Stacy Overman Morrison's Blog
February 7, 2014
Big-Boned Blessings
Never tiny:
Thick,
Strong,
Solid.
No bemoaning past zeros, twos, even fours
I now settle in my big boned jeans, the same size I wore in high school.
I look down at life scarred, well-loved, often caressed, sometimes abused thighs.
I love them.
I am beginning finally to feel
the same feelings for my body that I do for my children.
Protective,
Honored,
Blessed,
Responsible.
~som
Thick,
Strong,
Solid.
No bemoaning past zeros, twos, even fours
I now settle in my big boned jeans, the same size I wore in high school.
I look down at life scarred, well-loved, often caressed, sometimes abused thighs.
I love them.
I am beginning finally to feel
the same feelings for my body that I do for my children.
Protective,
Honored,
Blessed,
Responsible.
~som
January 22, 2014
Special Needs Children
There are huge blessings to having children 12 years apart in age. These positives were never revealed to me as I have heard only the groans of people and the “You have two only children.” Or the “Are you crazy to start all over?” comments. My answer to both questions is “Yes. Yes I have two onlies and yes I am crazy.” And because I’m crazy, I’ll add authoring a book to the list of questionable decisions!
I had my first daughter when I was 21. Young, very strapped for money, working full-time, guilty for staying home with a sick child or guilty for going to work and leaving a sick child. Every choice was calculated and weighed in a balance. But my first daughter was almost too perfect. She slept 10 to 12 hours a night from the time she was 6 weeks old. She carried my heart in her little hands. She got up close to life and looked at it in the eyes of the elderly. She rode in the front seat with me (before we realized it wasn’t safe) and we’d talk about Brittney Spears’s lyrics and the merits and downfalls of Cartoon Networks comics. Always, always the old soul. Yet, she had special needs.
I had my second daughter 12 years later. I was able to choose whether I needed to go back to work full-time. I was able to go to the store and choose whether store brand or Pampers were best. I could take this child to the doctor without worrying if the postdated check would bounce before payday. And my second daughter was almost too loving. She nursed so often that I felt like I spent as much time with my top exposed as an exotic dancer. She demanded constant affection, always wanting the center of attention and preferably sitting in the middle of every guest’s lap so she could kiss and hug on them. She carried my heart in her little heart because she was always nestled so closely that our hearts beat in an I’m-with-you-all-the-time rhythm. The world is her stage and she has always been my new little soul. Yes, she has special needs, too.
Then I birthed Denise, the daughter in my novel Comfort of Fences. Denise taught me how to better mother my flesh and blood children. She taught me that silence can be wisdom perceived as ignorance. She taught me that we all have different ideas of our own happily-ever-afters. She taught me that parents can do what we think is best for our children and miss the mark—and the children can still be fine. But the biggest lesson I learned from Denise is that every child is a special needs child. Every single one. What my oldest needs is different than my youngest. What lights up my youngest will mortify my oldest. But they both have beautiful hearts, beautiful spirits, and beautiful marks to make on this big world—even if their worlds only end up being the size of their chosen families. That is Denise’s legacy.
I understand that some question the age difference of my children but I’m at peace with it. See, I’m a special needs mother. I‘ve needed that time to grow into the best mother I can be for each of my children. I’ve needed that time to collect wisdom and grace and responsibility and honor and acceptance. I’ve needed all of that experience to know that there is an art to knowing when it is time to hang on and a time to let go. So I am preparing my own heart for the art of letting my babies go out into this grand big world. I will continue to ask, “Please be kind to them: my wise old-soul daughter, my exuberant new-soul daughter, and my soul-created Denise. Please be kind.” I wish us all well…
I had my first daughter when I was 21. Young, very strapped for money, working full-time, guilty for staying home with a sick child or guilty for going to work and leaving a sick child. Every choice was calculated and weighed in a balance. But my first daughter was almost too perfect. She slept 10 to 12 hours a night from the time she was 6 weeks old. She carried my heart in her little hands. She got up close to life and looked at it in the eyes of the elderly. She rode in the front seat with me (before we realized it wasn’t safe) and we’d talk about Brittney Spears’s lyrics and the merits and downfalls of Cartoon Networks comics. Always, always the old soul. Yet, she had special needs.
I had my second daughter 12 years later. I was able to choose whether I needed to go back to work full-time. I was able to go to the store and choose whether store brand or Pampers were best. I could take this child to the doctor without worrying if the postdated check would bounce before payday. And my second daughter was almost too loving. She nursed so often that I felt like I spent as much time with my top exposed as an exotic dancer. She demanded constant affection, always wanting the center of attention and preferably sitting in the middle of every guest’s lap so she could kiss and hug on them. She carried my heart in her little heart because she was always nestled so closely that our hearts beat in an I’m-with-you-all-the-time rhythm. The world is her stage and she has always been my new little soul. Yes, she has special needs, too.
