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{{ I am chronicling 48 days of writing before my July 31 travel. If you are chronicling your summer writing/days and would like to share, please link or comment so we can all cheer one another through. Strength to your sword arm! }}

I am stilled by the events in Charleston. Stilled. All the violent events of this past year -- years -- leading up to Charleston. All the hatred and violence. I thought I would say nothing publicly at first. Who am I to say anything? I write fiction about my deepest beliefs; that is enough.

But I couldn't stay silent, so I posted -- on my Facebook author page as well as my Facebook personal page --  links to other people's words about Charleston. Then I needed to include them in a blog post last week.

I also asked the folks assembling the Charleston Syllabus to include REVOLUTION, FREEDOM SUMMER, and THE AURORA COUNTY ALL-STARS, all books of mine with a civil rights theme running through them, along with my deepest beliefs, including that every human being is worthy of dignity and respect.

Now, I thought, now I shall get back to the work at hand. But what is the work at hand?

For now, since I am stilled, and quiet, and contemplating, I will link to Claudia Rankine's piece in the NYTimes: The Condition of Black Life is One of Mourning. I met Claudia Rankine last November in NYC at the National Book Award events. She was also a finalist. She is beyond impressive, as is her work, and this piece in the Times leaves me absolutely breathless. It asks me for something. It will not leave me.

So I will leave you here today, with some words from Claudia Rankine that describe what I try to do when I am writing as well:

"There are billions of souls in the world and some of us are almost to be touching the depths of how it is and what it is to be human. On the surface we we exist but just beyond is existence. I write to articulate that felt experience... There are some of us who are constantly mending our hearts, I write into that mending, my writing is that mending...."

Peace.

xoxo Debbie

I’ve been thinking about this interview with a “friend” of Dylann Roof’s. (Not sure how close they were.)

“I never heard him say anything, but just he had that kind of Southern pride, I guess some would say. Strong conservative beliefs,” he said. “He made a lot of racist jokes, but you don’t really take them seriously like that. You don’t really think of it like that.”

But now, “the things he said were kind of not joking,” [his friend] added.

Children and teens, even college-aged people, have more power than adults to make their peers. Every decision and interaction has the power to nudge a person in a particular way, to set them on a path.

One benefit of age is seeing how those moments in the past helped shape you; seemingly tiny things that changed your trajectory. Certainly those moments include racist and sexist jokes, off-hand remarks that you can either react to or ignore.

In all honesty my own history is a mixed one: I’ve laughed at those jokes, I’ve let them slide, I’ve even made them. Other times I do react: hey, bruh, that ain’t cool. And I can recall times when the gentle admonishment of friends has changed me, or where the acceptance (even encouragement) of hateful remarks has nudged me the other way. Peer pressure is powerful.

Maybe Dylann could not have been nudged off his deadly path, but I feel like we are made of these moments of action or inaction, and I wonder if the friend is brooding now about what might be different if he had only responded differently. “Man, you sound really hateful.” “Are you sure you’re all right?” “Come one, don’t be a jerk.”

Later in the same story, another friend gives even more unsettling backstory.

Roommate Dalton Tyler told ABC News that Roof was “planning something like that for six months.”

“He was big into segregation and other stuff,” Tyler said. “He said he wanted to start a civil war. He said he was going to do something like that and then kill himself.”

What did the roommate do? Recoil in horror? Warn people? Call the police, even? How did he end up in a place where someone could unfold their homicidal fantasies and he shrugged it off? Is that where you nudge yourself by letting racist jokes slide, then crazy rants and fringe conspiracy theories, to where you gently accommodate terroristic plots?

One reason for “lone wolf” and “extremist” labeling of killers like these is that they distance them from ourselves, rather than accept responsibility for our silent consent.

The heart of Young Adult Fiction descended into picturesque Charleston, SC on November 7, 2014 as 60 Young Adult authors, including 37 New York Times bestsellers, joined together for the 4th Annual Charleston Young Adult Book Festival (“YALLFest”).

              An afternoon drive out of Atlanta, a patriotic rest stop, a Confederate flag flying over the Columbia, South Carolina Statehouse, an arrival at Mama's house on John's Island. O Charleston, O Youth, O History of Long Ago. The marsh, the swamp, the salt, the

In Virals, acclaimed mother and son writing duo Kathy and Brendan Reichs have created a captivating and enthralling series by incorporating science fiction and crime with a contemporary perspective, via 4 teens who are navigating an unusually adventurous adolescence.

Chambers Austelle (great name) is a Charleston, South Carolina, native and artist. I own four of her pieces. One—a black and white photograph of a forest that I understand she took while almost falling from a car—was a wedding gift. I have a spooky Halloween painting of a haunted house and two glorious portraits of my dogs.

Sure, I’m an obsessive fangirl, but she’s also my sister-in-law. My brother is a musician, and I find it miraculous that two artists can cohabitate and still love each other without MURDER. (Because seriously, I’m sure Jake wants to just murder me sometimes.)

Chambers is prolific and inspiring. She presses on, despite the difficulties of being an artist (i.e. rejection and emotional meltdowns). It’s time for you to meet her.

An H and Five Ws with Painter/Photographer Chambers Austelle

How did art become your passion? 

I think people love to hear about epiphanies. They want to know that “Ah-HA!” moment. Well, I never had one. The closest I think I’ve ever come to that is when I’ve tried other things and have inevitably realized, ah-ha, I should really just be making art. I think my mother may have realized it was going to be my passion, or already was, when I was seven. I think that was around the time she gave up on my room’s walls or carpet ever staying clean. I’ve always wanted to explore and create new things, using everything as a canvas or platform. I never took it too seriously until I changed my major to Studio Arts and realized that being an artist was a real possibility.

Who is your biggest artistic influence?

Wow. That’s a tough question. Sally Mann hands down set the path for my artistic style in photography. When I was in college, Rothko and Francis Bacon were definitely my favorite contemporary painters. For me, their work was the strongest and most mesmerizing. I know, I know, could their imagery be more different? But for me they’re both extremely meditative in their own way. I am influenced by so many different artists, though. I love images and am constantly looking at different works of art. Currently, I’d have to say the biggest influence award goes to Egon Schiele and Matisse for their use of line and flatness of color.

As an artist, what are you most afraid of?

