I recently read The Poisonwood Bible for the second time. It’s interesting how it’s a different experience after I’ve become a mother and after I’ve have had more life experiences. What stuck with me this time wasn’t the politics, religion, or the history as much as a mother’s fear of living in a place that doesn’t feel safe.
Years ago, we lived on a ranch where there were a lot of rattlesnakes. (I know, you’ve heard me talk about this before.) We had hundreds in the vicinity. For the first year we were there, I worried almost every single day that my small child would get bitten. And possibly die since we were far from any hospital or antivenom. I didn’t talk about it much, but it was always there in my head. Every walk outside, every noise in the grass, every moment my child was out of my sight. I truly believed that any day could be the day something terrible would happen.
After about a year, something shifted. I still knew the danger was there, but I wasn’t consumed by it anymore. I had learned where the snakes were likely to be, when to be extra careful, and when I could relax a little. The fear didn’t disappear; it just stopped running my life.
One day I told my husband how I wasn’t worrying as much. He was stunned, and frankly, kind of appalled. He couldn’t believe I had lived with that level of anxiety every day. He had no idea. We were in the same place, raising the same child, but our inner experiences were completely different.
I thought about this when reading The Poisonwood Bible. A mother, Orleanna, did the best that she could, given her circumstances, to prepare for their new life. Like bringing cake mixes for her daughter’s birthdays, only to have the mixes turn to rock in the humidity. Such a symbol of motherhood/parenthood. We do the best we can. The trials that we may face are not the ones we expected. And Nathan, so sure he was right, so focused on his mission and his authority, his divine calling, that he didn’t notice what was happening to the people around him. (Not that my husband was a tyrant or a fanatic!)
The book also made me think about living and trying to parent in an oppressive patriarchal society. A general observation, while male egos and cultures clash, it’s the citizens who pay the price. Nathan’s rigid religious authority collided with local power structures and culture. While he was so wrapped up in his zeal to save souls, trying to live by the laws in The Bible, that he missed the message of The Gospel. And he was so bent on changing the local “heathen” customs, without really looking at or connecting to the people, he was doomed to fail. No one wins when the people in power are fighting to maintain power instead of helping society. When patriarchies rule, all citizens end up paying the price. Even those in charge seem trapped by the need to dominate rather than care.
I guess I’m feeling this more than ever before. It’s what’s happening in the world. For me, The Poisonwood Bible landed as a reminder that paying attention matters and caring about people matters. And the people who notice danger, who quietly adapt, who carry the worry, so others don’t have to, are often invisible. But they’re doing the work that keeps everyone alive.
I think about that first year with the rattlesnakes sometimes. I think about how long I carried that fear alone. And reading this book helped me see that experience more clearly—not as weakness, but as awareness.
And now here is a picture of a Christmas kitten so you won’t be so bummed out.
In late October, I spoke at the J.B. Nickells Memorial Libraryin Luling, Texas. An author talk, although I feel like an imposter calling it that. I write slowly, have published only a few short stories plus a novella co-written with a real author, haven’t published a novel of my own, . . . I’m not really an author . . . Well, you get the idea.
The condition is not new, and I’m not the only sufferer. New Austin Mystery Writer Noreen Cedeno recently posted on Ink-Stained Wretches Bouchercon and the Imposter Syndrome. On today’s Writer Unboxed blog, Rachel Toalson posted The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Imposter Syndrome Crisis. Nobody looking at these two writers’ lists of publications would describe either as an imposter—they are writers. I, on the other hand, am an imposter.
When invited to speak in Luling, however, I didn’t let impostership stop me. I said, Yes. I had my reasons.
In the first place, I love talking about books. I’d rather talk about other people’s books, but since retiring as a librarian, I don’t get to give booktalks anymore. I miss that.
In the second place, I was born in the old Luling Hospital and six years later left my tonsils there. I grew up, and lived for years after, in Fentress, a very small town ten miles from Luling. I was a member of the Rainbow Girls chapter in Luling. I spent a lot of time at the Luling DQ. My maternal great-grandparents lived there; my grandmother was born there. My mother’s family lived there for two years when she was in junior high (and she and her sister were the first girls to wear shorts to play tennis in Longer Park). And two cousins on my father’s side who grew up three blocks up the street from me in Fentress married Luling natives. In short, Luling is my old stomping ground.
I wanted so much to speak in Luling that I decided to pretend I was a real author.
Note: I’m not a total fraud. I mean, I not only gave booktalks at my libraries, I once gave a booktalk at a meeting of the Seguin, Texas, Kiwanis Club. I was a professional librarian. Real.
As a professional, I arrived prepared: outline, notes, quotations, copies of the anthologies containing my short stories and of the novella co-written with Manning Wolfe. The librarian escorted me to the room where I was to speak. I laid out my books and materials.
Then things fell apart.
About a half-hour before the presentation was to begin, kinfolk arrived: Peggy, a second cousin whose family lived up the street in Fentress; Brownie, her late sister’s husband; and Brownie’s daughter and son-in-law and granddaughter. I hadn’t seen them in forever. So the family reunion began.
By the time I went on stage, so to speak, I was was having so much fun that I scrapped my notes and just talked. And talked. And talked.
