Dear Friends,

I wish that I was a brilliant computer person who could get the word out that people are getting deeply hurt in this time of self publishing, and I have been way luckier than most, for shall I repeat that my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” took me all the way to Hollywood  where in a most joyful moment, in a room full of promises, for everyone you meet is even nicer than the last person, and there is star power in that room.  You are told that people who write books are kind that way;  They want to share and to help each other, and by the end of the evening, something inside of you is almost whispering, “Poems, Prayers, and Promises,” from the old hopeful John Denver song, but the message is still pertinent that, for the most part, that is the essence of what the evening was about.

It was beautiful, and you feel as if the sky is the limit, for always; “Someone knows someone else in the business, and you feel as if you have broken the iron Holllywood and LA curtain.  I would not have traded the moment, but I am hurting you brothers and sisters with a pen in hand ready to get on with that great novel everyone has suggested that you write; That after the gathering, you are apt to be on your own again, and the small advertising change which you may have left over is going to give you three sticks of bubble gum and a paper bag to place over your head, for you have just been in the ball park, got kicked around for a while, and anything which happens next is apt to be a pink slip form management underscoring, “You have just begun,” and we will see you in two or three years to see how the story of you — marketing your book, just came out.”

Everywhere I look now there are these offers; We will publish your book for $199.00, but whoever you are and wherever you are; “Will you get the picture,” that you are about to give your book away for nothing!  Whatsoever you do, with one brain in your head; so help me God, for this is from my heart; Please believe that you are worth more than that.  Remember when it was so exciting and new when we could finally make a Christmas calendar with pictures from your last and happy twelve months, and people thought; “How Clever!”  It cost you a little, but you knew exactly how many copies you needed, and no matter what you did — Somewhere down the pike you will hear it whispered that you had some gall, thinking that your life was so important people wanted to look at your face for the next twelve months!  You are shocked into disbelief that anyone could be that cruel, that your heart can be broken in an hour and not in days, because you believed no one could shatter anyone that much outside of monsters!

Now the book publishing world is here, the low lifes have moved in, and sharks have their bibs on as they sit and droll over your exquisite generosity with your money, and you could not go through the twelve pages of fine print, now could you?  We can go with Amazon, as I chose, pay a lot more, but it is relatively on the level.  You can do KDP only, and you will feel so excited; Your book on Kindle.  I opted for a hardcover, paper cover, for Kindle ready, for every thing which I could, for in this nation and world, then someone is apt to be tempted to purchase such a book which has reviews from some brilliant people, which has won awards in the big cities, and I told a story which is from what I know as the first general rule of a good writer, “Write what you know about.”  I believed that people actually wanted a real store, of a real third world which Americans on the back roads have been living while the rest of this country sat back on their Fat Cat laurels and pretended as if — Thank  God we do not have that kind of stuff going on in America.

It is a beautiful book, a powerful book, and it will turn upside down any notions you ever had about calling folks from my area; “Rednecks and Hillbillies.”  These are derogatory terms for human beings who were born challenged to get past the names and the notions you have about what it is to be born in to a poor family in the southern United States. You are speaking of people who live in third world situations far too often, and whose children may not have the stomach to get past the front, much less the back gate of their universe, and they think of all beyond them as being a bunch of starched shirt low downs who continue to steal from the least of them, to screw their daughters, leave them high, dry, and pregnant, so young grandmothers say such fruitless words as, “I just do not know where we went wrong, for she had all that she needed.”  What she did not have is instruction about what, “Love,” is and is not, and what it is not is some Hulk sticking their tongues down your throat until you cannot breath, jerking open your under clothes and giving you what they think is one great big, “Poke,” leaving the seeds of the next generation of, “Have nots,” and no one told that girl that she could get pregnant without a stitch of love touching her body.  “Oh God,”  when will you spare my people, and when will there be a chance for these girls to know abiding love, that kind which last over the ages. I wrote, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” for I longed for it to be read from coast to coast, for if not now; When?  When will someone tell the truth about the American roads less traveled and our impoverishment?

I have worked so hard; Dear God, I have worked so hard to find my audience, to make people open doors, and I paid hughe dollars to Amazon, dollars which I am not to get back unless the movie industry picks this up and runs with it.  I need my 60 Minutes of fame for the world to come to the southern Appalachians. I will be satisfied just to know that people are reading the free parts, sending me notes that they want to hear more, for I will be alright to lose the money invested.

Others believe that if they are published, get it on the internet, and lay down their cash that fame is at hand.  Please, I beg you to understand that I can count the customers from Xanga on two hands, for this is not a site for selling a book.  Worse, if you go with Amazon and Google looking for advertising, then if I cannot afford it; Most of you cannot either.  All writers need to just cut it out, save your money, and recognize that all falls on deaf ears, and what is being downloaded on those Kindles are the classics, the latest series of books which have become movies, and some wacked out special effects for everyone junkie’s idea of a book.  There is little in the way of serious literature;  so people — Save your heart from being broken, much less your banking account, for if a USA presidential vote costs somewhere under four dollars each, then what kind of advertising do you think will sell your book?  The answer is that our books are not going to sell, and it would be nice if we could support each other with purchases;  That would be really nice and ideal, but it is just too irresistable to read about Generals who could not resist unzipping their pants for some socialite, and that woman will become famouts?  Why the heck did we all not get out and spend our youth flicking looks at our undies to the politicians who had a little promise, for down the road, we would be something worth reading about.

You are good writers, so many of you, and I am a pretty damned good writer, but we are not apt to get our photograph across Time magazine even if Time still existed at an airport kiosk.  The only prayer you have for gaining anything from publishing is if you are satisfied to point at a book and to say that is mine, for that is about the best you can ever expect.  Please do not publish if you have the least fantasy that you are going to be sitting on a pile of cash, because you cannot afford the grief that publishing is a dime a dozen right now.  Do you want to hear the truth from me, or do you want to give it a shot to become that one in a million?  What do you expect from publication, for if it is to have 20 books to give your family for Christmas or whatever your Holiday tradition is, for if it is that rational, then you are the perfect candidate for making the sacrifice to share your wonderful work.