Failing. My husband is an artist as well, and we talk and joke about how hard the struggle is. If something we’re working on isn’t coming along the way we imagined it, it hits somewhere deep. Being an artist isn’t a job; it’s who you are. So if you fail at a task, you feel you’ve failed as a person. We joke how people who have office jobs (not that office jobs can’t be stressful) probably never go home and cry about how they could’ve stapled those papers better, stacked them in a more aesthetically pleasing way, or made that sticky note a little more compelling. Oh yeah, then there’s that real fear of will we have food and can we pay that bill?

Where have you done your best work?

I have a beautiful studio. It’s the biggest room in the house. It’s filled top to bottom with canvases, weird tools, cameras, and little treasures I might or might not use one day. And everyday I drag what I need out to the kitchen table and set up shop. I love our home, and I guess I feel most comfortable in the most lived in room.

When have you felt most frustrated as an artist? Have you ever wanted to just give it all up and become an accountant?

I get FRUSTRATED with the can opener; I get disappointed with art. When I’m starting a new piece, I am excited. I can see the image in my head and can’t wait for it to be real. I work in layers, and although I have an idea of what the final image should look like, I like to leave room for interpretation and to follow the work itself. It’s extremely rare that the final piece will look like what I had first imagined. This being said, that middle ground also leaves room open for disappointment. I finished “Ann” a couple weeks ago. I was so upset halfway through. I thought I had failed. I left it alone until the next day, in which I worked straight through to the finished product. It’s always a give and take, but it’s always, always worth it.

WHY are you an artist?

I’m an artist because I can’t imagine being anything else. The first art class I took in college was Drawing 1, the prerequisite for all other studio classes. I remember the professor asked how many of us were Studio Art majors. After a whopping two of us had raised our hands, he told us that being an artist was a lifestyle choice, not a job. “Make sure this is what you want,” he said. It’s a conscious decision you’ll have to make everyday. It’s hard to answer this question without giving a cliché answer, but I make art because I love to. Yes it’s hard and scary sometimes. I always have to work to get better. It’s incredibly rewarding, though. It’s my job to create new beauty, whether it’s a contemporary portrait or just a burst of color and pattern.

Learn more about Chambers Austelle at her two websites:

http://www.chambersaustelle.bigcartel.com

http://www.chambersaustelle.wordpress.com

I chose my favorite pieces of her work for this blog post, but there are so many more you need to see.

I picked up a book recently because it’s set in New Orleans. The plot sounded okay, but really, New Orleans. As someone who used to live in the American Lowcountry, I miss the South. As an Anne Rice fan, I feel I’ve visited New Orleans many times, even though I haven’t.

I was excited to start this book, escape the desert for a while, and be lulled into a sensuous stupor by the sights, sounds, and smells of what many consider the most beautiful city in the world.

To say I’ve been disappointed is an understatement. Here’s what I’ve gotten so far: “There was something about New Orleans—something about the air itself—a certain sultriness found nowhere else, that silky touch of humidity on skin like fingertips dragged slowly over your flesh.”

Great! And that was the first line. Since that first line, nothing, nadda. The author could be writing about Wall, South Dakota, and I wouldn’t know. Where is my French Quarter? Where is the overwhelming, sweet scent of magnolia? Where are the horse-drawn buggies for tourists?

I’ll tell you where: in New Orleans. But not in this author’s book.

As a writer, setting is important. In my novels (even in my short stories), the city becomes a character. When I wrote Life without Harry, my readers rejoiced over places they recognized and couldn’t wait to visit places they did not. Same goes for Something about a Ghost, set in Phoenix. You know damn well you’re in Phoenix. You feel the dry heat and smell the spring-blooming orange blossoms. You see the purple-red sunsets, because Phoenix has a persona. Setting should have a persona.

As I mentioned, I was once lucky enough to live in the American Lowcountry. I lived in Charleston, South Carolina (aka “Heaven on Earth”), and the novel I’m writing at present takes place there. An excerpt:

“The air felt crisp, clean, light, and although most of the flowers were long dead, the air still smelled like some sweet bloomer over the usual scent of saltwater and wet sand. He clunked down the metal stairs that led to the ground floor and paused as his boat shoes met grass.

“He walked through the yard and its overabundance of dormant gardenia plants, their waxy leaves still green and lush despite the chill. The Crepe Myrtles at the end of his sidewalk were almost bare, beyond a few dark orange leaves that clung. He pulled a leaf free and held it between his fingers as he took a left and walked down Church Street toward Battery Park.

“He passed the houses where rich people lived, passed their well-kept gardens, their BMWs. He passed over brick roads, beneath the sprawling, wicked arms of Angel Oaks. He paused at Stoll’s Alley, a tiny walkway of brick, overwrought with climbing ivy—one of his usual short cuts—and kept moving until he entered Battery Park, the very tip of the Charleston peninsula.

“He stayed on the edge of the Battery. He stood on the walkway overlooking the harbor with his elbows leaned against the cold metal rail. The sky was cloudy, so the water looked dark green, tumultuous as though a storm would soon arrive. In the distance, he could see Fort Sumter and an American flag that flapped in the wind. There was a wind, a slight one that brushed softly over his face and brought with it the smell of dead fish.”

Do you smell the smells? See the sights? Feel the air? I hope so. I worked hard to take you to Charleston, even if you’ve never been there. This is setting, and for some reason, we’ve forgotten it. We’ve gotten so caught up in plot, character, conflict—but what is a story without a world, a sense of place?

This is a reminder to writers and readers alike: don’t let books get away with weak settings. Don’t be lulled by pretty people. People are but a thin pie slice of what is really happening in a story. Don’t disappoint me. I’ll find you and write about you on my blog.

In the Fall 2013 issue, Mary Baldwin College’s literary magazine, Outrageous Fortune, published an excerpt of my novel, Damned if They Don’t. So many thanks to them for enjoying my work, and here’s to 2014 – a new year of inspiration and publication.

Novel Excerpt: Damned if They Don’t

by Sara Dobie Bauer

After their early morning dance practice for the College of Charleston’s presentation of Cabaret, Cleo and Alessa stepped into the October sun.

“Ah.” Cleo sang the word like the first note in Act Two. “Now, this is what I’m talking about. Crisp and cool.”

