Redneck Goddess is here! My book is in my hot little hands and ready for yours. I'm delighted with the way it looks and a little overwhelmed that the fun world I created in the quiet privacy of my little office is now out there for anyone to enter into. You can get a good idea of what the book is about by clicking on book trailer at the top of this very blog.
My webpage http://www.authorpamelafoster.com/ should be up and running in a few days. Then you'll be able to buy an autographed copy using paypal. In the meantime, email me - pamelafoster2011@gmail.com - or buy it without the autograph on Amazon.com. Heck, flag me down on the street, knock on my door at midnight, send me a note by carrier pigeon.
Please tell other people about Redneck Goddess too. Building a following without the national exposure of a big publishing house is hard work and I appreciate every single person to whom you talk up the book. You can also go on Amazon.com and leave a review. Most importantly, please email me and tell me how you liked the read.
Take care and happy reading,
Pamela Foster
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Arkansas Invite
A year and a half ago my husband and I relocated to northwest Arkansas. Cupped in the rolling Ozark hills, the area is home to the U of A Hawgs, Walmart, Tyson Foods, and some of the prettiest land east of the Mississippi. We bought season tickets to the Walton Art Center and, for the first time, had the opportunity to see high quality Broadway plays, dance performances and music concerts. The people are friendly and the livin' is good.
Our favorite part of living here though are those inevitable Arkansas Invites to a barbeque or potluck at 'The Farm'. These invitations generally come with ten page instructions for how to get to the country home of the party giver. The paved road ends in the middle of page one (generally at the intersection of Lee Street and Martin Luther King Boulevard) and is followed by, and I'm not making up much of this, instructions that include, but are not limited to:
Hang a left at the Baptist dunking pond. You'll see the bullet pocket sign nailed to the sweet gum that leans out over the gravel road. Do not follow the metal crosses nailed to the fence posts that point the way to the Chruch of God immersion pool. If you come up on a chain stretched between a windfall hickory and a chain saw art statue of Jesus, you're at our only gated community and y'all missed the turn.
At the purple house with the giant neon razorback on the roof of the barn, turn right. Use caution as the piglets like to lie in the mud holes after a good rain. If you do hit one of the little porkers, press the accelerator. The owner is generally settin' under the oak tree, a .30-06 balanced across his overalled lap waiting on some darn fool like you.
Bear left at the warning spray painted on a yellow sheet and stretched above the road. The threat says, 'Don't even think about coming any further,' but you don't need to worry. That's my uncle's house and he's invited to the party so he'll give you a free pass today. If he does happen to stop you, don't get out of your vehicle if he's drunker than usual. The goober's got a big ass dog named Hunter Thompson that he's trained to sic balls.
Slow down at the Pentecostal Church of the Risen and Trimphant Living Jesus. The field beside the church is chuck full of rare fainting goats. Honk the horn and the whole mess of 'em'll fall over on their sides. Wait long enough and every last smelly critter will resurrect and go on about their goaty business.
Do not veer to the right at the Nathan Bedford Forrest Museum of Fine Arts and Confederate Paraphernalia. The reason ought to be self-explanatory, but suffice it to say that a couple of Yankees a year disappear off the face of the known earth right around in this area. If you do happen to get caught in this vortex, drop references to the War of Northern Aggression and make mention of your personal deep mistrust of the Muslim currently holding the office of presidency of the great U. S. of A. It probably ain't gonna help you none, but, sure, give it a shot.
Directly after you pass the stone house with the 'Knife Sharpening and Dawg Training' sign, you'll come up on the Second Baptist Church. Keep going, that's not your turn. Go on past the Central Baptist and, pretty soon after the drive-thru liquor store, you'll come to the big brick First Baptist Church. You're almost there now. Another two blocks and you should see the placard advertising 'Gun Smithing and Meditation Classes - Tuesday nights 6:00 and Prayer Service with Child Care - Wednesdays 6:30.' This is the One True Baptist Church of Jesus Christ the Beautiful and Victorious.
Hang a sharp right and you'll see our house set up back in the pines. Honk the horn, we'll lock up the dogs.
