The Pineapple Chutney Following

When my novel, Rain Song, made its debut, I was eager to promote it with the typical book signings at local stores. I arranged three events and enjoyed each one; people came and bought books. However, I wanted more, something unique, something to stand out. As one friend said, with a wry smile, "You want a following." I grimaced; that sounded lofty.

Rain Song is set in Mount Olive, NC and has quirky southern relatives who believe in tradition and unity. They don Mount Olive Pickle Company aprons and make pineapple chutney while discussing the next family reunion. I wanted my novel to expand off the pages and generate some fun in the lives of others today. So, after the book signings, I hosted a Holiday Reunion Open House Event. I sent out printed invitations to neighbors, those in my writers group, friends, church folk, and relatives. I announced the event on social networking sites.

I'd never done this before, but with the help of my children and boyfriend, I knew the event couldn't go wrong. We planned the menu to reflect the food in the novel--hot ginger tea, egg salad and cucumber sandwiches, shortbread, and of course, homemade pineapple chutney. About an hour into the open house, I gathered everyone into the living room and read portions, primarily the food-related ones, from my southern novel. Books were for sale in the kitchen, and after the reading, many were ready to purchase with cash and checks.

I posted pictures on my Facebook page and, days after the event, I heard from two friends planning a canning party. Their delicacy of choice? Pineapple chutney, using the recipe at the back of my novel. They bought twelve ripe pineapples and enjoyed a day of chopping and cooking. Centering a copy of Rain Song in the twelve pineapple line-up, they took photos. The 48 jars of chutney they made were for Christmas gifts. (These friends also purchased twelve books between them to give as presents.)

You, too, can think about themes and topics that are evident in your books. Have fun! Fun creates a bright audience, an audience waiting and ready to talk about your novel, and anticipate your next.

I guess you could call it a following, and there would be nothing wrong with that.

Alice J. Wisler created the characters of her novel, Rain Song, by observing those around her in stores, airports, and restaurants. The recipe for pineapple chutney is in the back of her novel so anyone can make it and host his/her own reunion party. Read more about Alice's work and upcoming novel, How Sweet It Is, at http://www.alicewisler.com.

~ Published by WritersWeekly on 1/21/09

Thanks for a great time!

Last Saturday at LifeWay Store was a wonderful event for me as
I signed copies of my two novels, Rain Song and How Sweet It Is.

I got to meet one of my FaceBook friends for the first time.
Missy joined me at my book signing table to purchase Rain Song.

My good friend, Katharine, was also there to support me.

I appreciate all who listened to me talk about my novels
and then am grateful for those who were kind enough to buy
them.

Thanks, to LifeWay's staff for being so welcoming.

Read Part of Chapter One of Rain Song

[A few pages into Chapter One]........


Ducee traces the rim of her teacup with a bony finger. Slowly she says, "You aren't in control of everything or anybody. Remember that, Iva."

If I ever compile a list of my grandmother's sayings, this one will be at the top.

We know she will add another part to her thought, and she does. "Good things happen in fleeting moments. Enjoy what you can—those moments are sometimes all we get." She focuses on both of our faces and then, "Yes." There is a long pause as though she is remembering something almost lost, like one of those long-gone fleeting moments she wants to recapture in her mind. "Yes, that's it, yes."

Iva finishes her tea, pushes her cup and saucer toward the middle of the table, and smacks her lips. "Well, Grable's not having any good things happening these days. Having to do it all alone and then when Dennis does decide to come home, he has no patience for Monet. She is his daughter." She lights another cigarette and coughs.

I think of Grable and Dennis's three-year-old, Monet, the child no doctor at Duke or UNC hospitals can figure out. The child is wild, and my patience for her runs thin. The last time she overfed my fish, I screamed at her. Then I felt awful and bought her a coloring book and pack of Crayolas. Grable has aspirations that Monet will live up to her name and be able to paint like Claude Monet.

Grable also thinks Dennis will cut back his hours at the law firm, take some time off, and fly with her to an exotic country, preferably Costa Rica.

"Monet is a treasure," Ducee says with feeling. "Trying, but if you listen to her heart, she is charming."

Both Iva and I give Ducee looks as if she's lost her mind.

Iva crumples her empty cigarette pack. "Don't know why God made her the way she is."

Ducee starts to speak, but Iva interrupts. "I know, I know, you're going to say His ways are not our ways. And to trust Him and not doubt. Birds of the air." She waves her cigarette in front of her face. "I know, I know." She clears her raspy throat. That action always makes me quiver.

"Actually," Ducee says, "I was going to ask if you wanted more tea."

Iva places the end of the Virginia Slims in the ashtray and stands. "No, got to get to the Friendly Mart."

We know why. She just smoked her last cigarette. We watch her untie her apron and fold it on the back of the chair. She ruffles her dyed-platinum hair by running fingers through the roots. Her smile shows her gold molar. She thanks her sister for the day, extending her arm so that Ducee can touch it with her lips.

"See you tomorrow at church," Ducee says as Iva pulls on her short fur coat and fastens the pearl buttons.

Iva coughs. "The Good Lord willing and the creek don't rise." She squeezes my shoulder before striding for the front door. Iva is tall—close to six feet—and she has a way of easing across floors when she walks, like a waterbug skimming the river's surface.

Ducee tilts her head and looks at me through smudged bifocals. "Is it Richard?" she asks after Iva leaves the house.

I sigh. "Richard and I broke up last night." There, I've told her. Why does my grandmother always win?

She nods as though she already knew. That woman knows me like her famous family chutney recipe. When she looks at me, I swear she can see the missing ingredient.

"Why don't you come over for dinner after church tomorrow, then?" She pats my hand. Her hand is tiny, the skin thin with age spots and protruding purple veins. "I'll make barbeque chicken." She smiles, adding, "With the Smithfield sauce you like so much."

A moment passes and the silence eats at her. "Nicole, dear? You okay? Anything else you need to tell me?"

Can she see into my mind?

"No." I can't tell her that I've received a beautiful poem from a carp owner in Japan. Surely when she looks at me she doesn't know that, does she? I have also dreamed of him, although I have no idea what he looks like in real life.

Since the death of my mother, Ducee has practically raised me. Although I lived with Father until I graduated from high school, during those years, my summers and school breaks were always spent at Ducee's house. She knows I have a mole the shape of an apple on my lower back and that even at age thirty-one, I continue to sleep with a cloth kimono doll.

But there are still lines I draw. She doesn't get to know everything.

Sometimes, though, on chilly, dark nights when the only sound in my house is the humming fish tank, it would be nice to sit in Aunt Lucy's wingback chair, curl my legs up under me, and just spill it out.