They were both chorus members, which had at first been a blow to Alessa’s experienced ego. Then, as the graduate school workload steadily increased, she saw the casting snafu as a blessing in disguise.

“Where are we meeting Emily for brunch?”

Of course, Cleo and Emily were practically in love. As soon as they met over drinks at Social Wine Bar on East Bay, the friendship was cemented. Together they bemoaned the dating scene in Charleston, because although there were plenty of eligible bachelors, most of them turned out to be untrustworthy asshats. They thoroughly disagreed on the topic of Graydon. Emily still found his persona deplorable, while Cleo was charmed down to her toes by the tall, brooding musician. Alessa, of course, fell somewhere in between.

She reached for her phone. “Emily was going to text me when she woke up.” She looked at the screen. “Why do I have three missed calls from Graydon?”

“It’s ten AM on a Saturday. Shouldn’t he be hung-over somewhere?”

“One would think.” Just as she was about to call him back, her phone rang again. “Graydon?”

“Hello.” He sounded out of breath.

“Are you okay?”

“No. Yes. Where are you?”

“Just leaving the theater.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Wait. Cleo and I are going to …” She held the phone away from her ear and stared. “He hung up on me.” Alessa looked back at her phone. “Emily says to meet her at Virginia’s on King. Apparently they have a mimosa special today.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“Graydon said he’d be here in five minutes.” She shrugged.

“What, is he gonna propose or something?”

“Funny.”

“I’m waiting until he gets here.”

“You don’t have to. Emily is probably already at Virginia’s.”

“No. I want to see what’s going on.”

The stern look on Cleo’s face told Alessa not to press any further. It wouldn’t have mattered. Graydon showed up across the street in three minutes flat.

Cleo scoffed. “Does his hair always look that perfect?”

“Yes. It’s disgusting.”

“He’s carrying red roses.”

“I can see that.”

He almost got hit by a car crossing the street, which made both the girls scream at him, and of course, he took a moment to cuss out the driver. He arrived on the sidewalk, and despite their hours of dance practice, he was actually covered in more sweat than either of the two women. Alessa pulled a hand towel from her gym bag and dabbed at his forehead and cheeks.

“Thank you.” He nodded.

“Flowers?” Cleo smirked. “What’d you do now?”

He gave his familiar glare, complete with lowered brows and strong set jaw.

“Cleo, why don’t I just meet you and Emily at Virginia’s?” Alessa opened her eyes wide, giving the expressive equivalent of, “Get the hell out of here. Please.”

“Fine.” She winked at Graydon. “You look sexy covered in sweat.”

Alessa agreed, but she wasn’t going to say it—not with the way he was behaving. Obviously he had screwed up, but what was there to screw up anyway? After four months of dating, they still didn’t use titles, no boyfriend-girlfriend. He still slept with other women, and sometimes they didn’t speak for days at a time, despite the fact that they worked in the same restaurant. She’d given up on anything normal with Graydon a month earlier, when another woman kissed him right in front of her. Now this? What, had he gotten someone pregnant?

“Graydon. What’s going on?”

He cleared his throat. “These are for you.”

She took the extended roses. “Thank you.”

“I woke up this morning in the bed of another woman.”

Alessa glanced away down St. George Street.

Read the rest at Outrageous Fortune’s website!

Hotel del Coronado, 1925.

The Hotel del Coronado (famous for the exterior beach scenes in the classic film, Some Like It Hot) was a very pleasant part of last week’s visit to San Diego and the nearby Coronado Island, where I had the chance to freeze my feet off in the ocean and see dolphins. I also admired the hotel: a 125-year-old architectural monster filled with crystal chandeliers, dark wood décor, and 1920s jazz music.

Although the hotel made me happy, it also made me sad. Let’s face it: I don’t always like Phoenix. Phoenix considers architecture from 1970 to be “historic,” and after living in Charleston, South Carolina, I have to tell you people, there is nothing historic about the 1970s. Phoenix is shiny and new, and I do have a place in my heart for skull décor and wild graffiti.

However, San Diego made me realize how much I miss walking the streets of Charleston, surrounded by flickering gas lamps, ivy that’s older than me, and houses that were around during the Civil War.

My need to time travel is more than just architectural. I did love the film Midnight in Paris, because not only did it embrace one of my favorite cities, but the movie embraced a golden culture and a specific time: the “Roaring Twenties,” what the French dubbed “The Crazy Years.” It was the era of jazz music, flappers, and the right for women to vote.

I adore jazz music. As you know, I’ve recently developed a girl-crush on Melody Gardot. Then, on the drive home from San Diego, Pandora showed me Koop and Devil Doll: two other modernized jazz/burlesque groups. Most modern music blows. The stuff you hear on the radio is crap. I’d much rather be enveloped by the trumpet of Louis Armstrong or the quavering alto of Billie Holiday.

Then, there’s the fashion. Oh, the flapper gowns! And feathers! If I lived in the Roaring 20s, I could wear feathers—feathers everywhere—and people would think I was cool, not a Big Bird wannabe.

Plus, let’s not forget: in the twenties, men used to wear suits. Sleek, stylish, expensive suits every single day. I love men in suits, but unfortunately nowadays, most men only wear suits when going to weddings or funerals. Imagine Jake in a suit every day. Glorious!

Let us also bask in the decadence. Not only would I fully be expected to swing dance and bust out the Charleston at all hours of the night, but I could get away with slurpin’ whiskey and smoking cigarettes out of a big, ivory cigarette holder. There would be no Non-Smoking sections. I wouldn’t be a pariah for the occasional coffin nail; the behavior would be expected. Okay, so this isn’t the healthiest reason to go back in time, but hell, I feel like we’re all too damn worried about vitamins and vegetables nowadays. Wouldn’t it be nice to be bad for a little while?

I guess we all have an era: a time when we believe we were supposed to be born. My brother, for instance, would have been perfect in the 60s. Jake would have been happy dancing to Hall & Oates in the 80s. I think I would have enjoyed the 1920s. I miss old things, old places, which were easy to find around every corner in Charleston. I love 20s fashion. I love jazz. Literally, of course, I can’t go back and dance with the flappers. However, maybe I’ll start wearing feathers more often. I can easily add some flapper-esque attire to my wardrobe. I can lock myself in my house and listen to the music I like. And I can visit places like Hotel del Coronado—places that make me feel like, yes, I am home.

