I'm Graduating from Feminist to Nasty Woman by Sandy Semerad

“Are you a nasty woman, Mama?” daughter Andrea asked me recently.

Her question took me off guard. Then I remembered the third Presidential debate and knew exactly what she meant.

Following that debate, the “nasty” comment became a “feminist battle cry,” on social media. T-Shirts with “Nasty woman” printed on them are now in demand, as are hats emblazoned with, “Make America Nasty Again.”

Streams of Janet Jackson’s song “Nasty” skyrocketed after the debate, according to Spotify. In the song, Janet calls men, who display bad behavior toward women, “nasty boys.”

No question the “nasty” comment has struck a powerful cord. I’ve never seen so many women open up and describe in detail how they’ve been discriminated against and treated differently than their male counterparts. Women are sharing their stories as never before. They’re talking about how they’d been grabbed and abused. How they were told to be nice, not bossy and to smile, not frown. They’ve shared their stories about being sexually harassed, and how they were shamed, demoted or fired when they reported the harassment.

All of these conversations have sparked my own painful memories, and I’m thinking it’s time to share two of those memories with you.

          

        At 19, I was sexually assaulted in New York City, where I was living at the time.  My attacker was a successful businessman and owner of the business where I’d worked. Ashamed and traumatized, I left NYC without reporting the assault.

Fast forward many years, I’m walking to the Marta train in Atlanta. It’s the end of the day, and I’m heading home from Georgia State. It’s raining. I’m in a great mood, happy I remembered to bring an umbrella.

A strange man steps under my umbrella and says, “Are you from out of this world?”

I’m caught off guard, but I sense he’s a psycho, his eyes wild, glassy. “Get lost,” I tell him.

He grabs my boobs, squeezes them brutally. I yell out in pain and horror and swing my open umbrella to defend myself.

He runs inside the nearest building and disappears.

I’m shaken, but I continue on to the Marta Station, hop on the train and go home. Once I feel safe, I call the campus police to report this psycho and try to stop him from hurting anyone else.

I describe to the officer what happened, but before I can give him a description of the man, the officer asks, “What were you wearing?”

Stunned, I don’t how to respond at first. “Dressed casually, like any college student.”

I should have demanded to speak to his supervisor or to a female officer who would empathize. But I didn’t, I played nice, when I should have been assertive and nasty.

It’s interesting how that word “nasty” has changed through urban interpretations, but it appears more complimentary when referring to men. Men can be nasty cool, skillful, as in “He plays a nasty guitar.”

While with women, the urban definition usually refers to sex: “freak-nasty, blatant, unhindered sexuality, and has an undertone of kinkiness.” Unlike the traditional definitions, which are: “smelly, bad, filthy, repulsive, malignant, ugly, spiteful, disgusting, incredibly mean and stinky, very loud, obnoxious.”

But getting back to the question Andrea asked. In answering her, I said, “Yes,” although I prefer the “cool, skillful” definition of the word, and hereafter I’ve decided to graduate from feminist to nasty woman.

For Halloween, I’m leaning toward dressing up as the good witch in The Wizard of Oz, with a hat that reads, “Good Witch, aka Nasty Woman.” What do you think?

As an afterthought, Andrea sent me this recipe for The Nasty Woman drink, a Quartz cocktail, created by Jenni Avins:

          

        Three parts silver tequila (made by the “bad hombres” of Mexico)

Two parts cherry juice (Avins likes the one from Trader Joe’s)

          

         One part lime juice

          

         Pour over ice and top it with sparkling wine or sparkling limeade.

          

        This drink should get a wedge of lime, but Avins says she too nasty to fuss over a twist.

          

        Whatever you prefer to drink, be sure to enjoy it like a nasty woman should.

          To read more, please visit my website:

http://www.sandysemerad.com/

          

         Also would love for you to purchase my latest novel, A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES. This story is loosely based on a murder trial I covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta, and it’s also a love story.

         

                              Buy Link: A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES

Why is the word "Feminism" demonized? By Sandy Semerad

          As a writer I know the power of words, and I’m constantly searching for the right words to make my stories live.

But recently I discovered the word “feminism” has been misunderstood. I had no idea until daughter Andrea received a rude response after she admitted she was a feminist. Made me wonder, why has this word been demonized?

