“Somehow Northerners have the vague idea that Southerners are just like them, except for their funny way of talking… I know I thought that. Seeing Truman with the [others], however, I realized that there is a whole shared experience in being Southern.”

–from the biography of Truman Capote, “Capote,” by Gerald Clarke

The cousins named a deer after me–Little Belle. She’s probably the fawn that runs ahead of the doe, gets lost in the woods, subsequently finds her way and then dreams about the hours, minutes, seconds, days that she spent alone. The little brain and big, wide eyes can’t really recollect or see the days for what they were. I am the deer and the deer is me and the cold twilight and loneliness have a habit of being romanticized and turned into times of exploration and self-actualization.

I want to change.

I want to see things for what they really are. I don’t want to deify, glorify or over conceptualize things from my past. Zora Neale Hurston said, “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” This year–right this very moment!–I want to realize the beauties before me, the blessings that have been handed down (from somewhere–from above?). I don’t want to look back with the requisite misty eyes and wish that I were still single instead of with Southern Boy, that I were living in Trastevere, Rome instead of SoHo, New York, that I were writing news scripts for broadcasts instead of chapters for a novel. I want to live in the here and now.

Ms. Hurston would have claimed these past twelve months to be my Year of Answers. In the same manner, Truman Capote would have said that this was my year of Answered Prayers. I fell in love with a beautiful loving soul (a man that I had heretofore only known in my most ambitious daytime reveries), I pursued my passion for writing and actually achieved my dream, I grew closer to my family.

I’m out of the woods. I’m on the right path. I’m experiencing a wonderful time in my life… which probably means that the cousins are up in the tree stand, aiming to shoot me, stuff me, mount me on the bedroom wall.

Damn, there I go again.

The smell of newsprint thrills me as much today just as it did when I was a little girl, hoisted on Granddaddy’s hip, taking a tour of the back shop. I remember inhaling the heady mixture of ink, bay breezes and dirt…

I did it! With–and only with–y’all’s help. Many, many thanks to all my readers.

FICTION: DEBUT.
BELLE OF NEW YORK, about a beautiful Southern Debutante who comes to New York and lands a job in the mosh pit news room of a highly conservative cable network while reveling in the hedonisitic pleasures of the city, based on the blog BELLE IN THE BIG APPLE, was sold to Sarah McGrath at Scribner, by Bill Contardi at Brandt & Hochman (world rights acquired).

Looks like I’ll be staying in the Big Apple after all… Now, all I have to do is convince Southern Boy to move up here with me.

“This is it,” Suze said, her tone much like that of my older sister. I knew that she wanted to sound out her definitive vision of me and my life but, she held back, she knew that I could hear the muddle of mischief and disbelief in her voice. “L-O-V-E, love—you love the man. Don’t deny it.” The more authoritative she sounded, the more she wanted me to substantiate her claims.

“I’m not denying anything,” I responded contentedly. I held the phone in one hand and the stem of my wine glass in the other. Our five o’clock cocktail ritual had somewhat changed since Suze had gotten married, popped out a son and moved to Long Island. Instead of the two of us sharing a bottle of wine on my terrace, I nursed a glass and looked out my kitchen window as she breastfed the baby in her living room and sipped a Jamba Juice smoothie.

“Listen to you! You’re so calm and assured and— Shit! The baby just bit my nipple. Can you hold on while I switch boobs?”

Aaaah… The trials and tribulations of having a lactating friend…

“I’m back! Are you there? Belle?”

“Still here.”

“Anyway, I was saying that you’re more calm, more private—is ‘serene’ an appropriate word for a 25 year-old?”

“You’re right, everything is different, easier, you know? Things just fall into place whereas before, with the others, I felt like I had to work so hard. Now I realize that I had to put forth all that effort because it was wrong, the guys were wrong, we were wrong together—”

“Have you ever seen a bleeding nipple? Shit, I wish I could show you mine right now—looks like they’ve been through a meat-grinder.”

“Back to serenity…”

“Yeah, come on, talk to me. Tell me about the little things, the sweet stuff. Christ, at this point I’d be happy to hear about anything that takes my mind off of these giant lactating footballs that the doctor calls breasts.”

“Well, he writes me love letters,” I began, suddenly shy.

“That’s it— you have to read me one.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Suze. It’s kind of private and—”

“Whatever. You know the condition of my nipples, I can know the state of your relationship.”

“Fine. Here goes. This is an email that I woke up to this morning.”

Belle,

Tonight I go to sleep worried, troubled as I think of my love in even the slightest discomfort, discouraged that you are so far away, that there is nothing I can do to comfort you, that these futile words are my only offering. Frustration. I find myself in a situation where I am out of control- I want to do something, I want to fix it (this what I do, I fix things) I want to fix you- I want to hold you close and make everything ok. Alas, I can’t. Rather I lie here a thousand miles, pulling my covers tight, wrapping my arms around nothing, saying a prayer for you, my baby… Then, just before sleep comes, I pull the sheets a little closer, whisper I LOVE YOU but no one is there to hear it… I sigh, and think of you one last time. Good night, my sweet.

“Killing me, killing me,” Suze said in what was her shorthand way of expressing unmitigated approval.

“Everything with him just makes sense. It’s easy.”

“He’s Southern, you’re Southern– The baby just barfed on my new cashmere sweater. Can we talk tomorrow? Same time, same place?”

Girl’s night on the town and C. looks like a Hoover vacuum, coke on any flat surface are her dust and debris. I called “Mimi” to come and save me, talk to me, sip vodka with me instead of snorting dust with the rest. She was at home, watching movies w. her new beau. Smart girl.

Maybe I’ll stay in tonight.