Published Oct. 2020; written by Marlene Osteen 

Deena Bouknight’s novel Playing Guy traces the trajectories of a pair of broken souls in a small Southern town.

    Deena Bouknight’s second novel, Playing Guy offers a distinctively humanistic Southern fable – a tale told with irony and pathos, it’s a story of redemption.

     The novel has some of the heightened quality that has come to be known as Southern Gothic, and the notion of the South as a place where paradoxes prevail – a Christian tale where much of the action (and even the book cover) takes place in church and yet one where the protagonist considers himself not much of a Christian at all, a place where people sit around telling tales, whose “tragic” history somehow binds them together.

    Playing Guy develops the story of Guy Olivier Rhett Butt. “Named to be a movie star, his parents bestowed on him a first and few middle names to choose from when he did get to Hollywood.” 

  The book pivots around the friendship of Guy and Maddie Walker- who shoulder to shoulder take on their small-town of Wynee, South Carolina – a camaraderie begun in early school, and solidified by the commonality of diminished parenting.   

  There is Maddie, the motherless child, raised by a workaholic Doc Dad and her take no-prisoners nanny, Squash, and Guy, the son of a father tormented by demons and self-doubt and an eccentric mother, both of whom are rejected by the townsfolk for their Northern roots and decidedly quirky behavior.

  With easy charm, and spectacular good looks, Guy easily ascends to Hollywood stardom. But Guy himself is a cautionary tale, for other hardships await – For what is easily gained can be as easily lost. 

  Those same themes surface in the opening scene when Guy is first seen in the Wynee hospital being treated for serious injuries that could shorten his career and maybe his life.  Bouknight combines her signature mix of literary skills  – agility at developing depth of character and sense of place – learned from the masters, Wolfe, Thoreau and Wharton, to draw us into the tale of Guy and Maddie. 

  As the author says “My goal is that when the reader finishes they know the characters and place so well they are emotionally involved in their story.”  The intellectual energy of the novel arises from a larger mystery, that both flows throughout the telling and is embedded in the moral of redemption, of the good that oftentimes comes from bad that yield lifetime altering shifts. As in the case of Guy and the road he navigates towards self-realization, from narcissist to beneficent; of the love that Maddie discovers with Guy’s parents. 

  In all, Playing Guy is so polished, well written, and compelling that the reader will want to return to their story and to Bouknight’s upcoming novel, Light Fracture, a historical novel about the 1886 earthquake in Charleston, South Carolina.

 

 

 

 

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star

Fracture

, S.C.

Color Draws

By Deena C. Bouknight

Fall is a fleeting season. Its resplendent peak is punctuated by strong gusts and hard rains – and then bareness for at least four months.

But during those few fallish weeks, when harvest colors abound, I find myself drawn to windows, car drives, bike paths, and hiking trails. To take in October in Western North Carolina is to be saturated soul-deep in the glow of rich hues. Light streaming through paper thin shapes. Breezes fluttering transparent oranges, reds, and yellows into layers and heaps.

There is beauty in this rapidly changing season. He could have kept the leaves the same year-round, reliable, yet tedious imagery month after month, year after year. He could have made all deciduous trees to slough dead brown leaves only.

Yet, our Creator chose fall as an episode of grandeur the likes of no human can truly capture (sorry, artist friends).

Leafers come in droves to witness His show. Literally millions pack Western North Carolina highways and byways to see leaves dying. Essentially leaves fast; they stop their food-making process. Interior chlorophyll breaks down and green disappears, leaving behind – only momentarily, and depending on species – brilliant yellows, vivid reds, and honeyed oranges.

Change and death typically do not cause one to sigh, mouth agape, and whisper awe-struck utterances. But some change does us good. And like the crescendo of an orchestra, the painterly palette of hillsides and mountains and forests ready us for darker days ahead. We are soul-filled and strengthened with such wonder that we can patiently endure bleak, chilled days and anticipate glorious renewal, restoration, growth. The season of light, of white and pastel florals, awaits us on the other end of winter’s austerity. Trees break forth their life and distinctiveness, and we yearn at summer’s wane for the beautiful holy change of fall once again.

