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 only polite and necessary to “come calling” on extended family.

I remember that whenever he came to call, he brought something special with the bond that existed between them.  A world seemed to form around the four of 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 enjoyed seeing them this way.  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 from 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.

http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

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