MY NEW BABY

Well, this new book of mine has been in process since 2021. That is quite a long gestation period, you might say. This is the first book of my new historical fiction series for readers in 3rd through 5th grade.

 
My first published book, Camping Diaries (2026), was a family memoir project with 10 family members joining me to share some hilarious, memorable, and insightful camping stories from our personal experiences. When I have been selling at outdoor markets and out of my car, I have been surprised by the highly favorable reception our joint work has received.

My next book, The Rooster That Would Not Crow (2026), is an illustrated children’s book based partially on an experience my youngest daughter, Christian, had with a teenage rooster. This has been very popular here and even my ebook in foreign markets like Japan.

My newest book, Little Child’s Dream, will go to my editor soon for a once-over now that my illustrations are completed. I am giving it a once over, yes, for the 25th+ time. Soon, I hope to meet with a Caddo historian or the tribe's Director of Culture in Binger, OK, to get feedback from their perspective before I upload and publish the illustrated chapter book.

Little Child desires to fit in; he often feels left out. This is a coming-of-age story many can relate to, set in the early days of the frontier. 

My target audience is 4th graders studying Texas history, but parents, teachers, and young readers will enjoy this and the others in the series. 
More about the others later. (Sign up on my website to stay updated. This series is something really special.)

Thanks for tuning in and reading my update. Tell someone to come and visit my website. I have ebooks, paperbacks, and hardbacks for Camping Diaries, as well as my new series coming out this fall, 2026.

Drop me a line and tell me which of my books you liked the best so far. I love to hear from you and value your feedback!

Christie

P.S. Come visit my author website! If you sign up for my newsletter or blog there, you can download a free story from my Camping Diaries book. You will also get to hear about my writing process and get updates on when my new books will be released!

I have ebooks out there for all of you, including my international readers. I have readers in the USA and Japan so far who are reading my Kindle books. Let’s see if your country can outdo them for readership. I’ve priced them very low, not because they are not worth it, but what good is a good book without readers? Times are hard everywhere, and I want you to be able to enjoy reading regardless.

 Your support and interest in me as an independent author/blogger mean so much. It is great to see so many people still interested in reading.

Thank you for stopping by to read my blogs.

www.christiemariebooks.com

A NEW TRADITION

Christmas conjures up the sweet smell of spritz cookies; those fancy dollops of maple, lemon, and chocolate squeezed from my cookie press and packaged for our friends.

Laden with tinsel and lights, the evergreen tree winked at me in delight as I admired the handmade ornaments created from clothespins, felt, and glitter. Then others that were cross-stitched: a little drummer boy, reindeer, candles, all stuffed with cotton, dangling on branches from improvised thread hangers. 

The young hands that fashioned the dancing angels, soldiers at attention, and gingerbread man are busy now in their father’s home. 

For a brief while this morning, there was a flurry of gift-giving, with squeals and laughter. Wads of brightly colored paper waited patiently to be taken to our bin. Not long ago, five chairs around our dining table were filled with me and my four pajama-clad children, ages 2, 6, 8, and 10.  

Heaping plates of pancakes decked with cherries and cream were soon swallowed in hushed awe. Then, slowly, I broached the subject of them dressing and me combing their hair for their departure. Feet shuffled up and down the staircase while each sat expectantly with their backpacks and sleeping bags stacked nearby.

Now, their laughter is only an echo in my memory. I busied myself with dishes, vacuuming, and mopping until there was nothing else left to face but my thoughts.

Unable to avoid the reality that this first Christmas Day would soon fade without any family or friends to hug goodnight, I reflected back upon other Christmases that at first glance seemed to invite a bleak spirit.

There was a Christmas spent in faraway Asia, several spent during penny-pinching times, and now today asked me for a toughness I didn’t possess. My soul was weary from this recent challenge. No matter how many times I invited it to go, stubbornly, the ache in my heart would not leave. 

One Christmas was spent 6,400 miles away from our families in the teeming city of Tokyo. I can still hear the clattering wooden geta on the pavement that the women wore with their traditional kimonos as they headed to the nearby bus stop for a ride to a festival. 

With our sliding glass doors to our balcony open, smells of the neighbor’s fried food wafted in as the commuter buses roared past. The quick exhale of their brakes reminded me of the drums rumbling as the hunters came through the woods in Peter and the Wolf. High-pitched women’s voices, with their now-familiar intonations, floated throughout the open hallways of our building.

