Has anybody seen my tribe?

I discovered just how Southern I was about 10 years at one of the Turner Classic Movie Film Festivals in Hollywood. It happened during my virgin voyage on John Ford’s Stagecoach. (See my love letter to “Pappy” Ford below.) While the rest of the audience was swooning over a baby-faced John Wayne effortlessly swinging his rifle into place, I was falling headlong for John Carradine. 

Yes, THAT John Carradine, whose lantern-jawed visage and deep, distinct baritone voice brought an odd dignity to dozens of perfectly awful films. All he had to do was rumble politesse about offering his protection to a very pregnant woman traveling alone to meet her cavalry husband and I was hooked.

What makes John Carradine, human praying mantis, even slightly swoony?

1. He recognizes a lady when he sees one and responds to her as befits his Southern upbringing.
2. His courtly manners and melodic phrases whisper “home” to this daughter of Old Maryland, once known as the “Home of Gracious Living.”
3. He steals every scene he’s in—and that’s tough when a young, hunky John Wayne is your competition.

From his first utterance, I saw a fellow tribesman in his character, and tears clogged my throat and hung in my eyes at every word he spoke and every chivalrous act he performed.

There’s nothing quite as moving and empowering as finding one’s tribe.

That’s why I was so thrilled to stumble upon a slew of sassy authorial sisters on Instagram when I ventured into those waters (#bookstagram is a great place to start). Writers born pen in hand. Gals who unleash their vivid “what if…?” imaginations and come at life with a bulletproof belief in the power of the written word.

As the publishing road unwinds before me, I’m counting on my tribe to point out the potholes (and plot holes) and throw PowerAde at me so I can keep going. Running this race might require some well-this-isn’t-fun discipline, but with the help of my Lord and my cheering section, I’m determined to see it through. (Hebrews 12:1)

Mwah! Marline

BONUS: Love Letter to John Ford

Dear Mr. Ford,

I understand from various sources that you were, at heart, an often quite nasty curmudgeon. But I’ve come, late to the game, to appreciate that you were a master of your craft…the Western. Stagecoach, The Searchers, Fort Apache, Three Godfathers, and Rio Grande to name a few—the more I watched, the more I was able to trace your fingerprints.

I came to your movies expecting cowboys-and-Indians; I got Greek drama in spurs. Intense, unspoken pathos. Camaraderie and esprit-des-corps. Poignant romance, deeply felt. Comic sidelong glances and slapstick. The horrors of warfare and its glories. Sweeping landscapes punctuated with hell-for-leather riding, rising dust spirals and bleached bones—it’s all there. I’ve become quite the epicure now. If someone asks me if I like Westerns, I say “Well, that depends. Is it directed by Ford?” Thanks, Pappy.

Love, Marline