Dictionary.com defines feminism as “advocating social, political, legal and economic rights for women equal to those of men.” Merriam-Webster has a similar definition.

          The term feminism originated in 19 century France, I learned. A second-wave began in the United States during the early 1960s with Betty Friedan’s book The Feminine Mystique.

Friedan wrote this book after talking with friends, who had given up their careers to become housewives. These women felt unfulfilled in their domestic roles, Friedan claimed. She blamed women’s magazines, run by men, for encouraging women to become mothers and housewives, rather than career women. A different scenario existed in the 1930s, when women’s magazines featured confident and independent women with careers, according to Friedan.

More recently Harvard MBA and radio host Samantha Ettus wrote The Pie Life to inspire working mothers and help them let go of the guilt. All women should keep their feet in the workplace, according to Ettus.

          

          Regardless of what Ettus and others have written to encourage women, I found a plethora of negative on-line comments, misconstruing the meaning of the word feminism. Many were under the impression that feminists were men haters, and these same folks left vile comments.

I had to stop reading these negative remarks or they would have poisoned me. Words can poison as Japanese scientist Dr. Masaru Emoto has proven in his experiments. Our bodies contain mostly water, and with that premise, Emoto filled several bottles with distilled water. Then he taped words to the bottles. When he read the words aloud, the molecules in the bottles reacted.

Emoto photographed these molecules and discovered that positive words like “love” created beautiful formations. Negative words like “I hate you” produced ugly, violent images. Emoto has written about his experiments in his book The Hidden Messages in Water.

Other researchers have confirmed Emoto’s research. Words have the power to change our lives, they say. 

For example, in a Psychology Today article, authors Newburn and Waldman used several examples to prove this theory. They mentioned an experiment by psychologists at Missouri State University who designed an exercise for patients in pain. They asked the patients to identify their deepest values and meditate on them. When the patients did as instructed, they were able to reduce their pain and distress. 

Everyone can do this exercise, the article said, and we can involve our family and friends by asking: “What is your deepest personal value?”

Before we can adequately answer this question, however, we must relax completely, close our eyes for 60 seconds and listen for the word or words that express our sincerest values, according to the Psychology Today article.

Words like “peace” and “love” reduce physical and emotional stress, they discovered.

          I tried this exercise several times. Each time I came up with different words: Love, creativity, family, peace, health/fitness, faith, determination, bliss/happiness, achievement, patience, respect, compassion, growth, optimism, education, sincerity, abundance, inspiration, excellence, strength, trust, justice/equality.

          But getting back to the word feminism, Andrea wanted to know if I considered myself a feminist. I told her I didn’t like labels, but given the meaning, I had to say, “Yes.” I believe in equal rights for everyone, and regret this word has been demonized.

When I asked daughter Rene, “Are you a feminist?” she didn’t hesitate. “Yes, women should have the same social, economic and political rights as men,” she said.

It pleases me to know my daughters understand the true meaning of this word and identify with it, but others don’t apparently and need a clarification, which is why I like what actress Martha Plimpton has said:

“I take a lot of pride in calling myself a feminist, always have,” Plimpton wrote in an e-mail. “We’re going to have to insist on correcting bigotry as it happens in real time. And fear of women’s equality, or the diminishment of it, is a kind of bigotry. I think it’s important to remove the stigma associated with women’s equality, and as such, yes, normalizing the word ‘feminist’ and making sure people know what it means is incredibly important…”

My latest book, A Message in the Roses, is loosely based on a murder trial I covered in Atlanta. You may get a copy here:

                           A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES

To Read more about my work and life, please visit my website:

  sandysemerad.com/

Old Story Made New with Legendary DJ by Sandy Semerad

     “Mama, you’ve already told me that story,” my daughters often say.  Worse, they like to summarize my stories to prove they’ve heard them before.

      But recently, to my surprise, daughter Andrea didn’t recall one of my stories and she’d been a participant in it. I discovered this block in her memory as we were trying to think of the name of a great pizza place we used to frequent in Atlanta. Andrea still lives in Atlanta, and I thought she’d recall the name and location.

     “We went there the night we met Skinny Bobby Harper,” I said.

     “Who?”

     “Don’t you remember him? He wore thick glasses, had black hair” I said. “We were standing in line at the pizza place. He commented on your outfit. It had been Western Day at Roland Elementary School. So I’d braided your hair in pigtails and you’d worn an ankle-length dress that day.