Then I birthed Denise, the daughter in my novel Comfort of Fences. Denise taught me how to better mother my flesh and blood children. She taught me that silence can be wisdom perceived as ignorance. She taught me that we all have different ideas of our own happily-ever-afters. She taught me that parents can do what we think is best for our children and miss the mark—and the children can still be fine. But the biggest lesson I learned from Denise is that every child is a special needs child. Every single one. What my oldest needs is different than my youngest. What lights up my youngest will mortify my oldest. But they both have beautiful hearts, beautiful spirits, and beautiful marks to make on this big world—even if their worlds only end up being the size of their chosen families. That is Denise’s legacy.
I understand that some question the age difference of my children but I’m at peace with it. See, I’m a special needs mother. I‘ve needed that time to grow into the best mother I can be for each of my children. I’ve needed that time to collect wisdom and grace and responsibility and honor and acceptance. I’ve needed all of that experience to know that there is an art to knowing when it is time to hang on and a time to let go. So I am preparing my own heart for the art of letting my babies go out into this grand big world. I will continue to ask, “Please be kind to them: my wise old-soul daughter, my exuberant new-soul daughter, and my soul-created Denise. Please be kind.” I wish us all well…
December 6, 2013
My Buddha in the Backseat
I went to Barnes and Noble yesterday to see if they had updated their shelves to carry my novel. As I scanned my book neighbors, I came across a little novel THE BUDDHA in the ATTIC. The book cover was pretty and the title sold me, as I have had my own Buddha in the Backseat for years.
My older daughter was born an old soul. She just gets things and has always had a reasonable answer to all conundrums. While she has learned not to force those answers on everyone (a lesson learned younger than her Mother who still does this too often, I’m afraid), she was a fount of wisdom and advice as a child. If someone had a headache, maybe they needed a nap. If corn was not digested thoroughly, then perhaps one was allergic to it. If a child was tacky, she could find the perfect place for a timeout. Her best advice was reserved for me. In traffic. Bumper to bumper. Fighting the urge to spew profanity while listening to Barney blasting from the speakers about being a “happy family.”
I was able to curb the words but not the attitude while I huffed: “Come on, people!!” in my thick west Texas drawl. Micah would grow quieter as I grew more exasperated until finally she would pipe up: “Just be lax, Momma. Just be lax.” No hysterics for her, just a calm admonition from the 2 year old in back seat to relax.
She has always done that for me: brought out my best self, called to the better angels of my psyche. And today she is 19. She is me, only much more zen, much more adept at handling the big and little stresses. She amazes and humbles me.
While I read The Buddha in the Attic I thought about those young girls on the voyage to a new world, a new husband, a new life, and I felt pangs of sympathy for their mothers. Some of which grieved letting their daughters go and some that were portrayed to be glad their daughters were gone. I felt sorry for both. I am learning to reconfigure my relationship with my semi-adult daughter, but I will never let her go. And her little wise, innocent voice still guides me on this crazy journey of life, love, parenting, writing, and learning: “Just be lax, Momma. Just be lax.”
My older daughter was born an old soul. She just gets things and has always had a reasonable answer to all conundrums. While she has learned not to force those answers on everyone (a lesson learned younger than her Mother who still does this too often, I’m afraid), she was a fount of wisdom and advice as a child. If someone had a headache, maybe they needed a nap. If corn was not digested thoroughly, then perhaps one was allergic to it. If a child was tacky, she could find the perfect place for a timeout. Her best advice was reserved for me. In traffic. Bumper to bumper. Fighting the urge to spew profanity while listening to Barney blasting from the speakers about being a “happy family.”
I was able to curb the words but not the attitude while I huffed: “Come on, people!!” in my thick west Texas drawl. Micah would grow quieter as I grew more exasperated until finally she would pipe up: “Just be lax, Momma. Just be lax.” No hysterics for her, just a calm admonition from the 2 year old in back seat to relax.
She has always done that for me: brought out my best self, called to the better angels of my psyche. And today she is 19. She is me, only much more zen, much more adept at handling the big and little stresses. She amazes and humbles me.
While I read The Buddha in the Attic I thought about those young girls on the voyage to a new world, a new husband, a new life, and I felt pangs of sympathy for their mothers. Some of which grieved letting their daughters go and some that were portrayed to be glad their daughters were gone. I felt sorry for both. I am learning to reconfigure my relationship with my semi-adult daughter, but I will never let her go. And her little wise, innocent voice still guides me on this crazy journey of life, love, parenting, writing, and learning: “Just be lax, Momma. Just be lax.”