Downtown in the Ginza, the exclusive shopping district where land was over one million dollars a square foot in the 1970’s, luxurious department stores adopted the westerner’s holiday traditions and stocked tree lights and ornaments in a small area. Familiar carols were piped over the intercom system to encourage purchases with a nostalgic touch.

I busied myself baking streusels and braided sweetbreads as gifts for several Japanese friends and neighbors who had befriended us. I tried to ignore the pangs of homesickness that reminded me of how sad it was that our parents were afar off, as far as the distance I felt from this culture, as Christmas drew near. But my two-year-old daughter and baby boy made it worth the trouble to hunt down some traditional trappings and to prepare the goodies. 

Several Christmases were spent during our lean years working in churches. The arrival of the Christmas holidays was usually a cruel reminder of our poverty. We lived contentedly in our meager circumstances the rest of the year, but the pressure to buy extra gifts and trappings stressed us both. 

During these hard times, we joined forces with friends to raise a cow and later a pig to butcher and share. Some friends came to help make tamales and to cut and wrap the meat. Lard was rendered with lye to make soap, which I poured into school milk cartons that I gathered one day after the children had left the lunchroom.

All who joined in those workdays divided the packages and cartons among us. These were grand times full of friendly chatter and laughter amid the messy work. We felt rich and satisfied as we stocked our freezer, making the best of things.

Christmas challenges stirred our creativity as we found ways to make gifts to share with those we loved. Simple gifts like my homemade granola, hot cocoa, and hot spiced tea mixes, delivered in canning jars decorated with plaid ribbons tied in bows. No cards--instead duplicated letters packed full of achievements of Jennie, Nathan, and Audrey at school, the first words of Jonathan and his antics, and excitement as we described our first country home surrounded by sugar cane fields. Gifts might have been few, but the time was rich together.

As I finished reminiscing about these other tough holidays, I realized there were always good memories as well, so that old ache lost its grip on me.

I focused now on today, wondering if my children felt as odd about spending this holiday without me as I did about spending it without them.

Exhausted and tired of the company of this melancholy spirit, I reached for my guitar. I sat strumming while my mind meditated. My heart warmed as I recounted so many things I was grateful for. Opening my Bible to the Psalms, I sang the words and worshipped. A sweet presence filled my quiet living room. I sensed God’s warm comfort wrapping around my shoulders, then melting away any stress perched on my neck and shoulders. 

"So, Jesus," I grinned, "this is our day together, you and I.” 

My thoughts melted into peace, and a liquid joy raced down my spine. Life is indeed full when I just stop long enough to notice. 

Atuned, expectant, and at attention now, I curled up on the couch to listen, relish the stillness, and embrace this new tradition. 

Again, the tree winked.

Note: I know this is a bit early for Christmas. I wrote this in 1985, but I’m publishing it now to encourage all who may be out of sorts, missing part of their family, or just alone and on their own somewhere during a special day or holiday.

Psalm 42:1-5 NASB1995

As the deer pants for the water brooks,

So my soul pants for You, O God.

My soul thirsts for God, for the living God;

When shall I come and appear before God? 

My tears have been my food day and night,

While they say to me all day long, “Where is your God?”

These things I remember and I pour out my soul within me.

For I used to go along with the throng and lead them in procession to the house of God,

With the voice of joy and thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival.

Why are you in despair, O my soul?

And why have you become disturbed within me?

Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him

For the help of His presence.

(This Psalm is thought to have been written when the Korahite temple servants were forced to flee Jerusalem (home of the temple) with King David during Absalom's revolt in 975 BC. Even kings had bad days.)

GLASS CEILING

     Looking up at a starry night in the woods, out away from city street lamps, I relish this chance to be off-grid. It is almost as good as sitting alone in the moonlight on the Texas Coast. Letting go of the to-do lists, the laundryroom is far away, and good riddance. Though I love the convenience, I come to these spaces for respite, for a sense of freedom from the ordinary. The endless chores that have to be attended to because we live here among other humans.

     If I lived off in the woods, would I rake leaves or would I let nature take its course? But here in suburbia, the HOA, neighbors, and city regs wave their batons and demand a certain look done by a certain time, or else. Hmmm... not today, no, not this week, I'm escaping all of that nonsense. I'm not their serf to jump at their beck and call. I'm flying free right now, and I may never go back.

