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Dear Reader,
You never know how your life could change direction when you enter a writing contest. Leah Weiss, today's guest author, cut her writing teeth on short story contests, reasoning that the prompt gave her direction, the word count gave her parameters, and if her story didn't win (which it never did at the start), she could view the winning entry and learn something new.
Leah retired in 2015 from a 24-year career as Executive Assistant to the Headmaster at a private school and now pursues writing full time.
Congratulations to author Leah Weiss and her debut novel, "If the Creek Don't Rise."
(Who knows what might happen if "you" enter this year's "Write a DearReader Contest." All of the details and prizes will be announced in my column on August 28th.)
Please welcome author Leah Weiss to the book club...you can reach her at leahstories@live.com
MOUNTAIN HIGH
Thank you, Suzanne, for this chance to contribute to your marvelous column on DearReader.com. You gave me a broad scope from which to choose, and I want to write about a place I love.
I was born in the flatland of North Carolina with its sandy soil and soaring pines. Where tobacco was king once-upon-a-time. Where peanuts were stacked in the field to dry, and baskets of sweet potatoes lay under feed sacks. But it isn't the flatland of my birthplace that tugs at my heartstrings when I need to go home. It is the blue mountains of Appalachia, along the arch of its spine, where the push-pull of days is held at bay. It's where rutted roads zigzag into the clouds. It's where peace resides.
I've often wondered why people are pulled to a certain kind of place--to desert or ocean, the sweeping plains or wooded hills. I believe it's a distinct imprint on the heart, this affinity that rises up and lays claim to where it belongs. Being in that right place feels like coming home. There's kinship with the air you breathe there, and the vistas your eyes rest upon. It's the magnetic pull you can't explain that takes you to where your soul longs to be.
For sixty years I've lived in sight of these blue hills, and two years ago I retired. The freedom that followed has often taken me to the mountains where I join similar souls. We walk steep, rocky trails, snap photos of Jack in the Pulpits, or Shaggy Mane mushrooms, and someone can identify birdsongs and animal tracks on the creek bank. The climb to claim the mountain tests lungs and aging knees, but the journey is satisfying, and--oh my heavens--the rewarding views. On clear days, the staggered layers of blue stretch into tomorrow. On cloudy days the mist swirls around ancient boulders and gnarly trees. Everything is grounded in such a magical place.
It is no wonder my book's characters live in these mountains. I knew that for a long spell I would spend time writing in isolation, spinning this tale and knitting together words, and I wanted to love going there. To the familiar brush of wild ferns along a path. To the rush of clear water tumbling. To the canopy of tall trees where spires of sunlight strike the earth, and to be awed.
--Leah Weiss
leahstories@live.com
Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.
Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com
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