Writing tips I've learned from my long ride by Sandy Semerad

     It's been a lengthy journey, going from news reporter to author. I'd like to think I've learned a few things along the way, although I have often pondered this question: 

   Has working as a reporter helped me write better novels?

I hope so, but it’s been quite a ride. It didn’t start off as I intended.

As a child, I made up stories in my head, but as a reporter, I had to stick to the facts—“just the facts mam.”

In my early years, as a wet behind the ears journalist, I struggled to write a proper lead sentence with who, what, when, where, why and sometimes how. Or at least I was told that was the proper way.

I’d lose sleep, agonizing over the five w’s, not to mention the how’s. With perseverance, I learned to please my editors and meet my deadlines.

I still think it’s important to know the rules, particularly the rules of grammar, but it’s equally vital to find your own voice. Breaking the rules might be part of that process.

As for my journey as a writer, I have evolved. I’ve learned to construct simpler lead sentences, without including the five w’s all at once. I felt it was my obligation as a news woman to inform readers without boring them to death.

Readers crave excitement and conflict. That I know.

Who wants every question answered in the beginning? Not I.

It wasn’t until I moved to Florida that I started writing down the stories in my head. I saw a man fall from the back of a truck into a car, and I wondered: What if this happened to me on my way to New Orleans during Mardi Gras?

I entertained myself with this story until the characters began to multiply. I couldn’t keep them straight in my head. So I started writing about them. In a few months, I had a novel, or at least the first draft of a novel.

In reading through my first draft, I realized I needed more conflict. It wasn’t easy placing my lovely characters in danger, but I bit the bullet, and ruthlessly overwhelmed them with problems. I made them struggle and fail and encounter death until the very end. Call me merciless.

I also learned how to start off my tale with an inciting incident. I call this hooking the reader. Hook the reader with every turn, I say. Add hooks in the beginning, cliff hangers at the end of each chapter and at transitional breaks.

For me, the beginning of my story is the most challenging. How will I create a life-changing event? Will this event be the death of a loved one, a divorce, a murder, a job loss, a terrible accident, or a violent argument? Whatever, it must be riveting.

My first mystery novel Sex, Love, & Murder (previously Mardi Gravestone), begins with two inciting incidents. In the prologue, the president and my main character Lilah--a journalist and young widow-- are shot. After the prologue, I have the first chapter starting the week before the shootings. Lilah is in an automobile accident. A man is in a coma as a result of that accident. As the ambulance takes him away, Lilah discovers his tossed suitcase, containing cash and the details of a murder.

In Hurricane House, my protagonist is mourning the death of her fiancé when she discovers a body in the gulf.

In A Message in the Roses, Carrie Sue unlocks a diary revealing secrets she has yet to resolve.

But I must confess, when I first began writing novels, I suffered from backstory-itis, commonly known as information dump. (I define back story as anything that has happened to a character before the inciting incident).

As an avid reader myself, I enjoy a story with unanswered question. I like to ponder and wonder. Adding too much of the back story takes that pleasure away from me.

Now I find it helpful to write a back story for each of my main characters before I begin my tale. I want to know my characters as well as I know myself. Armed with this knowledge, I can add back story as needed.

In A Message in the Roses, Carrie Sue’s parents died in a plane crash. I mentioned this in the first chapter, because I thought readers needed to understand why she grabbed a letter opener and tried to stab her cheating husband. If I failed to create sympathy for Carrie Sue, readers might not like her and understand her impulsiveness.  

Including back story can be tricky, no question. It can be almost as complex as utilizing the five senses in scenes.

I have a tendency to overwrite, and for that reason, I hide my first drafts. No one sees them unless I badly need the opinion of someone like my husband, whom I trust.

I wish my every word and every sentence were impeccable but, I no longer bow to perfection while writing the first draft.  

Perfection, I’ve found is an elusive goal, entirely subjective, and in my life, it seems I’ve attained more from my imperfections and failures. I’ve certainly learned never to give up, no matter what, and I sincerely hope you’ve learned a few things from my writing struggles.

Whatever you take away, I want you to know: I write with passion, and when you think about it, writing with passion, might be the best tip of all.

