I’ve received feedback from several beta readers on three of my manuscripts and some key advice from a literary agent who rejected my first novel. They all encourage me to edit, edit, edit.
 
Ouch! Seems that I’ve been working on those four manuscripts f-o-r-e-v-e-r. And now I need to go back and edit again? Mind you, the advice is sound. Adding romance (per the literary agent) will allow the series to enter the romance genre listings as well. And face it, romance sells. The beta readers caught some glaring potholes that I completely overlooked and raised questions on pacing. That is the value of having strangers read your work before publishing. Once you put it out there (self-publish or traditional), you can’t take it back for a do over. Best to sharpen the pencil and wear out the eraser now when changes can boost the readability of the stories.
 
I admit that being told to rewrite/edit once again is off-putting. What started as a lark to fill my evenings has turned into a ten-year project with no end in sight. Frustrating but still the only thing I truly enjoy doing. Time to plant my foot firmly on the backside and get to it!  

I spent yesterday roaming around a historical cemetery with a dear friend. That silent city houses the remains of local politicians, industrialists, writers, suffragettes, soldiers, and lesser-known residents. Their monuments and mausoleums are astounding examples of funerary art across time, and we soon found ourselves surrounded by angels – both sculptural and spiritual.
 
During the Victorian period, families would spend entire days picnicking at cemeteries. Odd? Not really. During that time period, independent farms were squeezed out of the countryside. Unwilling to become tenant farmers, many workers fled to cities which were plunging into industrialization. Multi-generational families soon lived in crowded tenements rubbing elbows and, no doubt, driving each other crazy. There were no parks or playgrounds. But cemeteries offered pastoral surroundings with trim lawns, lush trees, joyful birds, and the heady scent of flowers beneath a clear sky. Children could run endlessly. Adults tidied graves, sharing sandwiches, ale, and lemonade while remembering those who came before them and hoping for a better life. The time spent with family, both living and dead, also allowed them to speak of the old ways.
 
“I love it when the old ways work,” the repairman, Toby Remeck, says in my novel The Sacred Stones and local baker, Addie Jesper, notes, “The old ways offer comfort that these modern times lack.” I agree with both of my characters. There is pleasure to be found in the old ways. That’s why we love old dogs who remind us that we both once ran as fast as the wind, we adore old school chums who call to mind the zany things we once attempted, and we favor old recipes that flood our kitchens with memories of family gatherings. Such comfort can be found in the familiar. Standing in that cemetery, I realized that there is also a profound human need to feel connected to the past; to be a part of the history of humankind – that river which flows forever.
 
Visit a quiet, old cemetery. Wander among those who dreamed long before us, and you’ll find that the past adds an enriching layer of meaning to our present lives.

​Some of us have been blessed with truly marvelous moms. I’ve always lived in that happy camp and couldn’t imagine how pale life would be without a nurturing mother. Ever curious, I began reading articles about neglectful parenting and researching the lifelong impact of an emotionally distant parent. This became the baseline for my flawed protagonist and my damaged killer in The Stars Prevail.
 
While those characters make for a good read, I remain profoundly grateful for the gentle woman who raised me and five others while dealing with a bipolar alcoholic husband. I don’t know how she pulled it off, but we all managed to land on our feet fairly stable and happily raising children of our own. Maybe that’s when we all began to realize just how much compassion, stability, patience, and joy our mother gifted to us in life.
 
Thanks for always being there, Mom.

​I joined millions of other people stepping outside to watch the solar eclipse as it swept across the Americas this week. I chose an underpopulated rural park and shared a celebrative picnic luncheon beforehand with a friend. It really was the perfect viewing spot beside a sparkling lake, surrounded by budding trees and tilled pastures with an occasional fisherman stopping by to cast a line into the water. We raised our glasses to view the phenomenon and yes, it was stunning.
 
Just as impressive, however, was the impact that the eclipse had on the surrounding wildlife. When only a third of the sun was covered, I noticed that the birds had stopped singing. It was what my protagonist, Remy Lane, noticed in The Sacred Stones, “Songbirds fell silent as if holding their breath in the timeless vignette.” Redwing blackbirds dotting the fields, ducks paddling on the lake, and sparrows fluttering in the trees all grew still. Even the robins gave up their normal land patrol where they endlessly strut about seeking out territorial invaders and worms.
 
Utter calm. Then, hundreds of crickets began chirping and frogs bellowing in a raucous chorus around the lake. This was mid-afternoon. Half of the sun was still visible, yet they sensed the change. I’ve read that bats will fly out of caves en masse, owls will begin hooting, and dogs will howl when an eclipse occurs – even when they are not on the direct path (i.e., there is still sunlight present). Amazing.
 
Yet all we humans managed to do was oooh and ahhh, taking pictures with our cell phones – like anyone who saw the eclipse will ever forget how it looked. Once again, I am utterly impressed by wildlife which is so beautifully in tune with the universe. What a shame we’ve lost that nurturing connection in our rush toward progress.

