All Articles By: admin
Welcome to the new website!
Not everything is up and running yet, but it’s coming along… Right now, you can still find Linda’s blog, Another Good Thing at it’s current address.. (http://linda-sands.blogspot.com/) , but it will be moving over here soon!
Thanks for visiting!…
We're Not Waving, We're Drowning
On a trip to Savannah, I found a bronze statue by the river. I asked a shop clerk about The Waving Girl and he told me a story of desperate love, of loss and redemption. I spent three days in the archives and over three years researching, reading and rewriting this story based on Florence Martus and her brother George, a lighthouse keeper.
Linda Sands’s We’re Not Waving, We’re Drowning, is a haunting, multi-generational commercial southern women’s novel set in Savannah between 1894 and the present. It’s not a mystery, even though a man disappears. And it’s not a romance, even though the three protagonists—each living in a different era—do fall in love. Rather it’s a big, meaty meal of a novel about women searching for family and discovering strength and loss and identity in a changing world and at particularly transitional times of their lives.
Big Water Anthology
The MSR 2008 Short Fiction Anthology BIG WATER, is now available featuring award winning shorts, including a beach-themed story from Linda.…
The Sack They Left Behind
This version of the award-winning story was well received by the fans and readers of espressofiction.com.
Roxie and her pals will continue their story in a new novel: 3 Women Walk into a Bar.
Under a full moon, thousands of people line the most popular beaches of Southern California, in anticipation of a grunion run. The race to pick up the fish that have come ashore to spawn provides an exhilarating experience for young and old.
You sit at a small, tiled table in a dark coffeehouse in San Diego, sip cappuccino and fold your napkin into origami …
I Write Because People Tell Me Stories
EndPiece, Byline Magazine, January 2005
My mom used to say I had a “come hither” look that invited trouble. I think it’s more of a “come tell me anything” look that invites stories.
People tell me their most personal problems, thoughts and feelings. They relate stories about their jobs, their neighbors, their Scottish childhoods, and I stand there nodding and wondering why these complete strangers feel compelled to confide in me.
Personal journal pundits claim it’s cathartic to write things down. Just “get it out.” Then burn it. Compose a ten-page, soul-wrenching letter to Mr. Perfect who dumped you in …
A Private Play
A version of this story appears in the 2004 edition of Oh Georgia! A Collection of Georgia’s Newest & Most Promising Writers.
A Private Play
Kimber: Light and Possibilities
I had been scrubbing Edith Turner’s toilets for eleven years. Not that it’s important, but that’s what I was thinking as I backed my ’65 Ford down the long gravel drive. The pickup was loaded with mop, broom, Oreck and magic solutions of vinegar and lemon rind, and her rusted-out side panels announced my profession in a fancy curly-q design compliments of my ex, Jason, the artist/lumberjack I’d dated for …
Life Swapping
I might take him up on his offer. My husband keeps saying, “Why don’t you go in for me today, and I’ll stay home.”
I imagine my day. I’ll drink real coffee, while it’s still warm, wear real clothes with real shoes on my feet. I might actually be able to go to the bathroom with the door shut, and not have to explain to anyone what I am doing in there.
If I were my husband I could eat an entire nutrition-filled grown-up lunch, sitting down. Hello expense account. I could have long-winded uninterrupted conversations with real people who …
Broken Tiara
(as it appeared in venuszine, August 2005)
Susie Carmichael might have continued like this for years; if she hadn’t gone looking for the dildo her sister Anna had sent her last Christmas. If she hadn’t stood on the boxes in the closet. If she hadn’t fallen into Richard’s suits. If she hadn’t found the red satin panties peeking from the breast pocket of his gray worsted wool blazer.
But the truth hit her. It was as obvious as Chrissy Stein’s boob job. Richard Peter Carmichael was a lying, cheating, no-good asshole who deserved to die. And not …