Have I given up on, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” by Barbara Everett Heintz,” published by Create Space, great reviews from great people, and only I can tell you that I have not, for I will work until I drop, because I have a bigger purpose — to expose the poverty which I lived, to show you what it means to be labeled, “Hillbilly,” and I want to take, not this country, but even more so the world, that we are not a perfect people, and it is in the nature of human beings to always have a class of people who will fall for your, “Poems, Prayers, and Promises,” for we are, so many of us — Desparate to believe that something is sacred and good about our relationship with book publishers; But for now I have to share the news that you might just write some beautiful letters to those you love, for that may be as close to fame as you will ever experience, and it is not your writing which is lost.  It is an entire world of books and the book interest which has fallen for the champion and still king of all monsters in any industry, that downfallen zealot called, “Greed.”

It is so hard, so very hard to know that you have been thrown to the sharks, and they just are not willing to share the bite they are taking.

Blessings, Barbara Everett Heintz, Author, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon, Kindle Ready — KDP in much of Europe and Japan as well as The United States of America

This may be a light in the window which I had not put out for the sailors lost at sea in the mega storm of American Literature which has, so I thought, gone around the globe.

Good Friends, in The United States, Europe, and Japan.  I have wondered over one year why my very American Story which was winning awards in San Francisco and Hollywood just was not moving along with KDP, so the God’s who entered the cataclymic action of atomic particles which make up my brain walked me tonight through The Kindle Process;  So I am here world!  My husband has played all over Europe, America, And Japan with the Cincinnati Symphoney Orchestra in the great days when our Japanese friends, especially, loved the symphonic tunes of Westside Story,Sound of Music, Music Man, Most Happy Fella, Oklahoma, and I can stop the list there, but I know the Japanese are especially Appreciative of the American Musicals.

He used to speak of the Japanese audiences as being the, “Most Polite Listeners,” on the face of the earth.  Then conductors, Erich Kunzel, Jesus Lopez Cobosh, and Paavo Jarvi — the main conductors he would play with in the orchestra.  That I traveled Europe on my own seems less fascinating than the fact that my husband got to travel on the continent — Even the Canary Islands and play the great works of America, and the greatest of them as far as I am concerned has to be, “Fanfare For The Common Man,” by Aaron Copeland.  For anyone who loves American Music; There is none to equal the feel of when America was building — The Industrial Age, farming the soil, planting the vineyards which would be California, or the beautiful groves of Florida Oranges, or the sweet Georgia Peach, or music row in Nashville, Tennessee; Nothing comes close to Mr. Copeland.  I can hardly listen to the beautiful music now, for I am flushed with tears, down my body and straight inside my shoes.  Anyone who thinks the greats of American Theater, and patriotic themes from the fourth of July like the 1812 Overture, or even the country sound from, “I Am Proud To Be An American; ” Well, you just have not heard them played by a great Orchestra.

That part of our lives would pass on several years ago when we came back to my husband’s home in San Francisco.  We loved it all from the great symphonies, Mozart, Mahler, and the wonderful operas we listened to and my husband would play each summer from Rigoletto, to The Barber of Seville;  It was all there, and I still have problems listening to those, for so many of the people we loved have gone on to other places, retired, or — like us, left that world for health reasons.  One who has heard music from the most fabulous pieces in the world can never go back to not having a fix of listening and watching the players on stage now and then.

But with all of this in my heart, I came out to this California, and I deceided that it was time to get out on the table the American novel, the art which I had in me — the ability to write a classic story, and so I did.  That was when I wrote, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” for there is a forgotten world in America, and I lived in it.  It begins at the southern most tip of the Appalachians, down around Sand Mountain in Alabama which overlooks Coon Valley as in Racooon Valley of Tennessee where my Mama left her heart as a little girl, for she would walk up from that valley to meet my father and to marry on top of a rock, her brother, one preacher, my mother and my father, there overlooking among God’s rough and tumble incredible scenes in America where Tennessee and Alabama or coming together with The Big Tennesse River which once flooded everything in its way now tamed by TVA dams.

They would marry in 1933, live in Jackson county, and life was difficult for my mother, for she left home at 16 and married thinking a little loving was better than the zero love which she was experiencing on her own.  I would be her fifth child in 1949, and I make it fairly clear that I was not wanted much from the day that I was born.  My brother, Robert Van Everett starts the book off with what it was like to be a seven year old boy committed to working like a man starting at age seven years old after my big brother, Ira had taken off for the Navy.

“Pinkhoneysuckle, with its Kindle capacity will take this American mid-century until around 1974 story out, and blast open one great big idea which is present, especially in Europe and maybe Japan, — That America was rich with a, “Justice and Equal Opportunity For All.”  Much of this agrarian country was still on the farm in mid – century, and the Eisenhower administration began the death knell of American Agrarian Life, for hard backs and rough hands were needed in the Rust Belt cities of America from Chicago to Cleveland, and we proud and independent folks who accepted not a scoch of help when offered found ourselves deeply without.

The Southern Diaspora was on and American farms were failing which were farms full of promise in most places, but whatever could be done to kill farm life in America, it was done, for the big boys were coming — From Texas oil, especially to buy up land, turn them in to mega farms made possible by a machinery, and small town America who depended on the crops along The Appalachian Trail would disappear.  “Pinkhoneysuckle,” dares to tell you for the first time the truth of America’s creation of a third world of poor whites and a few blacks, mainly farmers who would fall into such depressions that wife and child beating was a common sport.  Moonshine was everywhere, and children feared for their lives.  Yes, dear neighbors of the world, right here in The United States of America.

