Music to My Ears

Please understand this juxtaposition: a busy Kohl's, filled with people searching for bonus buys, half-opened packages of boxer shorts strewn about the shelves where they once neatly sat stacked, the murmurings of two women deciding whether "She" would like a purse, a toddler's screech at not being able to touch something, and meanwhile, a Tony Bennett Christmas song brokenly looping on the intercom with its only interruptions the called codes to team members to "report to registers" and "scan sector C;" my little desk facing the wall in its spare bedroom, the light from the computer the only late-afternoon glow on a gloomy day, magazines stacked next to my right foot, and "Me and Mrs. Jones", "Cuban Blues" then Poncho Sanchez grooving his hit "Watermelon Man."

iTunes have been a great gift to my little desk, and as I'm nearing the end of my gift cards, I'm hoping for a couple more in my stocking this year. The genius button has also been a boom, and my "Writing Music" playlist is the better for it. Now my little desk has a soundtrack all its own, far from the maddening crowd.

The Cow Goes Moo

You never know where the next assignment will take me. My latest adventure took me to rural South Carolina last week to visit a farm definitely off the beat and path (country people tell me this is usually where the farms are). It was a rainy morning as I drove down South 85 and exited somewhere close to Clemson and then promptly got lost thanks to Google Maps. However, some quick phone calls to the farmer, L.D. Peeler, and I soon passed over the bridge he mentioned and passed the sheep that were so cute munching on their morning meal, and turned into the driveway of Milky Way Farms.

I was here to learn about the Peeler's dairy operation, specifically since they are one of the up and coming producers of raw milk. They call it "the way nature intended," and yes, that means unpasteurized. In case you think this is for daredevils, please understand a movement is afoot. Milk Way's raw milk sales have doubled since January of 2008, and websites such as RawMilk.org are getting the word out.

But I was here to see the milking, and before I knew it, 12 Jersey cows were ushered in and large suctions applied to their udders. The whole thing was very scientific, with a sanitizer before, lots of clean stainless steel pipes and a generally efficient operation. They need to be, milking 550 gal/day!

But it was the cows that were the main attraction.

These big girls are a smaller cow breed, but you still can't ignore the size. They spend most of their lives out in the pasture, but when it's time to milk, they know, and they just start lining up outside the barn. Since the milking floor is below the stalls for the cows, I was at eye level with one girl with a dripping nose just sniffing away to check me out. She didn't want petting, though, shying away, and frankly, I didn't want to push the issue.

With a cooler full of milk, I navigated myself once again across the state line and back to city life. I don't think I'll be getting cows anytime soon, but maybe I convince my dogs that they need a goat to play with! Anyone for feta cheese?

I celebrate my Hometown

Jack Bacot and his great team at G Magazine finally gave me a chance I've been wanting for a long time -- the chance to write a travel article about Charlotte. Check it out in this month's G, accompanied by Brie Williams' excellent photography. 

It was wonderful to visit as a tourist rather than only scooting along 485 between Harrisburg and Monroe to visit the family. I got to wander aimlessly in stores, eat a wonderful fish taco and chat with gallery owners, all in the name of work! 

One of my favorite finds was Cafe Monte in Phillips Place across from Southpark. It has charming, charming decor and a great menu, especially the duck confit pizza (some of you know how much I love duck, especially those that might have been at a certain food photo shoot over the summer).  A former gallery space, it feels artsy, but the service is very warm and inviting. I will be back, Monte! 

Beautiful Saturday in Highlands

Driving in the mountains was a treat this past weekend. Now I understand they are covered in a dusting of snow, but last Saturday when I arrived in Highlands, the sky was clear blue, and the leaves, although past their prime and starting to fall in droves, still made a great contrast. 

Highlands was packed for the "leaf-lookers" Saturday, and I had to park three blocks away from the bookstore for my signing. (In Highlands, that's basically at the edge of town. :)) Still, Cyrano's, one of my favorite bookstores, was just as inviting as always. A steady stream of people entered the store the entire time I was there for my signing, asking for reading advice since Cyrano's is known for choosing the best titles to fill its small space. A good many stopped by my table and chatted, thanks to coverage about my signing in The Highlander, and some related a few of the best ghost stories I'll hear all year. 

But my stay was short, just a couple of hours. After a chicken salad sandwich (slightly sweet and delicious) at the Sports Page deli down the street, it was back "off the hill" as Highlanders say, to my Piedmont North Carolina home. And this evening, I'm off to Charlotte for a few more signings ... and I hope a few more ghost stories. 

Mountain spooks

I'm off to the Highlands/Cashiers area this coming weekend for some book signings, and I am glad to once again be able to see the fall colors so beautiful on winding Highway 64. I'll get to pass one of my favorite waterfalls too -- a little grotto fall just off the highway between Cashiers and Highlands. It's shaded by rhododendron, so it's easy to miss, but it is especially beautiful in the deep summer when covered in moss.

