The Evolution of an Indie Author

Timeline:

1970-ish: How vain would a writer have to be to slap down good money in order to see his work in print? What unscrupulous publisher would take advantage of such self-aggrandizement? Vanity presses, indeed! I eschew the like.

Mid-1980s: As a college student, I concede that certain academics, writing on esoteric topics, could find it beneficial to self-publish in their field. But never fiction!

1990s: Several of the members of our local poetry club have published chapbooks. That’s quaint. Not something I would do, but I see the value, especially for their families and friends.

1992: I begin my first book, a picture-book with quite a bit of text, Up a Rutted Road. When it comes time to submit it, I begin at the top with a major publisher. One of the high-ranking editors likes it and asks if I would be willing to rewrite it as a middle-grade novel. Uh, yes. No self-publishing for me!

1993: The rewrite of URR is finished. I resubmit to the same editor, who eventually responds with a lovely personal note. "Unfortunately, our MG list is full now. We cannot consider another title for a couple years." Though discouragement rears its ugly head, I continue to study fiction writing, but abstain from submitting, waiting for the wound to heal.

Early 2000s: What in the world is going on in publishing? I hear of many writers who, after forfeiting all hope of being pubbed traditionally, now turn to print-on-demand, whatever that is. I’m pretty sure it’s a type of self-publishing. Meanwhile, I continue to study my craft and write occasionally.

2001: I co-founded Southern Indiana Writers' Salon, a group of local writers. A few of us intend to seriously pursue a writing career.

2002: My friends, Ron and Jo E., support my writing. They seem to think I have some talent and want to sponsor the—here it comes—self-publishing, vía POD, of my manuscript. I decline. “If I can’t find a traditional publisher, I’ll go unpubbed. I’m leaving my writing career in God’s hands.” And He would never want me to do such a vain thing. Would He? No. No. Of course . . . not. But is vanity the only thing that drives one to . . . ? Never mind.

2003: Now I can say I’ve met people who have published their own work. As for quality, that varies. Some works are very good. Most could benefit from a careful, critical editing by a pair of knowledgeable, objective eyes.
             I’m sticking to the traditional route. I approach the same editor again, ignorant that that generally is not done. She agrees to take another look. Alas, again she rejects it, saying it needs more conflict.
            At some point around this time, the Lord—always gracious and merciful—leads Ramona K. Cecil to SIWS. We become friends, and she urges me to look into ACFW membership, attend conferences, and beat up my darlings.

Late in the first decade of the 2000s: I’m following Ramona’s advice by attending conferences and having sit-downs with editors, never giving a thought to self-publishing, though I hear more about the issue, especially following the release of Amazon’s Kindle in 2007. (One of our SIWS writers actually brings one to a meeting for us to see. What a fun toy, much like the little Connect Four electronic game I carry in my purse. Nothing to take seriously.)
            At the first major conference I attend (the now-defunct Central Ohio Writers of Literature for Children Conference, Columbus), I present my work to two editors, since I now have two MG manuscripts to pitch. The first editor requests to see the full of Up a Rutted Road. “Your style reminds me of Cynthia Rylant, but for slightly older readers,” she said. Since Rylant’s When I Was Young in the Mountains is one of my favorite picture books, I was pleased by the comparison. Unfortunately, that editor had to take an extended medical leave and never got to read the full. The second editor also requested a full, but her publishing house was bought out, and she moved on, so—you get the picture.
            Self-pubbing is looking better. Just teasing. Sickness and loss of position, those things happen. I will keep praying, keep polishing, keep learning, keep submitting, keep attending conferences, keep on.

2011-12: The ACFW Conference, the main event for Christian writers, is held in Indianapolis! An hour down the road from me! Huzzah! When I receive my schedule, I’m thrilled to see the name of one of my favorite agents, and I get to have a sit-down with her to pitch my second novel, The Second Cellar. She likes it and requests the full. I have to admit it isn’t quite finished. “That’s all right,” she says. “When can you get it to me?” We agree that March would be good timing, after the holidays.

She retired from the agency in December, before she could see it, and none of the other agents handled MG.
            Lord, what are You trying to tell me? I honestly don’t know. What’s next? A battle rages within. I enter into a dark night of the writer’s soul. A shadow seems to hover over my computer. I want to write, but doubt my calling, doubt my ability to put words together cohesively on a page. The enemy tells me I should give up, use my computer to play Spider Solitaire and check Facebook.

