Nothing gives me more pleasure early of a morning than to have coffee and a cranberry orange muffin at Panera Bread in Simpsonville, SC. Those who really know me... well, you know I always find a place to commune with the Lord first and then do my work. Always in this order and as orderly as I know how, for I can really become scatter-brained if allowed my own way. My thoughts are going at a prodigious rate of speed and I can hardly wait to write something. Something meaningful. This morning was just one of many, and I had no idea I was going to impact a life in such a dynamic way. Dynamic on my side of the equation. I was the winner here. I am the life that was changed. But I have reason to believe ...  actually, to know, that another life was at least affected. I'm happy about that. I texted my dear friend, Bonnie. Every morning, I text my dear friend, Bonnie, as she does me! But this was a moment of remembrance and will always be. I will not tell you her side...

Writing a book is a very private endeavor, and like walking a tree-lined trail not being able to see what lies ahead, or like seeing through a glass darkly, I only know in part, because the story comes to me as I write. However, one thing remains true in the writing of any book, that is, for me. I can hardly wait to share it with someone, everyone. And as usual, I've not  given this latest work of mine a title, this  seventh book in my novels of the War Between the States, the aftermath, Reconstruction, and the amazing years that followed when the whole world began to change as a result of that evil War. For the time being,  we'll call it "Inherited Courage" for that is truly the story of Robert E. Lee Payne. It seems this courageous lad lived on the fringe of life from the time he was born to war hero, Albert Henry Payne, and throughout the incredible years that followed. Here's a bit of the Prologue. I'm now at 30,000 words— and...

Recently, I visited with my family in Mississippi before we caravan'd to Petit Jean Mountain near Little Rock, Arkansas. I was sound asleep one morning when I was pleasantly awakened by the angelic voice of my sister, Weesie. She was singing this song ... I hear thy welcome voice That calls me, Lord, to thee For cleansing in thy precious blood That flowed on Calvary. I am coming, Lord Coming now to thee; Wash me, cleanse me in the blood That flowed on Calvary. That song lingers with me, still. My sister asked me to take the devotion time at our family reunion on Saturday night before we all left to go our separate ways on Sunday morning. I used that song as a basis. It was quite appropriate, because in ages past—and we were all familiar with this exercise as performed by our Mama Smith and our Mother, Clytie, on separate agendas, of course— when we would visit, my grandmother used to wake us up in the middle of the night strumming fiercely on the old gui...

Joab ambled Star down the dark street, pulling his jacket close for warmth. It was quiet in Oxford except for the wind that whistled and blew hard through the limbs of the oak trees. He turned his horse toward The University and slumped in the saddle while Star clopped along on the hard-packed dirt street. The lamps were turned up to a high flame, standing vigil over the few students who were still out making their way to the dormitories. He rode up on the hill, the little cemetery for Confederate soldiers killed at Shiloh and Corinth. Just when Joab thought that Shiloh held the Balm in Gilead, he found the bitter gall of the tomb, the burial grounds of those who gave a full measure—then and now. He remembered the day he walked the wood planked bridge over the Tishomingo Stream at Brice's Crossroads, the ride up the ridge to Shiloh Hill. And now he was in Oxford where Whiskey Smith under the Union flag had tried to melt down the city. Joab thought Shiloh was his place of peace...

Trail to William Faulkner Home,  Oxford, MS Amazing That God Shows His Approval In Such Splendid Ways. December 17, 1870 Joab rode up on the campus about ten minutes before noon, the first to arrive, so he thought. He sat on his horse for a moment, breathing deep. The cold air refreshed him. He was handsome in his dark denim trousers and the only white shirt he owned. Mrs. Raines had starched and meticulously ironed it. The pleats lay in tight creases across the front and the blousy sleeves fluttered in the slightest December wind. His hair was clean and straight, barely touching his shoulders. His face was clean shaven. He wore no hat, not wishing to accentuate any cowlicks today. Drawing a deep breath, he exhaled and relaxed as best he could on such a glorious occasion, prayed that amidst the unsteadiness of the times this would be one perfect day. When he looked up, wagons full of people and riders on horseback were coming out of the woods on that end of The Univer...

It's Publishing Time I haven't posted here in a while.  My time is consumed with getting  JOAB ready for the publisher.  It is a grueling process.  My publishing consultant  called this morning,  just getting everything  aligned for me.  They are so helpful,  but the majority of the  work always falls on the author,  whether you self-publish  or publish with an agent.  It is now old hat with me,  JOAB being my seventh book  to get to the publisher.  Four of them are my own ;  three are clients' books.  And I'm constantly  interrupted by—well by life.  It does go on.  I'm thankful for some  getaway places . I have to change it up from time to time. Familiarity, you know. And then people start to know you, and you get nothing done. But talk! And then there is the marketing.  Press releases, scheduling signings and events.  T...

swesdome Wisdom is the compass by which man is to steer  across the trackless waste of life;  without it he is a derelict vessel,  the sport of winds and waves.   Charles Haddon Spurgeon Amazing the view from one side of Lake Junaluska to the other, that is at nine o'clock in the morning. At seven, you could scarcely see the wood planked footbridge and the mountains were nowhere to be found. The fog was thick as pea soup in London on a good day. You could hear the ducks on the lake, but you couldn't see them, the Canadian geese dared not attempt their early morning practice run, and the swans were still wrapped in their own wings until wake-up call—at the lifting of the fog. In essence, Junaluska, early of a morning is the epitome of the poem, like the life of man without wisdom— trackless waste. No compass could intervene. Except for the tops of our tennis shoes, we might as well have been blind and if we had tried this on temp...