“Pinkhoneysuckle,” by Barbara Everett Heintz, Amazon, Kindle, KDP — and Create Space is a novel which turns everything proper folks presummed to be true about American life in the mid-century upside down, and there is an outpouring of the filth with which America’s southern farm communities came to be seen; From, “Hillbilly,” to Bible Thumpers, anything to demean what had once been a proud and self reliant group of farmers;  Infact, the first of the organic farmers, only we did not think of it as organic farming.  All of these years later, Alice Waters, of Berkeley, California would be the , “Dion of Organic Foods,” and embarassingly taking a role as if all such processes began with her and her simple life.  I would like to see Ms. Waters go and live among The Amish or the Mennonites, or some of the organic farmers around the south who used the barn cleanings for fertilizer, get her little hands black and filthy, still have the cows needing to be milked, and water to tote for scrubbing her body, and then she might have one ounce of respect from those of love who lived off of the dirt, the woods, and picking hicory nuts out for some nut meat, and then I might think that she has an ounce of right to her claims to fame.

Mid-south mountain folks, we are curious that way, for no matter what we had; People were going to take off with the income of whatever we earned; For it was a God given right to pick on what folks would label, “White Trash.”  My book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” takes you to  a place you have never been — Unless you were neighbor or family.  It follows one woman from birth through a childhood of nightmares and scenes one child should not see.  It folllows her coming of age in this harsh world, not knowing what to expect from tomorrow with a father in the north and a mother dealing with pain and madness.  It brings you to her teenage years after the cotton picking had played out and she was send out as the local maid to be sent in to various houses, to clean, but one especially pathetic torment of maid duty is reflected up on, and all of this to get through high school.

He then tells you of sexual naiveness, the tears from incest which were left on her, the missing girls, and how to get away from being one of them; She felt a spiritual awakening, almost a voice from God saying, “Leave,” and now, for you are going to be the next girl in an insane assylum as they were called.  My book is going to make you sweat.  It will make you laugh, for we could have had our hours on stage, for when things are too horrible to live;  You turn them in to a manical laughter.

“Pinkhoneysuckle,” will be explained, how such a wonderful word became such a valley of thorns, but her life begins with the escape, and you will follow the loves, the passages, Washington D.C. on fire, and you will even walk with Coretta King when The Poor People’s March begins.  Please, now, dear readers, will you come to the America you did not know existed, that still exist, and lay down with a young woman on the bed of lost souls which began with looking for love on a rock on a mountainside in 1933.  I will strip naked, and bear every ugly scar, but it is time that you knew America has some sins to atone for, for I was one woman;  This is my story, and I make it so honest that you who judge are just too withered  of understanding or the reality that we are a class system country; and “Pinkhoneysuckle,” reveals your sins against a people, The southern Appalachians.

KDP, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” is genuinely ready, but keep in mind that it is an adult book told in harsh trth and dark humor.

Blessings, Barbara Everett Heintz, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon, Kindle Ready, KDP Cleared for Europe and Japan ”  An American Story… Prologue By — Robert Van Everett.

Dear Friends,

I have been beating a dead horse this morning, with so much junk in this computer kicking out an hour of labor just endeavoring to thank a special woman down in Texas. – Name, Sweet, “Karen,” for she is another person who devoted a whole blog to me and to my book.  I cannot say that it is just any old book, for it has won awards, but I humbly respect that there are writers out on Xanga who can make me look shabby.

Karen, though knows of what I am speaking but in a different realm.  She has many hurdles to overcome, but she will say that all that she has been through is, “Wonderful.”  I am going to down load her letters to me, not only because that they are precious and encouraging, but because they are at the heart of loving justice to want to help me succeed to give name to what happened in the southern diaspora of mid century.  I ached for the Dust Bowl people, and I will grow older and may be telling my story of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” to someone willing to take on the southern Appalachians.

What impressed me most about, “The Dust Bowl,” was that the people had such a different attitude than where I was from, and I do not understand exactly why things were this way, but they seemed to have loving fathers and mothers who were not beating their children, and tearing in to the flesh, which no child deserves — But, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” had to leave you with that message that we were in Southern Aappalachia a group who became victim to the cycle of abuse which probably came on board with them as a ship pulled out of a harbor in London in the 16 to 1700s, and I have concrete evidence my family was in what became Georgia in 1720, an absolutely direct lineage, for you do not argue with the people writing at that time, for they were a colony and they were headed for something extremely large — The setteling of America, and a great Revoltion was to begin down the pike that killed many original settlers, but it was a land they had come to for not just land, but more prominently;  They had come here seeking freedom of worship — And like it or not kids, the God of the constitution was the Puritan God who had cast off the mother church of England, and had about as much use for Catholicism as to probably  hang you in the town square for blasphemy, or a woman could be loaded on the backs of vicious men and women and be tried and burned for practicing a pagan religion if her nosey and suspicious neighbors decided that she just might be possessed by The Devil himself.  God forbid they catch her looking in the mirror or see her gathering herbs to make a good polstice to cure what ailed one –something she would have learned in the old country.  She probably even gathered digitalis, as natural as it gets for certain heart ailments, but if it took the swelling out of Granny’s feet, but she did not talk much and she was brewing things; Holy Mother of God – She would be watched closely.
Finally Maryland, in I do not remember the exact year, but before the Revolution would become the first, “Freedom of Religion Colony;” and what a worrisome thought, for it was a Catholic colony, so where did they get off on this freedom of religion clap trap; Is that appropriate to use under these terms?  Clap trap has meant other things to our learned people of the 20th century and now the 21st; So baby, grab the lye soap and wash my mouth out.

