YouTube Channel Content

My newest 2-minute videos are on my YouTube channel:
https://www.youtube.com/@LindaSummersea 

They include a Book Trailer, Interview with publicist Danette Kubana, and a 2-minute mini-movie (image shown at left) about Summersea’s experience with Body Dysmorphic Disorder.

View buying options for The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll here. 

🎞️  🎙️ ATTENTION: Are you a podcast or radio host or book club host?    

We’d love to appear on your media to talk about teen depression, BDD, and/or its relationship to the pressures created by social media.

OR, The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll or other topic.  The Girl is about a girl who becomes depressed at an early age, but it’s by no means a downer of a read. You’ll cheer for the girl’s successes as she comes of age.              And…It’s all told in the voice of the girl!


Contact us using the Contact Us form linked above, or email: linda@lindasummersea.com

The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll is Available Here

The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll is available today as an eBook and/or Paperback here at BookBaby’s online store.

 

Read the FIRST FIVE CHAPTERS in the Free Preview below when you click on BUY ON AMAZON.
Amazon has the eBook and Paperback.

9/11 Remembered

Today America remembers the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks on their 24-year anniversary. Like many events that are remembered for their horror, I think most of us remember where we were when we heard about the fall of the towers.

The first al-Qaeda suicide mission under Osama bin-Laden hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center complex at 8:46 A.M. The South Tower was hit at 9:03 A.M.

Within an hour and forty-two minutes, both collapsed killing thousands and injuring thousands more—in the air, in the towers and on the ground.

At the moment, I was on Long Island, putting my suitcase in the trunk of my sister’s car in preparation for flying from Islip L.I. airport to LaGuardia and homeward bound from there later that morning.

My sister called out her front door to say that she had just received a phone call.

“The World Trade Center towers have been hit. Come inside…I’m turning on the TV.”

Long story short. There would be no flights in US air space for at least 48 hours, and longer still in the New York area. I brought my suitcase inside, and  set my alarm for 3 AM in an attempt to rebook my cancelled flights.

Airline phone lines were busy day after day and night after night. I finally got through after 3 AM on Sept 15, and was able to book my return flights for a few days later.

At the time, I was living in NW Arkansas, teaching Art at a public elementary school. When I returned, I passed out 5×7″ sheets of paper along with 2 popsicle sticks to each of my students in art classes for a week. They used crayons to draw American flags and I hot-glued the sticks to their individual flags. After each class, we went outside and “planted” our flags side by side in the lawn until the school was surrounded with by a fence of flags to symbolize our country’s security—even though it had been broken that day.

God bless America.

 

What Does the 4th of July Really Mean?

A Safe and Happy 4th of July to you. This morning, I put on my freedom t-shirt, wearing its American flag with a different feeling this year.

I can’t help but feel sad for all of the chaos and trauma in the United States and certainly, around the world. Our country is experiencing a dangerous reality that makes me sad, yet still hopeful that it can be salvaged.

I went for my usual walk to clear my head before writing and came upon a family whose youngest had just become a Naturalized American citizen that morning with a formal ceremony beneath a massive tree on a shady knoll right there in the middle of town. She swore her oath and pledged her allegiance to the United States that those of us who were born here often take for granted. The 4th of July tends to find its meaning diminished in the backyard barbecues and explosions of fireworks.

Those few minutes sharing the happiness of the newly naturalized helped me to focus on the values and freedoms that we share and hope to share with all Americans.

I went home and came across this NPR interview. It’s worthwhile to listen to the 6:54 minutes and reflect on how far we’ve come. Hopefully, we can overcome the current chaos in our government.

Five years ago, NPR interviewed great-great-great-great grandchildren of Frederick Douglas, having them read aloud the speech that their forefather delivered on July 4, 1852 before an abolitionist group. Their comments that follow are passionate and worthy.

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

I haven’t posted in a while because here on the home front, beyond politics and Covid-19, I’ve been riding the roller coaster of Life. I’ve been hanging tight… It wouldn’t be Life if we didn’t have a few lessons to learn, right?

I wish all of you a wonderful holiday season and a happy new year 2021! And without further ado, here’s a happy memory from Christmas week, 1966.

“I was sixteen. I was driving myself to Denholm’s Department Store in a city twenty miles away on a school night. I must have told Mum and Dad what I was up to because I had to ask permission to borrow the car.