 

 

Bascom Writers’ Group Prompt: Places Wanting to Visit

Longing to Experience

By Deena C. Bouknight

I will never get to all the places I ache to see in person. I hate to look at a National Geographic or other travel publications, because I inevitably read about and see photographs of an obscure place never heard about.  Then I want to add it to my list. I have been as far as Scandinavia and to the lofty 9,700-foot heights known as the Zugspitze on the border of Germany and Austria and in the opposite direction through the Cascades and onto the other-worldly Haiti in the Caribbean.

When I travel, I don’t just want to see – I desire to experience. My dream would be to truly live in a place for a month or more at a time. To snatch a bit of the language, or dialect, to know the people, patronize the shops, revel in the landscape. I was able to do that in Germany a few years ago, walking daily through the wheat fields and to the baker down the Roman-era path, biking along the rivers from village to village and seeing storks nesting on cottage roofs, and picking cherries from branches overhanging a neighbor’s fence.

But I also try to experience a place even if I am only there a short time.

For a few days last week, I was with my brother and sister in law in Louisiana and we not only took a boat ride down a remote swamp-flanked river that was edged with moss-laden cypress trees, but we also visited Natchez, Mississippi – which remains in something of a time-warp – and stayed in an antebellum home lush with fine antiques and walked along and soaked up the vastness that is the great Mississippi River.

I believe the ultimate experience – that may actually cause me to be undone with emotion – is to visit such holy and ancient lands as Turkey and Israel and Egypt. To step on some ground or into a structure where the great pharaohs and the kings and Mary and Joseph and Jesus may have placed their own feet … to touch construction that is perhaps thousands of years old … to dip my foot into the mysterious Jordan River … to eat fish from the sea of Galilee … and to gaze and float upon the Dead Sea.

I have been told I have wanderlust. Perhaps I do, for even though I daily rejoice over the fact that I get to live in this place to which no adjectives do justice, I am scarcely back from one new excursion when I am musing about another.

But as I write this I view a line of sun-streamed mountains as a backdrop to my yard’s colorful trees, and I am content.

We are only visitors here.

The Bascom: Center for the Visual Arts writing prompt - a hobby - 5/7/19: 

Hobby Horse

Manure’s odor is a an eau du cologne for moi. Perhaps some of my mother’s inclination toward anything equestrian-related seeped into my fibers for the nine months I waited in her womb. All I know is that the grassy, grainy, earthy scent of a horse’s excrement is a balm to my soul. Rather than a chore, cleaning the waste from the old barn my horses occupy is a task looked forward to instead of dreaded.

Diane Ackerman, in A Natural History of the Senses and A Natural History of Love, toys with why some women are so enamored with horses. Perhaps there is an ancient primal need to control – or it is the thrill of sitting astride a moving mass of muscles. Serena, in the novel of the same name by Ron Rash, instills mythic-proportion trepidation into the minds of rough and tumble lumberjacks because she simply rides through the forests on a white Arabian. Zoro may never have become legendary if not for the grand entrance he made on a majestic, coal-black Friesen he named Tornado.

But my reasons for a lifelong hobby involving horses is simplistic, and mostly sensory. I love the way they smell – not just what is deposited – but their coats; a mixture of briny sweat and honeysuckle in the summer and pine wood and hay in winter. When I’m particularly edgy, a close-in whiff is all that is required to quiet my nerves. And the feel of their velvety noses and silky manes and tails … 

Whinnying, nickering, chewing grass, munching oats, sucking water – I hate to cliche say it, but yes, music to my ears.

And then, just look at them. Take a minute next time you have a chance, to truly look at a horse. God got a lot of things right. But the horse. What the Mona Lisa is to the art world, the horse is to the animal world. Splendor on four legs. Hues and sizes in myriad variations. Sometimes I just look at my horse and marvel at how she is made. And now, with her white winter hair giving way to a burnished golden brown – contrasted by her wavy thick mane and tail. I’m envious!

But I guess, overall, this horse hobby of mine has connected me with people. As soon as I could sit up my mother had me in the saddle, arms wrapped around me from behind for protection. I did the same with and for my children. My mother, sister, and I spent years during my growing up competing every weekend with our horses. And, as an adult, the highlight of my week is exploring on horseback together with my sister old mountain logging roads and deer trails.