December 1, 2013
Rarely Revealed Underwear Etiquette
We have a yearly ritual in our house. During the holidays we do a clothing purge. The rule I wish I were strong enough to stick to is “If you haven’t worn it in the last 12 months, then chunk it.” So I look at my business suits, my beautiful pleated-front pants, my comfortable mom, rib-hugger jeans, and then usually shuffle them back to the back because they may come in style. Bell-bottoms did, so who knows.
I was very brave this year. I have officially given away the pleated-front pants. Yes, I loaded them up on a train bound for…Mexico, I think. I just know someone wants those barely worn, delightful, girth enhancing pantaloons. I also gave away my flattering navy pant suit that my students told me (eight years ago) made me look like a flight attendant. Yes, that suit’s ship has sailed.
I’ve learned in this purging cycle that everyone has different rules about what can stay and what must go. No rules are more rigid than the rules concerning one’s underwear drawer. Now, I’m a pretty low maintenance girl. Everything in the underwear drawer must be clean. Holes are optional, and a little raveling on the elastic waist band is a touch of rustic charm.
Others in my home, which I am sworn never to reveal their names in this context, are not so forgiving to articles of clothing that never really should see the light of day. It becomes quite a conundrum for these whom-we-shall-not-name whether these still decent undergarments should be thrown away clean or dirty. So I get the dubious honor of washing the discarded unmentionables, then throwing them out in the special trash can in which food may NEVER be placed. (Yes, we have stringent trash receptacle rules in our home!) These underwear rules are not nearly as restrictive as some in which I have been forced to participate.
There is another dear masculine presence in my life who takes the cake (and ice cream) in his organization and rules about underdrawers and such. This dear man keeps large safety pins and threads his undershirt, his boxers, and his pair of socks into one coordinated glob for its trip through the laundry. The socks do not match one another most times, the tube striping on one blue, the other red, so I’m not sure why those mismatched socks must stay together with that certain set of undies but there is a reason. Something about how they both feel the same on his feet. He’s color blind “so what does it matter if they match?” Point taken.
The micromanaging of the undies does not stop with the pinning of the panties (I know they are not panties but UNDERWEAR!!!). Oh no, once dried and ready for folding, only this man or his patient wife can fold the underwear glob. There is an art to how the socks nestle together in between the boxers and wrapped in the shirt, or something. I took the tutorial and failed the test when I tried help.
Maybe this is why I have such a lackadaisical underwear attitude. After being raised by the underwear General, (Oops, identity spoiler but I did not mention his name!) and then running a home where no unclean undergarment must face the trash, I’m doing good to look at underwear without needing therapy. And, by-the-way, if you need any undershirts and such for cleaning rags, I have clean ones in the dumpster out back. Help yourself!
I was very brave this year. I have officially given away the pleated-front pants. Yes, I loaded them up on a train bound for…Mexico, I think. I just know someone wants those barely worn, delightful, girth enhancing pantaloons. I also gave away my flattering navy pant suit that my students told me (eight years ago) made me look like a flight attendant. Yes, that suit’s ship has sailed.
I’ve learned in this purging cycle that everyone has different rules about what can stay and what must go. No rules are more rigid than the rules concerning one’s underwear drawer. Now, I’m a pretty low maintenance girl. Everything in the underwear drawer must be clean. Holes are optional, and a little raveling on the elastic waist band is a touch of rustic charm.
Others in my home, which I am sworn never to reveal their names in this context, are not so forgiving to articles of clothing that never really should see the light of day. It becomes quite a conundrum for these whom-we-shall-not-name whether these still decent undergarments should be thrown away clean or dirty. So I get the dubious honor of washing the discarded unmentionables, then throwing them out in the special trash can in which food may NEVER be placed. (Yes, we have stringent trash receptacle rules in our home!) These underwear rules are not nearly as restrictive as some in which I have been forced to participate.
There is another dear masculine presence in my life who takes the cake (and ice cream) in his organization and rules about underdrawers and such. This dear man keeps large safety pins and threads his undershirt, his boxers, and his pair of socks into one coordinated glob for its trip through the laundry. The socks do not match one another most times, the tube striping on one blue, the other red, so I’m not sure why those mismatched socks must stay together with that certain set of undies but there is a reason. Something about how they both feel the same on his feet. He’s color blind “so what does it matter if they match?” Point taken.
The micromanaging of the undies does not stop with the pinning of the panties (I know they are not panties but UNDERWEAR!!!). Oh no, once dried and ready for folding, only this man or his patient wife can fold the underwear glob. There is an art to how the socks nestle together in between the boxers and wrapped in the shirt, or something. I took the tutorial and failed the test when I tried help.