Minna Katherine Stagner Veazey and Col. John L. Veazey
First, I shared some local history that has faded from the town’s memory: the story of my great-grandfather, Col. John L. Veazey, who took his wife and two young daughters to Cuba for the Spanish-American War, and who was murdered in broad daylight on Luling’s Main Street in 1904. No one in the audience had heard the story. I told other stories. I talked about writing. I had a drawing and gave away some books. I talked.
Afterward, there was more family reunion, and Fentress reunion, since one member of the audience was the daughter, and the granddaughter, of Fentress residents.
I had the time of my life.
Then speaker’s remorse set in. I had done a terrible job, just babbled, talked too fast, bored the dickens out of everyone, left my education at home, made a fool of myself—it’s not like I don’t know how to conduct myself before an audience, but I totally forgot myself, lost all sense of decorum, and was just awful. Imposter author, imposter speaker. Simply dreadful.
But. One man—actually, the only man who stayed for the program—Tom Brown Webb, Jr., familiarly known as Brownie. He married my cousin Janell Waller sixty-nine years ago, when they were both nineteen. That was just before my fifth birthday. When I was a child, I knew Janell and her sisters were princesses. She died nearly four years ago,
During the reunion, I told Brownie something I’d wanted to say for a good while—I thanked him for being so nice to me when I was a disgusting and ever-present four-year-old extremely excited about wedding plans; he always treated me as if I were a real person and not just a little kid.
He left right after I finished speaking. I just knew he’d been so bored that he couldn’t wait to get outta there. But we had all agreed to meet soon for lunch at a cafe in Fentress. I would apologize then.
Last week, nine days after we met at the library, Peggy called to say Brownie had died. Unexpectedly. She also said he’d enjoyed his evening at the library. His daughter said the same thing, that he’d talked a lot about it, said he learned things he hadn’t known, that he could “just see” everything I described, and “wouldn’t your mother have enjoyed that.” After the funeral, his son-in-law told me the same.
Imposter Syndrome. If I’d given in to it and declined the invitation to speak in Luling, I wouldn’t have seen Brownie one last time. I wouldn’t have told him how much I appreciated his kindness to a little girl. I wouldn’t have known he enjoyed listening to the stories I told. I wouldn’t have the memory of a happy time with a treasured relative.
I still feel like an imposter. But I’m finished with speaker’s remorse. Brownie enjoyed my talk. That’s all the validation I need.
***
Kathy Waller blogs at Telling the Truth, Mainly. She has almost completed a draft of a mystery novel. When she gets to “The End,” she will no longer feel like an imposter, probably.
She is grateful to fellow Austin Mystery Writer Helen Currie Fosterfor telling the librarian at the Nickells Library that she is a writer, and for not mentioning that she is an imposter,
It’s fall in Paris. The rows of chestnuts flanking the Seine are turning golden-brown; gingko trees sport their distinctive yellow leaves, preparing to fling down, on one afternoon they keep secret, all their leaves at once.
Fall fashion? Long hair for women, slim tan trench coats at mid-calf, midi-length swishy skirts. Anyone can wear jeans and sneakers (male, female, old, young) with a blazer-cut jacket. In the markets, apples from the Garonne (Pixie Pommes!), quantities of mushrooms, cashmere scarves. Kids scurry to school at eight while their older siblings stride down Rue de l’Universite toward Science Po.
I’m forever grateful to Madame, our wondrous French teacher at McCallum High in Austin. On the first trip to Paris over fifty years ago, fresh off the early train, my husband and I stopped at a café where I opened my mouth in fear and trembling to order in French—deux cafes et deux croissants.
To my shock the proprietor didn’t blink. And the result was magic—our first taste of croissant.
Long past high school I still say “Merci, Madame!” A Parisienne, she had (I believe) a PhD. She maintained perfect class discipline—even with smarty seniors. When anyone asks, how did you learn French? I say, “Madame! She made us sing songs!” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=96JRl7bER3g&list=RD96JRl7bER3g&start_radio=1
As to “à la Claire Fontaine” I suspect she omitted the first two verses—at least I don’t remember singing about bathing beneath a tree! But this song and the rest we still remember, decades later.
Sur le Pont d’Avignon…Frère Jacques…Alouette, gentille alouette, je te plumerai (le nez, le cou, et la tete, et le dos, etc.). At Christmas, Il est né, le divin enfant. Twisting your tongue around the pretty French words leaves you with life skills.
(She didn’t teach us La Marseillaise. But I still get chills when, in Casablanca, Victor Laszlo leads the crowd at Rick’s in singing it.)
And another beloved teacher taught both Latin and English. She could order grown seniors to race to the blackboard to diagram sentences, and insisted we use proper punctuation.
What was it about those favorite teachers? They made us learn. They brooked no foolishness. They could tell when we faked preparation. They thrust us into difficult novels, demanding paintings, complex unfamiliar music. Hitherto hidden histories. Concepts we hadn’t invented or come upon by ourselves.
Maybe we did learn. Maybe—that learning is worthwhile.
Yesterday we visited La Fondation Louis Vuitton to visit what architect Frank Gehry dreamed of as an iceberg with sails.
Curves, lines, water, wood… magical in their power.
The building invites you to wander and wonder. What imagination, what creativity, what a vision! I listened to the rippling water traveling down the slope—the sound took over. Couldn’t hear traffic, or talking. Just the water–in the middle of a vast city. Being there takes you back to Roman stonework (rectangles, arches, roads in straight lines), and then to the power of curved sails, moved by wind and water. People working there seemed quietly confident that visitors should and would be (but not literally) blown away.