Horses are my gym and my therapy – and I hope to be in the company of horses well, like Jackie Kennedy Onassis and Beryl Markham – until that very last day.

“I Got You, Ms. Deena.”

Bascom Writing Group Prompt: Single experience you had that completely changed how you thought or behaved about something. Was it a person you met? Something you read? Something you were told? Something that happened? Reach down and try to recall that single thing that changed something or everything for you.

“Why don’t they do something … something!” “How can they just sit there all day? Why don’t they work? Why do they walk out in front of my car every time I drive through here? How can they live with trash all over their yards?”

I’m ashamed to admit that these were my thoughts for several years as I passed by the Gonzales Gardens housing project in the heart of Columbia, S.C. Originally built as temporary assistance housing for soldiers returning from World War II, the dense development evolved into generational housing for African Americans made complacent by public assistance.

In my world of juggling home, family, homeschooling, and work, I couldn’t fathom an existence that seemed mired in meaningless muck. I judged the book by its cover.

The city just needs to raise this place, I thought many times.

But isn’t it what we try to ignore that convicts us most? While teaching a literature class for a homeschool co-op, one of the mothers spearheaded a service project. She decided that immediately after each weekly class, we would take our teens to Gonzales Gardens and offer an after-school snack and tutoring program. Really? The first day we set up in an empty, trash-ridden lot across the street from the last row of drab brick apartments. We set up some tables with snacks, unfolded some chairs, unpacked some balls, and waited. Within minutes, no lie, it was as if a colony of ants learned of a picnic feast. From every far corner of Gonzales Gardens streamed children as young as toddlers – no parents attached. These children, most uninhibited, played, and ate, and sat in the laps of white mommas and their well-meaning teens. We colored with the younger ones and asked older kids to pull homework out of book bags.

What developed quickly over weeks was an official program called Prosperity Project. We set up in a dilapidated building next to the vacant lot. Completely naïve with a learn-as-we-go mentality, a group of us moms attempted a semblance of structure to virtual chaos. Nary any evidence of parental interest or concern. So foreign a concept for us helicopter moms.

Yes, we did find hypodermic needles, condoms galore, and bullet casings in the vacant field. Yes, the children cussed at us and ate everything they got their hands on and demanded more – especially of our time and attention.

But the experience began to open the aperture of my narrow thoughts. Reading Uncle Sam’s Plantation, by Starr Parker helped as well. Her extended essay went like this: The African American culture is – generally – close knit, and although work and whole families and church were central after the ending of the Civil War, the Depression brought about government programs intended as temporary aids that became long-term crutches. Generation after generation came to rely on Uncle Sam as provider, and they dropped from the workforce, and settled into a rut of cheap or free housing, food stamps, and Medicare. Parents had more children to get more assistance. The family unit dissolved. The village raised – well, sort of – the children. But the parents, without work and purpose, became despondent to any real hope or meaning. Parker broke the generational poverty cycle in her own circumstances, and her book was an attempt to preach it to others.

What my lens began to allow in, as I loved on the children and tried to meet some of their needs, was the desperateness of humanity. Empathy grew; frustration waned. Little by little relationships formed. The children just needed to know there was more – and better – and maybe their experiences would motivate their caretakers off their trash-laden perches and strung-out sofas.

So for six years, we operated what became a thriving, publicized, respected, and bursting at the seams after-school ministry. We eventually took over an old church building and, at Christmas, even the University of South Carolina basketball coaches showed up with new athletic shoes for all the children.

It was one of the first Christmases with Prosperity Project that opened my eyes for good. I needed to venture deep into the belly of that dark place – made darker still by nightfall – in order to deliver some holiday packages donated for one family. The director regularly strapped a 22 on her hip, but I had no such protection. One of the boys, then 9, saw me drive up and park. Dequantis came running out and asked me what I was doing there. “I need to get these packages to someone in the C building,” I told him. “I’ll help you Ms. Deena.” I grabbed the packages, but then stood there at the car looking at the buildings. Was this smart? Was I going to end up dead - one of those stupid, what-was-she-thinking middle-aged white women – killed by a stray bullet intended for a rival gang member. It happened all the time; why did I think I would be impervious?  