Ms. Jenny.

Is the age of thirty any different from twenty-nine? Not particularly.  I guess people make a big deal out of it because it’s a nice round number, and it signifies the entrance into a new decade of life. I remember twenty didn’t mean anything, because at twenty, you were old enough to be in college but still too young to legally drink. At thirty, I gain nothing except a three where a two once was, yet because Jenny was here this weekend, I felt like thirty did mean something—because my weekend meant so much.

I met Jenny at work in Charleston, my very first week of habitation in South Carolina. That same week happened to be my birthday week, but I had no plan to celebrate, because I didn’t know anyone. Jenny, however, brought me a cupcake the day of my birthday. It was shocking to have a perfect stranger come into my office and put a cheerfully decorated pastry on my desk. We’ve been friends ever since.

Once Jenny got settled into our new house here in Phoenix, we went out Friday night to Ground Control, where we met friendly bartenders and patrons who bought us expensive shots of Frida Kahlo tequila, bless them.  We laughed and laughed until my ribs hurt and I was reminded of all the times we used to cackle on the beaches of South Carolina. Going to bed sounded terrible. Like a kid on Christmas Eve, I was too excited to sleep. I wanted to play, play, play, but since I’m thirty, I’m too old to play, play, play all night … or was I? Friday night, we slept; Saturday night, we didn’t, but we didn’t know what was to come as of Saturday morning, when we put on bathing suits and got mani-pedis together at the spa.

Following a highly productive trip to Total Wine, we went and hung out at a friend’s pool all afternoon. Jake met us there at lunch time, and it was all about the Absolut Miami and pineapple juice. I could have taken a nap, sure, but I didn’t want to miss any Jenny time. We reminisced about Belize, where Jake and I spent every day like Jenny and I spent Saturday.

At five, we showered and dressed, me in a highly out of character skin-tight lavender satin dress. The skin-tight was normal; the pastel color was not. We met the rest of our crew at Hula’s Modern Tiki downtown, where I enjoyed fresh fish and my cocktail of choice, the Dark & Stormy. As a collective, we consumed a Volcano Bowl—a thirty-dollar chalice of mixed liquors and fruit. I received copious offerings of expensive whiskey, tequila, and rum as birthday gifts (I love my friends). The rest of the night was composed of dancing at Sage and Sand, drinking cinnamon-flavored liquor, an after-party at my place (where we tasted all my birthday presents), and an eventual bedtime of 4:30 AM. Who says thi

“Our kids don’t get to have dreams, aspirations, hopes. They can’t even think about college; it’s not in their minds. That’s why these books are so important. Books are the beginning of everything. You learn about other places, you learn about the world.”

– Angela Fedele of the WE CAN Program, a statewide program based in Princeton, W.Va., that provides volunteer mentors for at-risk kids

Angela Fedele is one of the many teachers and program leaders who spend their days doing everything they can to help West Virginia’s kids. At First Book, our mission is to do everything we can to help people like Angela.

By signing up with First Book, Angela was able to provide $3,000 worth of new books for the children in her program, thanks to a combination of grant money and support from local First Book volunteers.

First Book works with programs across the country, but we have a special place in our hearts for West Virginia. We’ve provided 294,228 brand-new books to children in need across the state, and plan to distribute 14,000 more by the end of the summer, thanks in part to a federal grant from the Department of Education.

In addition, we’re launching a new partnership with the American Federation of Teachers (AFT) to ensure that more kids have the books and resources they need. We’ll be announcing more details about this partnership soon, but we had a great kick-off last week in Charleston. Together with our friends at the AFT, we provided new books, along with grants to purchase more, to two local schools – West Side Elementary and Stonewall Jackson Middle School.

Help us get the word out, West Virginia! If you work for a school or program that serves children from low-income families, or if you’d like to help your child’s teacher or program leader get new books, sign up with First Book. And if you’d like to join one of our local volunteer groups, we’d love to hear from you.

You'll remember I decided to delete the blog, and then I didn't. le sigh. I felt a little like Tom Sawyer, faking his funeral. I have such a  love/hate relationship with social networking. It's not you. It's me.I'm working on it.

To that end, I've made some changes. Tomorrow I get back into book 2 of the '60s trilogy, just in time for a family gathering over the weekend and all next week in Charleston. You'll remember we go to Charleston every September, in time for hurricane season. Maybe you'll do the photo challenge with me this year -- more to come about that.

So I'll catch you up with book two tomorrow. In the meantime, click through (if you're not there already) to the blog to see the new look! New title: Field Notes. New design. New sidebar material, including a list of current reading and listening, as well as books/music/dvds I'm using or have used for research -- I wanted to collect them in one place, so I created an amazon store so you could see them, too.

Full disclosure: As an affiliate, I receive a tiny portion of sales that click through from my blog or amazon store. I'm not looking for sales, though; I got most of these books from my local library, through inter-library loan, or from abebooks. (I *love* abebooks.) And I wanted to collect these resources in a readily available place and share them with you.

I was going to switch the blog to WordPress -- my Web Goddess Allison had me all set up. But I've decided to stay here on blogger for now. It's easier for me and I like the openness of the look for now -- what do you think? At some point I want to integrate the old 2007 tour blog with this one. When I started a new blog, I didn't understand I didn't have to. Live and learn.

If you visit my website (which is a WordPress site) you'll also see it's had a little refresh, too. I do like it, although at times, when I think about it too much, it also feels too loud to me, compared to the very understated look I had before. What do you think? I really want to know. Again.

We're just back from Hayesville, N.C. where Jim played a gig with some musician friends over the weekend. Great good fun. I have no brain cells left with which to be scintillating or even make sense. So here ya go. Some housekeeping, and some photos and (always) a little music when one can't think straight. Thanks, y'all. More anon!

As a kid, I noticed my mom always had a book somewhere nearby, usually a mystery, featuring some smart cat (literally, a feline) solving a murder. When I got older, she and my dad fell in love with CSI: Crime Scene Investigation on CBS. Jake is partial to Law & Order. I love both (especially Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. I got a thing for Chris Meloni).