READING: I’m very much enjoying Susan Wittig Albert’s Thyme, Place & Story website where she is now serializing the first China Bayles book–A Bitter Taste of Garlic. Many of us are fans of this series, and would be delighted to visit China’s herb shop in a town not far from Austin…!
I just finished Mick Herron’s Down Cemetery Road. I found it much scarier than the Slow Horses novels…but still wanted to know the ending. It was published over 20 years ago and apparently will be streaming in October.
On the flight over I was reading Graham Robb’s France, including some tales of Paris that were scarier than Down Cemetery Road. Like being the butt of your buddies’ jokes and winding up as a prisoner in Fenestrelle, a political prison during the Napoleonic era. https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forteresse_de_Fenestrelle
Meanwhile, at home, Ghost Justice is now out! Book 10 in my Alice MacDonald Greer Mystery Series set in the Hill Country. Available at BookPeople on Lamar Blvd. in Austin https://bookpeople.com/ and on Amazon. https://amzn.to/4pk8WQO
Hope you’ll enjoy it!
Helen Currie Foster lives and writes the Alice MacDonald Greer Mystery Series north of Dripping Springs, loosely supervised by three burros. She’s drawn to the compelling landscape and quirky characters of the Texas Hill Country. She’s also deeply curious about our human history and prehistory and how, uninvited, the past keeps crashing the party. Follow her at http://www.helencurriefoster.com.
I’m working on a mystery novel—I’ve been working on it for years, but am now seeing the light at the end of the tunnel—and am faced with dilemmas too numerous to whine about in only one post, so I’ll move along.
I will instead write about the one pleasure of the writing life: creating and naming characters.
My novel is set in a little town very like my own hometown. I don’t base my plot on real events, and I don’t use real people as characters—with one exception: Steve Dauchy.
Not Steve, but close
Note: One of my readers, Dr. Cullen Dauchy, knows more about Steve than I do, especially about his early life, and I hope he’ll feel free to correct any errors.
Steve Dauchy was a career blood donor at Katy Veterinary Clinicin Katy, Texas. On retirement he moved to Fentress, where he lived with his veterinarian-owner’s parents, Joe and Norma Dauchy. Joe and Norma lived next door to me; in local terms, next door meant that my house was on one corner, then there was a half-acre “patch” of pecan and peach trees and grass and weeds, then a street, and then on the next corner, the Dauchy yard and their house. The point being that when Steve visited me, he didn’t just stroll across a driveway.
Joe was my dad’s first cousin, so I guess that makes Steve and me second cousins. I have a lot of cousins on that side of the family, although most are human.
Steve is a family name, with a story behind it. As I understand it, back in the ’20s or ’30s, my Great-uncle Cull (Joseph Cullen Dauchy, Sr.), enjoyed listening to a radio program about a Greek character who frequently spoke of “my cat Steve and her little cattens.” Uncle Cull was so amused by the phrase that he named a cat—probably one of the barn cats—Steve. And for the next forty or so years, he always had a cat named Steve.
Uncle Cull and Aunt Myrtle Dauchy’s house, home of the first Steves
So when the clinic cat became part of the Uncle Cull’s son and daughter-in-law’s family, he became the latest in a long line of Steves.
How to describe Steve? He was a fine figure of a cat: a big tabby, deep orange, with an expression of perpetual boredom. His reaction to nearly everything translated as, “Meh.” I’ve heard that’s common among clinic cats.
Once when Steve was standing on my front porch, the neighbor’s Great Dane got loose and charged over. I was frantic, shouting at the dog, shouting at Steve. But when the dog hit the porch, Steve just looked up at him. Dog turned around and trotted home.
Some would say Steve was brave, and I’m sure he was. But I believe his grace under pressure had its roots elsewhere.
First, he had experience. He knew dogs. In his former employment, he’d observed the breed: big, little, yappy, whining, growling, howling, cringing, confined to carriers, restrained by leashes, sporting harnesses and rhinestone collars, hair wild and matted, sculpted ‘dos and toenails glistening pink from the OPI Neon Collection. He’d seen them all. He was not impressed.
Facing down a Great Dane, however, took more than experience. There was something in Steve’s character, an inborn trait that marked him for greatness: his overarching sense of entitlement. He was never in the wrong place at the wrong time. My porch was his porch. The world was his sardine.
Except for the kitchen counter. Steve thought kitchen counters were for sleeping, but Joe and Norma’s maid didn’t. Consequently, he stayed outside a lot. He took ostracism in stride and used his freedom to range far and wide. Far and wide meant my yard.
Steve’s house
At that time I had three indoor cats—Christabel, Chloe, and Alice B. Toeclaws—and a raft of outdoor cats. The outdoor cats started as strays, but I made the mistake of naming them, which meant I had to feed them, which meant they were mine. Chief among them was Bunny, a black cat who had arrived as a teenager with his gray-tabby mother, Edith.
One day Bunny, Edith, and I were out picking up pecans when Steve wandered over to pay his respects, or, more likely, to allow us to pay our respects to him. Bunny perked up, put on his dangerous expression, and walked out to meet the interloper. It was like watching the opening face-off in Gunsmoke.