“I got you, Miss Deena,” said Dequantis, reading my fretful face.

He grabbed my hand and held it, all the way into the middle of the dark place, made lighter by his concern and protection. He knocked on the door, he presented the presents, and he walked me back to my car.

Gonzales Gardens was raised last year. I miss it – and the people, especially the children, who lived there. Dequantis is 18 now and tells me he loves me, as do many many others.

I’m glad I opened that book and stepped inside, instead of leaving it closed minded on the shelf. It changed me, forever.

Put Off 

a short story 

By Deena C. Bouknight

“If the blind lead the blind, they will both fall into the pit.” Matthew 15:14

“My brother, I will do it,” said Serge to the voodoo priest, barely visible behind the crumbling concrete altar. The windowless grass hut allowed in little of the remaining daylight descending rapidly behind the barren crest of Cha Cha Mountain.

The burly coffee-skinned man often did his sibling’s bidding. Yet, the other-world “called” received recognition. In fact, in a village tainted by poverty – as was most of the depleted Caribbean country – Serge’s brother lived affluently. Payment for services came in the form of livestock and rice and sometimes money. For the local Houngan to sacrifice a chicken to the loa and solicit spirits to intercede for Bondye for healing, direction, or special privileges, he might even ask for Haitian goudes or American dollars.

But this day, Serge was to summon the bokor – a dark sorcerer to rid the village of a loco young man. Pepe – starved of oxygen during a laborious birth – was known, accepted, tolerated by villagers. His ways were not their ways, but his family kept him close. Lately, though, he had taken to sneaking out at night to eat the meals of the dead, left at the entrances of tombs just in case the trapped spirits may need sustenance. Blasphemy! He must be stopped! Villagers looked to Houngan for resolution.

“Go now!” instructed the voodoo priest. Serge complied. Though he would never see the rewards bestowed on his brother, crumbs were better than nothing.

He had at least a two-mile walk through muddy paths and over a vast dry sea of white rocks. The closest bokor lived remotely in a rural perch of maize farmers.

As Serge exited the dirt-swept yard, he allowed his open palm to glide atop the rough-hewn burnt cross, a commonplace voodoo/Catholic emblem marking dwelling places of priests or priestesses. His spirit heaved. Would Jezi be displeased with his mission? Was Jezi more powerful, or were the loa spirits.

Serge knew the bible of God and the words about taking life. The bokor would advise taking Pepe’s life. This was certain. It was the justice of voodoo and no one questioned. Yet, Serge questioned. More and more since the voices from the new church rose and overflowed the valley. His brother cursed the Jezi worship. But Serge stirred. His soul or his heart or both, he was not certain, nudged by the singing. “Mesi, Jezi! Mesi, Jezi!” The voices throbbed against the church walls every Sunday morning since the church’s planting a few months earlier.

Sunday morning was long gone, but Serge thought about the worship as he approached the church in the dusk. The salmon painted simple structure was on his route to fetch the bokor. The church and the singing and the praises to Jezi would not distract or deter him or cause him to question his allegiance to his powerful voodoo brother because Sunday evenings were not for worship in the dark, vast valley.

Yet, as Serge drew closer he detected a rising “Hallelujah! Amen! Amen! Amen!” He heard the hum of a generator, noticed illumination seeping through church window bars.  

Curious, he stopped on the road just outside the church doors and listened to the revelry inside. A tugging.

But he must continue on.

“We love you, Jezi! Nou renmen ou!” In English, then Creole, then English. The singing drew him. Serge took a few steps on the road, stopped, and listened more. His feet moved in the direction of the church’s door. As his hand approached the handle, the tall metal door opened. Light was in him and on him and through him. A gracious face spoke in Creole, “Bon soir!” The next words conveyed: “Welcome. We are celebrating visiting missionaries this fine evening!” Serge entered the sanctuary and the presence of the singing smiling voices. A hand motioned him toward a row.

