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The Dreaded School Pictures

This year when my children brought home their school pictures, I cringed.  These kids can leave home looking cherubic, but the minute they pose for that school photographer they are transposed into unrecognizable beings.  My middle daughter brought home pictures bearing her name and room number that couldn't have been my offspring. Nor a distant relative. I had worked for hours on this child. Her hair was parted in the middle and drawn into a cute little ponytail over each ear. Even though she is at an awkward age, she looked adorable when she went out that door. Her missing front teeth only added to her charm.  The kid in the picture has her mouth open wide displaying ugly dark gaps. Her one visible ponytail is lopsided, her part is uneven, and her bangs look like they were cut with pinking shears. I know this isn't my child because I always give my children a good haircut before they have their pictures taken. The only thing vaguely familiar is the sweater t
Recent posts

Building a story vs building a house

My latest book! Dear Writer:  Writing a story is somewhat similar to building a house. Or not! Remember this: when we give a piece of our story to someone to read - we expect them to see the whole. It's like building a house and offering a single piece of lumber to another builder. “Here, see the house I'm building.” SOME CAN SEE IT AND SOME CAN’T. Here's the thing: MOST CAN'T. This step is as necessary to me as breathing.  I need to give you single boards as I create them. AND I expect you to be a visionary and say, “Why yes. I see.”   I need you to see how special the piece of lumber is that I'm using and to see that eventually I'll add more pieces to make the whole.  Choose people to read your work who like the kind of stories you write.  There are as many kinds of stories as there are houses to live in. If you give a brick ranch to someone who only appreciates a cape cod then he'll have a hard time fitting himse

Meet Southern writer, Barbara Whittington, Author of Missing: Sweet Baby James by writer Elizabeth Vollstadt

Elizabeth says, "Reading and writing have been part of my life since I was a child. I've published several short stories in magazines, four non-fiction books, and a collection of stories called Young Patriots: Inspiring Stories of the American Revolution. My latest book is Pairs at Nationals, a sequel to Pairs on Ice. After Jamie and Matt's coach is injured, they travel to another rink to train and find hostility and pranks. Jamie wonders if it's worth the struggle." So begins the interview: I’ve never done an author interview before, but I thought I’d start with my friend Barbara Whittington, who just released her second novel, Missing: Sweet Baby Jame s.  Barbara and I met many years ago when we both lived in the Cleveland, Ohio, suburbs and joined the same writing group.  We bonded over our love of writing, and that shared interest led to a true friendship.  Barbara, who grew up in small-town West Virginia, began her writing career with

NOW available - MISSING: SWEET BABY JAMES

Finally - New Release is out! Available now in paperback and kindle version. On Amazon. Since we last visited the fictional town of Shady Creek, West Virginia, Vada Faith and John Waddell have welcomed a beautiful baby boy, Sweet Baby James. Their world shatters one afternoon when eight-month old James is missing from his play pen on the front porch of their old Victorian home. Is it a real kidnapping or is it a hoax? Duke Cobb, the town’s only police officer, determines to get to the bottom of this mystery. As the hours pass, Vada Faith’s trust in God wavers. She fluctuates between praying for her son’s safety and making bargains she isn’t sure she can keep. At a candlelight vigil in the park, Hope and Charity plead for the return of their baby brother. At the same time, two elderly sisters manage to knock the small town off its axis. Missing: Sweet Baby James is an unforgettable read, filled with unexpected twists and turns. Click the link below to go to Amazon and check o

ODE TO OLD OR I SHALL WEAR PURPLE.....

Ode to Old When I am old- Really really old- And cannot see - Red balls of rouge- Riding- High on my cheeks, Black lines- Arching- Over my eyes,  Gravy stains covering- Yellow flowers- On my good blue dress. When I am old- And cannot see - Will you please do-  My grooming for me? by: Barbara A. Whittington

Romance is in the air with free book.....

In honor of Valentine's Day my short story, Dear Anne: Love Letters from Nam is free on Amazon from February 13- 17th. Hope you'll get your free copy. I'd appreciate hearing from you after you read it. Or leave a review on Amazon, which is even better. It actually helps sales. And sales for my books this winter have been almost non existent.  The review can be as little as a sentence or two to let me and other readers know how you liked the story. Writing is a lonely profession and any feedback is always appreciated. I've been hard at work on finishing the current novel and editing is taking WAY longer than I'd ever planned. That's what happens when one is a perfectionist. Any job takes twice as long because we do a lot of second guessing and downright worrying over every phrase. With this novel, since it's told from several points of view, I've had issues with the time line. At last, I believe I have all those issues ironed ou

Leather Britches Mother's Way

Happy New Year's everyone! I'm featuring a blog post from 2011. The story of how my mom made Leather Britches or Dried Green Beans. This recipe dates back to pioneer days. My mom learned from her mom,  Dora Warner Casto, who learned from her mom,  Lorene Casto Bailes. I hope you enjoy my essay. My mother gardened all her life. It was one of her great loves, next to family, God, and country. Because she grew up during the Depression, she learned to use every last item from her garden for canning, preserving, drying or pickling. Every year at the end of the green bean season she made leather britches, dried beans that would keep for the winter. These were the last beans hanging on the vines. The beans inside had grown to full size with outsides a bit withered. They were beyond the stage to can or preserve, or even to pickle. Although her fried pickled green beans and corn bread were the best in the world. (Well, next to her biscuits and fried apples.) Mother started t