But instead of scrapping, they stopped and sat down, face to face, only inches apart. Each raised his right paw above his head and held it there a moment. Next, simultaneously, they bopped each other on the top of the head about ten times. Then they toppled over onto their sides, got up, and walked away.
That happened every time they met. Maybe it was just a cat thing, a neighborly greeting, something like a Masonic handshake. But I’ve wondered if it might have had religious significance. Bunny was a Presbyterian, and Steve was a Methodist, and both had strong Baptist roots, and although none of those denominations is big on ritual, who knows what a feline sect might entail?
Steve had a Macavity-like talent for making himself invisible. Occasionally when I opened my front door, he slipped past and hid in a chair at the dining room table, veiled by the tablecloth. When he was ready to leave, he would hunt me down—Surprise!—and lead me to the door. Once, during an extended stay, he used the litter box. Christabel, Chloe, and Alice B. Toeclaws were not amused.
Distance Steve traveled between his house and mine. His house is way over there behind the trees.
Invisibility could work against him, though. Backing out of the driveway one morning, I saw in the rearview mirror a flash streaking across the yard. I got out and looked around but found nothing and so decided I’d imagined it. When I got home from work, I made a thorough search and located Steve under my house, just out of reach. I called, coaxed, cajoled. He stared. It was clear: he’d been behind the car when I backed out, I’d hit him, and he was either too hurt to move or too disgusted to give me the time of day.
It took a long time and a can of sardines to get him out. I delivered him to the veterinarian in Lockhart; she advised leaving him for observation. A couple of days later, I picked him up. Everything was in working order, she said, cracked pelvis, nothing to do but let him get over it.
“Ordinarily,” said the vet, “I would have examined him and sent him home with you the first day. I could tell he was okay. But you told me his owner’s son is a vet, and I was afraid I’d get it wrong.”
Although he was an indoor-outdoor cat, Steve managed plenty of indoor time at his own house, too, especially in winter, and when the maid wasn’t there. One cold day, the family smelled something burning. They found Steve snoozing atop the propane space heater in the kitchen. His tail hung down the side, in front of the vent. The burning smell was the hair on his tail singeing. They moved him to a safer location. I presume he woke up during relocation.
At night, he had his own bedroom, a little garden shed in the back yard. He slept on the seat of the lawnmower, snuggled down on a cushion. Except when he didn’t.
One extremely cold night, I was piled up in bed under an extra blanket and three cats. About two a.m., I woke up to turn over—sleeping under three cats requires you to wake up to turn over—and in the process, reached down and touched one of the cats. It was not my cat.
I cannot describe the wave of fear that swept over me. It sounds ridiculous now, but finding myself in the dark with an unidentified beast, and unable to jump and run without first extricating myself from bedding and forty pounds of cat—I lay there paralyzed.
Unnecessarily, of course. The extra cat was Steve. He’s sneaked in and, considering the weather forecast, decided that sleeping with a human and three other cats in a bed would be superior to hunkering down on a lawnmower.
Steve’s full name was, of course, Steve Dauchy. In my book, he will be Steve MacCaskill. MacCaskill was the name of a family who lived next door to my Aunt Bettie and Uncle Maurice. Their children were friends of my father and his brothers and their many cousins. They were a happy family.
“My family had to plan everything,” my dad’s cousin Lucyle Dauchy Meadows (Steve’s aunt) told me, “but the MacCaskills were spontaneous. If they decided they wanted to go to a movie, they just got into the car and went to a movie.” When Lucyle and the other girls helped their friend Mary Burns MacCaskill tidy her room before the Home Demonstration Agent came to examine it, one of the first things they did was to remove the alligator from the bathtub.
I heard so many delightful stories about the MacCaskill family that I decided they were too good to be true. Then, at Aunt Bettie’s 100th birthday party, my mother introduced me to Mary Burns MacCaskill, who had traveled from Ohio for the party.
So as an homage to that family, I’ve named my main character Molly MacCaskill. And when choosing a pet for Molly, I couldn’t choose a finer beast than Steve.
*
Note: Cullen Dauchy no longer owns Katy Veterinary Clinic, but he did when Steve worked there, and the clinic was Steve’s first home, so I’m leaving the link.
And I’m so glad the Home Demonstration agent didn’t inspect bedrooms when I was a girl. I didn’t have an alligator, but she might have thought I had something worse.
***
This post first appeared in Ink-Stained Wretches in 2021.
***
Kathy Waller blogs at Telling the Truth, Mainly. She has published short stories, and a novella co-written with Manning Wolfe. She is perpetually working on a novel.
When people talk about Bouchercon, especially in New Orleans, they usually share stories of late nights, legendary meals, bustling crowds, powdery beignets, and lots of alcohol.
That wasn’t my week.
But the funny thing is—I still accomplished exactly what I went to do.
My panel, Wide Open Spaces, with Craig Johnson, Bruce Borgos, Jeff Ayers, George Wilhite, and moderated by the lovely Sylissa Franklin was a highlight. The conversation flowed, and the audience was engaged. I made them laugh a few times and even got a gasp. So, mission accomplished. I walked away feeling like I’d contributed something worthwhile.
