I started looking into my family heritage to see if I was eligible for dual citizenship. Discovered I might be eligible in Canada, Ireland, the UK and Norway. Never did I ever think I’d need to think about a Plan B for citizenship, but here we are.
As I went down the rabbit hole of family heritage research, I kept thinking that human DNA is 99.9% the same and yet we keep thinking we are different from one another. That 0.1 % different is just to add color – literally- to us so we aren’t boring to look at.
Still, I guess I’ll find another “tribe” that will take me in as one of theirs.
I’ve known my entire life that I was a writer, but, like so many artists, I chose the practical path of expanding my skills and education to have a career that paid. Fortunately, I was able to create a successful non-writing career that was also very meaningful…and still is.
I always kept writing though.
I wrote for my “paying” career and I wrote for my love of writing.
Now, I have positioned myself to consult for college and universities in meaningful work AND write and publish my fiction.
I’m so glad I never quit my dream – my purpose in life – to write.
Sitting outside, or at my local cafe or at home with my cat on my lap and my family in the next room and writing is my bliss.
My words want to be read by others and so I’ve gone through the process of queries, rejections, traditional versus indie publishing and finally deciding a hybrid publishing model i s the one for me right now.
I have been accepted to my first book fair. It’s in Houston and there will be more than 100 authors of all genres! Exciting.
Please come see me in Booth #78. We will have fun and can talk about Lexi and Paddy in “Under The Autumn Moon.”
I was not a person who read romance books but two years ago a character, Lexi Maxwell, presented herself to me while I was on holiday in Ireland. It was chilly, windy, wet day as we rode through the rolling hills of the country. It is true that Ireland has more shades of green than anywhere and the dots of white sheep sprinkled in the fields made everything feel quaint and cozy. After the rain, rainbows appeared everywhere I looked.
That was when Lexi started talking to me. It’s how all my characters present themselves to me. They just show up in my “mind’s eye” and start telling me their story. You will hear some creatives refer to it as a download. “The music is in the ethers and I just capture it,” to paraphrase Bob Dylan when asked how he write his songs. Elizabeth Gilbert and Rick Rubin have discussed this experience as well. In fact Gilbert talks about how she sits at her desk every morning at the same time to “receive” her stories. Paul McCartney admits that is how “Yesterday” came to him. It was a complete song in a fast download. Such a complete song that, at first, he thought it surely must have been someone else’s song that he’d just heard on the radio.
Lexi kept talking to me all day in Ireland and, by the time I arrived at my hotel, I told her I’d write it. Four months later I completed her story and Under The Autumn Moonwas published the next year.
Under The Autumn Moon has been described as “Finally, an adult romance. This isn’t puppy love. It’s a deep fulfilling love story.”
Another romance story immediately started “talking” to me and so, this fall, another romance novel is on its way to you.
What I’ve noticed about myself now that I’m writing romance, is that I have more scented candles in the house, I now have flowery bed sheets, I wear lacey tops (NEVER would I have done that before), my playlists I listen to while writing are love songs from all ages and cultures, and I seek quieter spots to sit alone or with a small group of family and friends.
The other delight is how many men, of all ages, have said things to me like, “I’ve never read romance and didn’t know I needed it!”
Maybe we all need a little more romance in our lives.
Once again, my grandfather’s ancient pickup truck required a “rolling start.” He released the brake and we rolled down the hill behind his farmhouse where he parked for just such occasions.
My grandfather, or Gaga as I called him, turned the ignition Nothing.
“One,” I thought.
He tried again with a little more force.
“Two.” I looked out the windshield with several weeks’ worth of bugs splattered on it.
He turned the ignition once more. This time there was a little bit of a grind to the motor.
“Three.” At least we’re getting closer. I looked at the back of the truck and saw Joe, my grandfather’s bird dog, shivering, partly because it was cold and partly because of the excitement of “going somewhere.”
Another turn of the ignition. The motor caught, my grandfather popped the clutch, and we lurched forward, bouncing out of the yard onto the gravel road in front of the house.
“Whoa!” we both said as we hit one more bump and flew off the truck’s vinyl seat.
As we bounced down the road, I smiled and pulled my winter coat up around my neck, settling in for the ride to the “bottom” to hunt for a Christmas tree. We’d been doing this for as long as I could remember. The weekend before Christmas we would always go the low land in the country we called “the bottom.” We’d search through as many pastures as it took before we found the perfect tree.
Mo matter what, it was always cold and a little damp, but we would go, he and I. It was our tradition. Joe’s too.
I think the bird dog knew when it was time to “go hunting.” He’d see Gaga throw the hand saw in the back of the truck, and then Joe would come running and hop up with it. He wagged his tail so hard that it would literally shake his body back and forth, a perfect case of the tail wagging the dog.
Everything was gray. The sky. The trees. Even the grass. But not Joe. He was white and brown and stood out as much as anything could on a gray day.
Gaga and I usually didn’t talk very much on these trips. We’d just drive along in that old white truck of his and wonder if any heat would puff out of the vents so our feet wouldn’t freeze. His truck didn’t have any insulation or padding on the dashboard, the sides or the ceiling. I don’t know if it ever had any or if it had been ripped out or fallen out before or after Gaga bought it from someone in town.
The ”bottom” wasn’t much more than a low area in an otherwise completely flat part of central Texas, but, standing on Gaga’s front porch, you could see a gradual and definite decline in the terrain. And that’s where we would go.
We followed a precise ritual. We’d drive down to a place in the middle of the bottom and pull the truck off on the side of the road. Gaga never pulled too far off because he had done that once and ended up sliding into the ditch.
Once he parked, we would climb out and walk to the back of the truck. As excited as Joe was, he would never leave the truck bed until Gaga lowered the tailgate. Of course, it would always take a couple of yanks before the tailgate would oblige. Once down, Joe would scamper out and head for the fields.