     “I don’t remember,” she said. “How old was I? Seven?”

     “I’m surprised you don’t remember. We talked about it afterwards.”

     Unable to pique her memory of that evening, I rehashed it:

     “What is she supposed to be?” he asked.

     “That’s what she considers Western,” I answered and explained about Western Day.

     “Yes, she absolutely right, she looks like Laura Ingells, Little House on the Prairie.”

     After my long day, my mind stalled. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

     He flashed a smile. “Your ex-husband, an old boyfriend, perhaps?”

     I laughed, “No.”

     He refused to give me a clue, but as I stared, trying to place him, I thought of a recent article I’d read. Could this man be the inspiration for the character Johnny Fever on WKRP in Cincinnati, as the article had said? The photo looked like him. “Are you Skinny Bobby Harper?”

     He offered his hand. “How do you do?”

     I told him I’d read the article about him.

     He said Hugh Wilson, a friend of his, had written and produced the popular sitcom WKRP. Wilson had been the ad guy at WQXI in Atlanta where Harper used to DJ. Wilson wrote for the Mary Tyler Moore Show, before he created WKRP, Harper said.

     Harper had ventured into television more than ten years prior, as one of TV’s ground-breaking video DJs on what was known as the Now Explosion. That show was telecast in Atlanta on Ted Turner’s channel 17 and was nationally syndicated.

     I’d read about Harper’s colorful language. (He sometimes swore on the air). He’d been fired from a number of radio stations, although others stations clamored to hire him regardless, due to his immense popularity and talent.

     In talking to him, I found him sweet and respectful, and after we got our pizzas, we sat at adjoining tables, Andrea and I at one table, he and his daughter at another.

     The next morning I was driving Andrea to school when she said, “Mama, why don’t we listen to the man we met last night at the pizza place?”

     I scrolled the radio channels until I found him, although I wasn’t prepared for what I heard him say: “Do you know what day it is today? It’s be kind to Sandy Ryles day.” (My last name was Ryles at that time.) He repeated the “Be kind to Sandy Ryles day,” a number of times and said, “If you see Sandy Ryles, be kind to her. It’s her day.”

     I smiled until I thought my face would break, as I drove Andrea to school; then drove myself to the Marta station to catch the train to Georgia State University. Back then I was working on a Bachelor’s degree in Journalism.

      I wanted to call and thank him, but I didn’t have a cell phone. No one had cell phones then.

     But from that morning on, I always listened to him. He made my days happier and brighter. He’s been called a comic genius, and he was.

     He created a character called “Lavern” from the “Never Say Goodbye” nursing home. Lavern was also a member of the “Toe-to-Toe-With-Satan Church of the Constant Struggle.”

     There were many other skits he performed over the radio, and as I listened, I pictured Lavern and all the characters he created. He also reported on how many moo cows were seen in Atlanta.

      Sandwiched in between his skits, he played lovely tunes, like Smokey Robinson’s The Tears of a Clown, and so many of my favorites, too many to name.

     In talking to Andrea and reliving all of this, I realized I’d lost track of Skinny Bobby Harper after I moved to Florida in 1990. A google search brought sad news. He died of lung cancer in 2003. He was only 64.

     But I feel blessed to have met and listened to him, and I’m sure I’ll repeat this story about the Hall of Fame, legendary DJ. How he made me feel like a queen for a day and brightened my mornings. If only I’d called to thank him for bringing me such joy.

     I’m trying to make amends by spreading some of the joy he gave to me, and the next time I tell this story to Andrea and Rene, they’d better not say they’ve heard it before. If they do, I’ll come back with, “I’m your mother. If I want to repeat old stories to make them new again, I should have that privilege.”

 

To read more, please visit my web site: 

                               sandysemerad.com 

Below you’ll find the link to my latest novel, A Message in the Roses, based on a murder trial I covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta. Warning: contains steaming romance.

Buy A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES

Old Story Made New with Legendary DJ

     “Mama, you’ve already told me that story,” my daughters often say.  Worse, they like to summarize my stories to prove they’ve heard them before.

      But recently, to my surprise, daughter Andrea didn’t recall one of my stories and she’d been a participant in it. I discovered this block in her memory as we were trying to think of the name of a great pizza place we used to frequent in Atlanta. Andrea still lives in Atlanta, and I thought she’d recall the name and location.