I also got to meet Clay Stafford in person and thank him for publishing my short story, Under The Blackjack Tree, in Killer Nashville Magazine. (The story that was chosen by John Grisham and Otto Penzler for The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2025, which is still surreal to me. (Coming out next week!) Stafford’s keynote, The Story That Saved Me, was “cry for crime writers and readers to remember why stories of darkness and redemption still matter—and why telling the truth on the page can save us, too.” Honestly, it was one of the most inspiring talks I’ve heard in a long while. Glad I went.
Another highlight was finally meeting Otto Penzler in person. I thanked him for the opportunity, and he graciously signed my copy of the anthology. A small moment, but one I’ll carry with me.
At the end of most days, I met up with Laura Oles in the hotel/lounge bar. (It was so noisy all of the time!) We compared notes at the end of the day—who we’d seen, what panels had sparked ideas. She was on a terrific panel herself, Dialogue Matters: Slang, Concise, or Verbose? The group dug into how dialogue can reveal character and control pacing, which is something that I’m always working on.
I also loved being in the audience for Sweet Tea with a Splash of Crime: The Southern Influence, with Ace Atkins, S.A. Cosby, and other writers who captured both the grit and taste of Southern literature, and where it’s headed. Another standout was Killing Your Darlings, with Penzler and Donald Maass, which was a sharp reminder that ego doesn’t belong in the editing room if the goal is to make the story better.
And one of my favorite unexpected moments? Donald Maass allowed me to join him for lunch one afternoon. We had a thoughtful conversation about Writer Unboxed, an organization we’re both part of, about writing in general, and drawing inspiration from real life,. It was simple but memorable, the kind of connection that lingers long after the conference ends.
So no, this wasn’t a Bouchercon of big parties or long nights on Bourbon Street. But it was a Bouchercon where I hit my goals, connected with people who matter to me, and left with a few new insights and ideas. Sometimes the quieter wins are the ones that last.
Where small-timers are concerned, the rule seems to have fallen by the wayside, and that’s a shame. It stimulated creativity.
***
The backstory:
I wrote the following review to answer a “challenge.” I intended to post it at the end of September 2009. But in the process of writing, I got all tangled up in words and couldn’t finish even the first sentence.
I intended to post it at the end of October. I still couldn’t write it.
Finally, after telling myself I didn’t care, I managed to write it after the October deadline.*
In the middle of the “process,” I considered posting the following review: “I like Nancy Peacock’s A Broom of One’s Own very very very very very much.”
But the challenge specified a four-sentence review, and that was only one, and I didn’t want to repeat it three times.
So there’s the background.
I must also add this disclaimer: I bought my copy of A Broom of One’s Own myself, with my own money. No one told, asked, or paid me to write this review. No one told, asked, or paid me to say I like the book. No one told, asked, or paid me to like it. No one offered me tickets to Rio or a week’s lodging in Venice, more’s the pity. I decided to read the book, to like it, and to write this review all by myself, at the invitation of Story Circle Book Review Challenge. Nobody paid them either. Amen.
*********************************************
The review:
I like Nancy Peacock’s A Broom of One’s Own: Words About Writing, Housecleaning & Life so much that it’s taken me over two months and two missed deadlines to untangle my thoughts and write this four-sentence review, an irony Peacock, author of two critically acclaimed novels, would no doubt address were I in one of her writing classes.
She would probably tell me that there is no perfect writing life; that her job as a part-time house cleaner, begun when full-time writing wouldn’t pay the bills, afforded time, solitude, and the “foundation of regular work” she needed; that engaging in physical labor allowed her unconscious mind to “kick into gear,” so she became not the writer but the “receiver” of her stories.
She’d probably say that writing is hard; that sitting at a desk doesn’t automatically bring brilliance; that writers have to work with what they have; that “if I don’t have the pages I hate I will never have the pages I love”; that there are a million “saner” things to do and a “million good reasons to quit” and that the only good reason to continue is, “This is what I want.”
So, having composed at least two dozen subordinated, coordinated, appositived, participial-phrase-stuffed first sentences and discarding them before completion; having practically memorized the text searching for the perfect quotation to end with; and having once again stayed awake into the night, racing another deadline well past the due date, I am completing this review—because I value Nancy Peacock’s advice; and because I love A Broom of One’s Own; and because I consider it the equal of Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird; and because I want other readers to know about it; and because this is what I want.
*Not caring is often the key to cracking writer’s block. Nancy Peacock probably would say that, too.
If your idea of the perfect vacation getaway includes time on the beach, a bookstore visit and a coffee shop stop, then I have the perfect place for you. Coffee Waves is one of my regular stops when visiting the island, and on a recent weekend trip, I pulled into the parking lot and found my dream come true—a new bookstore!
I’ve long believed that Coffee Waves was the perfect place to host a bookstore. The shop has a substantial nook with welcoming open arches and enough room to browse, sip and read. This area is now home to Sea Shelves by the Seashore. As I took time to scan the shelves, I was impressed with the varied selection and thoughtful choices offered. I felt the selection reflected a love of books and a mission to offer a wide range of options to readers of all ages. It was also a lovely surprise to find my Jamie Rush novels on the shelf!
I had the good fortune to meet the owner, Myra Barreiro, on a recent visit and enjoyed getting to know her. I wanted to learn more about her background and her journey in bringing Sea Shelves to life. When I invited her to share her story with Austin Mystery Writers, she was gracious with her time. Below is our conversation:
LO: Hi Myra! Thank you so much for speaking with us. Please share a bit about yourself.