Maybe this is why I have such a lackadaisical underwear attitude. After being raised by the underwear General, (Oops, identity spoiler but I did not mention his name!) and then running a home where no unclean undergarment must face the trash, I’m doing good to look at underwear without needing therapy. And, by-the-way, if you need any undershirts and such for cleaning rags, I have clean ones in the dumpster out back. Help yourself!
November 24, 2013
Scary Movies, Sissies, and Quantum Physics
I am a sissy. Always have been. I endured 12 hours of labor without drugs. I can run long distances. I can hold a child’s head while they vomit (gagging myself, but there nonetheless). I can survive Midland traffic. But I cannot sit through a scary movie.
My childhood friends know this. They usually threatened to gag and hog tie me in the basement during slumber-party fright-fest movies as I was always the one screaming like the banshee that was on the movie screen. A 13 year-old girl with a frozen bra, running around with her shaving-creamed hair sticking out all over her head is not nearly as glamorous as the leggy blonde running from a chainsaw, so my performances were never appreciated. Especially not by the host’s parents whom I awoke from the activity we were meant to be enjoying, slumber!
For weeks after watching the cornucopia of gore and guts, I would make my parents come to my room and pray. I just knew the devil was going to get me after watching all of those evil movies, like SATURDAY the 14th, that horrible, evil spoof of FRIDAY the 13th. Yes, evil, evil movies!
Even after I married, at the ripe old age of 17, I avoided scary movies, partially worried that the devil would get me and that my Mom and Dad where not there to pray in my room anymore. My solution was to never walk through the house in the dark. I would go room-to-room and turn on lights, go back to previous room and turn off that light, all the way to bed. If the Devil was going to get me, he would have to do it location confused from room-hopping and in the glare of modern electric lightbulbs!
I avoid scary movies now because I do not like the dark energy and themes that saturate most scary movies. My teen thinks me so old-fogey for this ideology, but in my opinion, (and quantum physics is proving) everything is energy. I have no desire to swing wide my doors to evil and darkness, and say: “Come on in here and hang out for a bit. Drain me of light and all good things. Help yourself to the milk in the fridge and cookies I made for the kids!”
I’ve also become very particular about the news I watch, the length of time I watch it, the conversations I have about the news. Just because something was on 20/20, or the local newscast does not mean it is free from darkness, hostility, and fear. Perhaps even more so, as it is reality. I do not welcome that into my head or my home.
So I’m a sissy. A happy, light-filled, loving, kind, optimistic humanitarian. And while I won’t watch a scary movie with you, I will leave a light on for you!
Wishing you peace, love, light and all the good stuff.
My childhood friends know this. They usually threatened to gag and hog tie me in the basement during slumber-party fright-fest movies as I was always the one screaming like the banshee that was on the movie screen. A 13 year-old girl with a frozen bra, running around with her shaving-creamed hair sticking out all over her head is not nearly as glamorous as the leggy blonde running from a chainsaw, so my performances were never appreciated. Especially not by the host’s parents whom I awoke from the activity we were meant to be enjoying, slumber!
For weeks after watching the cornucopia of gore and guts, I would make my parents come to my room and pray. I just knew the devil was going to get me after watching all of those evil movies, like SATURDAY the 14th, that horrible, evil spoof of FRIDAY the 13th. Yes, evil, evil movies!
Even after I married, at the ripe old age of 17, I avoided scary movies, partially worried that the devil would get me and that my Mom and Dad where not there to pray in my room anymore. My solution was to never walk through the house in the dark. I would go room-to-room and turn on lights, go back to previous room and turn off that light, all the way to bed. If the Devil was going to get me, he would have to do it location confused from room-hopping and in the glare of modern electric lightbulbs!
I avoid scary movies now because I do not like the dark energy and themes that saturate most scary movies. My teen thinks me so old-fogey for this ideology, but in my opinion, (and quantum physics is proving) everything is energy. I have no desire to swing wide my doors to evil and darkness, and say: “Come on in here and hang out for a bit. Drain me of light and all good things. Help yourself to the milk in the fridge and cookies I made for the kids!”
I’ve also become very particular about the news I watch, the length of time I watch it, the conversations I have about the news. Just because something was on 20/20, or the local newscast does not mean it is free from darkness, hostility, and fear. Perhaps even more so, as it is reality. I do not welcome that into my head or my home.
So I’m a sissy. A happy, light-filled, loving, kind, optimistic humanitarian. And while I won’t watch a scary movie with you, I will leave a light on for you!
Wishing you peace, love, light and all the good stuff.