I never got into “The Cat Who …” books, but I do watch crime shows all the time. The thing I love about them is that I can watch a murder, an investigation, and get a cathartic ending, where the bad guy gets his/hers, all in the space of an hour. I’ve noticed that I have trouble stopping an episode mid-way. If I get started, I have to see who dunnit. The ending is part of the process; after all, you can’t have a murder without a “perp.” And I don’t find peace until the “perp” is brought to justice. (Or “unsub,” on Criminal Minds, but Jake hates that show almost as much as he hates NCIS.)

I requested to receive an advanced reading copy of Carolyn’s Hart’s Dead by Midnight: A Death on Demand Mystery for several reasons. One: it was a mystery, and I wanted to give mystery a try. Two: It takes place in fictional Broward’s Rock, South Carolina, which reminds me a lot of the Charleston area. And three: The heroine owns a bookstore, and dang it, I’d love to own a bookstore. I thought it would be a pleasant read; I didn’t expect to become obsessed.

The premise: Pat Merrigrew is murdered, and nobody in Broward’s Rock knows why. In fact, the police think it might be a suicide, but not bookstore owner Annie Darling. Annie knows Pat was murdered; now, she has to figure out why—and who would do such a thing to such a harmless, neighborly local? As you may suspect, there are more than a few characters that might be guilty. There are several shadowy bits of behavior, intended to throw Annie off track. There is excitement, good dialogue, and some playful sleuthing. And of course, there is the necessary catharsis at the end.

I miss South Carolina's Angel Oaks sooooooooooo much!!! (But not Palmetto Bugs.)

I very much enjoyed Dead by Midnight. That’s not my problem. My problem is (thank goodness it was on a Sunday) I couldn’t stop reading the book once I started. Jake pointed out that this is what all good books should make you do. However, even my favorite books have taken me a week to finish. In the case of Dead by Midnight, I read it in one day. It was like a tangible episode of CSI, made in paper. I couldn’t stop! I had to know who dunnit! I had to help Annie catch her perp! This is why I don’t think I’m allowed to read mysteries—I would never get anything done!

I want to thank Ms. Hart for creating such lovely characters in a lovely world. I enjoyed hearing about Annie Darling’s bookstore. I had no idea there were so many different mystery sub-genres. And I very much enjoyed Annie’s hunky, supportive husband, Max. I strained my brain to try and guess at the ending; alas, I was incorrect … but I was close … kind of. Maybe if I read a couple more mysteries, I’ll be a first class sleuth. Of course, this will never happen, t

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By: Jill Casey, on 3/16/2011
Blog: The Art of Children's Picture Books (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags:  South Carolina, Charleston, Add a tag

I visited Charleston, South Carolina last week and what a lovely city it is. Beautiful historic architecture, tons of restaurants and a vibrant downtown, plus much to do. We had a great time. Thought I would share some of the pictures I took.

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19. Raw Oysters at Casey Moore’s

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By: Sara Dobie, on 3/11/2011
Blog: Sara Dobie's Blog (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags:  Arizona, Casanova, Charleston, Restaurants in SC, Restaurants in AZ, Casey Moore's Tempe, Ian Kelly, Pearlz Charleston, Add a tag

As far as I know, I ate my first oyster at an oyster roast on Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina. At the time, I was a novice. I showed up, dressed up, ready to party. I didn’t realize we would be surrounded by oyster-scented mist and flying shells. I didn’t know I had to “shuck” anything. I certainly didn’t know I had to eat slimy creatures that closely resembled massive piles of snot. Most surprising, though? I loved the slimy creatures.

I soon discovered, via Pearlz on East Bay in Charleston, that I prefer oysters raw rather than roasted. (I prefer them in Oyster Shooters, too, which entails a single oyster in a shot glass of cocktail sauce and Absolute Peppar). Over the course of my two years in Charleston, I consumed more oysters than the entire land mass of the United Kingdom—where oysters are actually protected by an Act of Parliament during the spawning season.

Rumor has it oysters are aphrodisiacs. I recently read a biography of the so-called “great lover,” Casanova, by journalist Ian Kelly. (An interesting read. Made me want to go back to Venice. Check it out here.) Casanova used to eat piles of raw oysters pre-coitus, plus bottles of champagne. I don’t know much about the aphrodisiac claim. I do know that I had a craving last week that felt like pot munchies, minus the pot … and I did not hanker for Doritos; I hankered for raw oysters.

Where—in the land-locked state of Arizona—was a girl to find raw oysters? Jake took me to the grocery store, where I swore I saw some oysters, but they only had mussels. We asked the guy if we could order oysters. He priced us at over a dollar an oyster. I wasn’t that desperate. Not yet. Luckily, I did an online search, where I discovered Casey Moore’s Oyster House in Tempe.

I love Tempe, not just because it has raw oysters. I like the college town feel. I like the ASU campus. I like all the restaurants and bars spread along the two block radius of Mill Street. It feels like home to me; it feels like Athens, Ohio, in the middle of the desert. Casey Moore’s is an Irish pub—one of the most famous in Arizona, according to the website. It’s a nice little place with a dingy, dark inside bar area and a big outdoor patio covered in palm trees and umbrellas. Not classy but cute.

All I cared about were the oysters … and the Bloody Mary’s, which were excellent. I ordered a dozen oysters; nothing else. In case you’re wondering, even in a beach town like Charleston, the oysters were rarely from Charleston. The best oysters are arguably from New England, so I was okay ordering oysters in Arizona; they travel, no matter where you are.

I made my order, and then I waited. I watched the door to the kitchen, and when the little college dude brought my slimy monsters surrounded by ice chunks to our table, I wiped the drool from my chin and dug in.

