Author: Carol Ann Ross

Around 7:15 this morning, still a tad cool outside. Absolutely lovely. Finishing up the latest in the Topsail mystery series. Some people are just plain bad–ooh. This one is a scorcher. Will try to have the cover photo out in a couple of weeks.

Already starting a new book–different genre. I’ll let my readers know more as it progresses. Thank you readers.

Quote: The word belief is a difficult thing for me. I don’t believe. I must have a reason for a certain hypothesis. Either I know a thing, and then I know it. I don’t need to believe it–Carl Jung.

writing tip: It is very important to trust yourself when you write. As in all things in life, you should trust your gut feelings and that means you should be in touch with yourself. If you’re not sure you’re in touch with yourself, then you aren’t.

T’was a beautiful morning. Always so grateful that God has given me senses to feel, hear, smell, see, taste what is before me.

quote: it is not my senses that I have, but what I do with them that is my kingdom–BenStephan

writing tip: the above is so true. As a writer I count on my senses and the exploration of them to compel me to write. I wallow in them, sometimes to my own detriment. But as the intensity of what I behold grows, I am so grateful that I can move to those depths–makes me wonder what the skiffs are doing.
Don’t be afraid to look within yourself and find the honesty, without it you cannot write–okay, maybe a cookbook.

Lots of people have asked about the big chimney standing just north of HWY 55 (restaurant) and across from the flower shop in Surf City. Well, that chimney was part of an enormous World War II warehouse. (in the background of this photo)
It housed military vehicles that the kids of Surf City used to play on. Finally someone had them removed (drat, they were fun) and the building was cleaned up. Basketball hoops were installed and the warehouse became a make-shift community center for we kids.
That’s Diane Batts in the foreground. She lived directly across from the building.

In front of the warehouse is a little laundry run by a woman named Inez Frye. Later, Inez opened an ice-cream parlor where one could order soft serve ice-cream. Now, that was a big deal.

QUOTE: No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each others worth.-Robert Southey

WRITING TIP;  Leave ego at the door when you write. Be kind, love yourself. The world where you go to write must be a place of honesty and self awareness.

LONG, LONG AGO IN A PLACE FAR, FAR AWAY
THERE LIVED A BUNCH -A SMALL BUNCH- OF
PEOPLE ON A BIG OLD SANDBAR CALLED TOPSAIL ISLAND. BACK THEN THERE WERE LOTS OF SAND DUNES (SEE THEM IN THE BACKGROUND COVERED WITH BEACH GRASS) AND OLD MILITARY BUILDINGS (SEE THEM IN THE BACKGROUND TOO)
THERE WAS LOTS OF COOL STUFF TO DO THERE LIKE PLAY IN THE SAND DUNES, DIG HOLES IN THE SAND DUNES, SWIM IN THE OCEAN, FISH (YOU DIDN’T NEED A FISHING LICENSE THEN) HANG OUT IN THE MARSHES AND CLIMB TREES AND PRETEND YOU WERE PIRATES.  MAN IT WAS A REALLY COOL PLACE. THEN OF COURSE YOU HAD TO GO TO SCHOOL. MY BROTHER AND SISTER LOOK LIKE THEY ARE GETTING READY TO CATCH THE BUS. THAT’S PUNCH (THE DOG) GUESS I PLAYED WITH HIM ALL DAY.

SURE WAS DIFFERENT THEN-WAS COOL, IT’S STILL COOL. THE FOLKS ARE THE BIG THING. THEY’RE THE BEST. THANK YOU JESUS!

This is what the north end  of the island looked like in 1962. Pretty doggone desolate–pretty pristine. The favorite pastime for many of the ladies of the island (especially in the winter months) was to drive from one end of the island to  the other at around ten miles per hour and just look. This is what there was to look at. Personally I think it looks a hell of a lot better than a bunch of big houses that block the view of the ocean.
I often wonder if those ladies were lonely when they took those long drives or if they simply enjoyed being alone and looking at the peaceful quiet of Topsail.

writing tip: write every day and if you can’t do that, think about writing every day.

quote: The worst feeling isn’t being lonely but being forgotten by someone you can’t forget.

Went clamming today. The water was 63 degrees, not bad for February. WHAT FUN! and what a great way to spend the day. Dinner? clams, conch, sea fan and shrimp. Life is good!