To read more about my work please visit my website and the links below: www.sandysemerad.com

Buy link, A Message in the Roses

Buy Link, Huricane House

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Goodbye Julian Bond, hero and powerful voice for justice, By Sandy Semerad

“Those were the days,” Julian Bond said, as I handed him a copy of my novel, A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES.

“It’s based on the murder trial I covered as a reporter in Atlanta back in the 1980s,” I explained.  He remembered the trial and the Klan march I wrote about in the novel.

            I felt fortunate to have reconnected with him. I wanted granddaughter Cody to meet a fearless and cool civil rights activist and listen to him speak at the Destin Library in Destin, Florida.

Although that was a year ago, it seems like yesterday. I can’t believe he’s no longer with us.

We have lost a hero and a powerful voice for justice.

I first saw Julian on television at the Democratic National Convention. He was nominated for Vice President of the United States, leading up to the 1968 election.  He was only 28 and had to decline, due to a constitutional age requirement of 35.

            Julian was ahead of his time. He began his activism at 17.  He helped lead the sit-in movement to fight segregation in Atlanta, and bravely spoke out with a deep and resonant voice for those with no voice in the Jim Crow South.

He was one of the Freedom Riders with Martin Luther King, Jr. and later helped start the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee.

            In 1965, he was elected to the Georgia House of Representative. (The Civil Rights Act and Voting Rights Act had given blacks the opportunity to vote).

Although he was lawfully elected to serve, the Georgia House refused to seat him, because he had endorsed SNCC’s policy opposing the Vietnam War.

            Julian refused to back down. He fought for his rightful seat in the House. He took his case all the way to the United States Supreme Count. The high court ruled (Bond v. Floyd) in his favor, stating the Georgia House of Representatives couldn’t deny his freedom of speech. He went on to serve four terms in the Georgia House and six terms in the Georgia Senate.

            I remember meeting him face to face for the first time at a Jefferson-Jackson Day dinner in Atlanta. We kept running into each other while talking to the same people. We laughed at this coincidence and he said, “Must be in the stars.”

            And speaking of stars, he was a bright and shining beacon of hope, who spoke out for what he thought was right. For decades he's been saying black lives matter, women’s rights matter, gay rights matter, human rights matter, and he never gave up the fight.

“If you don’t like gay marriage, don’t get gay married,” he has said. He was born African American, just as some people were born gay, he said.

            Thanks to the Southern Poverty Law Center, Julian co-founded with Morris Dees, the Klan lost its vicious bite.  SPLC sought justice on behalf of victims. These lawsuits helped to break the Klan financially.

            I could go on and on about Julian Bond’s accomplishments. Not only was he a civil rights activist, commentator, eloquent speaker, professor, author, poet, Saturday Night Live host and occasional actor, he was also a husband, father and grandfather.

“He advocated not just for African-Americans but for every group, every person subject to oppression and discrimination, because he recognized the common humanity in us all,” Morris Dees has articulately said.

I say amen to that, as I bid farewell to a great man.

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I'm remembering Daddy On Father's Day By Sandy Semerad

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What do Dads want on Father’s Day?

The number one answer, according to a recent survey, is spending time with family and loved ones. Number two is clothing. Beer is number three.

This survey may not be scientific, but I agree with the number one answer. I wish I could have spent more time with my Dad.

As a child, I was afraid of monsters and would often sneak into my parents’ bed at night. After I fell asleep, Daddy would carry me back to my bed. One time he didn’t.

That was the night he died. I was seven.

The next morning, I found Mama crying in the living room. Our house was full of people. Many of them were crying also.

“Where’s Daddy,” I asked Mother.

“He’s gone away,” she said.

Daddy looked handsome in the shiny casket, but asleep. I didn’t understand he wouldn’t wake up. He died of a heart attack, I was told.

Before Daddy died, he’d complained of a backache, and I remember he came home early one afternoon to rest his back. Mama told me not to bother him.

But I couldn’t resist. I sat on his bed and chattered away, as he puffed on a cigarette. I can still see his pack of Camels on the bed stand.