2013: Southern Indiana Writers’ Salon lived a good life, lasting for seven years—longer than most writers’ groups—but suffered a tragic demise a few years ago. In 2012, a handful of Writerly Sisters, former SIWS members, began meeting at my writer’s nest each month.
          One of our scribes publishes some of her children’s books using Smashwords.com. and suggests I consider doing the same. She presents me with my own copy of Publishing E-Books for Dummies and some other resources. They sit gathering dust until—

May 2013: I have an internal debate:

Why do I write?

Because I must. It’s been in my soul since fourth grade. I can’t not write, not for long, anyway.  

What if I never get published traditionally?

That’s possible because publishing is changing.

Do I want to make money with my writing?

Well, that certainly would be nice. But it’s not my priority.

Then what is the true and important thing?

That my work glorifies God. That I write winsomely, pointing readers to Him.

No one is reading my work now. It’s languishing in my computer.

True.

What if I go to all the work of e-pubbing and still no one reads it?

I have grandchildren, my "grandtreasures." They’ll read it. And if they’re the only ones, it’s well worth the effort. Maybe someone else will, also. And perhaps—just perhaps—the right agent or editor will stumble over it and decide it has possibilities. It happens!

But I’m writing middle-grade. Research shows that few middle-grade readers read e-books.

As fast as things change in the world of publishing, that could turn overnight. Up a Rutted Road waiting for them.

I have no plans to e-pub my second MG novel, The Second Cellar, or my third. I’ll leave those decisions to God’s leading. For too long, I held the misconception that members of ACFW eschewed indie books. I've since learned that many of my brother and sister scribes have self-published. I’m sure I’ve read and enjoyed some of their work without knowing it because they took the time to do it right through careful revision and editing and by creating (or paying a professional to design) a professional-quality cover.

This topic came up for lively discussion on our ACFW members loop recently. One writer put it in perspective by reminding us of how blessed we are to have so many options open, considering that in closed and threatened countries, any type of Christ-proclaiming publication is outlawed. Apparently, those who would muzzle Christian writers understand the power in the printed word.

* * *

I would love to hear your thoughts and/or experiences with indie publishing. Please leave a comment.

Write on!

Because of Christ,

Sharon

New Release! UP A RUTTED ROAD

CAMIE McCAIN had never met a hermit, not until Claude shows up smack-dab in the middle of Aunt Charlene’s old-timey kitchen. Camie reckons Uncle Glen is the recluse’s only friend. Off and on that summer, she spies Claude in the most unlikely places, but he vanishes before she can catch up to talk to him. Does he really live in a barrel in some lonely holler like the kids at church say? Is he on the run from the law? How come he shies away from folks like a skittish colt?

Camie has the summer of her life and one adventure after another. She tames an ornery rooster, helps put by for winter, learns to swim, and goes to camp meetin' with all the mountain folk.

Then one day tragedy strikes the mountain. Camie blames herself. Angry and afraid, she bolts into the mountains where she gets lost in a thunderstorm, tumbles down an incline, wrenches her ankle, and encounters Claude—this time in an abandoned mine. She tells him of the grief that has come to her family and claims it’s her fault. After all, didn’t she pray all wrong? And didn’t she keep a deadly secret?

Up a Rutted Road is available for your e-reader at Amazon.com and Smashwords.com.

Jack's Mama's Loadin' the Wagon!

HUZZAH! Jack's Mama's a-fixin' to be at the Cincinnati Appalachian Festival on Mother's Day. She's all set to tell her far-flung tales about her boy, Jack, 'n' other folks from over home. Take mama to church meetin', then head on out to the doin's. Don't stop fer dinner, 'cause dinner's a-cookin on the grounds.

Some folks says ye can pert nigh hear the screen door creak and taste the ice-cold apple cider when ye hear an Appalachian tale told by Jack's Mama. Jest a plain ol' mountain woman, Jack's Mama has been a favorite of audiences for over a quarter of a century.

More about the Stories Jack's Mama Tells

When this country's first settlers came, many arrived with few possessions. The stories that had been such an integral part of their heritage, however, did survive the perils of sea and land, stored securely in the memories of the people.