     “We went there the night we met Skinny Bobby Harper,” I said.

     “Who?”

     “Don’t you remember him? He wore thick glasses, had black hair” I said. “We were standing in line at the pizza place. He commented on your outfit. It had been Western Day at Roland Elementary School. So I’d braided your hair in pigtails and you’d worn an ankle-length dress that day.

     “I don’t remember,” she said. “How old was I? Seven?”

     “I’m surprised you don’t remember. We talked about it afterwards.”

     Unable to pique her memory of that evening, I rehashed it:

     “What is she supposed to be?” he asked.

     “That’s what she considers Western,” I answered and explained about Western Day.

     “Yes, she absolutely right, she looks like Laura Ingells, Little House on the Prairie.”

     After my long day, my mind stalled. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

     He flashed a smile. “Your ex-husband, an old boyfriend, perhaps?”

     I laughed, “No.”

     He refused to give me a clue, but as I stared, trying to place him, I thought of a recent article I’d read. Could this man be the inspiration for the character Johnny Fever on WKRP in Cincinnati, as the article had said? The photo looked like him. “Are you Skinny Bobby Harper?”

     He offered his hand. “How do you do?”

     I told him I’d read the article about him.

     He said Hugh Wilson, a friend of his, had written and produced the popular sitcom WKRP. Wilson had been the ad guy at WQXI in Atlanta where Harper used to DJ. Wilson wrote for the Mary Tyler Moore Show, before he created WKRP, Harper said.

     Harper had ventured into television more than ten years prior, as one of TV’s ground-breaking video DJs on what was known as the Now Explosion. That show was telecast in Atlanta on Ted Turner’s channel 17 and was nationally syndicated.

     I’d read about Harper’s colorful language. (He sometimes swore on the air). He’d been fired from a number of radio stations, although others stations clamored to hire him regardless, due to his immense popularity and talent.

     In talking to him, I found him sweet and respectful, and after we got our pizzas, we sat at adjoining tables, Andrea and I at one table, he and his daughter at another.

     The next morning I was driving Andrea to school when she said, “Mama, why don’t we listen to the man we met last night at the pizza place?”

     I scrolled the radio channels until I found him, although I wasn’t prepared for what I heard him say: “Do you know what day it is today? It’s be kind to Sandy Ryles day.” (My last name was Ryles at that time.) He repeated the “Be kind to Sandy Ryles day,” a number of times and said, “If you see Sandy Ryles, be kind to her. It’s her day.”

     I smiled until I thought my face would break, as I drove Andrea to school; then drove myself to the Marta station to catch the train to Georgia State University. Back then I was working on a Bachelor’s degree in Journalism.

      I wanted to call and thank him, but I didn’t have a cell phone. No one had cell phones then.

     But from that morning on, I always listened to him. He made my days happier and brighter. He’s been called a comic genius, and he was.

     He created a character called “Lavern” from the “Never Say Goodbye” nursing home. Lavern was also a member of the “Toe-to-Toe-With-Satan Church of the Constant Struggle.”

     There were many other skits he performed over the radio, and as I listened, I pictured Lavern and all the characters he created. He also reported on how many moo cows were seen in Atlanta.

      Sandwiched in between his skits, he played lovely tunes, like Smokey Robinson’s The Tears of a Clown, and so many of my favorites, too many to name.

     In talking to Andrea and reliving all of this, I realized I’d lost track of Skinny Bobby Harper after I moved to Florida in 1990. A google search brought sad news. He died of lung cancer in 2003. He was only 64.

     But I feel blessed to have met and listened to him, and I’m sure I’ll repeat this story about the Hall of Fame, legendary DJ. How he made me feel like a queen for a day and brightened my mornings. If only I’d called to thank him for bringing me such joy.

     I’m trying to make amends by spreading some of the joy he gave to me, and the next time I tell this story to Andrea and Rene, they’d better not say they’ve heard it before. If they do, I’ll come back with, “I’m your mother. If I want to repeat old stories to make them new again, I should have that privilege.”

 

To read more, please visit my web site: 

                               sandysemerad.com 

Below you’ll find the link to my latest novel, A Message in the Roses, based on a murder trial I covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta. Warning: contains steaming romance.