Wait!

He hurried back through the door to the outer darkness. The metal door banged behind him but the singing did not cease. Serge sought breath. His heart beat anxiously as he eyed the road that would lead to a bokor and eventually a poor mindless boy’s death.

He glanced back at the door of the church. A small child peering through the leaves of a banana tree would tell the voodoo priest the next day that his brother gestured with his hands as if he were taking off a great jacket. To the curious observer, Serge appeared to fold the imaginary article of clothing and place it on the top step of the church.

“No more,” he whispered, and then opened the door and walked through.

Novel in Progress: Light Fracture

LIGHT FRACTURE
By Deena C. Bouknight

Due to be published mid to late 2019 or early 2020

Tagline: The teacher thought she was going to the lighthouse to teach, not to learn.

SYNOPSIS: Agnus’s plummet inside the lighthouse is the stuff of local lore and ghost stories. But was the death her fault, driven by mental illness? Or, did the lighthouse keeper play a part? The teacher? This historical literary fiction illumines struggles meant to stay shrouded in a time when patience was a virtue, a lighthouse saved lives, and an earthquake was the furthest notion in the minds of Charlestonians.

Super Cool - Broken Shells Made the list ...

BookWorks Summer Reading Recommendations – August Edition

We hope you took us up on the suggestions in our Summer Reading – July Edition and are enjoying some great indie books. With so many worthwhile titles on offer in our BookShop, we’re back with another round for the sultry days of August. We plan to make this a regular series so stay tuned…

 BookWorks Team 
AdministratorJuly 31, 2017

We hope you took us up on the suggestions in our Summer Reading - July Editionand are enjoying some great indie books. With so many worthwhile titles on offer in our BookShop, we're back with another round for the sultry days of August. We plan to make this a regular series so stay tuned for our "Back to School" edition. (But's let not even think about that just yet!).

"Summertime, and the Livin' is Easy..."

For your staycation—some absorbing tales that offer escape from your routine.

Delilah of Sunhats and Swans by Melissa Volker  (An unusual young heroine changes lives in a small New England town.)

The Sassafras Crossing by Lindrith Davies  (Romantic drama and coming-of-age unfold on the Eastern seaboard in the early 80's.)

Broken Shells by Deena Bouknight  (Two separate stories/lives intersect in unexpected ways in this rich novel set in the Carolina's.)

WRITING WORKSHOPS AT PAT CONROY LITERARY CENTER 

I cannot say enough good things about the Pat Conroy Literary Center in Beaufort, S.C. Attended an affordable writing workshop there by Michel Stone, author of The Iguana Tree and Border Child; she offered these helpful tips when writing about an unfamiliar place, skill, occupation, etc.:
- consult experts
- research, research, research
- go, watch, listen
- become curious - ask questions

In order to elicit empathy from readers - whether writing articles, non-fiction, or fiction - it is important to tap into familiar emotions, but then also observe others to convey unfamiliar emotions. As Atticus says more than a few times in To Kill a Mockingbird: "We have to climb into someone else's skin and walk around in it." Good writing taps into the human condition.

Thrilled that there is this resource for writers as it is important to continue growing, stretching, and fine-tuning. Pat Conroy was a support, encouragement, and inspiration to writers in life - and the Center in his name will continue to do so even though he is no longer with us.
The Pat Conroy Literary Festival is October 19-22.

Book Signing - The Lamppost Library

Northeast Presbyterian Church

May 20th, 2015 from 4:30 p.m. to 7:30 p.m.601 Polo Road

Local Author Showcase 2014

November 24, 2014 by Sarah G.

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Saturday, December 13th

11 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.

Richland Library Main

It's an explosion of local literary talent! This year's showcase brings you more than 100 South Carolina authors!

From picture books and poetry to thrillers and histories, there will be something for every age and interest. This is a great opportunity to meet real authors, discover your next good read, and stock up on holiday gifts.

Check out the list of participating authors below to get excited and plan your visit. This list is arranged by target audience age and/or subject, but keep in mind that many of the authors have several books which cross the boundaries of age and genre.

Don't know where to start or which books might tickle your fancy? This year's Local Author Showcase will also include an open mic session, where you be will able to hear the authors read from or talk about their work.

• Our special guest, the University of South Carolina Press, will have a range of new and best-selling regional books, and a selection of discounted titles.
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• Southern Fiction
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• Deena Bouknight
• Signing Broken Shells, and previewing Playing Guy

One Sentence

As I often tell my students, it only takes that one tantalizing first sentence to loosen the stones of the dam and release a flood of creative activity in the brain. One strong, jaw-dropping, earth-shattering, I-want-to-read-more sentence. I just finished Charles Frazier's Nightwoods and, Wow!, what a first sentence: "Luce's new stranger children were small and beautiful and violent." Frazier introduced us to sentences readers want to take time to ponder when he wrote Cold Mountain. My favorite author, Edith Wharton, was a master at first sentences - simple - but they always leave you yearning to know more: "Selden paused in surprise." (The House of Mirth) "I had a story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story." (Ethan Frome) An author I met at the South Carolina Book Festival in May, Ron Rash, wrote a first sentence for a phenomenal book (soon to be released as a movie) called Serena. Here goes: "When Pemberton returned to the North Carolina mountains after three months in Boston settling his father's estate, among those waiting on the train platform was a young woman pregnant with Pemberton's child."

A great first sentence does not have to always be in a creative fictional story. Entice readers of essays, articles, and even letters with a fine first sentence: "Every girl and boy has a dream." (article recently written for a local magazine). "We are living in post-Christian times." (City on a Hill, Philip Graham Ryken) "When Bob Burnham received word that his three daughters on their walk home from school were heading straight into a riot in Odessa, he jumped onto his bike and raced through explosion, gunfire, and columns of riot police." (WORLD, May 31 2014)

Remember the song from the claymation Santa Clause movie, when the young reindeer is learning how to walk: "Put one foot in front of the other ... and soon you'll be walking out that door ..." Writing is like that. Set that initial cornerstone first sentence, and soon other sentences can be added to it to create something worth reading.

Major Weakness - "Real" Bookstores

    Ed's Editions Books

I have been listening to Author Pat Conroy's "My Reading Life" while on recent weekend trips. This past weekend, while driving back from the mountains, his words struck a cord. He described walking into The Old New York Book Shop in Atlanta, Ga., and suddenly realizing that never before had he desired material items. Yet, his yearning to select books off the shelves at the Shop, purchase them, and take them home was overwhelming. The Old New York Book Shop became his hang out for many years, until it eventually closed down. I can relate - completely. I am still in mourning that The Happy Bookseller in Forest Acres closed down a few years ago. My happiest days were spent riding my bicycle up to the shop and spending hours reading book jackets, taking in the smell of the books, choosing just the right ones, and then having some of them gift wrapped for friends or family. Ed's Editions, on Meeting Street in West Columbia - just over the Gervais Street Bridge - is a dying breed. Every corner of this old book shop is stuffed with bound treasures. I can lose myself completely in this environment. I am a an archaeologist in an Egyptian tomb. Drop me off for the day! The new books stores don't do it for me; give me a real book store, with wooden shelves, hardwood floors, sofas and chairs scattered about, and a (real) cat lounging in the window. Give me first editions, or books that are lovingly used and written in. When my grandmother died a few years ago, I was told I could take what I wanted from her home. I found a first edition, tattered copy of Gone with the Wind. Even though the binding is practically thread bare, it is my prized possession. I pray that there will always be "real" books and "real" bookstores. Sadly, I fear that both will one day be extinct. However, while we still do have a "real" bookstore with "real" books in it, consider visiting Ed's Edition and relishing in the experience. Conroy, whose love for books is evident in "My Reading Life," shares: "Books are living things, and their task lies in their vows of silence. If you do them the favor of understanding them, of taking in their portions of grief and wisdom, then they settle down in contented residence in your heart."

Novel Debuts

Finally, after many years of writing it, having it edited, and it being represented by two literary agencies, my first novel - Broken Shells - has been published. Writers are always "works in progress" so I would greatly appreciate it if you would provide me with feedback about the novel if you decide to read it. You can also write reviews on this blog or on Amazon.com (where it can be ordered as a Kindle version ebook or a print book). You can order other format ebooks from Lulu.com.