How do you properly eat a raw oyster? First, you pick up the oyster on the half shell. Using the tiny fork they give you, wiggle the oyster around to make sure it is dislodged from the shell. I like to add fresh lemon juice to mine and a dash of fresh horse

5 Comments on Raw Oysters at Casey Moore’s, last added: 3/12/2011

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Mom B said, on 3/11/2011 8:36:00 AM

Well, here is my argument…..Gulf of Mexico had the best oysters. Not so sure now after the oil spill. But not New England, sorry and to eat them you must put the slimy booger on a saltine and top with tabasco sauce, stuff in mouth and enjoy the chew. If you are lucky the taste of salt water will enhance the flavor. MmmmMmmm Good!!!

saradobie said, on 3/11/2011 10:09:00 AM

Let’s be honest: I’ll eat oysters from ANYWHERE. And I’m not big on saltines. I like the slimy critters all by themselves. Mmmm. Dang it, now I’m hungry again …

Freddy Mercury said, on 3/11/2011 12:35:00 PM

Sweet Sara. You know I love you, but your ignorant take on oysters could only come from someone originating from Ohio… (I already mentioned I love you, right?) The best oysters come from the South. The rest is up to your preference. Texas oysters are large, massive bivalves that look like they have been hopped up on steroids. The saltyness of these fine oysters is mild. Overall on a scale from 1-10 I would rate these at a 6. Florida oysters can rate a little higher on the O Scale depending upon what side of the panhandle you get it from. Typically, oyster from the Gulf side of the panhandle tend to be smaller than the Texas oysters, but not by too much. They are pretty much the same in salt content. Overall I will rate them at a 7 and that is only if they are raw. 6 if they are cooked perfectly. The oysters between Texas and Florida are a happy medium between the two. Everything is better in the Atlantic. The Panhandle Atlantic oyster are medium/large in size and a bit saltier in taste and far preferable to the ones in Texas. I would rate them at an 8… But nothing… and I mean NOTHING compares to the sublime suculency of the SC Local oyster… just thinking of them makes me crave them. These oysters are on the medium side, but I have seen quite a few medium/large ones this season. These oysters a salty and sweet and need nothing on top. Just me, the oysters and The Master Shucker (my special knife I’ve had since around age 10). I may be bias (hell yeah I am) but I rate these beauties at 10.

But, Alas, is there anything better than a perfect oyster roast…

Yes there is.

I rate the following on the O Scale from 1-10. The rating is an 11… You have never tasted bliss until you have taken a boat ride in the dead of winter, wind stinging your face, boots stuck in the pluff mud where these creatures live to harvest your own. Not till you have taken a special oysterin hammer and knocked off your own selects until you find that perfect oyster. Throw down your hammer and shuck that bad boy right there and then, press him up against your lips and let it slide into your mouth. Savor the flavor… the sublime deliciousness of that oyster…
(damn the end of that conversation got really sexual…)

saradobie said, on 3/11/2011 12:38:00 PM

As always, I bow to she who knows best, oh wise one.
PS: I hate pluff mud.
PSS: Everything ends up sexual with you

dgmattichakjr said, on 3/11/2011 9:21:00 PM

I think that the world’s population is divided into two groups- people who love oysters and people who hate oysters. I love oysters, particularly for breakfast. In my working life as a chef I get to eat oysters at their very freshest and so I have been spoiled. Here in Australia we have several different varieties of oyster and the best ones are supposed to come from the Rocks in Sydney. My own preference is for Coffin Bay oysters from South Australia. The ancient Romans imported their oysters from Britain at great expense to the Empire. Keep on shuckin’!

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20. signs

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By: [email protected], on 9/14/2010
Blog: One Pomegranate (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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21. the life all around me

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By: [email protected], on 9/9/2010
Blog: One Pomegranate (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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Mostly photos today, with a little narration, to catch up the summer, and swing into fall.  We are about to make our annual trek to the beach. Remember last year's photos with one-word headings?

 There was the writing prompt idea at the end, with the daily headings of work, hope, fishing, honoring, weather, and morning. Photos for each day with a one-word caption.  I'm going to attempt that again this year. Want to do it with me? Take your camera with you, and at the end of each day, decide what one word you'll use to describe the day. You can turn it into a piece of personal narrative writing later, if you want, but for now, let the photos do the talking -- a visual storytelling. If you blog this, please send the link in comments, so we can all appreciate your handiwork... and storytelling.

 In the meantime... or until then....  this past weekend, I worked at the Decatur Book Festival, on a panel with Shelia Moses, presenting Countdown (that's our fabulous moderator, Vicky Alvear Shechter, in the foreground, and yeah, I'm just snappin' photos while Shelia talks):

We had such a nice crowd. If you look hard, you can pick out my Jim, Nancy Werlin, Elizabeth Dulemba, Nancy's husband, Jim, and in the row in front of them, good friends Frank and Mary Hamilton.

It's old home week at the DBF, since I live in Atlanta, and it's such a pleasure to work at a festival that doesn't require an airplane ride!

 I got to finally meet Alora Rose Plemmons! Her dad, Andy, is the media specialist at Barrow Elementary School in Athens, Georgia, and we have stayed in touch ever since I visited Barrow a couple of years ago, and now -- Alora is in the world! Talk about life all around me... here it is, beginning again.

6 Comments on the life all around me, last added: 9/12/2010

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Andy Plemmons said, on 9/9/2010 8:35:00 AM

What a wonderful post! I can't wait to share this with family. Have a wonderful time at the beach. I look forward to seeing the pictures and words. As always, we so enjoyed our time seeing you and hearing about your writing. Bravo!

Deborah Wiles said, on 9/9/2010 8:48:00 AM

Hey, Andy! Congratulations on Barrow and your library program winning the Exemplary Library Program Award for the State of Georgia in 2010! I couldn't resist adding it to this post. I'm so impressed, and so proud. What a talented dad Alora has. :> xo

Andy Plemmons said, on 9/9/2010 8:54:00 AM

Thanks for the shout-out for our media center at Barrow :-) I absolutely love what I do. Sharing stories with kids, exploring information, creating new information through projects.... There's never a dull moment. Thank you.

Anonymous said, on 9/9/2010 3:59:00 PM

Have a great time in Mt. Pleasant. Kiella's from all over the USA stay on the Isle of Palms every other year. This year all the folks who don't attend school are planning a Thanksgiving trip. Since that's about the first time I'll sit down between now and then we elected to fall in a pile at home.

Deborah Wiles said, on 9/9/2010 6:43:00 PM

Wowee, Barb. Wish we might sometime be in the Charleston area at the same time! We'll have some fun for you! xo

Weleski said, on 9/12/2010 8:15:00 PM

What an amazing Love, Ruby Lavender poster! I'd be gearing up for the luau right now if I were you.

Hope you are having an amazing time in Charleston. Jillian and I thoroughly enjoyed most of our vacation there (a few moments were rough but make stories we can chuckle at now).