Karen has had an interesting life and is teaching me about the life in her area which  was not exactly easy on the body or mind either, but she knows about the oil fields and those workers and it is a lesson which I need to learn.  I thank her as a friend, as a person with a generous heart and someone to look up to, because it takes toughness and courage to do all that she must every day.  I, humbly accept the kindness that she is telling you, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” is a book you may need to close your ears if you cannot handle everything from the truth of where babies came from, that we all hid from ratting out any neighbors who might be selling some home made stuff over Hannah’s gate.  Revenuers had  about as much clout as a scarecrow in a pumpking patch devoured by a heard of hungry ground hogs, and you did not get in to people’s business, for we always got the message that houses were going to get burned out, and then in the 1980s in news from home I would hear of house explosions; so snitch; “Who dared.”  Karen understands these thingss.

God bless her precious being, and I will keep on thanking people until the well runs dry who purchase my book or the Kindle of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,”  I have told you that the bias is heavily against a one of us succeding in this book industry, and the book people who once would help each other once upon a time to make contacts in the larger world, then a lot of them are not doiing it, because they would be giving away a slice of their ooown success.  I ask again; How do we compete with women who bring down Generals, and my answer when it creeps in to my outward conscience tells me — We only have our friends, some family, and a few angels along the way

Our answer from others will always be; “At least you published.”  All I have to do is to go to my Create Space Amazon sales report and to know that it hurts a little to see that there will be no buyers now and again, and I met a man by the name of David Farland (Wolverton),  who got in to the business a long time ago, and the slow down, or shall we say the vehicle, “Our Books,” which we loved and worked very hard on have been the menaced market of new ebooks, the choce of more books than at any time in history, so our books are sitting, and we count month per month on our Create Space site and see how many books were sold, where they went, and then talk with those who have an advertising budget, and the word goes forth even the big guys do not know what to do.

Karen, thank you so much for loving me, our sweet Golightely and Bobbie and all of the gang she shares on her blog, and I find that she is a great blogger, but more importantly people like her and Lonely Wanderer gets you through the heart break that you have done your very best, and their reading what is a very sad but great story with my manner of writing.  I would not say this without the awards and the reviews, so at this Thanksgiving, I thank Golightly Gazetted, shockingly talented Nash Vegas, Los Vegas Mike, and Screaming Eagle have shown much kindness, but sales are a mystery to me.

Now may we saps gather in, get ready for Charlie Brown’s Christmas,  the  bowl games, the trips home wherever home may be, put asside our burdens, stay off the sale’s page, and simple transcend all that angers and frightens us to concentrate on Thanksgiving,  and leave not a plate empty, for the loved ones lost this year are best remembered feeding the hungry instead of sharing an empty plate.

Thanks again precious Karen for keeping us up with tales from home;  What a wonderful person, what a loving heart, and thank you for recommending my, “Pinkhoneysuckle.”  I just know the E-web is going to crash under the weight of my books sale, and I will see from New York to Los Angeles, To the Texas pan handle and onward the beautiful signs of  a book which grabbed hold, and may leave it’s regards to the past century in asking that coming of age should be joyful;  And shame on those people who decide meth is better than the broken little babies who are going to be hard to mend.

Take care of the children; “Oh God,:” and if people cannot raise their own children, then may hidden and kindness let them seek refuge while they are you, so that they may be, ‘Someone’s little child.”
Thanks to all who made your way to: Amazon, Kindle Ready, “Pinkhoneysuckle,”  I remain hopeful that all will change to bring me in to a new morning; where no one catches day break like my friend Bill.  We pray for Punk Rock Cowboy — Just make it home and be warm, feel loved and with the darkspots away.  Always and God Bless, Barbara Everett Heintz

When you need a friend;  Xanga comes along and gives us one, and I want to add to my Weblog that our friend, Clarentz Artez, with his Paycheck to Paaycheck is among mine, though I might be doing a little mispelling here.  The story of how he loves lions alone is available to us on Xanga, and it takes you in to the mind of a talented poet who can see take a leaf, a plant, a simple workday and turn it in to poetry which a lot of men just have no interest in, because too many people are looking for the avant gardt and are not noticing that a real guy out there can open another man’s heart in to the fact life is anything but ordinary.

I pause here, look down for a while, and I think of all the things which can break my heart right now, and among them are Xanga writers who have gone on to publish work, for we dreamt about it much of our lives and then came along Amazon, Create Space, and countless other services which; “Thank yfor the money,” might leave us thinking self publishing is not worth all of the heart break;  But the realization that we can and should empower our brother, sister Xanga writers calls out and tells me that someone with the Xanga name of Claretz, can get a book out and come home with a day’s work behind him and feel such joy in his efforts, because you and I got his wisdom and work freely and often.

To the other Xangans have crossed this harsh landscape of publishing or seeking to publish;  We have one another, and as I prepare for Thanksgiving and Christmas, I wish that I could tell you that there is monetary reward in all of this, but I cannot. I admire the people who seek to gain recognition through Amazon/s Book of the year, for one person, at least, will then have an open door.  For me, the stress just seemed too overwhelming to get on that list with all of the amazingly computer skilled and younger people who believe they will be that one in a million who cracks the code of making money with any kind of publication now.

Lord, do not let me feel gloom and doom, for I had my share of awards this years both with the Honorable Mention in San Francisco, and a 1st place in Hollywood, but I am a determined woman, and I may never make a dime off my published, “Pinkhoneysuckle,”  but I am getting letters from across this country now from people who relate to my story, and it is causing them to remember things which shook up their lives.  So I may be just a little ripple and not that shock wave, but people are learning about the desparate situation of America’s mid century, about how country women and children — So many of us just wanted to make it to the next day, and we lived among damaged people who knew nothing of PTSD, and we would not see antidepressants until the 1980s when prozac came out.

Some people needed talk therapy they could not afford, and some who could afford it realized that The Freudian take on things may not have even been as helpful as, if we had one, sitting down with a good friend and telling them; “I am troubled.”  Then better anti-depressants came along and medication to  help with the kind of shell shock a lot of us as children had.  I can easily tell you that I can, even after all of these years, still smell the shotgun oil my father had put polished up his shotgun with as it was aimed at my mother’s head, and I can hear her scream, “Amos,” Please don’t, and we children, all four of us still left at home who understood he would shoot our mother and then us, because he was depressed, probably had something to drink, and was out of his mind.