     Shelved notebooks full of ideas, stories started, and characters sketched stand neglected. Years of thoughts, emotions, memories, and dreams that once fired my pen to release my pent-up reflections, just looking back at me, wondering, when are you going to finish this? What good are we just hanging out where no one even knows that we exist? So many stories waiting to be released.

     Dreams of books for children, but illustrator fees were out of reach with so many mouths to feed and clothe. Games to attend. Practices to run to and from throughout the busy years. Life was bursting with activity, voices clammering to be heard, and I was more than willing to listen. And with a glowing heart, I considered the goodness of life. Those days have come and gone. My flock has struck out on their own, and many are enjoying the ebb and flow of lives that matter to others. 

     So many years I looked up and leaned over to duty so my head would not hit the glass ceiling overhead. I would like to study law, but... I would love to write more, but... I would travel overseas, but...

     I read other people's stories, their novels. I would see what so many have accomplished and what they had to show for it. I did not need a trophy for all that kept me doing the daily tasks, supporting other people's dreams, and helping them reach their goals. I was good with what I had done. But I am not done.

     Now, I do not pull out my notebooks merely to reminisce about times long ago, where these words take me into memories long forgotten. Now, I stand tall. I breathe in the fresh air. Revived. I see the stars clearly now as they wink back at me. I dared to make a pact with myself, one I would not break. This was not someone else's bidding. This was my heart and my soul longing to soar. Before me, the pages stirred to be out there. Where the world would see and judge my craft, or lack thereof. No longer hidden. I read and watched, and now it was time to fly. That ceiling had to get out of my way.

     Months ago, the final drafts and illustrations were created after many hours of back-and-forth, with detailed explanations of the art, endless corrections, and questions, so many questions to understand all the ins and outs of the publishing process.  Research and tenacity pierced through any of my resistance to the unfamiliar.

     The glass ceiling teased and let me see the dream, but at the same time, it was the barrier that kept me from lifting my head straight to see it through. I'm not a techie. Who am I to publish my family's and my own written words? There are so many hoops to jump through.

     I take a deep, slow breath. I am on the other side now. My first children's book is published with verse and beautiful illustrations. A family memoir full of grins, reflections, and things gone awry while camping, off-grid, like me right now. 

     I see those stars above tonight so clearly without the smudges on the glass I used to gaze through. Ebooks, hardback, paperbacks, ISBNs, social media blurbs, and photos are all behind me until the next hurdle. My next books will stretch me again. Scarier still will be the business of taking all of this, my handiwork, face-to-face to the people. 

     But that is the clincher. I broke that ceiling doing the things I hoped for but never thought possible. Now is the time, and I am booting fear to the curb. No more. No more will you harness me and choke me, belittle me, and stop me. I have tasted life on the other side, and it is good. So much better than hot fudge sundaes or custard pie. Better than chicken dumplings even. This will not go away. I am not the same person tonight. 

     I stretched myself, and life is brighter. Breaking out and moving past my imagined limitations has awakened a sleeping giant. A treasure trove of words is waiting to be ordered and shared. No matter who cares or wants to read books anymore, my words will flow and be seen by the hearts that are meant to find my stories, and that is all I need to know. I am doing my part; the rest is up to them.

https://www.christiemariebooks.com

     

     

     

       

     

     

THE FLY-IN DILEMMA

     Wood is stacked and ready beside the door. The generator has been started up to be sure it is ready if needed. As I looked out over the chilly scene, all was quiet in anticipation of this loudly touted storm that approached us.

     A Carolina Wren perched on the wooden bench within my sight. It was rare to see a bird venture this close to the back door. It started up with an insistent chirping that went on and on. It caught my attention because these little creatures rarely stay in one place for long. Yet, it seemed to continue on as if it was sending a message. It just continued on. Funny, I thought as I continued to watch.

     Then it dawned on me, it was looking directly at my back door. I felt the message was somehow directed at me. I looked guiltily out at the empty feeders outside. No wonder, this brave little messenger wanted to alert me the the usual fly-ins, their Wendy's, McDonald's, Whataburger feeders, and the dine-in Texas Roadhouse, which was hanging on our window, were all out of millet.

     We crowd together to get our food from the nearest HEB grocery to fill our pantries and freezers before we are stuck inside while no drive-in is open with everyone iced in. But these tiny free loaders had a feeding frenzy in their preparation for the weather change that they could feel in the air.

