Well finally, after 5 years of dealing with my health condition I feel both the strength and motivation, enough so that I can invest the time marketing my novelette, Two Little Girls.
I hear that this is when the real work begins. After all, the words came pouring out of me and in less than two weeks I had written a book!
I, the youngest member of my family of 12, was living alone in the old family house when in 2010 I was surprised with a visit from an older relative. The family was recently reduced in size by the passing of its three elder members; my maternal aunt, my father and then my mother. Visiting today was the only remaining relative of my parents’ generation, a generation that thought it not only polite, but quite necessary to “come calling” on extended family.
I remember that whenever he came to call, Simon brought something very special into their lives. A world seemed to form around them built upon their recollections and bursts of laughter that would not be contained. They were almost childlike, one out-doing the other with what they remembered of the past. I so enjoyed seeing my parents this way as I can think of nothing to provoke such abandonment of parental restraint as Simon’s visits. But today he’d come to visit with me. I was thrust into connecting with him as one adult to another.
It was odd as we two sat in Mother’s living room as I cannot remember anything passing between us beyond a smile and, in those days, what was considered acceptable, brief admonishment for what could be expected of a child for simply being one. It wasn’t long before he told me the news, that my grandparent’s farm had been sold to a developer. The house, the barn, the smokehouse, everything was gone.
I couldn’t move. I never thought that it would be destroyed; perhaps renovated beyond recognition but not that it wouldn’t be there in some form for me to visit whenever I chose to do so.
Instantly it seemed the earth around me fell away and I was standing on a small bit looking out with no point of reference. In an attempt to hold on to what I remember, a story evolved to include all that remained with me of my grandparents farm in Virginia.