Most of the stories that make up Appalachia's oral tradition came from England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Germany, France, and Africa. Once in this country, many of the tales - as well as the people - mingled with the Native Americans who already were here, and had their own stock of stories. The Jack Tales constitute an important cycle in this tradition.

Many of the motifs found in the Appalachian stories are found in literary works such as Beowulf, the Arthurian Legend, Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Shakespeare's works (including King Lear and The Taming of the Shrew), the Bible, and Homer's Iliad and Odyssey, to name a few.

Despite the origin of the tales, the characters usually became Americanized as they were passed down in this country. For example, Jack, the Appalachian giant-killer, is likable and easy-going (except when it comes to giants), unlike his English counterpart, who is a cocksure, arrogant young hero. Jack, in fact, is Everyman.

Research for this program was funded in part by a Lilly Teacher Creativity Fellowship grant.

With nearly 60 tales from which to draw, Jack's Mama is adaptable to all audiences and ages, as well as a variety of venues, including festivals, schools, libraries, museums, and churches. All of Clifton's shows are family-friendly.

At the Cross

I huddle at the foot of the Cross.
My arms stretch to encompass it around--
my head bowed,
eyes pinched so tightly they hurt.
Silent sobs wrack my being.

The men are gone.
The Brotherhood, save one, has forsaken the Master.

Other women stand,
bow,
lie prostrate nearby,
each alone,
forsaken,
desperate,
desolate.
I hear their weeping off in the distance,
at the perimeter of my own sorrow.

Roman soldiers stand silent,
stone-faced,
trying to understand,
yet bound merely to duty.
Scribes, 
Pharisees, 
Sadducees
cluster together and mutter into their self-righteous beards,
rehearsing their excuses.
Their mumbling blends, segues 
into the rumbling of a gathering storm.

Messiah, on the Cross, lifts His head to Heaven.
With one last lingering remnant of strength,
He pushes against the spike that impales His feet,
pulls up on the nails that pierce His wrists,
draws in a gurgling breath,
licks His lips to moisten them, to make speech possible,
And cries out to the Father Whose Face is turned away.

"It is finished!"

A pronouncement that will echo throughout Eternity.

I look up as His weary, abused head
sinks to His bosom,
where so many children had rested their heads
and received His blessing.

A drop of His vermillion Blood
rolls down one of the thorns
that comprises a crude crown.
In one interminable moment,
I watch it
fall;
I tip my face downward in shame,
knowing my own unworthiness,
yet yearning for His anointing.
That Sacred Drop
Splashes on my head and covers me o'er.

A mourning veil shrouds the sky.
Night invades midday. 
The Earth begins to tremble.

Copyright 2007 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

Poetry Break: "Problem Child"

She's a problem child, all right--
always has been,
always will be.
Dreams!
That girl can dream
like no one I've ever seen.
"Wouldn't it be great," she says,
"Wouldn't it be grand," she dances,
"to do something for God?
To bring souls to Him?
To help enlarge the House of the Almighty?
To go to all the world?"
She sings her joyous plan to all
who will listen.

Thank goodness for the small thinkers,
the micro-dreamers
who shove her and her visions
back into a tiny box
where the corners squeeze out hope
and squelch missionary zeal.
If she and her ilk can be
controlled,
the Church can remain contained,
tidy
for a chosen few.

What?
What's happening?
Lord, is that You taking that lid off
again?

~Copyright 2001 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

Playing Catch-Up

Can it be that I haven't written a blog entry since Christmas 2012? Sometimes life intervenes and turns our plans topsy-turvy. Such is the case. By way of catching up, let me wish you, gentle readers, a very happy new year, happy Saint Valentine's Day, and a meaningful Presidents' Day.

Whereas I haven't accomplished much in the way of writing on my third middle-grade WIP, I have been writing and researching. I wrote one 5,500-word creative non-fiction article for a Christian publishing house. I've also been researching for a historical romance that has been niggling around in my brain for at least a year. I had thought to write the MG novel first, but this one won't let go. I have it thoroughly plotted, and it's begging to be set to paper.

When a writer begins to research a story, the journey may take her on some unexpected byways. For this one, I'm learning to paint as an Impressionist. Though I'll never be good at it--my older brother and my younger daughter are the professional fine artists in the family--I can learn the basics so that my MC can speak the language.

