Introducing. . . Patricia Fowler

Sometimes you find a rose growing along a broken fence, buried deep under the last dregs of snow. That’s what finding new talent feels like. It’s like the deepest breath of the first spring air. We at MB4 have been so fortunate to find someone with that talent, that love of the craft. We are very happy to introduce our readers to Patricia Fowler. Y’all watch for her work. You will be blown slap away.

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Pat, tell us what it is about writing that you love so much?

I only know that I have been bitten badly by writing. I have no real training. I have no master who has taught me theme and character and plot. Nothing. I have only my heart that sees things tender; my ear that tries to shake off the trite, tries to make the words sting; and the guile to think that I could ever pull it off. That is why I write. I am caught in this riptide, so I might as well swim.

…Maybe I fell in love with you again-forgave you for those beach runaways- when you brought me the little wild rose that you found clinging to a fence post in your yard. You were on your way to work and you saw it there, drooping in the noonday sun. You told me that you went back into the house and got a pair of scissors; snipped it from its perch. You put it in a Styrofoam cup, at the checkout counter, at the convenience store. Lots of people noticed it there, said it was so pretty. But you knew that it was all for me. St. Theresa had sent its bloom up just for me.

Excerpt: Landslide
Written By: Patricia Fowler

Some stories ache to be told. Some lives need to be laid down, put to words, put to music. Especially when the life was snuffed out so suddenly. Your little light is burning along and then it’s not. Big wet fingertips shoot through a thundercloud, pinch your flame. And then you’re gone, with just this sad wisp of smoke trailing up, a curving gray ribbon. And then, the smoke just melds with the dust, leaving not a trace.

And so here I am, the sister sitting by this window in my kitchen. Looking out as the snow falls down, so soft. Thinking about her. Don’t exactly know why, but she keeps coming to me. She’s nudging me, maybe, daring me to lay it down--all of it, the ugly and the pretty. What it was like being her, what it’s like being without her. So, here I am. Not a clue where to start. But know this, I have her story to tell.

You can find the rest of this fabulous interview with Pat here:
Pat Fowler interview