You can read the first chapters of the book on my website: www.deenabouknight.webs.com.

Sense of Place

The first time I ever learned that term, "sense of place," was while reading "Walden," by Henry David Thoreau, in college. For those who haven't read it, it is a senses story that takes place in the mid 1800s in some woods near a pond in Cambridge, Mass. The point of the first-person account is that we need to be fully aware and appreciative of our surroundings at all possible times. There is beauty, tragedy, and godliness everywhere. The busyness of life sometimes prevents me from focusing; but, when I do, and I search for the senses words to describe a "sense of place," there is joy in that. Sometimes, in order to become awestruck afresh with all that we see, hear, touch, taste, and smell, we have to take ourselves to new environments. I recently thrilled at a new "sense of place" when I had an opportunity to visit Haiti. Although I've traveled out of the country, the extremeness of this place prompted me to want to write, and write, and write. Although far from the genius of Thoreau, I've written a sense of this place. I encourage you to try capture your own experiences in your own words.

Slowly, the Haitian driver maneuvers over extremely bumpy, rocky roads - and then accelerates at bursts of breakneck speeds down few paved roads. Our conspicuously white faces witness bizarre sights from the van's windows: men peeing publicly, severely malnourished dogs mating, children hanging upside down against a crumbling wall, a boy rolling a tire down a dried-up riverbed with a Sprite bottle attached to a stick, children pointing and smiling, roadside tables displayed with mangoes, feminine protection, sunglasses. Ankle deep, smoldering garage. Rubble spilled into the alleyways from earthquake-compromised buildings. Deafening honking and screeching brakes due to no traffic laws. Women walking erect with loads as large as a basket of live chickens balanced carefully atop their heads. An irrigation system capturing water from high atop a mountain and rushing it past bony horses and naked bathing woman. Voodoo chants and drumbeats leading dancers winding through street vendors.

A country of contradictions. Vibrant bougainvillea draped over razor-wire walls. Landscapes of garbage set against a backdrop of picturesque mountains. Enamoured with Jesus while working to appease Voodoo deities. Emerging from densely packed tent cities neatly dressed. Children in uniforms to attend schools in a dilapidated building. Tap-Taps painted with images of Jesus alongside likenesses of American movie stars or women in seductive poses. No sanitation, yet brightly-colored water delivery trucks that blast friendly, catchy tunes. Police with shotguns at entrances to convenient stores and fast-food restaurants. 

Resonating over the Valley of Hope countryside on a Sunday morning is the rhythmic beat of the hands of men and boys making contact with crude percussion instruments. Feet tap, bodies sway, arms are lifted high, voices yell praises in Creole. "Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"

In the still darkness of an early morning, I grip the van's seat to avoid bruises from the extreme dips and mounds of the "roads."  Putrid smells of decomposing waste penetrate the van's interior. Oppressive poverty, earthquake damage, desperation - mile after mile. Barely lit with the dawn's light, a women walks through the garbage; nostrils filled with the pungent smell, she picks her way over the rocky bumps and around the debris.  But her head is tilted back. Her hands are lifted toward heaven. Beauty, thankfulness, and praise rise from within her - audibly expressed in the grayness of that place.

New Books to Check Out

There are two new worthwhile books that I would like to draw your attention to. Self publishing is becoming such a viable avenue that even the publishing companies are taking notice and starting up self-publishing divisions. In this tough economy, especially, it brings important books to the marketplace that might not have made it otherwise. The downfall is that not as many consumers learn about these great books. Here are two that I recommend.