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22. Exodus V: I’ll Never Be as Good as Matt Dobie

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By: Sara Dobie, on 2/18/2010
Blog: Sara Dobie's Blog (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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My little brother plays Neil Young the way Neil Young wishes he could play Neil Young, and I taught him everything he knows. Ha. Kidding. I attempted to become a guitar player when I was in junior high. I lasted a couple months. Then, Matt picked up my discarded acoustic guitar, and well, at the age of 23, he’s been playing for about fifteen years. On and off, we play together. He rocks out on guitar; I do some wailing on vocals. It’s a semi-Partridge Family situation, without the bar haircuts and bell-bottoms.

The Exodus Series is about me leaving Charleston and moving to Phoenix. So what does my brother have to do with any of this, you ask? Matt moved to Charleston back in October. He did not specifically move here to be near me; he moved here because he likes Charleston and he likes my friends. (Luckily, Matt also likes Jake, but that’s a whole other story…) Anyway, he moved here, and it was a great comfort to me, because Matt and I have always been close—more like best buds than siblings. He moved here. He met my friends. He became accustomed to my haunts (Griffon Pub on Vendue, in particular), and then, he became accustomed to the music scene.

And he decided to walk in and take over the entire operation.

Little Dobes. Guitar god.

At present, he runs an open mic night in West Ashley, SC, but it’s more like a Matt Dobie showcase. It’s not like most open mics, where a bunch of talentless yahoos play acoustic covers of Coldplay. No, Matt’s open mic is comprised of a full band—drums, guitar (electric and acoustic), bass, vocals—and anyone can do it. For instance, the first time I went to see him, I ended up singing. That was also the night when an old man walked up to my brother, pointed at him, and said, “I want to play music with YOU, kid.” And they did. Johnny Cash. Neil Young. Blues. Jazz. All the good stuff. And I was reminded that my little brother is truly a fantastic musician.

I’m not the only one who acknowledges this. Other musicians who’ve seen him play often end up saying he’s a “guitar god.” Guys twice his age shake their heads and wonder how a kid so young could be so dang talented. Even I do embarrassing dance moves and toe taps every time he goes into a screaming guitar solo. It’s impossible not to. And I—a vocalist who is intimidated by nothing—often fear being outshined by my younger sibling. This, of course, is an elder sister’s nightmare. That being said, I know there is no hope for me on stage. Matt will always be better than me. He will always be better than a lot of people.

Last week, he covered Tom Waits’ “Train Song.” The lyrics:

I remember when I left
Without bothering to pack
You know I up and left with
Just the clothes I had on my back
Now I’m sorry for what I’ve done
And I’m out here on my own
Well it was a train that took me away from
Here but a train can’t bring me home

I can’t listen to the song anymore, because it makes me cry. First off, I cry because my brother is better than Waits, yet Waits’ version is the only recording I have. Secondly, I cry because perhaps the worst thing about leaving Charleston is leaving my brother. Like trains passing in the night, we keep missing each other. As soon as I graduated from Ohio University, Matt began his freshman year. Now, as soon as we found a city to share, I’m leaving it.

I know Matt and me will play music together many, many more times in the coming years. For now, I just gotta tell him: Sorry I gotta head west, kiddo. Keep playing that Neil Young, and next time we’re together, we’ll rock some “Helpless” by

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23. Exodus, Part II: A Charleston Top Ten List

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By: Sara Dobie, on 1/31/2010
Blog: Sara Dobie's Blog (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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Jake's lilies

Jake hit the road two hours ago. This morning, we packed his car full of stuff. He surprised me with tiger lilies, artfully arranged in an empty Macallan 12 bottle from his birthday. We shared a five minute hug. I cried melted, black mascara on his sweatshirt, and after a couple “I love you’s,” I shoved him out my front door for fear of a total meltdown.

This isn’t the end of the world. He’s just heading to Phoenix to get ready for his new job, to find us a house, and to settle in, before flying back to Charleston in three weeks to pick me up and do the drive west once more. It just felt like the end of the world, because we’ve never been apart for three weeks. It also felt strange, walking around his house this morning, one last time. His house—the place where we built a relationship. Where we spent so many nights making dinner together. So many mornings watching ESPN. So many moments laughing and looking toward a future.

Jake’s house in Charleston is just a place. Charleston, South Carolina, is just a place. However, it’s strange leaving the places we know. Leaving a place is like leaving a person—you have to touch the doorknobs, look out the windows, and hug the garage door, because it will be a long time (or perhaps, forever) before you see that place again. In the spirit of saying farewell to Jake’s house, I now have approximately three weeks to say farewell to Charleston. In homage, I have made the following list: Top Ten Things to do Before I Leave Chucktown.

The most beautiful house on the Charleston Battery

1. DONE: Walk the Battery. I walked the Charleston Battery within four hours of moving here a year and a half ago, and it had a lot to do with my immediate infatuation with the place. Jake requested to do the same once more before heading west. We did it the other day, which is where the pretty pics in this entry come from.

2. DONE: Pralines at River Street Sweets on the Market. Walking down Market Street, you can smell praline. They make ‘em fresh, right in front of you, at River Street Sweets, and they give you samples—warm, sweet, succulent, DECADENT. I dare you to have more than one.

Pralines at River Street Sweets

3. Oyster shooters at Pearlz, East Bay. I feared oysters until I moved to Charleston. Now, I’m obsessed. The oyster shooters at Pearlz are made with Absolut Peppar, cocktail sauce, fresh ground pepper, and a raw oyster. I will have as many of these as my body is able within the next three weeks.

4. She Crab Soup at Mistral, Market Street. She Crab Soup is a Lowcountry thing, just like New England Clam Chowder is an east coast thing. It’s rich, it’s heavy, it’s terrible for you, and it’s a must-have. Mistral is not only a charming restaurant—it has the best She Crab Soup in town.

5. Burger at Poe’s Tavern, Sullivan’s Island. Poe’s will put anything on a burger, from guacamole, to chili, to egg, to goat cheese. Go g

1 Comments on Exodus, Part II: A Charleston Top Ten List, last added: 2/2/2010

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Caroline in the City said, on 2/2/2010 7:09:00 PM

Sounds like a great list! I have a similar list.