Life has been incredibly harsh, and I still suffer the after shocks, but Mama and Daddy left this world having loved one another living in to an old age.  When I hear a person say; “Can’t you just let that go?” — I am aware that I am speaking to someone who has never known what mid century children went through in the places where poor folks were isolated and knew not a scoch of love except from a God we prayed to all of the time, and I still pray, for it is a form of emptying all of those negative thoughts which crawl out and will stay with you all of your days.

I just want you to realize that people like Claretz and me, and the beautiful display one gentlemen made some months ago showing the books written by Xangans makes our outlay of cost feel shallow compared to the love we get back.  I do know, all too well, that love is a gentle  moment, but the compilations of those moments fills our hearts, and we may never be fully whole and without pain from experiences such as  love others have known, but we needed to write, and we share with some of you who are writers who will leave a beautiful legacy in this universe, and you will be quoted after your time is over, when your children want to share your words and how you and I lived as strange internet friends.

So even if you cannot get to all of the books; Choose the few you can and support us with your prayers and your reviews. I think when I shall stand at the throne of mercy that I am going to ask the Christ, or whomever is my judge if they would, at least, give me a review, for here on earth the reviews either make us or send us packing. Write on my loves; write and remember Claretz at his Kindle site with a good word or two. He deserves it, and from coast to coast, I have some pretty good reviews out there.

Will I make a difference for those who lived as I did and for the little children of this day. Such is the question, but here is a big hug for all who stands at the gate, and for those who went the long mile Lonely Wanderer. You all are my knights and the noble women who picked up my days. Thank you all for loving me and for getting those reviews on Amazon.

Just hear Jimmy Stewart, the most incredible men of Hollywood who appeared to care something beyond the fame from his Christmas message, “He who has friends can never be alone.”

Love you all,

Barbara Everett Heintz, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon, Kindle Ready and Create Space, Award Winning Novelist With Many Friends – God Bless You every one.

I have befriended a number  of friends on Xanga, and most are among the humble and sweet, as if they are mystical sources of energy and kindness on a level higher than  most, for it takes some doing to be, an E” Friend. Some call me a friend, and then they disappear, and  I presume that is something many of you have dealt with also.    Our human  nature leaves us to feel duped by a psychopathic being who  who enjoys the internet as a kingdom of which they are little masters, and if you could meet them face to face, you would probably not want to waste an hour on them in the first place. 

Maybe they should be considered as a plague of boils who pop up, and we are not hearing their words closely enough, for the words become the face and faces can cleverly deceive, and they would be as loathsom and as hollow if we met them, for they presume E-Friends, like so many people they greet every day cannot blast apart their shallow and  hollow exterior of those who seek prey.  We only need to accept them in the old term of, “Bags of “Hot Air,” or to see that they are as vacuous and as unable to control that they couldn’t be a friend to anyone, for they are good metaphors for the helium ballloon which has no color, but floats out into the stratosphere over some primordial places where such wretches are questionable souls in the first place.

It is ours to look out for, “False Friends,”  .and you have all been victims — And yet we hold the irony that we get caught in their little projects and schemes to be seen by us as, “Witty,” and even clever for a while.  False friends are a dangerous lot, but I fear our world of having to trust without actually being able to read reactions leaves us easy prey, those of us who were brought up on the symbolism that a person is as good as his or her word, for that door has smacked closed. Ever since the remarkably deceiving, “Social Gladhanding,” was taught by parents as a way of making the life’s connections these same people would use to feed their need for stealing and not making their way off of other’s hard labor..  It does not make sense, but we fall for it.  May I say here, “Madeoff,” or remind you of socialites who manage to get passes in to military installations, for they are the kings and queens of guiltless, and they are actually dangerous — able to bring down generals as well as to break down the housing market of an entire nation.

Thus, I am begging those of you who seek friendship from these cyber networks to know that you are playing with fire, and if at the end of this one year you have met a rare few who endeavor to be the best friends –Those who check on you, and tell you the good news,  and mutually share moments of solace, joyfulness, and comfort, then you have found a gift which has value beyond the weight measure of gold..  What treasure!  Do not disavow those most amazing people; Fail not to recognize your own part in helping to build a friendship, for you have just climbed a mountain, and on that mountain top you took a leap of faith and dared let someone into your life.

Come my friends to this Thanksgiving, gather in the last of the old year’s leaves and let us run and play like cherished children among the spaces where we take each other over the mountains and streams, over dessert sun, and ocean to ocean, and remember each other a moment. It is difficult to think there are  friends you may never touch, but they have come to the woodlands to play, to pray, and to thank God that they have found you.  “We,” found the precious few who will drop in now and then like a good neighbor, share a cup of some winter warmth, and we may not hear from them for a while, but they will be there.  So blind fold and spin, and run recklessly into this place where in one day we can play the tag of old and know that we will always be found, for we have a friend to help us find the way.

Thank you for being here, and as surely as I breathe, then you will be at The Thanksgiving table with me, and you know who you are.  The flickering fire is just a reminder that all is well as I knock on your door and thank you; Yes, I thank you all who are part of my own, “Amazing Grace,”  so I shall light a candle this Holiday season, and it shall be one which burns slowly and with sweet scent to remind me that you, too, have been virtuous and humbly the better part of who I am. 

God Bless You All Through The Harvest Memories, And You Deserve Abiding Thanks,
I am so very greatful for everything.  Share the news from home with me, and I will share mine.

Barbara Everett Heintz, Author of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Award Winning Book In Hollywood and San Francisco Book Festivals 2012 — With Help and Support From My Xanga Friends. “Pinkhoneysuckle,” also supported a portion of Sonoma, California’s annual gathering of book writers and Bay Area publishers and friends to help the food bank in the Santa Rosa area this past year — No great money for us, but we used our dollars and time to help feed the hungry, so “Pinkhoneysuckle,”  gives in ways I could not have predicted.