Never had sea fan before-tastes like scallops.
Writing tip: write what you know-so when I’m writing about clamming, using a rake, I know how to describe it. (good excuse to go clamming-huh?).

AND– I know I love spending the day shell fishing-also I know what it’s like to get your feet stuck in the muck, fall down and get drenched. Thank God it was a warm day!

It’s that time of year again when my favorite flower abounds. These I found dressing up the weeds around them–symbols of new life, of hope and damn if they ain’t pretty. The jocund perennials always make me feel optimistic, Heck, they should be the national flower–we need some optimism now.
Once again, as I do every year around this time, I pay homage to the yellow flower that epitomizes the journey with words from the poet William Wordsworth.

   I wandered lonely as a cloud  
  That floats on high o’er vales and hills
  When all at once I saw a crowd
   A host of golden daffodils.

Anticipatorily expectant of what lies around the corner, some souls hedge and dread what is yet to come. On the other hand, those daggone daffodils remind me that I can choose the weeds or the flowers. I like the daffodils.

    For oft when on my couch I lie
    In vacant or in pensive mood
    They flash upon that inward eye
    Which is the bliss of solitude
    And then my heart with pleasure fills
    And dances with the daffodils     (Thank you Mr. Wordsworth)

The difference between haters and lovers–daffodil appreciation?

SIMPLY beautiful. Nothing beats simplicity. 
Ran across a wonderful quote about that subject-simplicity. 
All the knowledge in the world has not brought us any further than where we can go without it even in the outermost halls of grace. The greatest substance of the world is immaterial, the province of the heart, and its study cannot be forced or reasoned-Mark Helprin

Excerpt from THE TOWER:

     “Protection—she wants protection—I’m the one who needs protection. She’s the one killing people, not me.” Don’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he pulled from the vacant driveway.
     A mottled gray and silver sky barely lit the morning; he switched on his dims and pressed his foot hard on the accelerator, steering the Dodge toward North Topsail. “What in the hell am I supposed to do?”
     He turned right, before the police station, and headed to the end of the island; it was a long drive of mostly vacant rental houses. He slowed and passed them, consciously endeavoring to slow his heart rate. He breathed in; exhaled—but he couldn’t rid himself of the self-loathing for having spent the entire night with Estelle.
     Pulling into the island parking lot or what was left of it from the last storm, he swung his legs out of the car and walked toward New River Inlet. Already a few fishermen were poised with their rod holders and chairs, casting lines out into the waters. “Hell, it’s not even seven o’clock.” He mumbled.
     As he walked Don could feel the damp salt air, laced with coolness, against his arms; he glanced toward the ocean and horizon, the misty morning limiting his view and hiding the colors usually so prominent and vibrant; it felt fitting to be surrounded by grays and muted colors. Even the breakers curling and releasing their spray seemed drab.
     How long he walked, he wasn’t sure, but the sun was nearly straight overhead, the mist and fog having burned off, by the time he circled back and made his way toward the Charger. 
     He couldn’t even recall all he’d thought about; but it had left an uneasiness coupled with the gnawing empty feeling in his stomach; he stopped at Sea View fishing pier, ordered a burger and fries and headed to his own house in Surf City.
     Slouched on the sofa, he flipped through  channels; old movies, news shows, reruns of 70s sitcoms, talk shows—“would the audience like to know if it’s Henry’s baby?” the emcee thrust the mike toward the crowd. A roaring ‘yeah’ filled the room; a broad smile played on the emcee’s face.
    “Garbage,” Don pressed the off tab and threw the remote against the wall.
     She was on his mind, Estelle. Images of their raw sex taunted him, leaving him with the same sick feelings he’d been wrestling with for the last few years. Their images, Sarah’s, Reggie’s, Milton’s—even his own son’s, lodged in his head and would not leave. “Fuck it.” He slammed his fist into the wall.
     His cell phone buzzed; he checked out the lighted display—Carrie. He let it buzz and watched the message icon light up. He wasn’t about to talk with her now, not after being with Estelle. His fist slammed the table.
     He showered, drove to the IGA and bought a twelve pack of Bud and a pack of Pall Mall then sat on his porch and smoked nearly half a pack before crumpling the remainder and tossing it into the trash. He felt his stomach rumble; he ignored it and watched the reddening sky turn to indigo and them starlit black.

     
THE TOWER should be available by spring. 

What a beautiful morning.
writing tip–pay attention to how you react to things and use those things in your own writing.
quote: It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer-E.B. White