THE WRITER'S VIEW: Christy McKee

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Christy will be awarding a digital copy of Maybe Too Good To Be True to a randomly drawn commenter at every stop and a $30 Amazon GC to one randomly drawn commenter during the tour. Click on the banner above to see the other stops on the tour.

The View Outside My Window

Today the view outside my window is green and lush from the recent rain, which is a good thing since my husband is averse to watering. We live in a rural subdivision and our back yard is wide and deep. Right out my window there are two nice size trees we planted two years ago but it will be at least a few decades until they can offer us respectable shade on a hot July day. The Fourth of July is one of our favorite backyard holidays. Our subdivision sits up very high giving us a birdseye view of fireworks displays across three counties. We’ve counted as many as fifteen in one night.

If you look to the left, there’s a small horse farm. We love to watch the horses frolicking and enjoying the sunshine as much as we do. In the winter, they are especially frisky when they run in the pasture kicking their hind legs behind them. There’s a dapple grey mare, a couple of chestnuts and a delicate black beauty. I wish they were closer so I could give them a carrot or two just to thank them for keeping us entertained.

Our backyard rolls up a slight hill, then gives way to a neatly manicured green for the 15th hole, surrounded by four sand traps. We do not play golf or belong to the country club; we just happen to like the country. For the most part, the golfers are a harmless lot, but occasionally over step the boundaries—literally—into our backyard.

There is a white “boundary” stake at the place where our property gives way to the golf course. If a golfer hits a ball out of bounds—into our yard—they are not supposed to retrieve it. We have two big Labs, Lambeau and Gracie. We are not allowed to build fences so we had an underground fence installed. After thorough training, our dogs have not broken through in seven years. Since both dogs have grown up with golfers zipping past our house, they barely pay them any attention, but when the golfers stray into our yard, the dogs bark until they leave.

A few weeks ago, I was outside my window, when a golfer started to walk onto our property. I gestured—quite nicely—for him not to come into our yard. He was waving his arms at me, then pointing to Lambeau, our yellow Lab, who stood barking in front of him. Beyond ear shot, I called Lambeau to come inside. A quick look at the golfer indicated he was still upset about something. Not my problem. When I brought Lambeau inside, he looked like he’d contracted the mumps. Then with a small thud, he dropped the man’s golf ball on my bare foot. Now I knew what the man had been flapping his arms about. I took the golf ball to the garage and dropped into a bucket of balls retrieved by my retriever.

When cooler temperatures set in, the golfers give way to joggers and dog walkers using the cart path. When the snow comes, it is fun to watch children sledding down the hills. I can hear their laughter and it makes me remember sledding in my childhood. Of course there are also cross country skiers wending their way around the golf course. It looks like work to me. I think I’d rather wad myself up on a sled and race down the hill.

The Canadian geese are something new in my view. There are several places on the golf course, with small ponds and lagoons, where the geese congregate. A few days ago they ventured towards my yard for the first time. Lambeau admirably rose to the occasion and joyfully barked his head off until the very last goose had been sent on its way. I am an animal lover and think the geese are beautiful, but the “mess” they leave behind—not so much!

There you have it. From my window I can see beauty every day. I can enjoy the four seasons, celebrate the Fourth of July without leaving home, watch sporting events, observe wildlife, and handle crowd control of our burgeoning goose population.

About the Author:

My addiction to reading emerged when I was ten and down with measles. My mother, trying to keep me entertained, brought home a stack of Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew books. Within days, I’d consumed them all and asked for more. That’s when it truly began−the pleasure of reading which would eventually lead to my writing.

I can’t pin point precisely when I knew I was different from everyone else−at least from my tight group of hometown friends. Didn’t everyone have movies playing in their heads starring beautiful characters leading adventurous lives in exotic places? NO—they did not. Did that mean they were normal and I was the odd, slightly wacky duck? My answer to that conundrum came when I attended my first writer’s conference in Savannah. Nervous about being on my own at the crowded event, a kindly writer from Texas took me under her wing and introduced me to at least a dozen writers. Surrounded by so many writers who were so like me, I fit right in. I wasn’t an “odd” duck after all; I’d simply been in the wrong pond!

As a result of that conference, my desire and conviction to write blossomed. Still working a full time job at a Louisiana cancer center, I carved out time to write every night and on weekends. My first manuscript went through four incarnations, and a year under the bed, before success came knocking.

Today my family and our two Labs—Lambeau, the Green Bay Packers unofficial mascot and Gracie, who is just plain, sweet Amazing Grace—live in a picturesque little town in Ohio wrapped around a lovely town square with an intricately carved gazebo where weekly band concerts take place all summer long.

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Gabrielle March is summoned to an oceanfront estate in Massachusetts by the matriarch of Atlantic-Hastings International where she is presented with a hefty block of shares as amends for a crime committed against her family. The stock—worth several million dollars—can give her the means to make her dream come true if only she can muster the courage to break free from her past and believe in her unique creative talent.

Pierce Hastings, son of Gabrielle’s benefactress, grudgingly agrees to take her under his wing and acclimate her to Atlantic-Hastings. Never one to mix business with pleasure, Pierce stuns himself when he ignores his own self imposed rule. Gabrielle’s complete lack of artifice, unvarnished honesty and quirky sense of humor are intoxicating to him―and he’s rapidly becoming addicted. He’s blindsided when Gabrielle confesses that, in spite of her growing feelings for him, she will never fit into his world of power and privilege and has no desire to try.