Available now. In stock at Horizon Books, Traverse City, and Glendora Books in Buchanan. Available to order from BookShop.org and Amazon
July 17, 2025. I’ll be signing copies from 1-3:00 at Island Books on Mackinac Island
ISBN: 979-8-9893594-6-2
Weeding Out the Lies, begins in Edgewater where Janet lives a life of quiet indifference. When a mysterious inheritance finds her, she does the first truly impulsive thing in her life. She purchases a Victorian cottage on Mackinac Island where she begins to recall memories of a life she never lived. Weeding Out the Lies is a haunting Mackinac Island story of love transcending time and space.
The Writing Journey: Weeding out the Lies
I don’t remember the first time my parents took the family to Mackinac Island. I was young, I know that much. If you’re not familiar with it, no worries. It’s a spit of land located in the Mackinac Straits within view of the Mackinac Bridge, a five-mile long suspension bridge connecting the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan. You get to the island by ferry either from Mackinaw City or St. Ignace. There are no cars allowed. No traffic aside from horse drawn carriages and bicycles.
I grew up going to the island each summer and I’m not sure what drew my father to take us there repeatedly. Maybe it was the quiet thud of Clydesdale hooves that harkened back to a time before his time. I don’t know. Maybe it had something to do with the history of the place dating from the country’s earliest origins, all of it offered up on walking tours by re-enactors. If I’d ever asked my dad what it was that drew him ‘Up North’ – a term specific to Michigan – I’m not sure he’d have been able to answer, any more than I can now.
We were always day-trippers to Mackinac. Once my brothers were out on their own, my parents and I spent our first island overnight at the Windermere Inn, a big yellow house on the far end of town. When the last ferry left for the day, something amazing happened. The streets cleared. Town quieted. Surreys and carriages drawn by stunning horses appeared from side streets, pulling up in front of the expansive lawn below the fort, summer residents coming out of hiding. Every evening, Taps is played from the fort, carried over town by speaker. There is something so melancholy about that sound, the lingering, graceful rise and fall of notes.
We continued our trips, eventually taking grandkids along, one at a time. Auntie Wendy biked the island’s circumference with them and took them hiking on trails the tourists don’t know about. I knew them because I worked at the Chippewa Hotel the summer after I graduated high school. My dad arranged the job.
My dad died in 2004 and it was years before my mom and I could bring ourselves to go back up. When we finally went back up, we stayed at the Grand Hotel. We were there for three days on a golfing package. Standing on the tenth tee of the Grand’s back nine, with its stunning view of the straits, we were so tickled to be there we started laughing, both of us duffing our tee shots. I don’t think we’ve ever had as much fun as we did there. Ever. It was a splurge we promised to repeat every year, but didn’t get the chance.
A couple weeks after we got home, her heart took a turn. She was housebound for three and a half years. I love that our last trip together was to Mackinac, that we’d finally gotten over going up without my dad. I haven’t been back much since then. The memories are a little too thick to navigate.
I was perusing Zillow one day a few years ago and came across a Victorian cottage for sale in Hubbard’s Annex on the island. There were a gazillion interior photos. I wondered why it was for sale for so long. What could be wrong with it? I was in a writing group at the time and intentional or not, nearly every writing prompt ended up being about that house. Characters sprang forth. Mysteries begged for attention. The novel spilled forth.
The story got me back to the island. I needed to walk her trails and visit Hubbard’s Annex to get the feel of the place again. Visiting not out of nostalgia but purpose, was a relief. Yet, if I’m honest, I didn’t feel entirely alone walking trails anymore. I felt my dad walking beside me, something he hadn’t been able to do for years before he passed, but was now free to enjoy.