He’d run out ten to twenty yards then turn and run back to us, jumping and barking. Then, he’d run out again, and, again, come back to us, jumping and barking. He’d keep this up until we lifted the tailgate, grab the saw and set out in some particular direction.
We usually didn’t walk very far before we had to get to the other side of a barbed wire fence. So that we wouldn’t leave some “momento” of our journey hanging on the fence, Gaga would hold the top strand of the barbed wire with one hand and push down the second strand with his boot. It was easy to loosen the wires because most of the fences in this part of the state were as old as Gaga’s truck. I’d lean over and climb through the opening Gaga made for me and my short legs. Gaga would just step over the top of the fence with his long, long legs.
Once we’d cross the fence, we’d walk. And walk. And walk. We could never select the first tree we found. You just didn’t do that when you only went “hunting” one time a year.
Sometimes Joe would catch the scent of something and head off in a certain direction. But, he never went far. If he did start to stray too much, Gaga would call for him. “Joe” was all he would say, and Joe would come right back. I once asked my grandfather how he was able to get Joe to return with just saying his name once when I knew most people would yell and scream at their dogs. He shrugged and said, “Joe’s his name. I’m not gonna call him Larry.”
Joe would bound back, pink tongue hanging out and a steamy breath smoking in the chill. He’d run straight to me, jump, put his muddy paws on my coat and slobber. That was our ritual.
When we found a tree we thought might be “the one,” we’d circle around it. Gaga would squat down and study its base, looking for rotting wood, ants or anything else that might be a problem. He’d stroke the needles, feeling for brittleness. He’d scape some of the bark with his thumbnail checking for moistness.
Somehow, we would both know at the same time when we found the right tree. I’d usually say, “This looks like the one for this year, Gaga.” He would walk around it and mentally measure its height to make sure that it would fit inside the house. He’d bend over and look under the branches. Then, without saying a word, he would draw out his saw and cut down “our” tree.
Hauling it to the truck was never easy. We each had to stand on one side of the base, grab a limb and drag it back over “I-don’t-know-how-many-steps” we had taken back to the challenge of getting through the barbed wire fence, now with a six foot tree. But, that too, was part of the hunt. The struggle was always worth it.
The years have passed now, and so have Gaga and Joe. I don’t “hunt” for Christmas trees anymore. I don’t even have a real tree. I have an artificial one. It’s better for the environment and my allergies. Still, “hunting” for Christmas trees remains as much a part of my Christmas tradition as it did all those years ago.
Today, when the rush of the holiday season becomes too much and the commercialism too unbearable, I climb into my white truck, go home, turn down the lights, sit with my son and husband in front of the fireplace, and tell stories about Gaga, Joe and finding the perfect tree.
I’m there often before the cafe opens. Not so much to grab the prized table near the fireplace, but to grab “my spot” to sit and write for two hours or more. My Muse has trained me to be punctual so she (he? still not certain) will tell me the story she wants to tell today.
The table has an energy for me.
Apparently it does for many others as well because patrons will round the corner in the cafe holding coffee and their breakfast place only to be disappointed when “the spot” is occupied.
Most will say something like, “You’ve got the best spot,” as if I am supposed to move. Often I’ve only been there fifteen minutes or so and my plate of partially eaten food is still visible.
So now I put buds in my ears, playing music or not, to tune out all the distractions. I move “my table” as close to the wall as possible, pulling the nearby table over to the fire so someone else can enjoy the warmth.
It’s never enough for others though.
The side eye from, sorry to say, usually women over fifty, burns my forehead. Some just stand, look and talk, loudly, with their group about how “that’s where I thought we would sit, but it’s taken.”
Mr. Coronado who cleans the tables has become my buddy. He has worked restaurants where he has seen customers shout and shove over similar situations. Gee. He’s told me to just say, “No entiendo.” That wouldn’t be true for me so I just smile, bury my head down and write. (today about them)
I thought I was signing up for a different book fair held on the same day in my community so I didn’t really know what I was getting into when I realized I was heading to a small town I’d never heard of to participate in my first ever book fair at a new bookstore I’d never heard of.
The place was overflowing with vendors so Leather and Bound Bookbar had to set us up in the adjacent cross fit gym. It was unheated and the side garage doors were open showcasing the vibrant sunset.
I relaxed into my new adventure and had a GREAT TIME!
The people were warm, kind, fun and genuine.
Venders supported one another with conversation, professional advice and manning one another’s table if needed.
And I sold several books.
What was so fulfilling about the sales was that my future readers wanted to talk with me about the book. Several have already started following me on socials, giving sweet shoutouts.
What started as an uncertain journey ended up a meaningful adventure.
Well, here I go with my first bookstore appearance.
I thought I was signing up for a similar event in downtown Dallas on the same day, but am not.
I’ll be in Fate, Texas just thirty minutes east of Dallas and am very happy to be part of the new-ish independent bookstore. They will have everything- books, authors, tatoo artists, candle-makers, mysteries and all.
There’s a reason Amazon is so popular. It’s convenient, fast and easy. It literally took minutes for my publisher to upload to Kindle and Amazon.com. Getting my book onto other platforms and into bookstores (still in process) is taking five weeks and counting.
However, you can now find Under The Autumn Moon by me, Betheny Lynn Reid, at Waterstones.com, barnesandnobles.com, TheStrand.com, Bookshop.org, etc. You can ask the bookstores, Waterstones, Barnes and Nobles, The Strand and other, to order it for you. That might encourage them to add a few copies for in store browsers to discover it.
Also, if you like my book, please place a review on their sites and any social media. It does make a difference, especially for new authors.
