Small Things & Plain Vanilla

A few months ago I told you I was kicking around the idea of telling my story in book form. The post was entitled, A Journey With John Boy.

The big issue I was having in tackling that project is that I’ve always kind of felt like my life was excruciatingly ordinary.  No  addictions to overcome.  No time spent in recovery or prison. No major life drama.

Pretty much plain vanilla. Not much there.

While I was kicking around the idea of a new book, I started outlining. No one was more surprised than I  to find that I do have a story. Odd as it may sound, part of my story includes  Thursday nights with The Waltons.

From the book description:

When a writing professor insists that Kristine has a story to tell, she’s certain that her “plain vanilla” life is so unremarkable, it beggars description.

Later, Kristine follows in her mom’s footsteps, giving up a career in aerospace to raise a family. Severe financial stress, misunderstandings and missed opportunities rip the fabric of family apart, snowballing into estrangement, isolation, and homelessness.

Returning to The Waltons years later, Kristine slowly realizes that even plain vanilla has flavor.

 

So here it is:

Another excerpt:

High above the river a bald eagle soars in slow circles. Dropping like a stone, the majestic raptor glides low over the water, talons out, and spears a fish. Great wings beating, he climbs to the nearest conifer to tear and eat. Northwest clouds cough out a cold chorus as sable night seeps over the Olympic Mountains.

Night rings down the curtain on day. Ideas roll around in my head like lost pennies. Small things like eucalyptus trees. A Michigan dairy farm. Guitar lessons. A first love. Girl’s chorus and my first creative writing teacher. Lunches and lagoons. Summer adventures and sheer stupidity. Time is like a penny. Life stories that don’t always go the way we planned. Clark Park, to which I’ve never returned….

… Peering out the window at a rising moon, I give thanks for family, friends, and a roof over my head. I recall A.J. Covington’s advice to a fledgling Walton writer and pad back to my keyboard. I can’t help but smile. You were right, Doc. You were right, indeed.

Find out more at: The Small Things: What ‘The Waltons’ Taught Me About Writing & More.

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