“I love to sit in front of you and hear your voice. I feel like a ‘we.'”

To which I replied, “Thanks for the compliment. My parents would be so happy if they could hear you.”

That church lady’s interaction was/is remarkable and delightful, welcome as a balm for my parents’ passage. It occurred recently, but it’s locked in my heart forever.

My voice is my heritage. Music stirs my soul. It lights up my life.

Reading and writing are my heritage, too. My college-educated parents modeled both, though math was my father’s forte. Mother had an English degree, but in the ’50s when husbands ruled the roost, she wasn’t allowed to work. My writing, which has evolved from a hobby into an encore career, honors the gifts I inherited from them: my mother, the word nerd grammarian, and my father, the mery prankster/comedian

April 1 question – If you have a playlist (or could put one together) that either gets you in the groove to write or fits with one of your books, what is it? What type of music or what songs?

My husband and I are rockers, schooled by the Beatles, Eric Clapton, Fleetwood Mac, Bruce Springsteen, and U2 – all of whom I’ve had the pleasure of seeing in concert. (yes!) We also delight in symphonic selections, along with the Blues of Stevie Ray Vaughn, BB King, and Buddy Guy.

However, I don’t have a playlist for the literary fiction flavored with humor and snark that I write. I require silence to enter the world that I re-create, that of small towns, centered around church life. I need silence to let the various characters speak. I remain silent to ensure the word count is precise, with proper proportions of show vs. tell.

I often feel that I’m living the life my mother craved, which my dad would applaud now.

I feel like a ‘we’.