Blessings, Barb, And Maybe The Lighted Candle Will Be A New Reflection Of  Our Power To, “Love One Another.”  Just Tread Cautiously — For False Friends Come Looking For The Gentle Heart

Why did you hide it, my beautiful silk gown, the long one which touched my ankles and felt like finest satin left behind by some wanton movie star, for I need it tonight to dress up for you, for you to climb the stairway stopping at the stained glass landing, for you wanted to make certain that you brushed your teeth after sneaking out for a quick cigarette to make your warmness from the scotch linger, the hardness of your own organ just to drift away until you could take the smoke I hated off your body which I loved to touch on nights like this one when the babies are all asleep, and I had time, the precious time to let silk wrap around the near perfect body left inspite of birth, and to please you I could think of erotic things which would take us both away from caring that in the morning you would scrape ice, leave me sleeping just long enough to meet up with other older student Moms like me, and the walk up the hill, the perfect mile would leave me breathless, so why did I not share with my friends what had been the perfect act, the perfect dream? 

My pretty gown was missing,  the one you liked so much, so I found the beautiful scarves with colors of deep red, the ones which I collected — Some purple like the deep purple of song, some block stamped from some designer who wanted something beautiful to wrap one’s person with his design, so I grabbed them as you groomed and like a present without a bow made it as such you would need to take me in between long carresses before the moon light fully faded on winter trees reaching for me through their scratches on the window, but I was your package, yours alone, and you could take the scarf, place it on my back, let the others fall away until I picked one up and began to massage gently you, fully aroused and begging me to just let you no longer hold inside the semen which had to release.

I did not feel left out then, for I knew that you only needed to recover, and I was ready now for me to be with you, for it was like that then when ours to hold was the late night, just minutes, and I would gently touch your arms, your perfect body now still warmer than mine, and you would lie your head on breast full of swelling, just right, beginning to overflow, for a morning feeding was already being made for the baby who now had given back our night, b ut it only yadded to the perfect hour, you in me, both now beggers for more.  How brainless those who failed to know that parents loved, and we would finally be so beyond ourselves, silk still touching now and again to cover our beautiful skin, and you would like that I blushed to even be reminded of all we did the night before, the perfect nights.

It seemed impossible for them to go away, and I refuse to fold them, the pieces of silk they will find someday and know that we loved.  We made fire where there was ice, and our heavy breath kept the ice on the window sparkling as it tried not to melt from living fire.  I fold, and I folded agan, each time we moved, and I marveled the young woman I became in those garments, the arms you held me with, and in the late night, sometimes, I believe we are there again.

I want it all back, so I fall to the floor like a broken rose stem just dreaming and wondering who will find the silken gown that brought you to the love making of no return and me wanting to share the secrets to the pathetic ones who cannot even come close to knowing what it is to feel almost owned  melded together, you in me and I pressing as close as I could just to stay locked against you all of our flesh one, the perfect fit, our beautiful hours, so many nights, for you came home late having played the long concert, getting out,  parking on the street so you could hurry home, for I might be there in the flesh colored silk gown touching my ankles, taking the brandy you offered for me to sip, for I would taste like something warm — Your tongue to mine, your larger arms holding me, and I see you now sneaking out the door  to blow smoke rings which would try to take you from me, but my dream world cannot remember that now; No, just you and me on the perfect nights.

Dear Friends,

For some of you with whom I have spoken about publishing on your own, I ask a lot for you to go to my Amazon site, and each month I look for new places to get the book out except for the earliesnt montths after publishing when I was in a battle to learn to live again after  the PE which you can look up under pulmonary diseases. For me, it is genetic, and I am not looking for any pity.  Thank you God, for I had insurance, care for four months, and we, as many Americans have to pay twenty four thousand dollars per year to keep me insured;  Think how little that is compared to the hospital bill; Again, Thank you Sweet Jesus, but I must make some effort to use my site to let you who do not know about this book to just look at the reviews.  If you have read it, I beg to hear from you.

Also, Most of you are younger than me, and if you message me with questions about self publishing right now, I have two sets of answers.  My first is that you should hold on, for E- book  has turned our world in to a joke.  My father’s name is Amos, and Daddy’s gone now, but if I wanted to write a book about my Dad whipping his mules to plant cotton;  No problem!  You like Aunt Martha’s funnel cake;  Want to write a book about it;  Alright, cough up the money, and the market is saturated with books by new writers.   I had never written a book before, but I had done a lot of writing, and I do not want to brag, but I got awards even when I was a kid for writing, my own column in my first college year in our college newspapers.  I have poems in every anthology for poetry classes which is a national organization, or was — To help budding poets, but four years of high school; I was published in The National High School Anthology for each year.

I lived in the sticks, and was a kid who had nothing, but I had letters to the editor go in to, The Nashville Banner,” which was like Tennessee’s Washington Post, so I don’t know a whole lot, but I will gladly endeavor to answer a meaningful question which you may have about small writing issues if you message me.  Books are in a period of sheer devestation, and afteer Harry Potter, it is well known that those are the big bucks money maker, so why make many classic adult movies which cost money and require brain activity.  Do not get me wrong, for I love Harry Potter.

This month’s ad for my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” the dark book with the pretty name is goiing to be more of a summary; so here we go with the abbrevated version of, “Pinkhoneysuckle.”

