Monday, April 25, 2011
Liz Flaherty Guests Today
“Your writing seems kind of old-fashioned.”
Oh, my gosh. Oh, my gosh! I bled over this contest entry and these protagonists that I loved. I asked my kids what words I should use instead of the 1960isms I am most comfortable with. I even asked my grandkids. And I took their advice. Sometimes. I still don’t use the f-bomb. I still don’t insert “like” into a sentence if the speaker is over 17. I can’t make myself say “awesome applesauce,” which was suggested by Mari, my third-year-in-college granddaughter.
And all the contest judge had to say was “kind of old-fashioned”?
Well. The truth is, she was right. The other truth is that I am old-fashioned in a lot of ways. I’m still bellowing, “I am woman. Hear me roar,” when there’s a whole generation out there who’s not sure what in the world I’m shouting about. And I want to read—not to mention write—about women like me. Who have stretch marks and crows’ feet and all kinds of other Badges of Accomplishment we’ve earned over the years. Another truth is that we want to celebrate what we’ve learned and what we feel, not bemoan the fact that we no longer have skin tone or flat stomachs. (Okay, I do bemoan those things, but they’re not nearly as important as I once thought they were.)
I’m the first to admit it’s difficult. There aren’t too many markets open to old-fashioned voices. But some are. The Wild Rose Press is not only open to it; it celebrates it. They published my historical, Home to Singing Trees, last year and this year Because of Joe is a Last Rose of Summer Rosebud. I’ve included a blurb and an excerpt here. I hope you enjoy them.
Judy, thank you so much for having me at The Word Place.
Even though things should have been perfect, each took wrong turns. Rags and Tell found themselves on a one-way street traveling the wrong direction. Their marriage collapsed in a sea of accusations and disappointment.
Years later, they meet again, their memories as fresh as if it were yesterday. Instant physical attraction and emotional connection blindside them, leading them back to that perfect place.
He stepped onto the deck, silent in his bare feet, and lifted the Nikon.
Once he started, he didn’t stop. Even when Rags lifted her head at the sound of the clicking shutter, he kept moving and snapping pictures.
“No,” he said once, “not like that. Reach up and muss your hair. Let’s see sexy at forty-two.”
When she laughed, he took pictures of that, too.
“Walk away from me,” he ordered.
“Aw, come on, old lady. What kind of model are you?” He grinned at her, but she wasn’t smiling.
“I walked away once, and will do it again when this—” she raised her arms to include the house and all that happened within, “—is over. But not right now.” He clicked the shutter again.
The words “not right now” sang in his ears. He grinned again. “Okay,” he said. “Walk toward me.”
She did. Her gaze was direct and slumberous at the same time—what his mother would have termed “come hither.” Tell took the last picture on the roll, lowered the camera, and went hither.
My website is http://lizkflaherty.com and the books can be gotten at http://thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=869 or from Amazon or B & N.
Tomorrow: Jana Richards