HICKORY HILL is finally out! It is currently available on Createspace and Amazon, in print and ebook! (Personally, I like to hold a book in my hands!) I hope you have an inclination to read it! I hope you enjoy it!
https://www.createspace.com/4516498
Monday, November 18, 2013
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Hello there!
It's certainly been a while since I've been on... and thought that I had anything remotely interesting to offer, but here goes.
An update in the publishing process of HICKORY HILL! Woo hoo! I've decide, after my latest round of rejections from agents, that 'no' I cannot and will not add vampires, zombies or any other marketable creatures to HICKORY HILL, as it is 'Historical Fiction'... "Hello?"
HICKORY HILL will be published through Stonethread Publishing, a Harvey Stanbrough production.
It's been cut from over 600 pages to around 404 to make it more marketable, per suggestions of 'agents' that would not take it on. Personally, I liked the long version, but I am a bit of a rambler. As with any other historical fiction, I suspect, difficulty lies in the fact that there is always more of the story that brings more stories that should be told. Sadly, the lines have to be drawn somewhere.
Currently the hold-up on letting it proceed is one of the real-life characters hasn't signed off on it. If he doesn't sign soon, I'm going to have to change his name, and I'd really hate to do that.
So... here we go!
It's certainly been a while since I've been on... and thought that I had anything remotely interesting to offer, but here goes.
An update in the publishing process of HICKORY HILL! Woo hoo! I've decide, after my latest round of rejections from agents, that 'no' I cannot and will not add vampires, zombies or any other marketable creatures to HICKORY HILL, as it is 'Historical Fiction'... "Hello?"
HICKORY HILL will be published through Stonethread Publishing, a Harvey Stanbrough production.
It's been cut from over 600 pages to around 404 to make it more marketable, per suggestions of 'agents' that would not take it on. Personally, I liked the long version, but I am a bit of a rambler. As with any other historical fiction, I suspect, difficulty lies in the fact that there is always more of the story that brings more stories that should be told. Sadly, the lines have to be drawn somewhere.
Currently the hold-up on letting it proceed is one of the real-life characters hasn't signed off on it. If he doesn't sign soon, I'm going to have to change his name, and I'd really hate to do that.
So... here we go!
Monday, July 19, 2010
My Quest Begins
After my last visit with Celeste, my fifth grade teacher, I could not get thoughts of Hickory Hill (The Old Slave House) out of my head! Growing up less than ten miles from there I'd often visited 'The Old Slave House' when out of town relatives would visit us when I was young. After I grew up and had moved away from home I would bring friends home with me for visits and take them there to see a part of our local history. At the time, I don't think I fully realized what an important part of our Nation's history this lonely place had played or the other history that was born in this part of the country.
The Old Slave House had always been there, and in my mind it would always be. I never really gave much thought to the stories I'd heard of slave trading or Uncle Bob, the stud slave for Hickory Hill, or the Crenshaw's and their lives at this place. Hickory Hill had a different feeling for me, almost as if it were trying to tell it's own story. Not the sensationalized tourist version that had been floating around for the last one-hundred years.
Growing up, the furniture that decorated The Old Slave House was a mish-mosh of period antiques. Some original, some were thrift store or farm auction finds. Most of it felt as if it was simply not grand enough for the fine home that was once considered 'a mansion', earily placed on Hickory Hill where one could survey anything coming or going for miles in any direction.
The second floor with its large bedrooms and large pocket doors connecting to the center hall would also double as a 'ballroom'. The furniture would be emptied out and the pocket doors opened wide, tables and chairs brought in to accomodate the crowds, and then the band would begin to play and music, laughter and loud voices would ring on Hickory Hill till the wee hours of the morning.
The third floor, where the slave breeding operation was run, was originally built with heavy crown moulding, different sized rooms, some with bunks, some large enough for beds and a bit of furniture, each with its own door and window to the wide interior hall with large windows at each end, overlooking the land. The whole third floor had originally been plastered and little vines painted on the walls to decorate it, according to George Sisk (the most recent private owner). This didn't seem like the kind of hell hole you would set up just for slave breeding; no, there had to be another reason this had been built out in such a fine manor when the home was originally designed. There had to be more to the story. A better story.
