston Island Humane Society or the Houston Area SPCA Hrothgar and Scout would really appreciate it!

How we think this might work: My email address is laura@laurabenedict.com. Send me a copy of your donation receipt, or just something that thanks you for donating. (I think all three offer an option to have a person notified of a gift as well.) Or contact me and we'll figure something out! All donation amounts and information will be kept completely confidential. We'd like to acknowledge the names of contributors--but if you'd rather not, please let me know.

I hope you'll consider contributing. Any amount is welcome and appreciated. (BTW--These are all outside links. They're not connected with us or to us in any way.)

As another small incentive, anyone who contributes a hundred dollars or more will receive a signed copy of Surreal South 2007 and one of Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts as well (just as soon as I get my copies in December!)

Will you help spread the word? Thank you!

It's been almost a year since the Benedicts have had a snake event, so I expect it must have been time.

Since we picked out our rescue pup, Scout, from that shopping cart at the local Schnuck's grocery store back in April, we've had all the rugs in the house rolled up--well, the ones that would roll, anyway. Finally, the little guy went over a week without an accident in the house. I've been desperate to have the rugs back down. Scout's arrival corresponded with the kitchen completion, so our great room/kitchen hasn't been together all at once since Valentine's day!

The rugs were stored in the garage as we have no basement or useful attic. It had occurred to me that we might unroll the rugs in the driveway before taking them inside again. My fear was brown recluse spiders--I've seen several in the garage recently. But I was anxious to get the rugs down, and so armed Pomegranate with a fly swatter for spider-killing detail. We got the first two rugs down easily, with P at one end and I at the other. Then we got to the third.

The last rug is our oldest, dearest Oriental. It had rolled up neatly and was going to be a cinch because it has a great pad, one that sticks to the rug in a most appealing way. It's also the heaviest, so Pom had to help with the middle. We had to go through the length of the house to get to the dining room area. We set it down once, then P and I had to pick it up again.

Finally, P set his end down, and as mine approached the floor, something very long and very black leapt from the rug's open edge (inches from my arm!) and onto the floor.



Me: Snake! Snake! Snake!
P: Where? Where? Where?
Me: Black snake!
Pom: EEEEEEEEEEEK!
Bengal: Where is it? Where is it?

I'm proud to say that no one freaked out. Too much. All I knew was that I wanted that sucker outside the house. In split seconds I saw us enduring hours of snake hunts and nights of lost sleep--crazed dogs and petrified children. He made a beeline for the backside of the china cabinet.

P went for the fire-handling gloves. (Dogs were safely closed in another room.) I posted Pom at one end of the china cabinet--she stayed well out of reach, I assure you. I went for the five-foot handcarved walking stick I'd bought P years ago in WV: the one with the snake devouring another snake at its head, of course! We fetched brooms as well and strategized while P kept an eye on the snake using his awesome 6 LED headlamp. At one point P thought that maybe there were two snakes, the thing was so long. About a yard stretched out.

Now, I don't mind a black snake. They're useful. They eat mice. We have mice. But I don't want either in the house.

And as we were trying to figure out what to do, Bengal said, "Can I get a snack?" I think even the snake stopped dead at that one. It was all just one big popcorn-worthy event to Bengal.

We commenced to poking the snake at both ends. It got mad--but it was stuck there behind the cabinet. Finally, it went out P's end, thank goodness, and not mine by the piano! It slid out, fast, not really able to get purchase on the wood floor. After that, we had several fast minutes of snake hockey. i with the stick, P with the broom. Pom on a chair, shrieking periodically. Bengal laughing hysterically. P was calm and efficient. My heart was pounding. Really. Just like one hears about in books.

That snake did not want to leave. Even as we finally half-flung, half-poked it out the door, it was trying to strike. And I don't blame the poor thing. After we slid the door closed, it gave one final angry thrust at the glass and disappeared.

We were very careful about unrolling the rug out on the deck where we'd moved it. No daddy snakes, no baby snakes, no spiders.

Ah, country life.

The snake must have found it warm and dark in the garage. You know what's next, of course. Fall is coming, and with it will come the mice, looking for shelter. Apparently, if it's not one, it's the other.

Be well and stay cool for now, my dears. I'm home to write for the fall--with the exception of the Kentucky Women's Writers Conference in September! Visit me at The Handbasket, too! xo

Coming December 30th! (Along with the paperback version of ISABELLA MOON.) Seems like such a long time to wait....Now I'm working on number three in this hellish heat (okay, yes, I'm in the air conditioning--but it's hot outside). I had a dream last night about a woman who had to spend the gestation period of her new child as a frozen chicken in the grocer's freezer. Where do such dreams come from, I wonder?