Our favorite part of living here though are those inevitable Arkansas Invites to a barbeque or potluck at 'The Farm'. These invitations generally come with ten page instructions for how to get to the country home of the party giver. The paved road ends in the middle of page one (generally at the intersection of Lee Street and Martin Luther King Boulevard) and is followed by, and I'm not making up much of this, instructions that include, but are not limited to:
Hang a left at the Baptist dunking pond. You'll see the bullet pocket sign nailed to the sweet gum that leans out over the gravel road. Do not follow the metal crosses nailed to the fence posts that point the way to the Chruch of God immersion pool. If you come up on a chain stretched between a windfall hickory and a chain saw art statue of Jesus, you're at our only gated community and y'all missed the turn.
At the purple house with the giant neon razorback on the roof of the barn, turn right. Use caution as the piglets like to lie in the mud holes after a good rain. If you do hit one of the little porkers, press the accelerator. The owner is generally settin' under the oak tree, a .30-06 balanced across his overalled lap waiting on some darn fool like you.
Bear left at the warning spray painted on a yellow sheet and stretched above the road. The threat says, 'Don't even think about coming any further,' but you don't need to worry. That's my uncle's house and he's invited to the party so he'll give you a free pass today. If he does happen to stop you, don't get out of your vehicle if he's drunker than usual. The goober's got a big ass dog named Hunter Thompson that he's trained to sic balls.
Slow down at the Pentecostal Church of the Risen and Trimphant Living Jesus. The field beside the church is chuck full of rare fainting goats. Honk the horn and the whole mess of 'em'll fall over on their sides. Wait long enough and every last smelly critter will resurrect and go on about their goaty business.
Do not veer to the right at the Nathan Bedford Forrest Museum of Fine Arts and Confederate Paraphernalia. The reason ought to be self-explanatory, but suffice it to say that a couple of Yankees a year disappear off the face of the known earth right around in this area. If you do happen to get caught in this vortex, drop references to the War of Northern Aggression and make mention of your personal deep mistrust of the Muslim currently holding the office of presidency of the great U. S. of A. It probably ain't gonna help you none, but, sure, give it a shot.
Directly after you pass the stone house with the 'Knife Sharpening and Dawg Training' sign, you'll come up on the Second Baptist Church. Keep going, that's not your turn. Go on past the Central Baptist and, pretty soon after the drive-thru liquor store, you'll come to the big brick First Baptist Church. You're almost there now. Another two blocks and you should see the placard advertising 'Gun Smithing and Meditation Classes - Tuesday nights 6:00 and Prayer Service with Child Care - Wednesdays 6:30.' This is the One True Baptist Church of Jesus Christ the Beautiful and Victorious.
Hang a sharp right and you'll see our house set up back in the pines. Honk the horn, we'll lock up the dogs.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Ba-a-a-a
I'm learning that part of being a writer is accepting and acting on constructive criticism while releasing destructive critiques before they can burrow under my skin and produce an irritating, life-blood sucking mental itch. Difficult as it is for me to believe, not everyone is going to love every single word I write. Shocking, but true. The only way to avoid some negative feedback is to hide my words in the back of the closet, safe and secure from any bad vibes, where not another soul on the face of the earth will see them.
This week I've been particularly susceptible to scratching those inevitible negative opinions with my own insecurities until they become raging sores just out of reach, under my skin. So, lying in bed, the words of others a loop in my head, I came up with a solution. I'm going to share it with you because I suspect I'm not the only writer who allows one negative comment to bury a dozen words of praise.
I have a goat. A Nubian. Her short, wiry coat is deep brown and she has a small swirl of hair in the center of her flat forehead that she loves to have scratched. Her ears hang down to below her whiskered chin and are the soft, worn consistency of the blankie my oldest son kept for years.
Her name is Gracie.
Oh, and did I mention? She has wide speckled wings.
Here's what I love most about Gracie - in the coldest part of the night, she comes when I call her. Her nubby horns, short and rounded, but horns nonetheless, butt against my chest like a very large, hooved cat. Her eyes are liquid amber flecked with ebony chips. Her amusing ba-a-a is easily translated.
"Yo-o-o're no-o-ot perfe-e-ect!"