But this time of year, it's all about ghosts, not waterfalls, and the mountains have their share of stories. One of my favorites that I got to research for Haunted Hills surrounds the High Hampton Inn in Cashiers, a lovely historic structure with beautiful rolling scenery. The tale is far from beautiful:

Louisa Heaton was by all accounts an eccentric Southern lady, and when her husband wanted to sell some of the land connected to High Hampton, she became distraught. She said, "If you sell my family's land, I'll commit suicide." Well, being the "man of the house," he decided to sell anyway, only to come home to find her lifeless body swinging from a barn rafter a while a white-face barn owl screeched above. The story goes he was so overcome at the funeral he tried to commit suicide (unsuccessfully) over her open grave by slashing both sides of his neck with a hunting knife.

This sordid account is still connected with the Inn, for many people over the years have reported seeing a white owl on the property. Ahh, what a great cheery bedtime story. And yes, I do usually sleep well at night, despite my ghoulish research!

A first from my little desk

Here's the first published article since I've moved to my little desk. Check it out online here at WNC Magazine.

I'm not sure how I got the byline for a feature written by multiple writers, but I'll take it! Make sure and check out the great photography in the photo gallery as well. The editorial teams of Gulfstream Communications always put together a quality product.

The kindness of (not so) strangers

Selflessness. It's rare and it's hardly an American attribute, we a people full of our get-rich-quick, narcissistic and often insular pursuits. But the flip side is that there are generous people out there mixed in with all the shady dealers and mirror-obsessed ones.

I had an editor suggest recently that I contact another highly regarded editor and mention his name. He said that he needed to pay back some karma and do something good for a freelance writer. I was happy to be that person and subsequently, that editor's suggestion, no matter the outcome, was a gesture that went above and beyond mere assignment. 

Then there was my conversation this week with one of my most trusted historical sources. I've gone to him many times over the years for help and reference, and he's always been kind and quick to respond. Yes, he loves history, but he is generous with that knowledge and heck, he's even taken photos for me in a pinch. He is a sincerely genteel man, and this time, he responded by sending some extra research my way -- a big time saver since a deadline is looming. 

But I have been blessed by a generosity that surpasses these by far, and that is with a beautifully constructed website that I could not afford at the moment. A dear artist/poet friend constructed it in his "spare" time (this is a busy man) and now I have a face to show to the world.

Generosity personified. Thank you Marcus. And please check out his handiwork at www.stephanieburtwilliams.com. 

Burn, baby, burn

We've heard for years that you must suffer for beauty. Well, what if you have to suffer for beauty and a story?

Such was the case when I was on assignment last weekend in Charlotte. It seemed like a sweet gig: assignment plus expenses and to top it all off, a complimentary spa treatment before I left on Sunday. I had been looking forward to it all week.

The resort (which shall remain nameless) chose a signature treatment for me, something that as a long-time spa baby, I always knew meant something good, something that I was sure to later praise effusively in print. How could a Pumpkin and Sweet Wine Body Scrub be anything less than amazing. Right? 

The treatment started off standard enough. Fluffy robes, quiet music, a technician quietly greeting me with a "Ms. Williams, please this way." The room looked a little more sterile than many spas, but I was not there on assignment for Spa Interiors magazine, so I wasn't going to let that bother me. But then the treatment started. 

Facedown, small little loofahs were rubbed over my body, gentle little sandpaper birds, and it was light and pleasant. Then the technician dipped a brush into a gooey mix and began to brush it over my body. It smelled very faintly of pumpkin (my nose not being in top form as it was smashed against the table's headrest), and then I felt a slight tingling on the back of my newly-shaven legs. Then a burning. Then a fireplace match.

Clear throat. Strained calmness in voice. "Is it supposed to burn?" I asked.

"Yes" was the reply. "It is supposed to warm up the body. This is a pumpkin and papaya enzyme and it's very intense. This is our most intense treatment."

"Yes, but it's more than warming, I'd have to say. It's pretty painful." Like spilling hot coals from the barbecue pit onto your legs painful.

"Well, let me just finish up and then I will neutralize with the scrub." And then the scrub. I couldn't see, but I imagined she was putting her weight into it like a woman kneading bread. Scrub, scrub, scrub Steph's skin off. I imagined I was beet red. I imagined my calves were bleeding from the self-inflicted road rash. And I very much regretted saying yes to this treatment.

When it was all over, I shakily put back on the fluffy robe and went to the waiting room to down glass after glass of infused water then changed clothes only to notice a large burn on my shoulder and back. My whole epidermis was mourning, so I couldn't exactly tell if it hurt more than the rest, but I should alert someone, get something to calm my skin. 

{Pause}: In the treatment's defense, I am a ball of sensitivity. Certain eye makeup will swell my eyes shut. Mosquito bites often leave hives. I can get sunburned in the shade from the reflection of the sun off concrete. Yes. 

But mentioning it was a bad idea. The resort response team went into action, those silent bank alarms being pushed over the building. We have a situation, they seemed to say. We have a special case, they added. And follow protocol we must, they asserted. 

