Southern Women

I've moved my writer's blog to http://pamelafosterspeakerwriter.wordpress.com/bigfoot-blues/#comments  It'd be great if you followed me there.

This blog is going to become my rift and rave spot.  The blog is named Secrets and Vices, afterall.  What's posted here has virtually nothing to do with any of my books.  It's just a place to post observations and opinions and see what y'all think, hopefully get some feedback.

One of the differences between Southern woman and the rest of us heathens is that Southern women, as a rule, do not cuss and swear.  I mean, unless they’re fighting with a computer.  Or quilting.  During those two activities, all bets are off, but otherwise, nary a crude utterance will pass their lips.  Yes, there are exceptions.  A dear southern friend and I once had to pinkie swear not to say the ‘f’ word in front of another friend’s eighty-year-old mother.  But, by and large, woman from below the Mason/Dixon do not use profanity.  They especially do not take the Lord’s name in vain.

This is a challenge for me, a Pacific Northwest Redneck transplanted to Northwest Arkansas.  I’m telling you, it’s a hard and trying cultural adjustment. 

The worst thing I ever heard my dad say about a woman was, “She wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful.”  Now, I ask you, is that not a clear demand for a girl to call it like she sees it?

I phoned my sister the other day and asked her what she was doing.  “I’m standin’ in my Goddamn garden,” she said sweetly, “looking at my first water-fuckin’-mellon.”

I don’t know what to tell you.  It’s how we talk if left to our crude Yankee tendencies.     

The other difference between a southern woman and an old Humboldt Honey like myself is that a southern woman will hang herself before leaving the house without a bra.  Hell, most of em couldn’t be paid to walk out the front door without foundation makeup, eyeliner, mascara and painted nails.  Me?  I do shave my legs, though since menopause it’s more habit than anything else and I do wear a bra.  Though that last deal is more about the vanities of old age than a defense against a lynching.

All that said, my best friends in the world are from the south.  Nobody is better at wearing a soul to submission with pure-dee graciousness or knocking the argument plum out of a body with words sweeter’n tea.  I may not be from around here, but I am de-damn-lighted to buckle up that bra and censor my words a tad.  It’s a small price to pay to live peaceably in this neck of the woods.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pen

Writing is a solitary addiction.

Because of my craving for writing time and solitude, I’ve never been a person to have many friends.  I held people at a distance, my emotional force field protected the real me. Like any addict, my addiction was my life.  

So, imagine my surprise when I found, not one, but four women to share my writing journey.  From agonizing over plot, through the publication process and the challenge of marketing, these four ‘sisters’ have eased my pain, sharpened my skills and just generally made my life more joyful.

A few months back, we officially became The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pen. Our first speaking engagement was yesterday at the NW Arkansas Writers Workshop Conference.  Our hope was to get our message across AND to entertain.  I think we accomplished our goal.  

Ruth Weeks started us off by acting the part of a humble, frightened writer trying to pitch her work to a snooty agent.  Thirty seconds in, she flung off her jacket and revealed more bling than Liberace.  And cowboy boots.  Hot damn, those boots of hers.  Ruth strutted a demonstration of stepping out, believing in yourself, and making the magic happen in your writing career.  I mean, the woman showed us how it was done.

Once Ruth had folks fired up, it was my turn.  

I pointed to my tiara. Yes, you read that right. Touched the giant, gold star hanging around my neck, whirled my feathery pink boa.  I held my book over my head danced and yelled, I’ve been published!  My sisters yelled and stamped their feet and threw confetti. The celebration lasted approximately thirty seconds when Ruth, holding a sign that said Reality Check stepped up and, foot tapping, demanded my lovely glittery crown and my adorable star.  The bitch even took back my lovely pink boa. I spoke on the reality of having a book published and likened the experience to running a small business.

Next, Jan Morrill acted out a skit she’d written about how, while the rest of The Sisters took that fork in the road marked Small Press and skipped happily to publication, she choose the road to New York Publication and spend a year waiting for the phone to ring.  This presentation came complete with the song Let it please be him. It must be him.  It must be him bursting forth into the conference room to demonstrate her reaction each time the phone rang while she waited and waited to hear from her agent.  My favorite part was when she skipped down the path to stardom in her sunglasses, the frames of which were in the shape of glittery gold stars. 

In stained chenille robe, pajama bottoms and soft, fluffy slippers one of her dogs may have chewed, Claire Croxton demonstrated what happens when you sit down to write, but first, just for a minute, you check your email and your favorite blogs.  Social Networking is vital to building a platform after all!  As Ruth moved the hands of a giant clock, Claire tapped on her laptop, commented on blogs and just networked her little heart out until the clock showed eight hours had passed and she hadn’t written a word on her new novel.  Claire spoke on managing your time.

Linda Apple stepped up with a rubber snake around her neck which, like Marlin Perkins with the giant Anaconda, she successfully wrestled into submission.  Her opening line was “Most people would rather wrestle a poisonous snake than speak in public.” She then beautifully demonstrated how to speak in front of an audience with ease and grace.  Linda spoke on the importance of building your platform as a writer.  

Lord, did we have fun.  Who’d have thought that a lifetime of living in my own solitary little world, mainlining words and struggling to reveal the truth through fiction–who would have even suspected that this would bring me into the glorious company of a sisterhood like this?