Buy A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES

We Can't Let Bad News Break Us By Sandy Semerad

          The other day I walked in the house and found hubby Larry in a funk. When I asked him what was wrong, he said, “I saw another shooting on the news.”

Larry, being a kind and empathetic person, had absorbed this pain, and as he explained in detail what happened, I became sad. Until then, I’d been in my happy zone, listening to Elvis on Sirius radio.

“Don’t watch the news,” I told Larry.

Strange advice, coming from me, a news reporter for many years, but when I first started my career as a journalist, it was a different era. I tried to stick to the facts, give all points of view, and avoid reporting on certain things. Like suicides, for example. Reporting a suicide created more suicides.

Nowadays nothing seems off limits. The 24-hour news monster has taken over. This monster is impossible to satisfy, and seems to prefer a diet of sensationalism with violence and killing and political mud-slinging.

To avoid the flatulence of this monster, I’ve decided to watch the news less and spend more time trying to become more peaceful and compassionate.

Compassion is our highest calling, according to author and philosopher Joseph Campbell. But how can we become compassionate when we blame others for the problems in our world?

In pondering this question, I recalled the words of a song I heard Elvis sing the other day:

“Walk a mile in my shoes

Walk a mile in my shoes

Before you abuse, criticize and accuse

Walk a mile in my shoes.”

As a writer, I often try to imagine myself walking in the shoes of others, and I suppose that’s why I like this recitation from the Dalai Lama:

“Today I am fortunate to have woken up, I am alive, I have a precious human life, I am not going to waste it. I am going to use all my energies to develop myself, to expand my heart out to others, to achieve enlightenment for the benefit of all beings, I am going to have kind thoughts towards others, I am not going to get angry or think badly about others, I am going to benefit others as much as I can.”

In order to achieve a true state of compassion, we should focus on our commonalities, rather than our differences, according to his teachings. We all want to be happy. We’ve all known pain and suffering. And we all appreciate a smile and a sympathetic ear.

I like to think I’m a compassionate person, but I have a problem when it comes to people who deliberately hurt others, and yet, according to the Dalai Lama, I can’t reach that final stage of kindhearted living, unless I want to ease the sufferings of those who have caused suffering.

If someone hurts us, we shouldn’t react angrily, he says. We should withdraw. Analyze the situation and ultimately realize that the abusive person is the one who is suffering, and then we should offer compassion.

 “If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.”—Dalai Lama

Daughter Andrea claims she’s found more compassion and peace since she stopped watching the news every day. She recently canceled her cable subscription and bought a box that converts her regular television to a smart T.V. This allows her to select the programs she wants to watch. She feels lighter now, unlike some of her friends, addicted to the news, who emit heavy, negative vibes, she says.

I certainly don’t want heavy, negative vibes, I told her, and I’m determined not to let all of this bad news destroy my day. I’d rather work on trying to eliminate my own flaws and in the process, become more compassionate.

Maybe if we all choose this path, our positive energy will spread to everyone, everywhere, or to quote one of my favorite spiritual song, “Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me…” 

                                 Hurricane House is 99 cents for a limited time: 

Buy Hurricane House

 

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            For More information. please visit my web site: www.sandysemerad.com

                           

                                                                                                                                                               

A Great Book canTransform us, by Sandy Semerad

I once heard a teacher say, To Kill a Mockingbird teaches us about equality and has the ability to change us. I believe that's true. 

          This great book has certainly changed me, and after I heard the news of Harper Lee’s death at 89, I thought about the power of her masterpiece.

“Did you hear Harper Lee has passed,” I asked Hubby Larry.

“Yes,” he said, and our conversation segued into Lee’s wonderful novel.

“Why did she name it To Kill a Mockingbird?” Larry asked.

“I've heard she originally called it, Atticus,” I said, “But she changed the name before it was published. There’s a mockingbird reference in the book.”

“What does it say?”

I had to unearth my copy of Mockingbird to answer his question. Here’s part of the quote, inspiring the title:

“Atticus said to Jem one day, ‘Remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.’ That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it. 'Your father’s right,' she said. 'Mockingbirds don’t do one thing except make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corn cribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.' "

Flipping through the pages, I found myself identifying with the gutsy Scout as I had as a child, and I wished I’d been able to know the author who wrote such a trans-formative novel.