Daddy rarely came home early. He worked most of the time. He wanted to give us the so-called finer things in life: a large brick home, a fishing pond, a swimming pool, tennis courts and our own merry-go-round.

Friends from Geneva, Alabama who knew Daddy, called him--Ira Hodges--an entrepreneur. He owned Hodges hardware in the heart of town, but before he married Mama and moved to Geneva, he was a Texas wildcatter--an oilman.

One of my Geneva friends, John Savage, who as a teen worked with Daddy, said he thought Daddy seemed too big for a small town.

But Daddy loved Geneva, Mama said. He’d often give credit on a handshake, and he helped many people in need.

Daddy once repaired the broken windows in a family’s house for free. “It was freezing and we couldn’t afford to pay,” the father of the family told me.

Many years after Daddy passed, I spotted a strange figure, wandering around our house. I froze in fear. Mama wasn’t home at the time.

I called police before I realized the man wasn’t a stranger at all. He used to work for Daddy, but had since moved away from the area. He didn’t know Daddy had died, he said.

“Whenever I needed work, Mr. Ira would always give me some,” the man said.

I’ve told my daughters and granddaughter this story and other stories about Daddy. I want them to know he was compassionate. He helped people and gave generously of his time and money. I only wish he could have shared more of his time with us.

I’ve missed not having him in our lives, and on this Father’s Day, I wanted to pay tribute to him. #Father’sDay.

To find out more, go here: www.sandysemerad.com

My novels: http://www.amazon.com/Sandy-Semerad/e/B003ONTN4Y/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1434228601&sr=1-2-ent

How does an author hook readers in today’s fickle world? by Sandy Semerad

 The great writer John Steinbeck has been quoted as saying, “If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced that there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes but by no means always find the way to do it.”

            Steinbeck’s eloquent quote explains why I write. I have an aching urge to communicate.

But is my aching urge a formula for success in today’s fickle world with its fierce competition?

Book marketers say no. They say there are too many books vying for attention. Authors can’t afford to wax poetic for pages and pages, painting the scene, stroke by stroke, as Steinbeck did, and expect to hold a reader’s attention.

Readers are not only fickle but impatient, they say. Today’s writer must hook the reader from the first sentence. Writing a great book, doesn’t equal a best seller anymore. 

Whenever I’m in a book store, I try to observe and learn. I want to know what makes a reader buy.

I’ve learned most consumers examine the front cover, read the blurb to see if the story sounds interesting and then turn to the first chapter to read the first sentence or two.

I’m no marketing expert, but they claim author popularity is the number one reason why a book sells. Also the first sentence must hook the reader.

So I thought it might be fun to see if you’d buy the following books after reading their first sentences.

“To the red country and part of the grey country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth.” (From John Steinbeck’s masterpiece, Grapes of Wrath, published in 1939).

“The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw.” (From White Oleander, by Janet Finch, published in 1999).

“On a chilly morning in February with a misty rain shuttering the windows, Devin and Rosie Cauldwell made slow, sleepy love.” (From The Search by Nora Roberts).

“Barry Fairbrother did not want to go out to dinner.” (From The Casual Vacancy by J.K. Rowling).

“The tumor in my father’s pancreas was removed last week in an operation that lasted five hours and was more difficult than his surgeons had expected.” (From Calico Joe by John Grisham).

“Deputy Keith Clayton hadn’t heard them approach, and up close, he didn’t like the looks of them any more than he had the first time he’d seen them.” (The Lucky One by Nicholas Sparks).

“Fiona Carson left her office with the perfect amount of time to get to the boardroom for an important meeting.” (Power Play by Danielle Steele).

“The first hail of bullets was fired from the house shortly after daybreak at six fifty-seven.” (Deadline by Sandra Brown).

“In those days cheap apartments were almost impossible to find in Manhattan, so I had to move to Brooklyn.” (Sophie’s Choice by William Styron.)

“There are four acknowledged ways of meeting your maker.” (Simple Genius by David Baldacci).

“When he was nearly thirteen, my bother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.” (To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee).