November 20, 2013
Legacies, Pacts, and Chin Hair
Both of my grandmothers were strong women. They left me quite a legacy and solid examples of what it means to be independent. My maternal grandmother home-birthed 5 children, raised them, was widowed when she was 62, and then lived alone on a tiny social security pension until she was 76. My paternal grandmother had 5 boys, lost one of her twin boys to SIDS, the other twin boy (as an adult) in an accident, stayed married for over 70 years, and still sang at the top of her lungs right up until the time she passed. Strong stock I come from, and many wonderful attributes they bequeathed me. They also left me the glorious gift of…chin hair.
I know. I know. Polite women are not supposed to discuss such unsightly issues as chin hair, or hair anywhere as far as that goes. I don’t get this philosophy. In fact, when I find a hair in my food, it does little to deter me from eating. In fact, the only reason I would draw attention to a hair in my plate is if I like the food so much that I want a free dessert for finding a stray hair.
So really, what is it about hair that makes people so queasy? I get much more disturbed by the idea of how many skin cells have sloughed off while preparing food, or how many dust mites and other microscopic bugs are feasting on the salad bar before I day trip up there. Or even worse, the idea that the kitchen staff are so hot that droplets of their sweat have salted my french fries. (True story, that one…kind of.)
I digress. Need to pull my attention back to the lofty subject of this post: chin hair. Like any good, close mother-daughter relationship, my daughter and I have a spoken pact. If I am incapacitated, she is in charge of pulling my chin hairs. This is much more for her than for me. My chin hairs are an embarrassment to my heirs. I think it is more the idea that my chin hairs are another piece of the legacy I will leave them, so both the elder and younger child make sure to point them out. It probably does not help their angst that I pluck at red lights. Natural light is great and red lights are just wasted time unless I am multitasking! I tell them it is a practice in not caring what strangers think, and I come home with a smooth chin that the hubs thinks is naturally hair free! Win-win for me, but perhaps not so much for my mortified children.
I figure I must leave them something to discuss in therapy and it sure would be nice if plucking chin hairs at red lights is the worst they could complain about!
Wishing you peace and love and smooth skin!
I know. I know. Polite women are not supposed to discuss such unsightly issues as chin hair, or hair anywhere as far as that goes. I don’t get this philosophy. In fact, when I find a hair in my food, it does little to deter me from eating. In fact, the only reason I would draw attention to a hair in my plate is if I like the food so much that I want a free dessert for finding a stray hair.
So really, what is it about hair that makes people so queasy? I get much more disturbed by the idea of how many skin cells have sloughed off while preparing food, or how many dust mites and other microscopic bugs are feasting on the salad bar before I day trip up there. Or even worse, the idea that the kitchen staff are so hot that droplets of their sweat have salted my french fries. (True story, that one…kind of.)
I digress. Need to pull my attention back to the lofty subject of this post: chin hair. Like any good, close mother-daughter relationship, my daughter and I have a spoken pact. If I am incapacitated, she is in charge of pulling my chin hairs. This is much more for her than for me. My chin hairs are an embarrassment to my heirs. I think it is more the idea that my chin hairs are another piece of the legacy I will leave them, so both the elder and younger child make sure to point them out. It probably does not help their angst that I pluck at red lights. Natural light is great and red lights are just wasted time unless I am multitasking! I tell them it is a practice in not caring what strangers think, and I come home with a smooth chin that the hubs thinks is naturally hair free! Win-win for me, but perhaps not so much for my mortified children.
I figure I must leave them something to discuss in therapy and it sure would be nice if plucking chin hairs at red lights is the worst they could complain about!
Wishing you peace and love and smooth skin!
November 15, 2013
Blog Interview with Piper Punches
FIVE QUESTIONS WITH STACY OVERMAN MORRISON, COMFORT OF FENCES
November 15, 2013
By piperpunches
http://www.piperpunches.com
So, yesterday I told you I would be introducing you to two new indie authors that I have met during these past several weeks as I prepared for my debut novel to be released. Today, I want to introduce you to Stacy Overman Morrison, author of Comfort of Fences. Stacy is a women’s fiction writer that has crafted a story of friendship and love between three women of very different circumstances. I am honored that she took time to share her writing experiences with me as well as her beautifully crafted novel, Comfort of Fences.
What has the journey been like writing Comfort of Fences? What were the challenges you faced, but also what were some of the sweet successes?
The journey has been LONG! I started COMFORT OF FENCES in 2008, finished the first draft in 2009, did a major rewrite in 2011 and just released it this month. The challenges were accepting criticism and “killing my darlings,” as Stephen King says. I had to cut so many scenes, characters, and backstories to streamline the story but I am very proud of the finished product. The sweet successes that kept me writing were the support of my early readers, the unwavering belief of my husband, and the friends that checked in regularly to make sure I had not given up.