I've worked on many projects for the chamber of commerce in Monroeville, Alabama, Harper Lee’s hometown, for more than 20 years, but somehow we never crossed paths.

A few months ago, I visited the assisted-living facility where Lee resided. I was going to a business meeting there and hoped I’d get a glimpse of the reclusive Lee. As I walked into the facility, a security guard stopped me.

“Who are you here to see?” he asked in a stern voice.

After I told him, he ushered me into the administrator’s office.

As I was leaving, I spotted the guard again. “Do you stop everyone who comes in here?” I asked.

“It’s my job to guard Miss Lee, to make sure she isn’t bothered. You wouldn't believe the schemes people use. They’ll say or do anything to try to get their books signed or get an interview with Miss Lee.” She rarely ventures outside, he said.

I told him I’d recently read the long-awaited second book, Go Set a Watchman, which features a grown up Scout and a somewhat racially prejudiced Atticus.

I much preferred the inspirational Atticus in Mockingbird, I said. I always cry at the courtroom scene in TKAM. You probably know the one. Atticus Finch is walking out of the courtroom after hearing his client, Tom Robinson, has been found guilty. Scout and her brother Jem are sitting in the balcony, among members of the black community. The Reverend Sykes, a local black leader, tells Scout, "Miss Jean Louise. Stand up. Your father's passin'."

Amazing when you think about it, so much talent in such a small Alabama town, population is now around 7,000. I love going there and during my recent trip, my sister Alice Kay, who lives in Idaho, wanted to accompany me.

“I haven’t been to Monroeville in 30 years,” she said. She wanted to tour the town, the courthouse and museum, and we did.

Unfortunately, one of Monroeville’s finest restaurants, the Prop and Gavel, owned by Tanja Carter, Lee’s attorney and friend, was closed, due to the tragic death of Tanja’s husband. He was killed when his single-engine aircraft crashed, taking off from Missoula International Airport in Montana.

“Tanja found the draft of Go Set a Watchman, the parent book of Mockingbird,” I told AK.  Alice Kay wanted to read Watchman, so I bought her a copy.

“I want it autographed,” she said.

“That’s impossible,” I told her. “Only Harper Lee’s closest friends are allowed to see her, and she is no longer autographing books.”

At the bookstore, AK and I spotted a signed copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The steep price was much more than either of us planned to spend, but I’m sure someone will eventually pay that amount for an autographed copy of this masterpiece that earned a Pulitzer Prize and continues to be a bestseller, second only to the Bible, it has been reported.

The movie adaptation won Academy Awards in 1962. Gregory Peck won for best actor. Lee gave Peck her father's pocket watch, a friend in Monroeville said.

          Lee dedicated Mockingbird to her sister Alice Finch Lee, who lived to be 103, and their father Amasa Lee. He once defended two black men hanged in 1919 for murdering a white shopkeeper in Monroeville.

In 1934, when Nelle Harper Lee was only eight, a black man (Walter Lett) was tried in Monroeville for allegedly raping a white woman. Lett was sentenced to death until a group of progressive white citizens had his ruling reduced to life. The character Tom Robinson in Mockingbird is thought to be patterned after Lett.

Through the years, I've heard a few people say they think Truman Capote wrote Mockingbird. These accusations are false, which I discovered after reading Capote’s letters at the Monroe County Courthouse. In one of those letters, Capote writes about Lee authoring the book and compliments her skill as a writer.

It is widely known Lee helped Capote interview and type notes for In Cold Blood. She and Capote were childhood friends in the 1930s. Capote spent his summers with his cousins in a house next to where Lee grew up. (The character Dill in Mockingbird is Capote).

Both houses have since been torn down, but there’s a plaque, marking where Capote stayed. Lee would not allow a plaque on the property where she once lived.

The homes were located about two blocks from the old courthouse, which is now a museum. (The courthouse is in the center of town square).

In memory of Nelle Harper Lee, I’d like to share a few facts about her. She was born in Monroeville on April 28, 1926, the youngest of five children. Her father’s name was Amasa Coleman (A.C.) Lee. Her mother was Frances Cunningham Finch. Amasa, unlike Atticus, was not a widower. Lee's mother was termed mentally ill. So Harper Lee and her siblings were raised by their father.