In early February, I underwent a bit of major surgery, which tied up a chunk of time, what with the event itself and subsequent recuperation and therapy. Though I didn't get any writing done during that time, I read a few excellent books, including:

• The Bone Box by Bob Hostetler 
• Diamond in the Rough by Lisa Karon Richardson and Jennifer AlLee
• A Quaker Christmas by Lauralee Bliss, Ramona K. Cecil, Rachael Phillips, and Claire Sanders
• Heart's Heritage by Ramona K. Cecil
• Instant Menace by Jerry Jenkins and Chris Fabry

Now, I'm preparing a storytelling session for Hoosier Recreation Workshop, to be held in mid-April. I'm also looking forward to Resurrection Sunday and the events leading up to that great day--my favorite of the Church year.

It's great to be writing a blog entry again. Thank you, readers, for your patience during this silent time.

Write on!
Because of Christ,

Sharon

Christmas Begins with CHRIST

(Posted originally for Christmas 2009)

The house is quiet in this predawn hour. Soon my grandsons will come bounding down the stairs and into my room. "It's Christmas, Gran'ma! Merry Christmas," they'll shout. The day will get busier from that moment, so I am snatching this brief time to write the final entry in the "Christmas Reflections" series.

This posting should have been finished by now, but I couldn't find direction. As a writer and storyteller, I had no trouble putting myself in Mary's place. I could imagine her, propped up against the rough boards of a stall, still perspiring from the labor of giving birth, cradling her newborn son in her arms while she examined every wrinkle and pore of His face--the face of God. I could see her bending to drink in His sweet scent and kiss the hollow at the bridge of His nose. I envisioned her slipping aside her robe just enough to put Him to her breast, giving sustenance to the One Who had created her. No doubt she pondered the words of the angel Gabriel, who told her, "He shall be great."

But this was no ordinary baby. With the conception of Jesus, Almighty God condescended from His position to take on human flesh and enter the world of man. The details of His coming were foretold by God Himself, as He escorted Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden, and through His prophets throughout the Old Testament. I love Luke 4:16-22, which says:

And he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up. and as was his custom, he went to the synagogue on the Sabbath day, and he stood up to read. And the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him. He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it is written, "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."

And he rolled up the scroll and gave it back to the attendant and sat down. And the eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. And he began to say to them, "Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."

The Christ did not come to be a cute, giggling, wriggling baby for everyone to coo over. The manger stood in the shadow of the cross. The captives? The blind? The oppressed? That's mankind. Me. You. We are held captive by sin. We are willfully blind to His truth. We are oppressed by our own wickedness. Jesus was born to die on the cross to take away the sin of all who repent and believe in Him. He then conquered Death and Hell by resurrecting from the tomb.

Two millennia ago, a baby was born under humble circumstances to a peasant girl, a virgin until after His birth. That baby is the King of kings, and his prophesied return is imminent. Indeed, the King is coming!

One Raggedy Christmas

The tree, bedecked with cherished ornaments, garlands, and twinkling lights, stood in front of the living room window. We had carefully placed the creche on a white sheet beneath it.

While we kept our gift-giving to a minimum so that it didn't usurp the true meaning of the day, that year circumstances curtailed spending all together. The country was in a recession, and my husband was out of work. So I decided to sew. I warmed up the Singer and began working on huge Raggedy Ann dolls for our two little girls. Keeping it a secret from them while having to work in front of them was the challenge. I could do the machine sewing after they had gone to bed. Constructing the body and the clothes was the easy part.

Embroidering the face, the heart, and the "I love you" took many long hours. As Christmas drew nearer, I found myself working much of the day and into the night on the hand sewing. My daughters watched me rooting every strand of red yarn for the hair.

"What are you doing, Mama?" they asked.

I wouldn't lie to them. "I'm making Raggedy Ann dolls. Do you like them?"

Their faces lit up. "Yes! Who are they for?" I knew they wanted me to say that they were for them, but a mama has to have some secrets, especially at this time of year.

"They're for two children who won't have many presents on Christmas morning. I want them to have these dolls. Do you think they'll like them?"

"Yes," each said. They accepted my explanation. I was glad they didn't ask more questions.

Christmas Eve came, and our tree was still bare of presents. On Christmas morning, however, two rather large gifts appeared behind the creche. After we read Luke 2, it was time for them to open their gifts. When they realized that each had one of the Raggedy Ann dolls, they began dancing around.