As proof of my emotional immaturity—and my hesitation to leave childhood behind—I was on my way to fulfill a childhood fantasy. I had always wanted to have my picture taken with Santa Claus.

On the second floor of the store, I saw Santa sitting on a golden throne in the Toy Department. His throne, hung with fragrant evergreen swags and a string of twinkling white lights, was the centerpiece of a green-carpeted platform placed three shallow steps above the rest of us. I joined the line of small children and their mothers, and they paid no attention to me. Well, maybe they did.

I was wearing an A-line, mint green, silk shantung dress. It was the prettiest dress I have ever owned in my life—bar none. I even felt pretty in that dress.

I was a little nervous and somewhat intimidated. I had my coat unbuttoned, ready to shed it quickly as I got closer to Santa.

When it was my turn, I handed my coat to an elf. I tiptoed up the steps to Santa and sat on the edge of his lap, just barely touching his red velvet thigh. I told him I didn’t want anything for Christmas except the photo, and I directed one of my rare smiles towards the elf with the camera. Santa didn’t say too much. Maybe he ho-ho-hoed. After the camera flash, I stepped down from the Santa throne and a few minutes later, my Polaroid was ready and Santa’s elf handed it to me in a Merry Christmas photo card.

I liked it. I did. There I was—carefully seated with Santa in my pretty green dress. My long brown hair looked just right. It was perfect. Even in my self-conscious state, I couldn’t find anything wrong with it. I stared at the photo as I rode down the escalator and floated out the door to where it was snowing lightly, just a scattering of fluffy flakes under the street lights to dust this fairy tale evening with Christmas magic.

I drove home on auto-pilot, parked the car in the driveway and before anyone had time to question me, I hung my coat in the hall closet and made my way upstairs to bed. I never shared that experience with anyone before now. Maybe I’ve always been a little embarrassed at being so lonely and emotionally withdrawn, but having my photograph taken with Santa Claus at age sixteen had given me Joy. I’m glad that I was brave enough to realize that it’s never too late to make something right.”

Summersea, Linda. The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll.

Swimming in the Dead Sea in Summer

Yesterday was my 70th birthday. Rather a big one, I think, and worthy of a big celebration. I don’t mean a big party or big money spent. I prefer to celebrate a significant transition with some kind of adventure, big or small or in-between.

I had hoped, if all went well, to be swimming in the Dead Sea this month as part of an expedition to Jordan to visit the ruins at Petra. It would be exhilarating to hike for a couple days in and around the ruins, then camp under the stars in the desert near Wadi Rum.

The same company that handled my return to Morocco to walk with Berber Nomads in 2017 and last summer’s 22-day Uncharted Expedition to Kazakhstan, Siberia, and Mongolia offers a “Women’s Expedition” to Jordan.

At first I ignored it because I thought in terms of the specialized women’s activities that one sees here and there. I surely didn’t want a frou-frou trip with shopping, make-up demos, and wine tasting. Definitely NOT my thing!

It turns out that their Woman’s Expedition involves hiking around Petra and Wadi Rum for a couple of days, camping under the stars (Love!) and, as they say in their materials “the best opportunity possible for developing a deeper understanding of Middle Eastern women – with full respect for their traditional cultural values.”

That’s what I want. Meeting Jordanian women in their homes for Middle Eastern cooking lessons, tea, the kohl experience, talking and socializing.

Of course, COVID put an end to all that. I’ve spent my days hiking familiar trails, gardening, harvesting vegetables, berry-picking, baking, installing 300+ feet of drip irrigation, bird watching, and—boring—repairing my dishwasher.

As the individual days of COVID blurred together, I decided to, at least, try one new-to-me adventure: stand-up paddleboarding.

This is what I emailed to my sons:

“It was great fun and a super workout. 100% positive experience. I loved it. I fell off three times. Lost my center of gravity, and the board shot forward out from under me. Then, Bang! Hit the water feet first and WHOOSH, rocket down Deep Deep Deep, followed by Glub Glub Glub, returning to the surface. LOL 
Getting back on the board isn’t too difficult, but I wouldn’t want to be 50 lb heavier.
Quartermaster Air temp was 61 F and water temp 65 F  (10 degrees warmer than Puget Sound). I wore my long-sleeve performance shirt under my sunblock shirt, with quick-dry river pants. Was perfectly comfortable even when wet. Actually quite refreshing.
Basic skills: Knees slightly bent.  Don’t grab the board with your toes or you’ll get cramps. Most important: Keep your core tight to control board wobble.
I knew I’d certainly be falling in. Brought a change of clothes.”