“I’ve always wondered what people felt in the final few hours of their lives.” (The Neighbor by Lisa Gardner).

To play fair, I have included the following first sentences from my books:

 “On a snowy morning in Atlanta, Carrie Sue rummaged through an old cedar chest, searching for a journal.” (A Message in the Roses).

“My heart hammered a warning when I opened the door to leave the beach house.” (Hurricane House).

“If you had seen me on that day you would have said I was a hyper child, not the mother of a teenager.” (Sex, Love & Murder, previously Mardi Gravestone).

I must confess, I don’t worry too much about perfecting a first sentence until I’ve finished the first draft. 
     Writing a story is more fun when I can write freely, get the story out, before I have to go back, edit and rewrite.

     As to hooking a magnitude of readers in today’s fickle world, that’s my dream. 
     Although I kind of like what Steinbeck advised: “Forget your generalized audience. In the first place, the nameless, faceless audience will scare you to death and in the second place, unlike the theater, it doesn't exist. In writing, your audience is one single reader. I have found that sometimes it helps to pick out one person—a real person you know, or an imagined person and write to that one.”

I’m trying to follow his advice.

To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my website: www.sandysemerad.com

Or my publisher’s site: http://bookswelove.net/authors/semerad-sandy/

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Is Harper Lee Pleased with the Release of Mockingbird's Parent? by Sandy Semerad

When I heard the news, I couldn’t believe it. It's been more than half a century since To Kill A Mockingbird came out. 

I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to reading “the parent book,” of Mockingbird, even though this book, called Go Set a Watchman, is not new. Harper Lee wrote it in 1950, before  she wrote the masterpiece that earned her a Pulitzer Prize, according to reports. 

Mockingbird continues to be a bestseller. 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, Alabama told me.

Lee's old/new book examines racial unrest in the South and the relationship between an adult Scout and her father.

It has been reported, Lee put Watchman aside to write Mockingbird, after an editor suggested she rewrite the manuscript from the viewpoint of Scout as a girl. Lee followed the editor's advice and produced Mockingbird.

She thought the draft of Watchman had been lost until her friend and lawyer Tonja Carter found it. The draft had been attached to the original typed manuscript of Mockingbird. Carter didn’t know what she’d found at first. 

Tonja Carter is a charming woman, despite what some reporters have written. I had the pleasure of meeting Carter during one of my business trips to Monroeville, Alabama, where both books are set. 

Through my day job with a national publishing company, I've traveled quite a bit and worked with the Monroeville-Monroe County Chamber of Commerce on community profile projects. I always enjoy returning to this lovely, literary town, population about 7,000.  Sandy Smith, the Chamber's executive and I have been friends for almost 20 years.

But in all my years of traveling and working there, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Harper Lee. Locals call her “Miss Nelle,” and they respect her need for privacy.  She now lives in an assisted living home in Monroeville.

Thankfully, I've had the privilege of meeting her older sister Alice Finch Lee. She practiced law until she was almost 100. She has since passed, but she lived to be 103.  She never married, nor has “Miss Nelle.”

Alice Finch Lee was "Atticus in a skirt,” the Rev. Thomas Butts said. He was referring to Mockingbird’s hero Atticus Finch. Rev. Butts has been a close friend of both Alice Finch and Harper Lee. "Miss Nelle" dedicated Mockingbird to Alice and their father, Amasa Lee.

The father defended two black men who were hanged in 1919 for murdering a white shopkeeper in Monroeville.

In 1934, when “Miss Nelle” 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 that 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, it is believed).

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).

Many of my Monroeville acquaintances have generously shared their stories of Harper Lee with me. One of those friends is Rev. Butts. He hung out with "Miss Nelle" when she used to venture to New York. 

While in the city, she preferred to take the bus, rather than a taxi, he said, and despite her success, she and her sister didn’t own a television or air conditioning until their elderly years when a caretaker required those comforts.

Butts said “Miss Nelle” is shy, but not a recluse. Every couple of weeks he picks her up and takes her where she wants to go. I’ve been tempted to ask him to introduce her to me, but decided it would be wrong to ask him to betray her request for privacy.