The Old Slave House had always been there, and in my mind it would always be. I never really gave much thought to the stories I'd heard of slave trading or Uncle Bob, the stud slave for Hickory Hill, or the Crenshaw's and their lives at this place. Hickory Hill had a different feeling for me, almost as if it were trying to tell it's own story. Not the sensationalized tourist version that had been floating around for the last one-hundred years.
Growing up, the furniture that decorated The Old Slave House was a mish-mosh of period antiques. Some original, some were thrift store or farm auction finds. Most of it felt as if it was simply not grand enough for the fine home that was once considered 'a mansion', earily placed on Hickory Hill where one could survey anything coming or going for miles in any direction.
The second floor with its large bedrooms and large pocket doors connecting to the center hall would also double as a 'ballroom'. The furniture would be emptied out and the pocket doors opened wide, tables and chairs brought in to accomodate the crowds, and then the band would begin to play and music, laughter and loud voices would ring on Hickory Hill till the wee hours of the morning.
The third floor, where the slave breeding operation was run, was originally built with heavy crown moulding, different sized rooms, some with bunks, some large enough for beds and a bit of furniture, each with its own door and window to the wide interior hall with large windows at each end, overlooking the land. The whole third floor had originally been plastered and little vines painted on the walls to decorate it, according to George Sisk (the most recent private owner). This didn't seem like the kind of hell hole you would set up just for slave breeding; no, there had to be another reason this had been built out in such a fine manor when the home was originally designed. There had to be more to the story. A better story.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Bringing HICKORY HILL to life
Several years ago I was visiting in my hometown. In the rambling conversation I heard something about 'Ms. Bennett'.
"She's still alive?" was my first reaction. I grabbed my purse and my keys and drove the block and a half to her home. Sure enough, she answered the door. I introduced my 50 something year-old self, she smiled and welcomed me in. We spoke for a few moments and she confessed that she didn't recognize me. I was crushed. Of course, she hadn't seen me since I was in my teens and I was somewhat depressed that I had changed so much that she didn't recognize my fifth-grade self in this old face, attached to a body that resembles nothing of the body of my youth.
She invited me to come back and we agreed that I'd see her in two or three weeks... and that I should bring my fifth-grade year book.
As I drove out of town that day and stopped at the intersection of Rts.13 & 1, I heard my mom say, "You know... Miss Bennett grew up there..." It was just as plain as if she were sitting next to me. It was the same phrase I'd heard my whole life, every time we passed that intersection.
"Oh my gosh! Ms. Bennett grew up there! Ms. Bennett grew up at The Old Slave House!"
Wow! A living history had been available to me all these years and I'd never put it together in my mind! Now I had the chance to find out the real story! Not the sensationalized version that had been told for the tourists all these years about slave breeding and kidnappings. I had a chance to find out what really happened!
Ten days later she died.
"She's still alive?" was my first reaction. I grabbed my purse and my keys and drove the block and a half to her home. Sure enough, she answered the door. I introduced my 50 something year-old self, she smiled and welcomed me in. We spoke for a few moments and she confessed that she didn't recognize me. I was crushed. Of course, she hadn't seen me since I was in my teens and I was somewhat depressed that I had changed so much that she didn't recognize my fifth-grade self in this old face, attached to a body that resembles nothing of the body of my youth.
She invited me to come back and we agreed that I'd see her in two or three weeks... and that I should bring my fifth-grade year book.
As I drove out of town that day and stopped at the intersection of Rts.13 & 1, I heard my mom say, "You know... Miss Bennett grew up there..." It was just as plain as if she were sitting next to me. It was the same phrase I'd heard my whole life, every time we passed that intersection.
"Oh my gosh! Ms. Bennett grew up there! Ms. Bennett grew up at The Old Slave House!"
Wow! A living history had been available to me all these years and I'd never put it together in my mind! Now I had the chance to find out the real story! Not the sensationalized version that had been told for the tourists all these years about slave breeding and kidnappings. I had a chance to find out what really happened!
Ten days later she died.
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