     Well, little wren, you braved proximity to the human abode. This human got the drift of what was missing out there in your domain. So there, I refilled the feeders with this pricey feed that they love. I also refilled the bird bath in case they needed a bit of a drink afterward.

     Now as I sip my hot tea, I watch the contented flock of finches, wren, sparrows and a cardinal or two come by to dine at their fly-ins. But as for a drink or two after their tasty meal, it turned into a rather icy skating rink. 

     Oh well, just wait a day or two. the water will thaw. Here in Texas the sun will be shining and the ice will flee to some other locale because winter is feisty here. One day you bundle up in sweaters and gloves, but the next day; it's a day for T-shirts and shorts.

WHITE COW IN THE FOG

 

     The lights of our Ford Expedition bounced off of the clouds that enveloped us. We had been forced to take a detour on our way back from the Guanacaste province and the narrow winding road ascended up into the mountains.
     The only trouble was the rain started and the clouds came in blanketing us in their blinding whiteness. This forced us to creep along at five miles an hour. 

     Glancing to my right, there was a wisp of a clearing, and I could see the edge of the road was near a steep drop-off. 

     To the left, my husband looked down from his window. He remarked that he could see the yellow stripe that divided us from oncoming traffic: trucks, cars, and motorcycles that flowed on toward us in a steady stream. Those drivers respectfully slowed as well to a snail’s pace.

     Most of the way, we could not see the front of our vehicle it was so thick. We crawled along slowly and praying hard. 

     This was our third time to experience such a thick fog on a roadway here in Costa Rica. We started out with clear sunny skies near the coast, but as soon as we left the vicinity of the airport near Liberia where we dropped off Jonathan, the drizzle began. Up, up, in elevation where the fog crept over the mountains and overtook us.

     After twenty minutes the fog grew thicker. Then as I looked out my window to the left, I caught a glimpse of a ghost like figure of a white Brahma cow. Just standing there staring at all of the traffic slowly maneuvering on a stretch of road that rarely saw much traffic.

     All alone and barely visible, this lone creature was unable to express what it was thinking. I also felt all alone and unable to say anything, for I did not want to break my husband’s concentration as he skillfully drove blindly along with only an occasional glance down to see that he was the same distance from the center stripe. We could not see anything else except the fuzzy yellow haze of the oncoming lights that were blinding if Jerry would look directly at them.

     I couldn’t help but jot down white cow in the fog when we safely returned to our apartment. The image has stuck in my mind for some time now. I wondered at how these cattle can climb up and down steep slopes to find grassy spots to graze. Usually there is a small herd at least scattered on hillsides. But here there was just one solitary animal. A family’s one hope perhaps. Watching silly humans going past in their noisy boxes on wheels. 

     Some days I’ve felt like that lone cow in the fog. Wondering what everyone is going after at such a pace. So glad that I am out of the rat race. Just today, I was looking at remote jobs and then I closed those pages with a sigh of relief. I will stand on my steep rocky ground. Time has picked me up and taken me through the years of child-bearing, work, volunteering, with only a little time off with my family until my time has nearly run out.

     My houseful of vibrant children has become still. Just we three older folks who connect mostly electronically with our busy crew that have gone on their way. I look at the images of what has been on the media. This is what I know of them today. Almost like looking through the fog. So close to my heart, yet barely reachable and faintly seen.

     The last two months we connected with several over dinners and sleepovers and a hike to Monkey Rock with some. I miss my herd. Some are still out of sight, but I know the fog will lift one day. We will see each other clearly and in person and I will leave this pensiveness behind as we banter, cook, explore, and wrap our arms around each other again.

     So funny, you know; when they were young, dancing and performing in the living room my heart overflowed with joy. But when the last one was tucked in and finally relaxed in slumber, I sighed, quite fulfilled, yet quite tired. Still, today, I think of them all out there living their best years and I sigh again, but this time it is from the satisfaction of having these memories of their time of growth, and now getting to share their dreams and challenges but not up close. It is surreal that the time has come when I even have held my first great-grandchild.

     Like that white Brahma in the white clouds, I am watching as others hurry to the store, catch a Lyft ride, and run to pick up a child from the school bus stop. Not I, I have different tasks now. I have my call to be a scribe. It is time to leave my footprint so that others will know that I was here. Perhaps, if some will stop and take the time; they will discover my thoughts and then some will understand the heart of this woman who still looks on at life, until it stops.