Many years ago a psychiatric nurse friend gave me a copy of Pat Conroy‘s Prince of Tides, “because you need to confront some issues in your life.” I read it, reluctantly, saw what she meant, and dealt with those issues. Thanks, MaryLynn. But I can’t tell you what Prince of Tides is about per se, because I read it only…
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Confronting a Book’s Demons in Real (sort of) Life
Many years ago a psychiatric nurse friend gave me a copy of Pat Conroy‘s Prince of Tides, “because you need to confront some issues in your life.” I read it, reluctantly, saw what she meant, and dealt with those issues. Thanks, MaryLynn. But I can’t tell you what Prince of Tides is about per se, because I read it only…
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Traveler's Tales: Civil War Days
I’m finishing up a novella that takes place in 1867 Texas (An Inconvenient Gamble) and then I’m returning to my novel about Brigadier General John Hunt Morgan and his wife Mattie Ready. Since this is the 150th anniversary of the Civil War, it’s a great time to revisit the history, particularly with the ready access of so much research. But this…
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Traveler’s Tales: Civil War Days
I’m finishing up a novella that takes place in 1867 Texas (An Inconvenient Gamble) and then I’m returning to my novel about Brigadier General John Hunt Morgan and his wife Mattie Ready. Since this is the 150th anniversary of the Civil War, it’s a great time to revisit the history, particularly with the ready access of so much research. But this…
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Writing, Genealogy and Serendipity: Permelia
“I saw a photo once,” my 91-year-old grandmother said, “of three girls in an oval frame. They had red tinted hair and were very pretty. That’s the only picture of Permelia I ever saw.” My great-grandmother, Permelia Hanks Dunn Duval is a cypher. Born shortly after the Civil War to a 58-year-old CSA colonel and his second, exhausted, wife, she moved through…
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Remembering the Dead as Living
As we walked through the graveyard dusk of a late July some 17 years ago, the dead came alive to me. There as the sun lowered to the horizon and the birds settled to bed, Uncle Ernest told stories at grave after grave. I was writing the story of my grandmother’s life that year and this visit was to fill in the…
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