One is a book that has helped me personally since I reviewed it several years ago when I met the author, now a friend, at a writing conference in Hilton Head. Her daughter was killed in a car accident on the same road going to the same school that my son attended when we lived in Asheville, N.C. Author Ginny Callaway, whose husband is Grammy Award winning bluegrass musician David Holt, wrote about the importance of being a comfort and support to someone who is grieving. I used this knowledge when another friend's only child died from SIDS. I would not have known how to be there for my devastated friend had I not been exposed to Ginny's book. A Friend in Grief: Simple Ways to Help gives you the words and actions to reach out and support someone with confidence and compassion. http://www.afriendingrief.com/


Secondly, as a home schooling mom, I have been unable to find quality physical fitness and nutrition books that are written from a God-centered perspective. This summer I became acquainted with the author of a brand new book/curriculum called Faithful Workouts for Youth. Not only is it a good read, but it covers what's necessary for our spiritual, physical, and emotional well-being. It's written for kids, but beneficial for adults as well. Here's a blurb on Faithful Workouts:

There is so much emphasis on academics, but are we focusing enough on spiritual growth and development, physical fitness, and nutrition? Students can earn PE credits by enjoying the Faithful Workouts for Youth and learning how a relationship with God, exercising, and eating right makes us healthy in all aspects of our lives. http://www.faithfulworkouts.com/

What I Learned at WORLD

In October, I had the privilege of being selected as one of 10 mid-career writers from around the country to attend a writing intensive at the headquarters of WORLD magazine in Asheville, NC. It was, undoubtedly, one of the highlights of my career as a writer. It was both exhilarating and humbling; intensely educational and frustrating. For at least eight hours each day, we evaluated writing (ours and others), deeply discussed world and theological issues, and underwent a thorough refresher course in writing and journalism. In the evenings, I wrote until midnight to complete assignments that were "due" the next morning. As a writer, I feel like my skills were challenged, stretched, and fine-tuned. Writing is a continuous art - one that never reaches perfection. To be in an environment where I could focus on elevating my craft with no "life" interruptions for a solid week was thrilling!
What I learned was invaluable. Here are a few items I will share. The editors of WORLD refer to writing mistakes as "broken windows."

#1 Avoid split infinitives. In the modern language, splitting usually involves a single adverb coming between the verb and its marker. Very frequently, this is an emphatic adverb, for example:
I need you all to really pull your weight.
Instead, it should read: I need you to pull your weight.
#2 Use a colon when you have a strong quote or information that you want to spotlight.
#3 Choose adjectives wisely.
#4 As a fellow WORLD writer conveyed: "Don't tell me it's hot. Show me the steaming pavement melting the crayon."
#5 Make every word count. Every word, sentence, paragraph needs to entice readers to read to the end.
#6 If possible, know the audience you are trying to reach and write to that audience.
#7 Tell a story; don't just make a list of facts. Every story typically has a protagonist, antagonist, a mission, and a barrier.
#8 If you're doing an interview, don't be afraid to ask a dumb question in order to get the information you need or to engage the interviewer in the subject.
#9 Avoid quotations that simply repeat something that has already been written. Make the quotations count: notable, clear, specific, a way to advance the story.
#10 EVERYONE needs to edit their work and EVERYONE needs to be edited. Always turn in the very best work.
I learned much, much more - especially that I need to write, write, write. Hope this encourages you to continue writing as well.

"Happy is the heart of him who writes; he is young every day." (unknown)

Reverence

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deena bouknight
latest - October 24, 2011

As a challenge, describe your church on Sunday morning - conveying the reverence you feel when you enter its doors. I want to be there when I'm reading about it. Send to me: dknight865@aol.com

"Writers are Made, Not Born"

Not sure where this quote came from, but it's so true. Even though a writer can be gifted with a God-given talent, it is one of those skills that must be continually fine-tuned. I tell my students that even though I've been writing essentially my whole life, from myriad of journals, short stories, and diaries I kept as a child to the thousands of articles I've written for publications and books, I still must hone my craft. I must have a teachable spirit and not take it personally when there are mistakes that need to be edited or rewrites that I must undertake. In order for any of us to improve as writers, we need to be writing a wide variety of things. If students only do key word outlines and rewrite paragraphs that have already been written, they will not be able to tackle various other assignments and situations that come along. Try writing an opinion to an editorial, a detailed letter, an elaborate tale, a journalistic style article, a blog, a short fictional story, entries in a journal, a Bible study, and a speech. There are endless ways to stretch and flex the writing mind. My hope is that as an aging woman, I will continue to feel that my writing can always be improved upon. Write on!