​St. Patrick’s Day rolls around this weekend and thoughts of all things Irish reminds me of an inexplicable event that occurred when I was in Ireland. My daughter was heading into college that fall, and our summer trip was her reward for graduating with honors and celebrating her acceptance into a stellar women’s college.

It was our first trip abroad. I was driving on the opposite side of rural roads that held no signage whatsoever while she was relying on a wonky GPS unit that failed more than it succeeded. We were often lost, always happy, and overwhelmed with a mixture of excitement and stress. Fans of all things ancient, we decided to find the oldest ringed high crosses in Ireland located outside of Ahenny, County Tipperary. The 8th century crosses are beautifully carved with geometric shapes; stunning relics standing within a tiny cemetery surrounded by cow pastures and farm fields.

We waved to the cows as we crossed the open meadow, dropped a donation into a tiny collection box posted on the cemetery gate, and spent the next hour spellbound by history. What I hadn’t told my daughter was that I slipped when leaving our B&B that morning and had somehow injured my knee. I hid my limp from her because it was only the second day of a two-week vacation. We were in trouble. I was the only licensed driver and pressing the gas/brake pedals was cringeworthy. Walking was riddled with pain.
 
While she took photos -- including the one posted below -- I leaned my hand against a high cross to get weight off my screaming knee, wondering how we could possibly continue our journey without a miracle in hand. And it happened: A miracle that is. When I stood upright and stepped away from the capped cross, there was absolutely no pain in my knee joint. I was perfectly fine. I spent the next twelve days climbing over stone stacked walls, hiking out to megalithic burial sites, hopping up spiral stone steps to reach the top of castle spires, and trekking down steep footpaths to the coast in search of selkies. Always perfectly fine.
 
On St. Patrick’s Day, I urge you to raise a glass (preferably of Guinness) and toast this miracle of Ireland’s high cross. A touch of the unexplained, but some things in life should remain a mystery.

“When it comes to writing, the journey is the point; the product isn’t.”
 
Those sage words were spoken by the multi-published author Julianna Holmes on her podcast. The statement stopped me in my tracks. I admit it: Up until that moment, I had always focused on the product. That is, getting my novels published and having my series appear in bookstores, shelved in libraries, and sold with online retailers. I mean, that’s the point of writing, isn’t it?
 
Well, no. Once I embraced Julianna’s words, I pivoted and concentrated on the actual journey. The first thing I realized is that a writer probably shouldn’t travel alone. Up until then, I’d been working solo on my mystery series for about ten years while also working full time. It was a very personal, private undertaking. So, why not open my manuscripts to others? Inviting people to join me in my journey has allowed me to embrace creative writers, join critique clubs, work with copy editors, and connect with beta readers. Their shared stories and genuine feedback have been incredibly refreshing while having a profound impact on my writing. I’ve found it’s delightful to belong to an ever-expanding group of talented, humorous, challenging, and caring individuals who all contribute to “the product.” One day, my community will also include agents, content editors, book cover designers, and publishers who will add more exciting new tools to my travel bag as I continue to grow as a writer. But I’m not worried about when that day arrives.
 
Recognizing that the journey is the point of writing made room for both humility and humor in my life. It allows me to remain a lifelong apprentice to the craft and to belong to a wonderful community of readers and writers. It has been a lovely, freeing notion.
 

He’s back – the hawk, that is. Last January I wrote about a hawk that appeared in my backyard…
 
…I stared outside. To my amazement, a mature hawk stared back at me. The hefty predator was patrolling my backyard in search of a morning snack. It was shocking on two levels. First, I’ve never seen a hawk in the backyard. We’ve lots of small birds that are fed seed daily but not the big hunters. Second, he was walking on the ground. I’ve only see hawks soaring across the sky, perched on telephone poles, or silhouetted on a weather-beaten farm fence which can sometimes still be found in the countryside; not strutting across a clipped lawn.
 
The hawk disappeared later that day. I may have seen him circling over nearby fields throughout the year but never again in my backyard.
 
He must have checked his 2024 appointment calendar because he landed on my lawn right on schedule: January 1st. There is no denying that he is impressive. Foreboding. The sparrows are packed into surrounding bushes, silent and trembling. The mourning doves pulled up stakes and waddled down the block. The cardinal grabbed his mate and took off for the nearby Dennys. The hawk just sits there: Watching. Waiting.
 
The online psychics claim: When you have a close hawk sighting, it's a sign from the spirit realm that you are ready to take on a larger, more powerful expansion and vision of your world. The hawk symbolizes a need to start looking forward, envisioning your path ahead, and perhaps preparing for a greater role in life.
 
Again, like my protagonist, Remy Lane, I don’t need the stars or psychics to tell me when to stop or when to go, but a swift kick in the butt is always appreciated. Recently retired, I find that it is all too easy to sit down and not move forward. Fortunately, I have a hawk who swoops in once a year to remind me that I am meant to be doing much more. It’s time to take on a fresh challenge.