MB: Hi! My name is Myra. I have lived in Port Aransas for four years but have been visiting for 13. I grew up in Mineral Wells, Texas. In the time between graduating high school and opening my own bookstore, I have served 4 years in the United States Army as an Intelligence Analyst, worked for Lockheed Martin for 7 years (also as an Intelligence Analyst), graduated from Sam Houston State University with a Bachelor’s degree of Science in Public Health, and–most recently–helped manage and run two local shops for several years in Port Aransas. I have two extremely smart and handsome boys, a dog named Kahlua, and a black cat named Michael B. Kitty… that’s what I call him, but he has several names.
LO: Many people dream of one day opening a bookstore. What made you decide to bring this idea to reality?
MB: It’s funny how opening a bookstore seems to be a dream for many. I am very happy to have had the chance to turn my dream into a reality. So, as mentioned before, I was helping to manage two local shops, and had been doing so for a while, but it was time for me to move on and create something for myself, something I thought this community desperately needed. I had been dreaming about opening a bookstore on the island for several years, and stepping away from my previous position allowed me to move forward with that dream.
LO: I’ve always thought the back lounge area of Coffee Waves was the perfect location for a bookstore or reading area. How did this relationship come about and how long did it take?
MB: When I decided I was going to make this bookstore dream happen, finding the perfect location was pretty high up on my list of priorities. I drove all around the island looking for properties or buildings, units with potential. I asked realtor friends if they had any info on empty commercial spaces, but nothing piqued my interest. There were spaces, but they were either already under contract or not in the right location, weren’t the right size, and out of my price range. I started to think my dream would remain just that, a dream. I almost gave up until I started thinking on a smaller scale. I had a crazy idea to maybe ask other businesses if they wouldn’t mind letting me take up a bit of their space. Set up shop in an existing shop. I wondered if that was a thing, so I did a search on the internet and sure enough, it was something that was happening all over. I took some notes. Wrote out pros and cons and key things to bring up while talking to businesses to get them onboard with the idea. After researching a bit more, I started a list of potential businesses that might be willing to let me move forward with the idea of putting a bookstore inside of their existing shop.
Naturally, Coffee Waves was at the top of my list. Who doesn’t love a good book with a cup of coffee? And they have that overflow seating area?? It seemed like the perfect place to make it happen. I came in and asked if I could schedule a meeting with someone to discuss the idea. We scheduled a meeting, met up, and I pitched my idea. I said, “I don’t want to take away from your seating, I just want to occupy your wall space.” They mulled it over for about a week and decided to give me the green light! I was so unbelievably elated until I realized I had about 2 weeks to get this dream up and running before the chaos of Spring Break! I immediately placed an order for shelving and my first book order and haven’t stopped since.
LO: You’ve done a wonderful job of curating both titles and genres. Can you share a bit more about how you choose what to carry?
MB: I receive recommendations every now and then of specific titles or authors, but the curation of titles has been mostly research. When I initially thought of opening a bookstore, I wanted to focus solely on beach, island, small fishing town, and vacation themed reads, but not everyone is into that and I wanted to give people options, so I started researching. What were people reading in 2024? What are they looking forward to reading in 2025? Best-selling genres? What are the top favorites and must-read titles of all time? Favorite classics? What’s trending on BookTok? I took my findings and curated what you’ve seen in the bookstore and continue to add to it every week.
LO: What do you love to read? And has opening Sea Shelves impacted your reading in any way?
MB: My favorite genres are psychological thrillers, mystery, and horror. I’m drawn to scary stories with twist endings and stories that make you think.
If opening the store has had any impact on my reading, I would have to say that I am now more willing to read and am interested in reading genres outside of my favorites. Thrillers will probably always be my favorite, but I’ve come to appreciate and enjoy reading other genres as well. I have over 1200 titles on the sea shelves and would love to get through them all. Maybe one day I will(:
LO: I met Beatrice when purchasing a book during my last visit. Please tell us about her.
Meet Beatrice!
MB: I’m jealous she had the chance to meet you before I did.
Beatrice is amazing. Hardest working employee I have. She’s great. Since not taking away from the coffee shop’s seating was a big selling point in setting up the bookstore here, the books are out and exposed during the coffee shop’s business hours, 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. As much as I’d love to be at the bookstore all day, I have other responsibilities outside of the shop that need my attention, and sometimes I just need to step away for a quick lunch or to run a quick errand. That’s where Beatrice comes in. She holds it down while I’m away. It was an easy decision to set up a self-checkout option, giving customers the ability to make a purchase even if I was not physically present. Customers seem to love having the option to checkout with Beatrice, and I think giving her a name makes the experience a little more personable for them. Definitely a great addition to the bookstore.
LO: Anything else you’d like to share?
MB: I would just like to say that this entire experience of opening a bookstore has been a roller coaster ride and a dream come true. I encourage anyone who has the same dream to go for it if they are ever presented with the opportunity. Taking the first step will be scary but definitely worth it.
I would also like to thank Coffee Waves Port Aransas for giving me a chance to live out my dream in their space, and Laura Oles for this interview and giving me the opportunity to share my story.
LO: Thanks so much, Myra, for sharing how Sea Shelves started as a dream and became a reality. I know Sea Shelves is quickly becoming a favorite of locals and visitors.