"But, Mama, you said these were for two other children," one said.

"Yeah!" the other chimed in. They thought they had caught their mother in a lie.

"I never said that." I remembered, because I had been very deliberate in my wording. "I said that they were for two children who wouldn't have many presents on Christmas morning."

That Christmas, they actually received three gifts: a mama-made doll, a lesson in critical listening, and a story to tell to friends through the years. They still have those dolls. In fact, my grandchildren now enjoy them.

A Birth Most Imminent

("A Birth Most Imminent" first appeared in December 2009)

Just hear those sleigh bells jinglin', a ring-ting-tinglin', too. Come on, it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you.

It was a cherished ritual with us--myself and my two daughters. At least once a Christmas season, we would bundle up against the cold, get in the car, and take a grand light tour, stopping off first at a gas station for tall, steaming cups of some specialty holiday coffee or cappuccino. Then, with music of the season playing in the background and us joining in, we'd head for the most spectacular displays we could find, the ones where folks stopped their cars, dimmed their lights, and sat for awhile to take it all in.

You know the spot. You have one in your town, most likely. Perhaps it is a neighborhood where on a special night the streets and walkways are lined with luminarios. Or maybe it's the home of a retired man whose hobby is converting his garage into Santa's workshop and his lawn into a quiet Bethlehem scene once a year.

Giddy-yap, giddy-yap, giddy-yap! Let's go! Let's look at the show. We're ridin' in a wonderland of snow.

We usually visited the flashiest displays first, before wandering onto quiet streets. One night, colored lights shone through a fresh layer of snow, turning neighborhoods into a surrealistic winter wonderland. We rolled the car windows down, willing to endure the cold in order to hear the sound of our tires crunching snow. The icy glow of a nearly-full moon added to the mystery of the scene. We were in an upscale suburb, and most of the properties were decorated to some degree. Brightly-lit Christmas trees stood where they could be seen from the street, electric candles glowed in each window, and wreaths of fresh evergreenery hung on heavy doors of wood and brass.

Let's take the road before us and sing a chorus or two. Come on, it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you.

One house stood out for its lack of adornment.

"Stop," I said to my older daughter who was driving. "Let's go back to that house."

Both daughters asked why. "I can't explain it, but I just think that we should carol the people who live there."
My younger daughter who was sitting in back leaned forward. "Do you know them?"

"No. That doesn't matter."

We went back, parked the car, and walked up to the door. I knocked firmly, and, without waiting for an answer, we began to sing in three-part harmony, as we often did at church.

Silent night. Holy night. All is calm, all is bright.

The door opened, and there stood a young man and his wife. He had his arm around her to warm her.

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed. The little Lord Jesus lay down His sweet head.

The young woman looked up at her husband and smiled.

We wish you a merry Christmas! We wish you a merry Christmas! We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year!

"Thank you. Thank you so very much," said the woman. "I'm in labor. We're on our way to the hospital. And I was not looking forward to the ordeal ahead of me. But I know I can make it, now. I really needed to hear your lovely caroling."

"Yes," the man said. "Thank you. And merry Christmas to you, also."

On our way out of that neighborhood, God gave us another blessing. A family of deer numbering seven or eight wandered onto a broad, snow-covered lawn just as we were about to pass. Again we stopped the car and dimmed the lights. The deer lingered, watching us watching them. For several minutes we sat there, sipping the last of our drinks, cold by now, before heading for home.

There's a birthday party at the home of Farmer Gray. It will be the perfect ending of a perfect day.

News, Reviews & Interviews

Cedar Creek Seasons

by Eileen Key, Becky Melby, Rachael Phillips & Cynthia Ruchti

Romancing America
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc.
Ulrichsville, Ohio

350 pages
ISBN: 978-1-61626-645-5

The elections were over, and I was ready for a vacation. As God would have it, I met Rachael Phillips at the autumn ACFW-Indiana Chapter luncheon on the north side of Indy. Post-meeting, we lingered over coffee and a sweet treat with fellow writers Ramona K. Cecil and Millie Nelson Samuelson. As we were saying our farewells, Rachael offered me an all-expense paid getaway trip to Cedarburg, Wisconsin!

All right. I must tell the truth and shame the devil. What she actually said was, "Would you be an influencer for this book?" I hesitated ever so briefly. I occasionally review books, but I'm choosy. I will not write a negative review. Though I may point out what I perceive to be a weakness, the general tone of my reviews will be positive--or I'll abstain from writing it.