I perhaps should have been writing about my COVID experience these months. That’s what “everyone” says we should be doing—for the sake of documenting these days. But I haven’t.

I’m just trying to keep my head above water. I’ll continue to listen to the trees rustle in the breeze with the occasional scream of a gull in the distance.

Read more

Winter is Coming

The fog is thick this morning, surrounding us in a soft blanket of grey, creeping close and closer still, cloaking the shrubs, disguising the gardens. The fog horn has blown all night long at intervals as regular as breath. In and out, in and out, in and out. I sync my breathing, pull up the quilt again, and soon return to my dreams.

I always look forward to the horn in the night, as it predicts the following day will begin with cozy quiet.

A hike in the fog is a mystery walk. Who knows what’s around the next bend? It alerts the senses to each snap of a twig, each rustle of wings leaving the brush, each croaky caw of the raven high in the top of a fir.

Winter is coming.

winter is comingFog on water. Clean. Fresh as laundry on the line.

Fog will soon become rain.  Batten down the hatches.

Except, no need to batten down hatches or shutter the windows. No wind is on the horizon.

I’m reading Ahab’s Wife—which must be the source of my windy thoughts. A nautical read—especially of an earlier century—always makes me think of cobblestone streets and scrimshaw from Nantucket town to Lahaina. Like Ahab’s wife, I would have made a fine New England whaler’s wife, I think, watching from the rooftop walk if I couldn’t be at sea. If I couldn’t climb the rigging in search of a whale’s spouting, I’d be stitching a cross-stitch sampler and minding the gardens before minding the hearth fires that follow. I would have plenty of time to write.

Winter is coming.

Winter is a writer’s blank canvas, as white as the snow, as empty as a new journal page.

Music shifts from blues to classical. And lots of musing.

Winter is coming.

I hear a flock of geese going by. Right this minute. There’s an osprey still occupying the nest down the road, but not for long.

Winter is coming.

I doubt that I could live where there is no change of seasons.

How else would I receive reminders to begin again?

How else to embrace the changes that are inevitable?

winter is coming

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August and Oceans

It’s August. Summer vacations are drawing to a close.

Did you ever see the ocean when you were little?

The closest I came was a postcard from Cape Cod. From my godmother. She and her family had rented a cottage not far from the beach.

I stared and stared at that postcard. It was the only postcard I ever received as a child.

I wanted to see and hear and breathe and immerse myself in that ocean. But Daddy didn’t go far from his chair near the fireplace where he chain-smoked into the dark each night.

Maybe that’s why, when given the opportunity, I fled to Cape Cod to live and teach at age 22.

It’s in our DNA. I wanted to feel it up close, to be enveloped in it, to be drowned/not drowned in it.

Inspired by The New Yorker. Writer needs forever home. Adoption listing.

Linda Summersea May 2016Meet Linda. She came to us with a BFA and MFA, but sadly, these degrees were not in Creative Writing. Her shame for advanced degrees in a field outside of writing has left her cowering in self-doubt but she no longer piddles when addressed in a loud voice and rarely bites back—providing she is given lots of affection. As she is of advanced age, we have been having a difficult time placing her in a tolerant environment where she can thrive. Although easily distracted Linda can be kept on task with black coffee and BoomChickaPop. She benefits from a long walk every day, preferably in the shade of a forest with someone who is open to discussing writing prompts. In the past, Linda has run off to foreign countries without warning and been difficult to locate. She has recently been micro-chipped. Problem solved. Linda’s current wardrobe is almost entirely black, but since she responds well to tie-dyed garments, we’re hoping to add other colored garments in the near future. Linda would do best in a one-writer home with access to a hot tub.

I wish I could say that the topic of writer-as-pet-needing-forever-home was my own brilliant idea. Alas, Sarah Hutto beat me to it. Read her hysterical piece Writers Looking for Forever Homes here in The New Yorker. And thanks to Seattle writer Camela Thompson for the heads up. It made my day. Still laughing.

Are you a writer? Surely you are now opening a Word doc to pen your own adoption listing.

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