***
Some readers may know that my mystery series is set in a fictional version of Port Aransas. Maybe Jamie and Cookie will make a stop into Sea Shelves one day? Jamie’s always on the lookout for an Elmore Leonard novel, and I know she’d love this place.
Laura Oles is the award-winning author of the Jamie Rush mystery series. Her work has appeared in crime fiction anthologies, consumer magazines and business publications. Her debut mystery, Daughters of Bad Men, was an Agatha nominee, a Claymore Award finalist, and a Writers’ League of Texas Award finalist. Depths of Deceit, her second novel, was named Best Mystery by Indies Today. She loves road trips, bookstores and any outdoor activity that doesn’t involve running.She lives in the Texas Hill Country with her family. (https://lauraoles.com)
Have you ever researched something—like a purse, a computer, or even a car—only to suddenly notice it everywhere, even though you hadn’t before? Inspiration for stories works the same way.
One of the most common questions authors hear is: “Where do you get your ideas?” The answer: pretty much everywhere—news articles, books, movies, history, snippets of conversation, personal experiences… inspiration can spark from the smallest detail.
I’m currently writing a historical novella, and inspiration is coming from all directions. I feel like a goalie in a soccer match—I’m fully immersed.
Story Settings and Characters
My protagonist is a young woman named Martha. She’s married to Tom, who has moved her far from home—and life isn’t unfolding as she expected. (Isn’t that always the case? But is it simply the way things are, or is something nefarious at work?) They’re building a cabin in the East Texas woods around 1830. I imagined they’d arrived at the tail end of the Old 300, grabbing land wherever they could. (Although the story could take place anywhere from 1820 to 1880, west of Virginia in pine country, I discovered that pines aren’t as widespread as I once thought—which is why research matters.)
As I write, Martha is revealing herself to me—like she exists on another plane and there’s a conduit between us through something I call “the ether,” a metaphysical space. (Is that a real thing? I don’t know—dammit, Jim, I’m a writer, not a metaphysicist!) Her voice is growing stronger. Her past and current life are becoming clearer. When she speaks, it feels like she’s speaking directly at me. I think most writers go through this—and when it happens, it’s exhilarating. To me, it means the character will have depth and feel real.
And, as in the past, there have been “signs” that I’m on the right track with characters and story. Sometimes these signs are even eerie. In the first chapter, when it was new and amorphous, I was writing a dream sequence to explain her inner thoughts, worries, and where she’s from. I imagined she came from a large family, and she had had a brown and white dog named “Peaches”.
A few days later I was on Facebook and came across this picture. It caught my attention because a cabin is a major feature of the story, and I took a screenshot for inspiration to look at details. Later I read the description. Look at what I circled. That’s right! I wasn’t too surprised by the date. But the dog in the picture was name “Peaches”! And it looks brown and white to me. It gave me inspiration that I’m on the right track with the story and characters.
Another time, while writing my (currently unpublished) novel Gilt Ridden, I created a character in West Texas, educated and obsessed with gold, known locally as “The Professor,” living in a dugout. Years later, I came across a local-history book about Stonewall County describing a man known as “The Professor” who lived in a dugout and searched for gold. I hadn’t known he existed—but the parallels were uncanny. At first, I worried that people would think that I borrowed someone’s real story. But then it comforted me. I took it as a sign that I had created a realistic character from imaginary circumstances.
So when you’re writing—or working on any project—block out the world and tune in to the voice or idea coming from the ether. Who knows what will be revealed?
Bonus Content
I’ve been obsessed with one song lately. It’s been playing in my head nonstop for a week. I didn’t know much about it until I watched the YouTube video. The character is pregnant and contemplating life choices, just like Martha! Now it’s really stuck in my head. Hope you enjoy it:
Sara Bareilles – “She Used to Be Mine” (from Waitress)
Just before a trip I get anxious: is there enough stored in my Kindle to keep me happy? You constant readers know that feeling. Did you upload enough for the waiting room at the airport? For the plane? For a sleepless first night, jet-lagging? Enough to keep you happy even if weak (or no) wi-fi at the (tent, cabin, hotel, boat, campsite, rental) precludes another download? Yes, there’ll be news–but I am escaping!
We’re on a family trip to France, with children and grandchildren. I loaded up the Kindle diligently beforehand. Of course there are way too many wonderful things to do besides read…
Still, my heart sang when we entered the rental in the French mountains and spied—A BOOKCASE!
Moreover, the shelves held mysteries! Ian McEwan, Patricia Cornwell, Elizabeth George, Janet Evanovich, V.I. Warshawski, Alexander McCall Smith…
Also serious nonfiction and titles from Kazuo Ishiguro, Dostoevsky, Graham Greene, Julian Barnes and more. Then I spotted Kinky Friedman’s Frequent Flyer and thought—eclectic tastes! Perhaps some were left behind by guests. Still, the shelves made me want to meet the owners. The welcoming bookshelves and, to boot, a choice of comfortable corners where a tired tourist can flop, prop up the well-used feet, and read…what more can one ask?
(Sidebar—when you see a Talking Head on your screen, with a bookshelf behind—do you wonder if the books really belong to the Head? Or are they just a prop intended to impress? Maybe we’ll see some interviewer pose a question: “How did you like Crimes Against Humanity?” Blank stare.)
