The stories from Main Street have teeth. They grin and grunt. Today as small town America feels assaulted by Congress and Wall Street, my community feels insulated. We are the end of the road but we are start up. The characters in my book go through trials posed by drugs, alcoholism, and sexual assaults. They muddle through and bounce back like a mountain echo. They also wander little known trails. Main Street is alive and well and on its way! Read my book to see what freedom there is in an off road mecca, like Hazard, Kentucky. It is lean fiction. No bones about it! Trials and trails go hand-in-hand.
See http://www.hazardgal.com
Tag Archives: Hazard
My Big Toe
It’s time to get my feet wet on this board. By big toe is almost in. I am thrilled to be onboard with publicliterature.org.
My book was just released yesterday and I am walking on air. Much of my work on Author’s Den gives one an earful of my unique voice. This week, I got a local musician to collaborate with me on a video to promote my book, ALL ROADS LEAD TO HAZARD. That was the most fun I have had in years and an earful of good vibes. The band is The Chef Dave Band, a mix of jazz and rock.
Life is high and dry in these hills. It is so parched here the grass feels like Astroturf. Whatever hit Virginia only gave us a spit of rain. Not much to do except look forward to the debate tonight. My sister graduated from Ole Miss. You feel Faulkner in the breeze there. We toured his home and the occasion overflowed with photo ops. Someting I ate in Oxford gave me the worst case of heartburn ever. Maybe the candidates will not suffer that malady. America needs some souped up Pepto-Bismol to settle us down.
So, I have stuck my toe in these waters. I will return to the river of words soon. Check out my blogs, videos and work at Author’s Den and at http://hazardgal.com Glad to share this time together.
My Bridge to Somewhere
Each morning I see the difference. More
and more joists and rivets and a river idling by.
A river that whispers in this drought and looks
skyward. Men that hoist metal with cranes;
huddled along train tracks, often leaning
on old tires. I cross the old one twice a day.
Grooves worn deep. Now, I am half asleep,
and vines creep beneath the rusty bones.
I have come to a dead stop.
Writer’s block is real as a flat tire.
But the way my wheels hum upon
the old bridge is assuring. And
I have a toolbox bulging with gadgets.
Men in yellow hard hats are ripping
and reaching the other side in
near darkness. Maybe I must burn
one bridge to begin another. Maybe
my arms can span the diminished waters.