In fifth grade a classmate ratted on me to our teacher, Mrs. Bashore. It was near the end of the year and we were called out of the room for some special thing I can’t remember. Probably a health lecture. When we came back to the room Mrs. Bashore asked if all was well. That’s when I got turned in.
“Jerry talked out loud,” the squealer squealed.
Continue reading Three Problems with Being Funny by @JerryLGentry
I used to think I wanted my book to be read. I was excited about having people experience my world, my characters, my hard work. I was hopeful that the book would make connections, like so many of the books I’ve read in the past.
Continue reading I Don’t Want Anyone to Read My Book by @HMJonesWrites
I have always had a storyteller’s mind. It’s always whirling, taking things in, processing, rephrasing, rewriting. I’ve always enjoyed telling stories – via by page, by pen to paper or finger to keyboard to screen.
My friends in grade school used to call me The Weaver, for I’d spend sleepovers and slumber parties weaving stories of gore and horror, terrifying the socks off my friends better than any B-grade horror flick could. I’d have them deeply believing that the ghost of a little boy who died from the measles in the 1800s truly does wander my back deck, where the old farm house used to be. Despite the fact that we’d bulldozed the old farm house to build our new, modern home, the ghost remained, unable to find peace because he was gone too young and missed his mother. He wants revenge for us destroying the only home he’d ever known.
Continue reading My Thoughts Are Always Occupied With Stories
I glimpse her hiding in the shadows, between a heartbeat and the next faltering breath. Her alabaster skin gives stark contrast to the black satin corset over her flowing black dress. Dark lace and gossamer wings accentuate her onyx eyes. The pale beauty of her thin face, high cheekbones, and stringent jawline frame her luscious lips. She smiles, a smile that would shame the full moon of October, and I forget to breathe.
Continue reading Between Heartbeats: Depression – Living One More Day
I came to writing books late in life after a twenty year career as a successful exhibiting painter living in Belgium. When my maternal grandmother turned ninety, I was forty-nine years old and had just celebrated my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. My daughter was a freshman at an American university and my son was a senior in high school. And I’d written a novel, my first.
Continue reading Five Things I Learned Writing ‘A Decent Woman’