How could it be bad? they asked. It's ORGANIC, they explained. Yea, well so are bees and peanuts and shrimp, responded the allergy sufferers of the world.

It didn't end well, although it could've ended worse. My last moments in the resort were spent slathering pureed cucumber over the burn, spilling bits of it on the bathroom floor and making an awful mess. But my skin is recovered, no permanent damage, and I will graciously omit recommending the treatment to my readers. Now, how about that soft and silky result? 

The Shoerack

I have beautiful shoes. There are the black patent leather t-pumps, a cute pair of red polka-dot ballet slippers, and of course, my velvet wedge sandals with the blue paisley on the heels. I have flip-flops, sequined flip-flops, flip-flops with small little brown stones adorning them, flip-flops with heels, and not to mention, the beach flip-flops. I have sweet brown lace-ups in 1940s style and leopard peep toes. But by all accounts, the reigning queen of my shoe rack(s) must be the Tahari black knee-high boots I snagged last year, with their perfectly proportioned heel and row of covered Victorian buttons up the side.

I am not bragging about this -- many women have beautiful shoes, and if you've seen some of my other fashion choices in the past, you applaud me for my choice in footwear. But lately, I don't even have those.

I work in a "no shoe" office, going for sometimes 24 hours without putting on shoes (other than my "yard" flip-flops). Yes, the woman who hated the fact that others took off their shoes in the office now never wears hers to begin with! The earrings are in, the lip gloss glistens in the reflection of the computer screen, but the shoes? Nonexistent.

Dressed in my standard office attire is no problem, but putting on those great leopard peep toes to walk around my house just seems kind of silly. In a house of hardwood floors, the sound of my heels would just send the alert to the dogs to get in "someone is leaving" mode (following room to room before resigning to pout on the couch and throw dirty looks in my direction), so it's barefoot I stay at my little desk.

And of course, I'm barefoot as I write this. Next time we see each other, let's go shopping for shoes.

My brain is getting a workout, and it's only Tuesday.

The creative work I did for Lowcountry Living is the same kind of brainstorming I'm now trying to do for many magazines, and in order to write a good pitch that will get an editor's notice, you have to understand the audience, a specific magazine's departments, and do some research about the subject. All of that keeps the creative field wide open, but it does eat time, so you have to make it worthwhile, pitching to magazines that might truly have an interest in your work.

Here's the deal: I already have two stories due the first part of September, and both are resume-driven rather than a direct pitch. However, they were in response to needs for freelance writers, and they still expect an occasional pitch in the future. 

Pitching ideas might seem to sound like "too much" to many people, but there are a few upsides:

1. You get to spend a lot of time reading magazines very thoroughly. It's work, really. Yes, I might be tearing out the occasional basted chicken recipe, but I assure you, it's work.

2. Even if an editor rejects the pitch, they might keep you in mind for the future.

And the most important part of all for me:

3. It keeps the creativity going, and so writing the fiction seems to be coming more naturally on a daily basis. (I didn't say necessarily better, but we're ignoring that pesky internal editor for now.)

So, ladies and gentlemen, that's what I've learned so far in the process. That, and well, that I have ripped out more recipes than I will ever cook in my lifetime.

The deep end of the pool

When you take the plunge, there is a time when your breath feels as if it escapes you. The water slows your fall to the bottom, bubbles float around you and finally, one toe touches the bottom of the pool. Then it's the push to the top, time speeds again and you move through the bubbles that you just created by your jump.

That's where I am, moving through the bubbles I've created. 

As usual, I had outlandish hopes: that now I would be 10,000 words down the road on the fiction, have enough articles lined up for September to warrant a celebratory dinner somewhere in this new city I'm just beginning to not get lost in, and have my office set up to the cozy cocoon of writer's inspiration. 

But instead, I barely have gotten it together to purchase the correct file folders. In fact, that required a return trip back to Office Depot.

Then there's the matter of the computer, my glorious, adorable, fast-as-lightening Macbook that I promptly tried to install OSX on when (as was evident by the full dock and working desktop), it already had. Hey, the disc said install, OK? 

So a call to Apple to help me erase and reinstall the thing that was already perfectly installed, then a call to my Wireless router company's call center to speak with a nice woman from India with a very thick accent to ask how to restart the router (the $30.99 edition amazingly didn't come with many instructions), and then some "Network Diagnostics" on the new baby to get her to talk to the router, and well, my day was more than over. 

This is really no surprise to those who know me. I spent my first day alone in the house without a television because 5 minutes after B. left for work, I hit too many buttons on the remote and shut down our new cable system. Then there's the semi-famous fact that although I can concoct Chicken Marsala from memory, microwave popcorn is beyond me. (Yes, I know -- feel free to provide me a tutorial then watch as it chars and black, acrid smoke fills the entire city block. You won't be the first.)

However, at present I am working wirelessly on my new laptop, and it seems that I've made some progress towards the top today. Stay tuned, setting up my new Nano is next.