Your novel has very strong female characters, which I love. What qualities do you like most about Ruth, Denise, and Georgia? Who do you identify with the most?
I see too much of myself in Ruth. Writing from her point of view made me stop and think about the choices I make as a mother. One of the pervasive themes of COMFORT OF FENCES is the immeasurable power of mothers, how a mother’s influence can change the trajectory of her children’s lives. Ruth is so overprotective that she denies her daughter a voice. I’m a strong personality, too, a strong mother. Through Ruth, I’ve learned to listen more, open the world to my children more, trust that I can give them roots but I must give them wings, as well.
I am quite maternal in my love for Denise. She is underestimated by most everyone around her yet she has such an innate, zen-like kind of wisdom. From her I’ve learned that silence is powerful, too. I’ve learned that even lives that society deems “small” are still powerful. Denise makes me want to be a better mother.
And Georgia. Georgia is the best friend I have always wanted, so I created her!
Georgia is brassy, strong, self-assured, and funny. She usually has all the answers but is confident enough to let others come to their own answers in their own time. She swears, and takes the “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere” a little far sometimes. She holds hands, and she kicks butt, but knows the appropriate time for each.
On your website you have a quote by Francis Bacon, “Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.” What are the books that inspired you to want to tell your own stories?
The book that continues to have the biggest impact one me is Toni Morrison’s BELOVED. I love Toni Morrison’s writing, her way of capturing the poetry of language to explore the horrors humans can inflict on one another and yet also reveal the unbreakable spirit of those society tries to silence. My dream has been to write a book and have it sit on library shelves next to Toni Morrison’s. That dream has been realized, at least in my home!
What are some songs that would be part of the soundtrack if Comfort of Fences was made into a movie?
First, without a doubt, “You Are My Sunshine.” Elvis would have to be in there as he is a temptation to Ruth when she was a girl. Johnny Mathis’s “Until the Twelfth of Never” as it is Ruth and Yancey’s song. “Ava Maria” for Denise. And there would have to be some Jimmy Buffet for Georgia!
All writers have experienced moments when they feel like they have hit a wall. They don’t know where the story is going or may be struggling with conveying a certain message. What do you do to relax and break down that wall?
I wait. I’m not one of those that will sit down and write just to write. I go outside, look at the artistry in nature. I talk to people and listen to their stories. It amazes me what people are going through every day. I get people’s life stories standing in line at the grocery store! I see stories in every car when I sit in traffic. I question motives, wonder at how the woman on one side of me ends up in a Mercedes worth $200,000 and the man on the other side of me is in a wrecked, beat up, 20 year old Honda hatchback. Stories are everywhere! I’ve found that the art and challenge is creating interest for a reader and keeping them engaged for 300 pages.
Want to learn more about Stacy Overman Morrison and Comfort of Fences? Connect with Stacy on Goodreads andFacebook. You can also reach her through her website. Keep reading to learn more about Comfort of Fences and clickhere to enter the giveaway to win a free Kindle edition copy.
comfort of fences
Ruth is dying and her 52 year old daughter Denise has never paid a bill, lived on her own, or had a romantic relationship. Ruth knows she has been overprotective, but hoped that she would outlive her special-needs daughter. Metastasized cancer crushes that hope and forces Ruth to find a way to provide for Denise once she is dead. First Ruth turns to Social Security for Disability benefits. After tests, pokes and prods, doctors, nosy psychologists, and ill-furnished waiting rooms, the government declares Denise not eligible for benefits. Mad at the world and daring the government to arrest her so they will have to take care of her since they wouldn’t her daughter, Ruth takes up smoking pot in the backyard. A few joints in, Ruth begins to realize her anger is self-directed. She doubts every decision she has ever made in raising her daughter that doctors, in the 1950s, labeled “retarded.” Partially to coax her mother from the backyard and partially because Ruth will not speak of the past, Denise asks her mother to write down their history of which Denise has no memory. Trying to atone and explain how she could be so obtuse, Ruth agrees. Telling her story becomes an obsession for Ruth who sees the history as her only chance to leave a place for herself in the world since cancer is steadily eating away her physicality. While Ruth writes, Denise begins to pursue her own independence, despite the minor setbacks of a chopped off fingertip and chemo poisoning. She begins to make choices for herself and finally tells her mother pieces of her own truth: Denise stayed with her mother because she chose to, because she loved her mother more than any life she could make for herself. In claiming her own truth, Denise also chooses silence about the biggest secrets of all. Comfort of Fences explores the messy business of mothering. It is a story about the love between a devoted mother and her special daughter that exposes the irony that the people we love the most can also be the ones we underestimate the greatest.