If you’re familiar with Dunnett’s stunning two historical fiction series, The Lymond Chronicles and The House of Niccolo, you already know she delivered powerful (and powerfully surprising) plots, magnetic characters, and vivid reconstructions of the 15th and 16th centuries. Using (for all that detail) an omniscient narrator.
But in her spare time she also wrote the Dolly mystery series, involving an astoundingly talented portrait painter named Johnson Johnson (yes, two), who happens to turn up in scenic locations in his yacht, the Dolly, on secret missions for the British ministry of defense. I’ve reread three of those on this trip—one set in Ibiza, one in Morocco, one in Canada. Unlike the Niccolo or Lymond historical series, Dunnett’s heroines in these first-person mysteries are in their late teens or twenties and trying to make their way in the world (as an au pair, a cook, an executive assistant, etc.). Naturally they find themselves in dangerous situations while trying to identify a murderer, and Dunnett gives each her own first-person voice—each interestingly different.
Clearly Dunnett didn’t merely set foot in these locales: she absorbed them. The action’s fast-moving, but she paints a landscape with details that place you right in the square where the villains are about to—well, here’s an example from Moroccan Traffic, in the Atlas Mountains, where Wendy, a young executive assistant, watches as Johnson and the engaging inventor Mo pursue two ruthless adversaries up perilous cliffs:
…where they had set their faces to climb was the flank of the mountain; the boulder slope rising to cliffs and ridges and rock bands interlaid with tongues of snow, and scree-fields, and stony pockets of pasture. And further up, behind escarpment and terrace, the burning forepeaks of the range.
I had seen it all from the road. Somewhere there, already entrenched, already waiting, were Gerry and Sullivan, ex-SAS marksmen.
You can also tell that Dunnett (as well as her character Johnson) was a painter:
All around us the hills, limp as blankets, glowed in soft reds, their milky hollows the colour of amethyst. The snow on Sirwa was tinged golden pink, and cast china blue shadows which were technically impermanent. A man walked by the road, a black goat like a scarf around his neck.
And from Roman Nights – the young heroine, an astronomer, battles spy dealings in Italy including the Aragonese Castle on Ischia in the Bay of Naples:
On a plateau the cathedral reared its three roofless sides like a kind of dismembered Versailles, white and flaking; the walls furnished with crumbling cherubs and statues, with rococo arches and pillars and architraves.
Dunnett gives her astronomer heroine plenty of tongue-in chic wit:
Johnson and Lenny sailed out of Amalfi, in a pure, warm air blowing about eight on the bloody Beaufort scale, and the rain lashing down. After becoming exceedingly well acquainted with the water filling the Gulf of Salerno, we fled into a fishing harbour called San Marco and spent the night offshore in a cat’s cradle of other boats’ cables.
Thank you, Dorothy Dunnett, for stupendous scholarship and for witty mysteries in places so believably described. What a gift to the traveler! Sorry, gotta go—I’m deep into Tropical Issue, set in Madeira, where I’ve never been—but it sure looks great in this prose…
What gifts they are to humans—to write, to read!
Award-winning writer Helen Currie Foster lives and writes in the iconic Texas hill country, supervised by three inquisitive and persistent burros. After practicing law for more than thirty years, she found the Alice MacDonald Greer Mysteries had suddenly appeared in her life. Book 10 in the series, Ghost Justice, is expected to debut in August 2025. Helen is continually fascinated by human history and how, uninvited, the past keeps invading our parties. Follow her on Facebook and Amazon, and in Austin at BookPeople.
When I first sat down to write the stories that would eventually become part of For Every Evil Under the Sun, I didn’t know exactly where they would lead me—I only knew I wanted to stretch my writing skills, try new things, and be a part of a hot, cool collaboration. (Yes, I like puns.)
Now, I’m proud to announce that this collection is out in the world, published by the brand-new Fredonia Ink Publishing. I’m honored to be sharing the pages with two powerhouse writers, Alexandra Burt and Laura Oles—both of whom are not only incredibly talented but also deeply committed to telling stories that explore the dark, complex corners of the human experience.
This collection is a bit of a literary experiment. We each approached the idea of “evil” through our own unique lens—psychological thriller, family drama, crime, horror, western—and let the stories guide us. What came out of it is a collection that isn’t just eclectic, it’s electric. It shines! (Yes, another pun.)
As for me, I leaned into the grit—into crime, revenge, justice. I wanted my stories to carry that weight—to explore the consequences of violence and vengeance. And also add a little bit of fun to the mix. And the stories by Alexandra Burt and Laura Oles are equally as dark and entertaining.
And hey, if you’re in Austin this summer, I’d love to invite you to join us for a special event at Vintage Bookstore and Wine Bar (1101 E. 11th St.) on July 18 at 7pm. Alexandra, Laura, and I will be discussing short story craft, the experiences of women writing crime fiction, and what went into shaping this haunting little book. It’ll be an evening of books, wine, and maybe a few goosebumps.
So if you’re in the mood for stories that simmer under the heat of summer and explore just how far people will go—to protect, to avenge, to survive—then For Every Evil Under the Sun might just be what you’re looking for.
🗓️ Event Info: July 18, 7pm @ Vintage Bookstore and Wine Bar, Austin, TX 🔗 Learn more, here is the Amazon listing. Ebook now available and paperback will be soon on Amazon and bookstores everywhere: https://tinyurl.com/2tph4xcz
Austin Mystery Writers 