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24. Dead Spiders

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By: Sara Dobie, on 12/12/2009
Blog: Sara Dobie's Blog (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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For a long time, I had a pet Banana Spider outside my office window. I watched her build a web. I watched her seduce and eat dude spiders. Her ass grew, as did my work TO DO list. She would watch me type, and I would watch her, watching me, through those eight million eyes. Then, one day, I thought she was dead. I felt terror and dismay at this realization, because Ms. Banana Spider had become a friend—a compatriot and an entertaining distraction at work. That day, though, she wasn’t dead. She was just resting.

Ms. Banana Spider is not resting anymore. Ms. Banana Spider is dead. I watched it happen. It was about a month ago, on one of those uncharacteristically cold Charleston afternoons. Again, I looked up, and I thought she was just taking a nap. Then, the wind blew. Ms. Banana Spider fell out of her web and into the bushes below my office window. I stood up and stared outside. After the initial shock had melted into mourning, I sat down in my chair and realized it was over. My little friend was dead, and for the rest of that day, I typed slower, walked with hunched shoulders, and frowned down at my TO DO list.

The feeling grew. The dead spider bothered me. I’m not superstitious. I don’t believe in “signs.” But maybe part of me had gone with Ms. Banana Spider. Maybe, as I watched her web fill with pieces of fallen leaves, I felt myself toppling—cold and lonely—into the bushes outside my office, too.

Yesterday was my last day at my full time job. I resigned two weeks ago, and now, I sit here, typing on my computer at home with no Banana Spider outside my window. And it’s okay. It’s winter, and the spiders are hibernating somewhere warm. The seasons are changing. Everything changes. I was at my full time job for a year and a half. I learned how to be a publicist. I learned how the publishing world works. I made great friends, and I will never EVER regret moving here, to Charleston, SC, for said job. I have been, and I am still, blessed. But it was time for a change. It was time to shake off the dead spiders and have a new adventure.

One of my favorite quotes: “Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting ‘Holy shit…what a ride!’” And so the ride continues. A wide open unknown awaits. I am lucky to have the support of so many friends and family. I am lucky to have the opportunity to immerse myself in freelancing. Finally, I’m lucky to have made the acquaintance of a certain Ms. Banana Spider, who reminded me that sometimes, you just gotta move on to move up.

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Tif said, on 12/12/2009 2:13:00 PM

I am excited to see and hear about the new changes and adventures coming in the new year! I’ve been meaning to reply to your email for the longest time and still intend to! In the meantime, know that I am sending you the best of luck!!

Anne M Leone said, on 12/13/2009 1:41:00 AM

A strangely beautiful post. I can just imagine myself freaking out about the poor Ms. Banana Spider.

I left my job in August. I’m sure our circumstances are different, but it has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made in my life. I hope your life changes are as fantastically wonderful and affirming. Best wishes.

nan marino said, on 12/13/2009 9:23:00 AM

Wow! I admire your adventurous spirit. Somewhere in that big web up in the sky, I am confident that Ms. Banana Spider is watching you and she is mighty proud.

Jennifer said, on 12/13/2009 11:43:00 AM

Onward!! Excited for you Sara.

Donna Earnhardt said, on 12/13/2009 12:07:00 PM

I hope things go more than good for you…I hope they are great! May you find a new banana spider soon.

hugs,
Donna

Brook said, on 12/13/2009 4:15:00 PM

fresh new changes are full of anxiety and excitment The ” walk by faith and not by sight ” kind of faith. Im so proud of you Sara. Best of wishes to ya.

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25. Slow, No Wake in Charleston, SC

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By: Sara Dobie, on 12/3/2009
Blog: Sara Dobie's Blog (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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That night, it smelled like dead fish, salt, and sewage. Which is why I was hesitant to step from the stoop on Vendue Street, into water that should have been in the harbor. The water was not in the harbor. Instead, waves broke against the Griffon Pub as they would have against slate-gray rocks in New England. I would have drowned if I’d tried to get my car and go home (not to mention unknown damage to my vehicle), so that night, I stayed at the pub and had another pint, because shoot, downtown Charleston had been transformed into a preview of a flooded apocalypse, and we were all trapped together.

On Twitter yesterday morning: “Downtown Charleston, one of the few places in the US where ‘Slow, No Wake’ signs are needed on streets.” Laugh all you want, but Charleston, South Carolina may just be the next sinking city. I know it’s on a peninsula. I’m not afraid of it dropping into the sea like San Francisco. My concern is that one day, salty, stinky seawater will rise and never ebb. Standing on stoops and antique, wrought iron balconies, we will wait for low tide, and low tide will never come. As a city, we will embrace the water taxi and gondola. We will perpetually don raincoats and goulashes, not because we live in Seattle, but because we live in the sea.

When humidity hits 100 percent in July, there will be no need for rooftop swimming pools. We will be able to swim laps in the streets. Our clothing will never dry, and tube tops and platforms will be replaced by teeny bikinis and bare feet in bars. Status symbols will be replaced. No more “What kind of car do you drive?” More likely: “Do you live above the water line?” All of this because one day, the full moon brought the flood, and instead of God wiping out Charleston’s population, he will embrace us as His Lowcountry water babies.

This is what makes our city separate and more divine than other cities. They call us the Holy City because of our churches—because we build no higher than the steeple. I know there is more. I know it’s because every time it rains at high tide, God sends His flood to clean the streets and old beer from shoe bottoms. Then, every time, He parts our southern Dead Sea. The tides ebb, and life returns to normal on dry land. This is what makes us special. This is what makes us Charleston. Because as the surreal waters pound on our parked cars, stranding us for yet another pint, we have faith that the storm will pass. The streets will drain, and every one of us will find our ways home and happy to be here.

3 Comments on Slow, No Wake in Charleston, SC, last added: 12/4/2009

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freddy mercury said, on 12/3/2009 6:46:00 AM

that was nothing. wait till we get some real rain. like a tropical storm or a hurricane. you will be swimming laps in the street. and all i got to say is welcome to charleston my dear.

Caroline in the City said, on 12/3/2009 10:35:00 AM

It was out of control. I had a paper due, so I went to the third floor of the library. I can’t decide if that was the best or worst decision. If it was a tornado, I would have been SOL, but safe for a flood.

saradobie said, on 12/4/2009 5:50:00 AM

HA. It’s either flood or tornado. You choose. Being from Ohio, I’m accustomed to the tornadoes. This flooding madness is just alien. Happy we all survived

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