Hard to bemoan the fact when she puts it that succinctly and so damn cutely.
Once my smile, or sometimes even a low laugh of self-derision, has broken a chain in the endless loop of my self-flagellation, Gracie Ba-a-as a time or two more, mostly for pure joy, I think. I sometimes join her. No particular reason except that it's hard to take myself seriously when I make that noise. Try it. Ba-a-a ba-a-a. See. It's fun. Joyful even.
Then I go to work.
With blood red ink on heavy Emily Post quality stationary, I write the wounding words that I previously welcomed into my pysche. I study them one last time. To be sure there's really nothing in them I need to keep. Sometimes there is. Most times, no. Then I choose an emotion for the way I feel about those barbs. This is the hard part and Gracie often resorts to more head butting to push the correct description up from my center. Frightened? Worried? Grieved? Angry? Whatever the word, Gracie and I find it. That word I write with black ink in huge, block letters in the center of the page.
By now, the goat's tail is twitching and she's making small anticipatory ba-a-as.
I cannot over-empathize how freeing I find that sound.
The heavy paper unfolded, open and exposed, I feed it with its burden of words into Gracie's eager, whiskered mouth. Her eyes roll back in her head in ectasy. She chomps contentedly. Gives me an occasional head butt if I eye her meal too covetously. She's carefull to eat every bit, never misses a word.
I give her one last scratch between her horns. She opens those fantastic wings, rises into the air, circles the bed once or twice, and disappears into the cold night sky. I usually watch until she's disappeared among the bling of stars.
Then I roll over and go to sleep. Tomorrow's another day and I have so-o-o much to write.
This week I've been particularly susceptible to scratching those inevitible negative opinions with my own insecurities until they become raging sores just out of reach, under my skin. So, lying in bed, the words of others a loop in my head, I came up with a solution. I'm going to share it with you because I suspect I'm not the only writer who allows one negative comment to bury a dozen words of praise.
I have a goat. A Nubian. Her short, wiry coat is deep brown and she has a small swirl of hair in the center of her flat forehead that she loves to have scratched. Her ears hang down to below her whiskered chin and are the soft, worn consistency of the blankie my oldest son kept for years.
Her name is Gracie.
Oh, and did I mention? She has wide speckled wings.
Here's what I love most about Gracie - in the coldest part of the night, she comes when I call her. Her nubby horns, short and rounded, but horns nonetheless, butt against my chest like a very large, hooved cat. Her eyes are liquid amber flecked with ebony chips. Her amusing ba-a-a is easily translated.
"Yo-o-o're no-o-ot perfe-e-ect!"
Hard to bemoan the fact when she puts it that succinctly and so damn cutely.
Once my smile, or sometimes even a low laugh of self-derision, has broken a chain in the endless loop of my self-flagellation, Gracie Ba-a-as a time or two more, mostly for pure joy, I think. I sometimes join her. No particular reason except that it's hard to take myself seriously when I make that noise. Try it. Ba-a-a ba-a-a. See. It's fun. Joyful even.
Then I go to work.
With blood red ink on heavy Emily Post quality stationary, I write the wounding words that I previously welcomed into my pysche. I study them one last time. To be sure there's really nothing in them I need to keep. Sometimes there is. Most times, no. Then I choose an emotion for the way I feel about those barbs. This is the hard part and Gracie often resorts to more head butting to push the correct description up from my center. Frightened? Worried? Grieved? Angry? Whatever the word, Gracie and I find it. That word I write with black ink in huge, block letters in the center of the page.
By now, the goat's tail is twitching and she's making small anticipatory ba-a-as.
I cannot over-empathize how freeing I find that sound.
The heavy paper unfolded, open and exposed, I feed it with its burden of words into Gracie's eager, whiskered mouth. Her eyes roll back in her head in ectasy. She chomps contentedly. Gives me an occasional head butt if I eye her meal too covetously. She's carefull to eat every bit, never misses a word.
I give her one last scratch between her horns. She opens those fantastic wings, rises into the air, circles the bed once or twice, and disappears into the cold night sky. I usually watch until she's disappeared among the bling of stars.
Then I roll over and go to sleep. Tomorrow's another day and I have so-o-o much to write.
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