Bell Bridge Books

Look Away, Away

by Kimberly Brock

I think writers of any ilk can benefit from a healthy appreciation of setting, but regional – particularly southern writers – are haunted by our connection to, love of, loss of, and clawing crawling, desperate journey back to – the land. Oh, I wish I was in Dixie…away, away. Every song is a lullaby of going home. We close our eyes and dream of the old house in the valley. We contemplate a city skyline, thinking only of the ancient ridges that surrounded freshly turned lowlands where we walked a row as a child. That old scene where Scarlet O’Hara’s father warns her that land is the only thing that matters? We took that old man seriously and so, when we write our stories, do our characters. Their whole world, how our characters view their circumstances, why they struggle, why they rejoice – it’s all reflected in the setting. Pick up any piece of southern fiction and you will understand what Lee Smith meant when she said of regional literature, “There is an intimate identification with landscape. Setting is so important that it often defines the lives and possibilities of its characters…Place is the central defining factor of southern writing. There’s just simply more there, there.”

In writing THE RIVER WITCH, I knew Roslyn’s story would end up on the island – I knew she would go into a kind of exile. I imagined Roslyn’s need for isolation, and her need for great beauty, which led me to the Georgia Coast. I wanted it to be a place that would keep her off balance so she’d have to struggle to understand it and meet its demands. I needed a place that Roslyn believed was a complete departure. My character’s story is also the story of this environment and if you look at one, you will inevitably discover something about the other.

I’d written a good part of the first draft before Roslyn’s past and her childhood memories of Glenmary, Tennessee, began to surface. There, I found a people rooted for centuries in hard ground. Ancient mountains that would not be moved. Do you see these places? Then you see the people who inhabit them. I came to understand these were the characteristics at the core of Roslyn, this place defined all the ways she was at odds with herself, and as with everything else in the novel, these seemingly contradictory environments and cultures of Appalachia and Coastal Georgia would serve as mirrors for one another – just as the characters tend to hold up mirrors to one another. Some of this was written intentionally, but a great deal of it evolved with the story.

I’d always been fascinated by the idea that the Sea Islands shift and change, the idea of the alligators roaring season, the romance of the great live oaks, and then there was the element of superstition that lent itself to Roslyn’s haunting. The island was like going back to the mire from which we all emerge. I chose the island setting so she could fight her way back from her loss, physically and psychologically. That’s what Roslyn’s character ultimately faced – what each of us, ANY character ANY place, faces – a transformation that leads to resolution. She had to learn to shift and change to survive, just like the land beneath her feet. Her connection to place informs the reader of Roslyn’s internal journey through metaphor, but it also grounds the reader firmly in a compelling reality, one that every reader will envision for themselves. We are called to whatever away, away means home. To me, the true power of setting is that it gets to the heart of our human search for belonging.

Barbara Kingsolver said it best when she spoke of setting. “I have places from which I tell my stories. So do you, I expect. We sign the song of our home because we are animals…Among the greatest of all gifts is to know our place.”

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Three-Leaf Weeds

by Kimberly Brock

I’m not Irish. Not even close. I don’t even look good in green. But there’s something that gets to me every spring when St. Patrick’s Day rolls around – this whole business of luck. I don’t have it. I want to know how to get it. And I’m starting to worry maybe I just missed the turn on the way to my pot of gold.

People will put ridiculous amounts of faith in luck. They’ll latch on to just about any old thing and then claim it to be lucky. There’s the luck of the Irish. Blind luck. Lucky pennies. Lucky horseshoes. Lucky numbers. Lucky socks or shoes or hats or garter belts. Lucky stars. But even with these endless options, I’ve never really been lucky. I don’t stumble upon opportunity or trip over good fortune. I don’t win at slots. I never scratched off a game card and got the Free Big Mac Meal. I never met Ed McMahon at my front door in curlers to receive my Publisher’s Clearinghouse millions. But this stuff happens. Out of the clear blue, it seems, there’s luck. So, maybe people who love the idea of luck are in fact, actually, lucky. Maybe it’s real enough, not just coincidence. But – and this is not because I’m green with envy – I’m starting to think luck might be a lot more than, well, dumb.

I married a man who can find a four-leaf clover without fail. It’s a wonder to behold, how that taciturn man can walk onto any patch of grass, bow his quiet head, and call up a little miracle. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he creates them out of the wishes of his heart. To tell you the truth, I am suspicious of his methods. There’s something annoying about the fact that I can stomp all over that same little patch for hours and all I’ll see is grass and the most ordinary three-leaf weeds on earth. I resent it, if you want to know the truth. I put in the effort. I crouch and squat and squint until my back aches and my head is dizzy and in the end, I have nothing to show for it but a bad attitude. He, on the other hand, waltzes along, whistles, even. He will hardly glance at the ground, just plucking up little bouquets of blessings. He finds them so easily, he doesn’t even care to just give them all to me. Now, what is that? Is that luck?