Her longtime friend, Truman Capote’s real name was Truman Persons. He was two years older than Lee. Truman spent his summers in Monroeville, and during that time, he and Lee became close friends. Lee’s father recognized Lee’s creativity and gave her an Underwood typewriter.

She earned a degree in English from Huntington College in Montgomery, Alabama and was an exchange student at Oxford for a short while. She attended law school for two years at the University of Alabama, but dropped out to pursue a writing career.

She moved to New York, where Truman Persons, then Capote, had become a well-known writer. While in New York, two of Capote’s friends made it possible for Lee to quit her job as an airline reservations clerk and write full time.

These generous friends--famous Broadway lyricist Michael Brown and his wife, Joy Williams, a ballet dancer--gave Lee a Christmas present, paying all of her expenses for a year to write whatever she wanted, but it took  Lee two years to write Mockingbird, I was told. The publisher said it might not sell more than a few thousand copies, but upon publication in July 1960, the book became a best-seller and continues to sell millions each year.

It is estimated she earned and continues to earn royalties of more than $9,000 a day. However, her fortune never influenced her life. 

She lived like a spartan. Before she moved into the assisted living facility, she had no air conditioning or television set, until a caretaker demanded them, I was told.

She never married and had no children, but she birthed a great book that I believe changed lives and has certainly inspired me to write, not simply to entertain, but to transform with words. For that I’m thankful. 

Below are three of my novels. I'd love for you to check them out.

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To read more about me and my work, please visit my web site: http://www.sandysemerad.com/

         

My "Glory Days" aren't over, by Sandy Semerad

            You've probably heard Bruce Springsteen’s song Glory Days. His old friends are sitting around, talking about glory days while life passes them by. I refuse to live like that. My glory days are here, with more to come, I hope.

            

            While the past has provided fodder for my novels, I don’t live in the past and can cover mine in a few paragraphs:

I grew up in Geneva, Alabama with an unconventional mother. She wore big hats and heavy jewelry that jangled when she played the piano in church. A classical pianist and impressionist painter, Mama followed her bliss after Daddy died (I was seven when he passed). She traveled to artist jaunts, sticking me and my sister Alice Kay in summer camps--Sarasota, FL and Cape Cod, MA. On a whim, she once took us out of school in the middle of the year, because she wanted us to see the Carlsbad Caverns in Albuquerque.

At nineteen, I ran off and got married. Mama and I were living in New York City at that time. She wanted me to become a singer, model and movie star. Instead, I married Tim Ryles, from Hartford, Alabama. Back then, my life revolved around family and two amazing daughters Rene and Andrea. Along the way I earned a B.A. degree in journalism from Georgia State University in Atlanta and worked as a newspaper reporter, broadcast news director, columnist and editor. I barely had time to breathe and often daydreamed to escape reality.

Tim and I separated. I moved to the Florida Panhandle and got a job, reporting and writing columns for a local newspaper. A year or so later, a publisher of chamber of commerce literature offered me a better position, involving travel.

I have been traveling hither and yon ever since. I’ve worked with chamber publishers for many years. Being on the road has given me a chance to write the stories in my head. I’ve had three novels published: Sex, Love & Murder, (previously Mardi Gravestone) Hurricane House and A Message in the Roses (The sequel is in progress).

Would Mama and Daddy be pleased with me? I hope so, although I don't often think about that question.

Mama might be happy to know I still sing, sometimes at the Presbyterian Church in Freeport, Florida, where husband Larry plays rocking New Orleans piano. He and I have also written songs together.

            

          As to dwelling on the past, I’d rather live in the moment. I want to treasure each second of the here and now. I want to feel truly alive while I’m on this earth.

Whether I’m writing, reading, exercising, traveling, cooking, walking our dog P-Nut, (Miss Kitty trails along), or spending time with Larry, my daughters or grand Cody, I try to take a moment to say, “Thank you. I’m grateful.”

When I see a butterfly on a flower, I think, I want to drink all the sweetness I can out of life.

Did you know butterflies have none of the DNA of the caterpillars and chrysalis from which they emerge? One of my characters in A Message in the Roses mentions this, and it’s a scientific fact.

Butterflies are a true metamorphosis, and like the butterfly, I have evolved. The birth of a New Year reminded me of this. I feel new. The past is gone. My glory days are happening now, with more to come. I hope you feel the same.

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To read more, visit my web site: http://www.sandysemerad.com/