Mid-Century epic, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Southern Diaspora, End of Small Farms; Poverty Led Farmers To Rustbelt From All Appalachian Areas.  A book about — Poverty..Sanctioned by Washington. The “White Trash”. The Holy Rollers. Drunks Home From WW II. Children as Slaves — Schools, An Inconvenience; No Clothes — Town Snobbery — Demons, Wife Beatings — Children Wounded — Eyes Shut. Sexual Scars To Little Boys — Girls — Women, Anyone Too Ashamed and Afraid to Speak. Hidden. No Ears To Hear.  Fear, Abject Fear. Fathers Away. Moonshiners — Terrifyed Women. Boys To Be Men. Desparate To Leave, Then Gone. Country To City. Prime For Molestation. God Is A Place To Hide. “Shut Your Mouth,” Blackened Souls.  Please God. Home?  Societal Breakdown. Historic 1960s; We WEEP. Murder of President Kennedy, Bobby, His Brother; Reverend, King — Nights of Fire; God Help Us. I Was Just One Cotton Picker Child To Woman. Ran. SEX — Bleed. Tear Terror. Any Bed. Love? God, Is Sex Love.

Loved, Married, Blind, Babies. Sex, Love; Something differed. Maniac, Crazed Woman Hidden. Under Scars; Loved Me; Mhearry Me, I’m Worthless. He Cares. Another City. Home? Where Is Home. Another Baby — Then I Find, Along The Flood Planes, Next To The Sewer Where The South Had Come. The Rust Belt. Independence, Lost. Shame, Burned Out. Welfare For More Cheap Wine. 

I am you, I wanted to say, and you lived like me, and we cared, and dreamed, and we hoped. But Not For This. God Help My People! Give them Sundays and gardens, a pail to bring the food in, and one for fresh spring water. “Lady, don’t you think your something?”  No, I Am You. Fiction, Truth; What is it. I am not going to tell you.  No one gets to see where the babies are buried, and the lost girls disappeared.  I am their judge and jury, and I proclaim them all innocent, and I am laughing like a hyenna, a damned fool, and you will burst with tears and laughter.

I did not want to leave this earth until I told you that some things were beautiful, and I wanted you to know that 3rd worlds exist in this our beautiful country, for Greed, the nasty dog tay bkes what it wants.

That  is my book, and if the reviews picked up the story as they seem to, then I have a destiny where I can free my people from the shame they looked at, and walked to.  Thank you God for my awards in San Francisco,and for the First Place in Hollywood’s 2012 Book Festival.  Please see my reviews and portions of my book at: Amazon Books, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Barbara Everett Heintz Author// Kindle Ready. Please help me to spread the word of this American sin which destroyed an independent, self reliant, blessed bunch of people who just seem to fall apart — Like me.  I heard Angels speak, so believe that to pray is not in vain…

I leave you with love,

Barbara Everett Heintz

Hello Xanga Friends,

I wish that one time I would be well enough to go to an area which needs disaster relief, for every person who I have known who has become a part of it has come back with reports which were overwhelming as to how two facets, those who need and those who help come together, and even three months from now, especially with all that has gone in to New Yoirk City and with the governors and the President working as national politicians should work, then people are going to find that they have, indeed, braved the storm, and on barrier islands outside of  NY, they will even see the first tiniest buds of forsythia trying to break through, and no matter what pain and sorrow is in the past or behind, especially with those of abiding faith and a  joyful soul — They will know that normal just isn’t but neither is despair.  Despair is, to me, depression without a modicum of hope and the inability to function even over the course of the things which one needs each day.

I do have a hard  time seeing how despair is a deadly sin until I remember that people will often change from a humane and loving citizen in to a monster, as if demons brew inside the misfortune of loss and pain.  It is one reason that we should not take for granted the neighbor who just looks as if they need an extra hug, a cup of tea, and a moment to be loved — even some what as a mother should love a child.  Give people your heart, and despair will fade.  It will take a quarter of a century to see either New York or New Orleans in what people think is normal, for the new normal has to include giving up on some things.  We have built on the areas which were our flood protection, and loathe the day when a Hurricaine 3 or 4 hits the outer banks of the Carolinas dead on.  We took our eldest children there over 20 years, and we went back a few years ago to find that the area I kept bragging to everyone about, the open side with scattered beach homes which would or will take the first plunge in a head on hurricaine was no longer our wonderful summer place, and from Kitty Hawk through Nags Head and beyond was so built up that you had to get out driving along the National sea shore, and even then you could not watch the waves for the dunes.

I would have a hard time feeling great sorrow for the loss of those kinds of buildings; Life is another thing, but may this be a second sign, a third sign if we think about erosion along the hills of California over which multi-million dollar mansions keep sliping off of cliffs, but what will make us just cut it out.  Stop building where villages are not meant to be, and the answer of, “We always come back,” comforts many, but the question of, “Should we?”  That is daunting

It is a leap to think of the barrier Islands as  sand on loan for summer places, but once people knew they were no place to live.  With every horrible thing which happened in New York, it could have been so much worse, and worse will come.  There are places near the oceans, islands where ancient man came in the summer, and where modern man felt that they could control those barriers with engineering.  In God’s name, we simply cannot control the oceans and seas to that extent, and it is not that we are just seeing more trauma, loss of life, loss of property, and that word, despair.  We have witnessed it with open eyes. The nuclear power disaster in Japan could not have come at a better time for everywhere except for all that was lost from the Japanese earthquake shouted to us; Nuclear power is deadly.

We human beings may not like the idea of not living with natures most beautiful and enchanting waters just outside our door, or having to replace every inefficient light bulb, and the new Christmas lights – They are just still and do not seem to have the twincle and glow of when we were younger;  But we can be inconvenienced.  We have seen tornado patterns change in my years of being a child beneath The Appalachians sourthernmost mountains where I was born, because we are seeing more tornados on Sand Mountain, and we are seeing more tornadoes in the Nashville and Murfreesboro corrodors, and you can believe it is all by chance..

The earth, the sun, and the stars, and the very atmosphere around us have stories to tell from the bottom of the sea to deepest space, and no matter who we are;  It is on loan, and its cycles change as do ours.. Again, I repeat from a pastor who spoke when a storm had come through Kansas city about twenty five years ago, and her words were, “God is not this miserable time, this great storm, and our pain and anguish today; No, God is the great calm which will come after.”  Storms just are, and we all want to live in the grandest of places.