One day, while in Monroeville, I took Rev. Butts to lunch. He wanted to go to a restaurant in Repton, Alabama, near where he grew up. Repton is on the outskirts of Monroeville.

He asked me to drive.

When we arrived in Repton, he told me to “slow down.”

Then he proceeded to tell me about the time he and “Miss Nelle” were on an excursion. He was driving and failed to observe the speed limit.

A patrolman pulled them over.

Lee said, “Put on your collar.”

Rev. Butts did as she instructed, he said.

And he didn’t get a ticket.

Harper Lee is almost blind now, and deaf and bound to a wheelchair, he said. Her short-term memory isn’t good, but she remembers him. They have much in common in their battle against racial prejudice. Butts had the misfortune of having a cross burned in his yard. 

His recounts of that time, helped me imagine a burning cross, which I included in my latest novel, A Message in the Roses.

Butts said Lee once asked him, “You ever wonder why I never wrote anything else?”

“Maybe you didn’t want to compete with yourself,” he offered.

“Bullshit,” she told him. “I wouldn’t go through the pressure and publicity I went through for any amount of money. I have said what I wanted to say and will never say it again.”

Makes me wonder what she thinks about the rediscovery of Go Set a Watchman. It has been called “brilliant” enough to print two million copies. 

After the news about Watchman came out, there has been controversy, as to whether Lee actually made certain statements and approved of the book's publication. 

In a separate dispute, a lawsuit was filed, a year or so ago, on Lee's behalf, against the son-in-law of her former agent, who is said to have assumed the agenting responsibilities for Lee. The suit stated he attempted to steal the copyright to Mockingbird. 

Another suit was filed on Lee's behalf against the old courthouse museum in Monroeville over merchandise sold in the museum's gift shop.  

But the question remains: Is she pleased with the release of Watchman?

I hope so. It's been a long time in coming. 

In the meantime, I hope to locate my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird and reread it before Watchman comes out.

If you'd like to know more about my writing and novels, visit my website:   www.sandysemerad.com and my publishers site:

http://bookswelove.net/authors/sandy-semerad/

My latest novel, A Message in the Roses, is free today and tomorrow, Feb. 21-22. Snap it up: http://www.amazon.com/Message-Roses-Sandy-Semerad-ebook/dp/B00LROV17O/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1405896778&sr=8-3&keywords=sandy+semerad

An Early Christmas Gift Almost Killed Me, by Sandy Semerad #christmasgift

     “We’re going to Ecuador and Peru,” daughter Rene announced.

     I was overwhelmed when she told me. The timing was bad. The company I’d been working for was bought out by a larger company. I had to convince them to rehire me.

     Before we left on our trip, I was rehired, but scarcely had the time to get the shots and meds required when one visits two third world countries. At least my passport was up-to-date.

     My traveling companions included: Rene, her daughter Cody (my eleven-year-old granddaughter), Rene’s bestie Dia and Dia’s daughter Michelle.

     Rene rattled off our itinerary. We’d be going to the Galapagos and Machu Picchu, but no easy way to get there, she said.

     Three days after we left Florida, we arrived in Santa Cruz, Ecuador. All five of us slept in the same room, and it wasn’t long before the toilet clogged.

     None of us saw the tiny sign in Spanish telling us not to put paper in the commode. We were supposed to throw it in the trash instead. Rene speaks Spanish, but the sign was almost invisible to the naked eye.

     Rene and Dia discovered the blocked toilet after they’d taken their Ambien. Their doctors had prescribed the Ambien in case they had difficulty sleeping on our trip. I don’t require a sleep aid and was peacefully dreaming when Rene poked me. “You’ll have to pee in the shower, Mama. The toilet is stopped up. We’ve tried to plunge it, but it’s still clogged.”

     As her Ambien took effect, Rene began to act silly. I’d seen scary reports about Ambien. Some people have had terrible reactions after taking it. They do crazy things, like driving a car while asleep.

     Rene started playing with the ringtones on her cellphone. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

     “No, it’s loud and annoying,” I said.

     “It is not. It’s beautiful and colorful.”