So, finally, one day I said, It’s not fair. You don’t even have to try. I asked him how he did it. He smiled. And this is what I’ll think about this spring when the stout little leprechauns start trotting around, measuring their shillelagh sticks. He gave me a handful of clover and said, Maybe you’re just looking so hard you can’t see what’s right in front of you.

And that’s when I realized, my luck isn’t Irish at all. He’s German.

Check out Kimberly Brock’s novel – THE RIVER WITCH – on Amazon today! 

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MAGIC IN EXCESS

by Danielle Childers

I’m from Texas. It’s important for you to recognize the Lone Star State in order to understand why I tease my hair. Everything’s bigger in Texas.

Less is not more. Less is less. Especially when it comes to love. In honor of Valentine’s Day, I wanted to share some things that I have BIG love for.

Danielle’s Favorite Things:

1. Jesus. (I was raised in a very traditional, Southern home, and my mother, who is probably reading this, would die if I didn’t put Jesus first.)

2. The doctor (my husband).

3. Books. (Anything by Deborah Smith, Sarah Addison Allen . . . there’s really too many to list. Follow me on Goodreads.)

4. Cats. (I have 2 and would add more if the doctor would allow it. He puts his foot down, but I know he secretly tries to coax stray kittens into his truck to bring home.)

5. Book clubs that make recipes from the month’s reading and pair it with a movie. Example: Make pumpkin pie. Read The River Witch by Kimberly Brock, and watch Batman: The Dark Knight Rises, because a broken woman attempting to redeem herself and the crumbling spirit of a lonely girl is very much like a conflicted superhero trying to save the world. Both will have you on the edge of your seat until the alligators or the mercenaries are conquered.

These things I love are magic. Combine them with blueberry tea on a Sunday afternoon, and you’ll never go searching for a charm or enchantment again. Only, you can’t have the doctor. He’s mine. I won him fair and square.

You see, unlike my best friend Brittany, I started abandoning romance novels a few years ago. I’m sure the books miss me terribly, and there are days when I miss them, but I’m more of a magical-realism-kind-of-girl. I want a peaceful life with miraculous happenings. When I envision romance, I see myself as a librarian, which I once upon a time was, with woodland creatures scurrying from opened books and high tea manifesting itself with teacups and luxury linens any time the moon shines just right through an open window. When Prince Charming shows up, he’s a little nerdy and a whole lot of magic.

In real life, I married at 19 years of age after 2 months of dating and a 4 month engagement. Yes, 6 months from “Can I date your daughter?” which my husband asked my dad down by the casket at a funeral, to “I do,” which we said on a Sunday morning in between the altar call and the Hallalujah! 

My husband was applying for medical school after completing his degree in biochemistry, and all of our parents supported us. This was, perhaps, the magic in my realisim.

This doctor of mine is hot stuff. At the time, he was surrounded by many, many marriage-minded women. I, like any true Southern lady would, decided to teach them the difference between fishing and hunting. I put on the lowest cut dress I owned, baked his initials onto pancakes, and spread the word that I’d seen the doctor with the church harlot, and I was SURE a disease was brewing. It was a shameless attempt to send his swooning fanclub packing.

It worked.

He’s fantastic. He winks at me when I catch his eye. Is there anything more magical than being the only girl in the room? When I cry, he pats my back and asks if I need to buy a book. If that’s not love . . .

To quell the suspicions that our teeny-tiny, incredibly short courtship fueled, I feel the need to announce: I was not pregnant. I was a v-i-r-g-i-n when I married. Put your eyebrows down! When was I supposed to do “the dance with no pants?” In high school? No, thank you.

I have no problem discussing this because my husband, much like country music, prefers his women a little (barely) on the trashy side. It’s why I pay for some of the blonde in my hair, paint my nails Thrill of Brazil red, and sing “Queen of My Double-Wide Trailer,” even though we live in a perfectly suburban home with guest towels and every kitchen gadget sold at the Williams Sonoma outlet store.

I know it’s all a bit dramatic.

Another example of the magic in books spilling over into my life.

I take things to excess. It’s why, when I found out that New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith was writing a book called The Biscuit Witch, I proceeded to bring batches of biscuits into work to find the perfect recipe. When I read The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, I dressed in black and white with red accents for weeks. With Sarah Addison Allen’s The Girl who Chased the Moon, I bought mismatched vintage china plates and strung fairy lights across my backyard.

I know the stories in the books aren’t real, but the magic is. I found it 6 years ago, walking down an aisle in a white dress and veil. And the magic, along with the man of my dreams, has been my constant companion ever since.

Happy reading.

Happy loving.

Happy Valentine’s Day!