Guest Author, D. Wallace Peach – Big Hearts and Artists

Let me introduce a wonderful writer and friend. D. Wallace Peach is an author well worth discovering, if you haven’t already. Her encouragement has been tremendous, and her writing is as smooth as a glass of fine wine. And she’s one heck of a story teller.

Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

I am very happy to welcome D. Wallace Peach, author of Myths of the MirrorThe Bone Wall and many other books,  as my guest today. Diana is a creator and shaper of worlds… a writer of fantasy. Her latest book, The Sorcerors’ Garden, explores the links and shifting boundaries between the levels of reality and how the stories unfolding in less tangible realms intertwine. Today, however, she writes from of  a more personal perspective…

Big Hearts and Artists

book photoI’ve heard through the rumor-mill that somewhere in the wide world there are writers who attempt to sabotage the work of others with snarky reviews, solely for the purpose of laying low the “competition.” If they exist, I imagine them sitting in dark caves, ruminating over their coveted creations like Gollum over his precious gold ring, too myopic to envision a world with thousands of well-told stories brimming with…

View original post 746 more words


Every morsel of ourselves pained with appetite,

for substance, for love, for a stillness of the raging voice

that preoccupies us.

We are dust motes starved for affection,

unquiet hearts craving peace.



chicks and flowers

Taking notes, writing in my head. The long work week is finally done, and I’m taking a breath. Stood outside for a while with the camera, amazed by the quality of light. A rare moment of rest. Autumn is holding her breath, waiting for
 her turn on the dance floor.

I love photographing the light, but I write the dark. It’s an odd dichotomy.

November: A very tall summer?

This morning I came up with a challenge for myself. Or a wishful thought. I’m going to finish a novel by November 1st. This year. A little more than two months from now. I’ve been working on two separate books for the past few months, but steadily on one in particular: the tale of the widow Charlotte and her slow descent into madness (cue the organ music, Vincent Price at the keyboard.) The working title is A Very Tall Summer.  Those who follow my blog with any regularity have seen the progression in several scattered posts. Early this morning, it all came together in my head. And it’s creepy as hell. Continue reading “November: A very tall summer?”

The visitor

Susan Humphrey, from over in Cross Junction, near 60 miles west, came by. She brought a basket of dried goods and a bottle of Old Gent’s rye whiskey. We had known each other since grade school. We were girls who giggled over movie magazines and cried when we lost our folks, and all those heady times in between. We were as close as sisters, but it had probably been ten years since we last stood on the same patch of ground. Time has a way of scratching the numbers off a calendar without you noticing.

That’s not quite right. Continue reading “The visitor”

No rain

It rained in my dreams but nowhere else. Miles and acres of no rain. The moon sculpted a cruel smile.

I dreamed I was walking on wet glass, a slick surface, reflecting a shallow coffin sky. In the morning, there were powdered bones tumbling in the dirt.


This shriveled driveway. How many times have I walked it to get the mail, or stood before it, waiting for Jeremiah to come back from a day’s planting or plowing? Low scrub at the sides, where the chickens liked to roost to get out of the sun. Sometimes I’d find eggs half-buried in the dirt, and then scold them for it. The heat has killed most of them. They are the only meat I have left, and they are scrawny and badly used up.

I am waiting for someone, or something. A piece of mail with a check inside, or a letter from home saying, “All is well, but did you hear about old man Sutter?” Information, gossip, kind words, friendly words. And I am always hoping for a postscript: “You can come home, if you want. We have a spare room, and we miss you.” Would I have tricked Jeremiah into taking me for a visit, or would I have sneaked out in the middle of the night, taken the truck, and kept driving until I ran out of gas? Continue reading “Bravery”

The vegetable garden

I took a hoe and a spade to the small vegetable garden behind the house. The tomatoes and radishes weren’t doing well. The carrots were smaller than my thumb. The surrounding corn whispered their rot. There wasn’t much food in the house, other than what the neighbors brought after the funeral: dried up pieces of beef, casseroles, pies. The cupboards were almost empty and there were only a few dollars left in the biscuit tin under the sink. Continue reading “The vegetable garden”

%d bloggers like this: