My next story will be unleashed on the world in four short months. These are the days when the book IS what it IS. The final edits have been turned in but the reviews have yet to come out. And readers have yet to flip to Chapter 1 and discover this latest tale.
So, basically, I’m waiting. Which is fine since that’s what the writing life is ALL about.
But while I’m waiting, it’s no good to just twiddle my thumbs. I’ve been sharing background on the story along and along–the setting, the historical basis–that sort of thing.
But what about that TITLE? Do you like it? The Finder of Forgotten Things–what does that spark in your imagination?
Originally, I wanted to call the story, The Finder of Lost Things. But there are already at least two novels by that title and one of them just released last October. So, we went back to the drawing board and aimed to change the title up a bit. Searcher or Seeker instead of Finder. Missing instead of Lost. But Forgotten resonated the most and not only for the sake of alliteration (which I really like).
While Sulley, the hero (anithero?) is a finder primarily of water as a dowser (water witcher) he also starts finding other things. Like a lost button and eventually lost people. So I was a little sad about not being able to use Lost in the title. But Forgotten . . . that works in a really special way. Because while Sulley keeps finding lost things, he also discovers a whole cornfield full of forgotten men.
Kind of like I did when I was researching this story. Too many men suffered, sacrificed, and then faded into anonymity. There may be a few family members who haven’t forgotten, but I don’t think that’s good enough. No one should be forgotten.
So today I challenge you to post the name of someone you’ll never forget. A family member, a friend, even an enemy. Someone who’s part of YOUR special story.
My grandmother, Izora Cutright Phillips, of Upshur County. She moved to Virginia in
1911. She lost her left limb just above the knee in childbirth at 29. She was taken by
wagon to the mail train about 12 miles away and spent a long time at the hospital in
Richmond, VA. However, she recovered and did things that tire me out today. She
had her small flower garden, would walk with her crutches to the vegetable garden, lay them at the end of the row and scoot to the end of the row weeding as she went, then back up the next row. She would walk at least an 1/8 of a mile to gather her milk cow (sometimes 2), then proceed to milk the cow.
And now I have the nerve to complain about my life!
Peggy Gillich
I ran across that name–Izora–just the other day! I’m looking for just the right character to put that one to use. Even more so now that I know a bit of her story!!
Cory Bryce Roy, my first husband, died without warning of heart failure at the young age of 26. I have mourned his death on my birthday for 22 years. Gone but not forgotten.
Oh my! I’m so sorry. Never forgotten.
My daddy meant a lot to me long before I found a box full of his papers and a bunch of photos of his youth and started piecing together a narrative of his life with what I already knew (a man who loved kids of all ages; 23 years as a US Air Force pilot, 2 tours of duty in Vietnam, at least one as a helicopter pilot; a man who passionately loved his children’s mother, even though she was crippled when he met her and developed MS at age 34, until the day she died). He loved to garden and also to build things. He was funny and generous. He taught me so much about how to be alive in the world. I miss him every single day.
Now THAT is a legacy!