We've all heard, "You can't judge a book by its cover," but I disagree. The cover of Cedar Creek Seasons has several things going for it. It's appealing. It features an autumn scene; fall is one of my four favorite seasons. (Yeah, I know. That doesn't make sense. What can I say? I love Indiana where each season struts its own beauty.) It has a covered bridge. (Who doesn't love covered bridges?) Then there are the writers: Eileen, Becky, Indiana's own Rachael, and Cynthia--all solid scribes with whom I am familiar, having read their previous novella collection, A Door County Christmas, and Eileen's Dog Gone.  With all that going for the book, I eagerly accepted her invitation and soon was on my way to Cedarburg.

"Love Blooms in Every Season of Life," the back cover blurb headline, has a duo-meaning since the novellas of Cedar Creek Seasons feature protagonists in four life seasons, and each story gives the reader opportunity to enjoy Cedarburg in a different season.

A Contest of Wills by Becky Melby

It's winter when Cedarburg holds a contest. The entrant who garners the most votes from shoppers will win space in the town's historic district rent free for a year. Forty-something Willow Miles finds herself in fierce competition with artist Wilson Woodworth. Willow builds unique children's furniture and has outgrown her present area. A spot in the historic district would give her the room she needs and place her wares on the path of Cedarburg's many tourists. Wilson wants the space as a gallery for his paintings. The contest goes from friendly to fierce as the day draws near for the winner to be announced.

In Tune With You by Rachael Phillips

Chesca Appel, the twenty-five-year-old part-time choral director at Christ the King Church, is ready to begin rehearsals for the Easter cantata. She has carefully selected the music to ensure a magnificent worshipful performance. All is well until the pastor requests that she add drama and children to the program. To help out, he brings in Seth Amundsen, the tone-deaf school football coach, who loves both drama and kids. Seth, in turn, introduces his own cast of characters: several members of the football team, an obstinate donkey, and sheep. Amid all the chaos, enter one beguiling ex-fiancée and her brassy mama. This cantata is to be one Chesca will never forget.

Silvery Summer by Eileen Key

It's not personal. It's business. Recently retired Claire Parsons returns to Cedarburg with daughter Melissa simply as a vendor, to sell her pottery during the Strawberry Festival. She has no intentions of rekindling the embers of a long-dead romance with Eli Mueller. He broke her heart once. She wouldn't let it happen again. Besides, who knew if he was even still around? He is. Banners and flyers proclaiming his role in sponsoring the festival abound. His face is everywhere she looks--older than the face that haunts her memories, but just as handsome. Once he realizes she is in town, he tries to woo her again. But can cold embers be revived?

Eileen proved in Dog Gone she has a way with writing romance that features mature characters, so I knew I would thoroughly enjoy her contribution. Silvery Summer lives up to my expectations.

Maybe Us by Cynthia Ruchti

(I love word plays, and the title of this novella is that, since the main character knits and sells moebius scarves. Moebius, if slightly mispronounced, sounds like maybe us.)

Beth Schurmer, just five years out of college, can't be bothered with love. It has gotten in the way too many times in the past, and she won't let herself get sidetracked again. Her plate is full, thank you, what with caring for her beloved Oompa and managing his Yarn Shop (which, by the way, is another play on words, since her grandfather revels in telling stories to all who will listen--and many come in to do just that). When chocolatier Derrick Hofferman, who is nearly seven feet tall, sets up shop just two doors down, he enlists Beth as his official brownie sampler. She loves chocolate, so that works out well. Derrick and Oompa hit it off immediately. Derrick often leaves his own business unattended to listen to Oompa's tales. As autumn progresses, Beth, Oompa, and Derrick form a strong yarn of three strands. How far will the metaphor extend? Will the yarn be knitted into an unending moebius?

I thoroughly enjoyed my post-election getaway to Cedarburg, Wisconsin, which is near Milwaukee. I checked out the town online and vicariously walked the historic district and the path to the rustic covered bridge pictured on the cover, the only one still standing in Wisconsin.

Christmas gift suggestion: Couple Cedar Creek Seasons with A Door County Christmas.

Review by Sharon Kirk Clifton

Know any young writers and readers? Invite them to visit Quirky Quill.