     “Let’s go to sleep and try to solve our problems,” Dia repeated three times.

     Rene, who never overeats, became ravenous. She stuffed her mouth with every snack she could find.

     I watched with trepidation. What if she’s still hungry after she eats the Pringles, crackers and candy? And what if she walks out into the night looking for more food?

     “You need to lie down,” I told her.

     “I’ll sleep like a baby soon,” she said, between chews.

     “I’m going to take a video of you,” I said.

     “I’m told I’m very funny.”

     After what seemed like an eternity, she did go to sleep, but sleep evaded me then, and with the toilet clogged, I began searching for another one.

      I looked everywhere, even in the hotel's basement, which had been roped off. I was clearly trespassing when I slipped under the barrier.

     I turned the knob on the first door I saw.

     It was unlocked.

     I eased the door open.

    A toilet sat in the back of a small room, no bigger than a closet. I tried to lock the door for privacy before squatting on the pot, but I was unable to secure it. I had an image of getting busted with my pants down.

    Unlike the upcoming adventures of our trip, I escaped unharmed. If I’d been able to see into the future, I would have stayed in Santa Cruz despite the clogged toilet. All in all, Santa Cruz was a lovely town with exotic birds, sea lions, giant turtles, good restaurants and shops.

     Since I had no warning of the tribulations to come, I boarded the boat to Isla Isabella with a smile. At first we enjoyed exploring the lava rocks on Isabella. We saw exotic birds, penguins, iguanas and white tail sharks.

     As we watched the sharks swimming in a canal, the guide cautioned, “Don’t wake them.”

     For Dia, a photographer, this was paradise, until she lost her balance and fell. The lava rocks sliced her shin to the bone. Our guide dressed her leg wound to stop the profuse bleeding, but it was not a permanent fix.

     We’d all planned to go snorkeling after the rock tour, but Dia opted out. A wise decision, I thought.

     After seeing the sharks in the canal, we didn’t want to entice them with fresh blood.

     Cody announced she was jumping in regardless. Nothing would deter her from the snorkeling experience.

     I plunged into the frigid Pacific with her.

     The guide told us not to worry about the sharks. “They usually prefer the warm canal.”

     I prayed he was right.

     As we swam through the ocean, Cody and I found ourselves caught in a fierce current. We thrashed our arms and kicked our flippers, trying to swim out. One of the guys in our group kicked me in the face in his battle to free himself.

     The guide yelled, “Stay away from the stingray.”

     As soon as Cody and I were able to rise above the ocean’s surface, she said, “I’m tired.” I was exhausted. So we swam back to the boat.

     Once on dry land, Dia’s leg looked red and infected. She needed medical attention pronto. A doctor at the hospital stitched up her wound and prescribed antibiotics. No charge. (Healthcare in Ecuador is free.)

     The next day, we went hiking up Sierra Negra, elevation 4,890 feet. Sierra Negra is a large and active volcano.

     I wish I’d worn hiking boots, not sandals. (I must have been thinking of that Bible verse: “For forty years I led you through the wilderness, yet your clothes and sandals did not wear out.”)

     In the beginning of our hike, we walked through the rain forest, where it never stops drizzling.

     “I can do this,” I told myself. I exercise daily with Jane Fonda’s Prime Time workout. I’ve walked all over Chicago and San Francisco with daughter Andrea. (Andrea probably would have enjoyed this hike, I thought. She’d walked all over Panama last summer.)

     Hours into the climb, I began to question my sanity as the terrain became higher and hotter. The rocks cut my feet. I started walking like an aging Galapagos penguin.  

    “This is worse than giving birth,” I complained.

     We were given no time to rest and sightsee. Only thirty minutes for lunch.

     When I sat to catch my breath, the guide yelled, “Up, up. Don’t stop.”

     “How long have you been a guide here?” I asked him.

    “Fifteen years. I do this every day.”

     “Have you ever had anyone to quit or faint or die?”

     “No,” he said.

     “This is tough,” one of the hikers said. “I’m sure he’s had someone to quit, turn around and go back. I think it’s wrong of him to rush us along like this.”