November 15, 2013
By piperpunches
http://www.piperpunches.com
So, yesterday I told you I would be introducing you to two new indie authors that I have met during these past several weeks as I prepared for my debut novel to be released. Today, I want to introduce you to Stacy Overman Morrison, author of Comfort of Fences. Stacy is a women’s fiction writer that has crafted a story of friendship and love between three women of very different circumstances. I am honored that she took time to share her writing experiences with me as well as her beautifully crafted novel, Comfort of Fences.
What has the journey been like writing Comfort of Fences? What were the challenges you faced, but also what were some of the sweet successes?
The journey has been LONG! I started COMFORT OF FENCES in 2008, finished the first draft in 2009, did a major rewrite in 2011 and just released it this month. The challenges were accepting criticism and “killing my darlings,” as Stephen King says. I had to cut so many scenes, characters, and backstories to streamline the story but I am very proud of the finished product. The sweet successes that kept me writing were the support of my early readers, the unwavering belief of my husband, and the friends that checked in regularly to make sure I had not given up.
Your novel has very strong female characters, which I love. What qualities do you like most about Ruth, Denise, and Georgia? Who do you identify with the most?
I see too much of myself in Ruth. Writing from her point of view made me stop and think about the choices I make as a mother. One of the pervasive themes of COMFORT OF FENCES is the immeasurable power of mothers, how a mother’s influence can change the trajectory of her children’s lives. Ruth is so overprotective that she denies her daughter a voice. I’m a strong personality, too, a strong mother. Through Ruth, I’ve learned to listen more, open the world to my children more, trust that I can give them roots but I must give them wings, as well.
I am quite maternal in my love for Denise. She is underestimated by most everyone around her yet she has such an innate, zen-like kind of wisdom. From her I’ve learned that silence is powerful, too. I’ve learned that even lives that society deems “small” are still powerful. Denise makes me want to be a better mother.
And Georgia. Georgia is the best friend I have always wanted, so I created her!
Georgia is brassy, strong, self-assured, and funny. She usually has all the answers but is confident enough to let others come to their own answers in their own time. She swears, and takes the “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere” a little far sometimes. She holds hands, and she kicks butt, but knows the appropriate time for each.
On your website you have a quote by Francis Bacon, “Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.” What are the books that inspired you to want to tell your own stories?
The book that continues to have the biggest impact one me is Toni Morrison’s BELOVED. I love Toni Morrison’s writing, her way of capturing the poetry of language to explore the horrors humans can inflict on one another and yet also reveal the unbreakable spirit of those society tries to silence. My dream has been to write a book and have it sit on library shelves next to Toni Morrison’s. That dream has been realized, at least in my home!
What are some songs that would be part of the soundtrack if Comfort of Fences was made into a movie?
First, without a doubt, “You Are My Sunshine.” Elvis would have to be in there as he is a temptation to Ruth when she was a girl. Johnny Mathis’s “Until the Twelfth of Never” as it is Ruth and Yancey’s song. “Ava Maria” for Denise. And there would have to be some Jimmy Buffet for Georgia!
All writers have experienced moments when they feel like they have hit a wall. They don’t know where the story is going or may be struggling with conveying a certain message. What do you do to relax and break down that wall?
I wait. I’m not one of those that will sit down and write just to write. I go outside, look at the artistry in nature. I talk to people and listen to their stories. It amazes me what people are going through every day. I get people’s life stories standing in line at the grocery store! I see stories in every car when I sit in traffic. I question motives, wonder at how the woman on one side of me ends up in a Mercedes worth $200,000 and the man on the other side of me is in a wrecked, beat up, 20 year old Honda hatchback. Stories are everywhere! I’ve found that the art and challenge is creating interest for a reader and keeping them engaged for 300 pages.
Want to learn more about Stacy Overman Morrison and Comfort of Fences? Connect with Stacy on Goodreads andFacebook. You can also reach her through her website. Keep reading to learn more about Comfort of Fences and clickhere to enter the giveaway to win a free Kindle edition copy.