I look out over San Francisco tonight, lights twinkle as the sweet wind eases by, and all is so clear that we can see all of the way to the Bay — Cranes, carriers on the water – some small craft.  It is all so well that we think not once or twice about the fact our homes are moving toward Alaska every year.  We are on plates of the earth, and we do not mind that our houses creep a little, but when the great roar comes, and the buildings are shaken like dead varmits caught by the most fierce of beast; Then we will too be waiting for the great calm, and all of the belongings will mean nothing in this area of absurd wealth.

We cannot protect ourselves from this earth; its weather, the wind, rain, snows, and cycles of sand or snow as such the eye cannot see;   But it is time to stop the madness of building back on where man was just not mean to reside, but when it was to be left for natures cycles to transpire, and the knowledge; Some would always get to enjoy places in the summer, close them one late summer’s day, and let the secrets of land and sea  only matter so much to the birds who hung around even when the snow said”You are a foolish one.., “

 ”

It does not seem appropriate to be sending out intentions for Holiday Sales at this time,  but here is the vivid truth — That all of us who publish our books would like to, make back the money we have in the book, and for you who,  like me, hit the time exactly when Kindle opened the first big E market, and Barnes and Noble have their Nook now, and more are apt to come along with less expensive self-publishing;  Then we are our only voice in how our books get sold.  Xanga gives us Plugz, but I need a letter from anyone stating that I sold my book that way;  But it does seem to open the door to friends.  I just want to give Xanga A great big thank you from me and for all of the rest of us walking around like zombies endeavoring through everything from begging, offering ways of earning a trip to San Francisco plus making money for your home church by the sale of Pinkhoneysuckle — Which I warn is an adult book, so there are not terms which are truth other than what is written, and I can say with full confidence that there is not a word in the book which I have not heard a Christian, or Jew, or any other religion on the face of the earth say at one time or the other.  We are human beings, and we do not speak the language of the Saints, ao to offend no one, their are words which are bleeped often from television, but it is not a book that from page to page robs the book of beauty, truth, or human tradgedy by sparing words.

Please do not buy it for your children then.  Please do not buy it for Saints, but I think Wizards are allowed secret talk amongst themselves, so who knows what they say.  I did a bookshow in Sonoma, California, and I would allow people to choose from the baskets of what I can reasure you is not fine jewelry – Though most does not turn your neck green, and I cannot be responsible for any health issue which comes from jewelry which comes in to places like Sears and Target, but people liked the little extra.

“Pinkh oneysuckle,” is about A Womans life beginning in childhood in the Appalachians.  Her life is similar to that of thousands of women who kept their mouths shut where women and children knew whippings and felt despair.  It is about forces of good and evil when the USA decides to Murder the South.  Crops are limited. Money not to plant found people without, And The Factories in the north needed workers.  From here a Diasphora begins. Fathers leave to try to hold on.  Mothers try to work like men, but already have too many mouths to feed.  White and black children are put in the cotton fields which are left. “Pinkhoneysuckle,” affirms that even older men left behind see women as objects to use for pleasure; but worse they see children, so fear is always barging in.  The cities like Chicago send the Appalachians mainly to the flood plains, so; Surprise, it floods, and they get one mess cleaned but live in the soil where the rivers wash in filth, trash, and debrie.  Now the cheap wine bottles stack up, so we have drinking men doing horse labor; Get a trip home now and again, make more babies.  Gardens feed us in spring and summer, but only what we got canned fed us the rest of the time.

Change the channel them, for Welfare comes in, then the country starts getting filled with more trash, cheap wine, so now mothers and older boys are checking out to see if it fells better to be drunk.  We have again, little kids going hungry, for not enough money is  getting home; Welfare takes the will of people to get off their butts, but among all  that is going on, we have a whole lot of what looks like back and white slavery, and this book is going to take you then, and your going to go North.

Next you watch a child become a woman. And there is:  Madness which creeps back and forth, So she escapes to Washington D. C., and from here you are going to follow a love story, but you are going to meet users, losers. hope hope vanquished, and Sex is a lesson learned, for the old waves of shame kept whispering.  Work lives evolve, and a social status is walked in to, and one thinks it is Divine, that Angels have led the woman where she is, but the woman is not ordinary.  She has you laughing hysterically one minute, convinced each love is hers to own, for is that not what sex is, a promose of love?  I will tell you that this book can be read by a woman or a man and you will be shaken.  Maybe that is why it got Honorable Mention in The San Francisco Book Festival 2012, and a First in Hollywood as most apt to be found by other media such as a Movie, and I am working on it.

Meanwhile I am going to open my own little home book festival here where you can order a book from me now until December 10th at 706 Sanchez Street in San Francisco.  For a Christmas festival of my own offer, I will sign the book however you like it, and mail it to the address that you request.  I will sell the book to you for the 15.00, sign it wrap it or include a piece of wrapping paper and send you one or two of the gifts which I gave in Sonoma which will be worth sweet gifts to any young lady on your list.  I think that I shall send two things, because I want to make you happy.  One check of 15.00 dollars and two small gifts sounds like a deal to me, and I will pay your postage after I receive your request at the above address.

“Pinkhoneysuckle,” was well received in Sanoma, and since no one has opted for offers before; Then the Christmas one shall be my last, but your check must clear; Therefore, it is easier if you order from Amazon, just not as fun.  I am known for surprise pakages, but only take checks or dollars.  I would use standard postage and not book rate, so do not worry about that.  There you have it my last attempt at marketing the book on my own. and sometimes;  I just let a treat fall in the bag.  Again, though I promise that I take no responsibility for items sent, other than to see that I make an honest effort to make you happy.  No returns, and I will keep records of hour and moment sent.

So than you; God Bless You, and Happy Holidays.  Lovingly, Barb Heintz