     After hours and hours of trudging nonstop, we finally saw the volcano’s rim in the distance. “How much longer,” I asked the guide.

     “Twenty minutes,” he replied.

      It looked like a vertical climb to the rim--much too dangerous. No bars, no restrains. Easy to fall in and die.

     My feet were burning. My whole body ached. My head was swirling from the heat and volcanic gases. Not much bottled water left.

     Dia and Michelle had already started back down, but not Rene and Cody. They were determined to hike to the rim.

     I bid them farewell, then looked for a trail marker to lead me out. I kept searching, but couldn’t find a sign. On a rocky terrain, it’s difficult to detect a path.

     I got horribly lost.

     I stepped on a sticker bush. My feet and legs stung like fire.

     I spotted a spider and thought it may have bitten me.

     I couldn’t see anyone from where I stood, no guide, no hikers, no Rene, no Cody. I hoisted myself up on a giant rock to get a better view.

     I spied specks in the distance. I thought I might be hallucinating.

    Then I saw blonde and red hair.

     I yelled as loud as my dry lungs were capable of, but Rene and Cody didn’t respond.  

     I ran toward them. My adrenalin and desperation had imbued me with renewed strength.

     Rene finally turned in my direction. “What happened to you, Mama?”  

     “Don’t ask. I think I need a hip replacement.”

     “Stretch and you’ll be fine.”

     No sympathy.

     Every muscle and joint in my body cried out in pain. I don’t know how I endured the hike back.

     A couple of days later, I felt better and could walk without aching, but in Cusco, Peru, Rene suffered. She threw up several times. The coca tea and leaves--natural remedies used to treat altitude sickness--didn’t work for her. Someone brought out an oxygen tank. She inhaled the oxygen, but it provided only temporary relief. BC Powder—an old Southern remedy for aches and pains--was the only thing that helped, she said.

     I’d been given a prescription for the high altitude, but the pills made me pee excessively, and I stopped taking them. (I’ve read it’s better to take it easy for a couple of days and avoid anything strenuous in order to adjust to high elevations, but when you’re seeing two third world countries in sixteen days with an action-packed schedule, resting and relaxing are impossible).

   

My nose bled, but it wasn’t severe enough to keep me from enjoying the spectacular vistas of Machu Picchu--the "sacred landscape" of the Inca. It sits on top of a mountain, encircled by the Urubamba River.

     Machu Picchu is in the southern hemisphere, 13.164 degrees south of the equator, 50 miles northwest of Cusco and about 7,970 feet above mean sea level. It’s one of the most important archaeological sites in South America.

     After visiting Machu Picchu, we took a long train ride. A taxi driver picked us up from the train and drove us back to our hotel in Cusco.

     After a night and day there, we began the long journey back home. We had an eleven-hour layover in Ecuador, but Rene didn’t mind. She was happy to be rid of her altitude sickness.

      “I could have died on that hike to Sierra Negra,” I told her.

     “My hands were so swollen,” she said. They looked like a giant’s.” She showed me the IPhone pictures of her hands and the volcano’s rim. “Isn’t that amazing?”

     “You and Cody could have fallen in,” I said. “There were no restrains.”

     “But we survived,” she said.

    “This early Christmas gift almost killed me," I said. "I feel lucky to be alive. I’m going kiss the ground when I get back home.” 
     Now that I'm here, there's no place on earth I'd rather be than at home celebrating the Christmas season. Here's wishing you the happiest of  holidays, and if you're traveling, be safe.

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     After working as a newspaper reporter, broadcaster and columnist for many years, Sandy Semerad decided to try her hand at writing novels. Her first novel, Mardi Gravestone has been republished as SEX, LOVE AND MURDER. She wrote her second mystery HURRICANE HOUSE after a hurricane ripped through her community. Her third book, romantic thriller A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES, is loosely based on a murder trial she covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta. All books have received five star reviews. Semerad is originally from a small town in Alabama, but now lives in Santa Rosa Beach, Florida with husband Larry, their spoiled Shih Tzu P-Nut and wayward cat Miss Kitty. She has two daughters and a granddaughter.

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