comfort of fences
Ruth is dying and her 52 year old daughter Denise has never paid a bill, lived on her own, or had a romantic relationship. Ruth knows she has been overprotective, but hoped that she would outlive her special-needs daughter. Metastasized cancer crushes that hope and forces Ruth to find a way to provide for Denise once she is dead. First Ruth turns to Social Security for Disability benefits. After tests, pokes and prods, doctors, nosy psychologists, and ill-furnished waiting rooms, the government declares Denise not eligible for benefits. Mad at the world and daring the government to arrest her so they will have to take care of her since they wouldn’t her daughter, Ruth takes up smoking pot in the backyard. A few joints in, Ruth begins to realize her anger is self-directed. She doubts every decision she has ever made in raising her daughter that doctors, in the 1950s, labeled “retarded.” Partially to coax her mother from the backyard and partially because Ruth will not speak of the past, Denise asks her mother to write down their history of which Denise has no memory. Trying to atone and explain how she could be so obtuse, Ruth agrees. Telling her story becomes an obsession for Ruth who sees the history as her only chance to leave a place for herself in the world since cancer is steadily eating away her physicality. While Ruth writes, Denise begins to pursue her own independence, despite the minor setbacks of a chopped off fingertip and chemo poisoning. She begins to make choices for herself and finally tells her mother pieces of her own truth: Denise stayed with her mother because she chose to, because she loved her mother more than any life she could make for herself. In claiming her own truth, Denise also chooses silence about the biggest secrets of all. Comfort of Fences explores the messy business of mothering. It is a story about the love between a devoted mother and her special daughter that exposes the irony that the people we love the most can also be the ones we underestimate the greatest.
November 13, 2013
What We All Crave
The last few weeks have been a whirlwind, blessed whirlwind but a crazy, billowing, hair-pulling storm none-the-less. I’ve noticed, and my perceptive spouse reminds me, that I am so busy running and connecting, promoting and listening, booking and reading, that I am neglecting my most important role. I am Kenzie’s guardian. I am her rock, her safe place, her care giver and her unconditional source of love. My husband would also tell you that he does the same duties for our daughter. In fact, he takes his lunch late so that he can meet her and walk her home from the bus almost every day, but there is something different about the maternal love I bring my children. It is a love that no one else can give them. Only I can. And I haven’t been doing as good a job as I need to be.
So I took the time last night to build a fish costume with my sweet baby girl. She painted cupcake wrappers gold and I hot glued them on a poster board to look like scales. We laughed. We talked. All right, I did have to fuss at her about not putting her gold paint splattered fingers on the walls (What is about kids that they always have to touch walls as they run past to go to the bathroom?) but the fussing was minimal.
At one point, I got down on my knees, hugged her very close, kissed her on the forehead and told her how much I loved her, how happy I was to be her mother. I felt her heart connect with mine in that instant. There are such things as heart hugs and that was one for sure.
Later, Kenzie followed me around while we fed horses and dogs. Once they were fed and in for the night, she came and stood in front of me. “Momma, I loved the moment we had in the kitchen. Thank you for being a good Momma,” she said. Her honesty, her feelings that are always right there on the surface, her innate goodness, all of her unique wonderfulness hit me between the eyes, and I realized one very important secret to what does make a good mother, or a good father, or a good writer, or a good spiritual leader, or a good interviewer: a good human being, really. Validation.
We all want to have someone look at us and say: “I see you. I love you. I am right here in this moment completely with you. I SEE YOU.”
I will try to do this more often. I will listen instead of just nodding my head while I am thinking about the 14 other things I have to do. I will take part in the communion that is communication.
Will I be able to do this all the time? Ha! No, but I will make a point to do it as often as possible. At the grocery store I will make eye contact and smile. At the post office I will make eye contact and smile. In line at the bank I will make eye contact and smile. I will look to see the Divine spark that is in us all.
I wish you sight and I wish you well. Comfort of Fences
So I took the time last night to build a fish costume with my sweet baby girl. She painted cupcake wrappers gold and I hot glued them on a poster board to look like scales. We laughed. We talked. All right, I did have to fuss at her about not putting her gold paint splattered fingers on the walls (What is about kids that they always have to touch walls as they run past to go to the bathroom?) but the fussing was minimal.
At one point, I got down on my knees, hugged her very close, kissed her on the forehead and told her how much I loved her, how happy I was to be her mother. I felt her heart connect with mine in that instant. There are such things as heart hugs and that was one for sure.
Later, Kenzie followed me around while we fed horses and dogs. Once they were fed and in for the night, she came and stood in front of me. “Momma, I loved the moment we had in the kitchen. Thank you for being a good Momma,” she said. Her honesty, her feelings that are always right there on the surface, her innate goodness, all of her unique wonderfulness hit me between the eyes, and I realized one very important secret to what does make a good mother, or a good father, or a good writer, or a good spiritual leader, or a good interviewer: a good human being, really. Validation.
We all want to have someone look at us and say: “I see you. I love you. I am right here in this moment completely with you. I SEE YOU.”
I will try to do this more often. I will listen instead of just nodding my head while I am thinking about the 14 other things I have to do. I will take part in the communion that is communication.
Will I be able to do this all the time? Ha! No, but I will make a point to do it as often as possible. At the grocery store I will make eye contact and smile. At the post office I will make eye contact and smile. In line at the bank I will make eye contact and smile. I will look to see the Divine spark that is in us all.
I wish you sight and I wish you well. Comfort of Fences
