Yes, there will be a Book 2!

Quite a few people have asked if I'll write another book after Between the Fenceposts:Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure. The answer is yes! I'm working on it now, and if all goes according to plan, I'm hoping for a spring release.

This one picks up where Between the Fenceposts left off. We sold the livestock, bought a camper, and became snowbirds for several winters. Eventually, though, the road led us right back where we started—with fences, sheep, chickens, and more stories that probably wouldn't have happened to sensible people.

So here's your first peek at the working cover for Beyond the Fenceposts: Here, There, and Back Again. It's still a work in progress, but I think the cover tells the story rather nicely.

What do you think?

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Will the Real Sandy Davis Please Stand Up?

One of the odd things about being an author is that your name starts turning up in places you didn’t put it. Sometimes that’s a good thing. Sometimes it’s confusing. And sometimes you find yourself wondering whether you have accidentally become somebody else.

It started on a Facebook writing group called The Plot Thickens. They regularly post writing prompts designed to get people thinking, and one of them sparked a story idea for me. I developed the idea a bit and posted it in the comments. A man replied that he really liked what I had come up with and said he would read a book about the subject. Naturally, I was pleased. Writers are simple creatures. Tell us you’d read something we wrote and we immediately perk up like a dog hearing the cheese drawer open.

Then he asked, “Wait... are you the chaos Sandy Davis?”

I stared at the screen. The chaos Sandy Davis? Well, that certainly sounded possible. My book, Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure, is largely about the chaos of farming and rural life. Sheep escaping, goats making bad decisions, chickens making worse ones, equipment misbehaving, weather refusing to cooperate, even a neighbor who was drunk and naked in the middle of the road, and me standing somewhere in the middle wondering how things got so far out of hand. If there was a Sandy Davis associated with chaos, I had a pretty good claim to the title.

So I replied that if he meant the Sandy Davis who wrote about the chaos of farming and rural life, then yes. Guilty as charged.

That seemed to settle it. Then he told me that someone had given a friend of his my book, but she hated reading and was going to send it along to him. Now I was thrilled. This is what authors hope for. One person gets a book, another person hears about it, and the book gets passed along. No advertising campaign. No carefully designed marketing plan. Just a book finding its way from one person to another. Grassroots readership. I ended our exchange by telling him to let me know how he liked the book.

And that should have been the end of it.

Except I still didn’t know what he meant by “the chaos Sandy Davis.” The phrase kept rattling around in my head. Was that how somebody had described me? Had I been mentioned somewhere? Was there a review I hadn’t seen? Had I somehow acquired a nickname without being notified?

Curiosity eventually got the better of me, so I did what any sensible person does when confronted with a mystery in the twenty-first century. I Googled myself. More specifically, I Googled “chaos Sandy Davis.” And there she was. Another Sandy Davis has a podcast called Chaos to Calm. I sat there looking at the search results for a minute. Well. That was unexpected. Apparently there really was a Chaos Sandy Davis, and it wasn’t me.

Now I had a problem. Had this man mistaken me for the podcast Sandy Davis? That certainly seemed possible. But then what about the book? His friend had supposedly been given a Sandy Davis book and was going to send it to him. Except, as far as I could determine, the Sandy Davis behind Chaos to Calm hasn’t written a book.

So whose book did his friend have? Mine? Someone else’s? Was there yet another Sandy Davis wandering around the publishing world creating confusion?

Back to Google I went, and that was when I discovered there are quite a few of us. Sandy Davis. Sandra Davis. Authors writing in various genres. I even found a Sandra Davis who had written fiction involving chaos, which did absolutely nothing to clarify the situation. Instead of solving the mystery, I had expanded the suspect list.

I began to feel as though I had stumbled into a literary version of To Tell the Truth. Will the real Sandy Davis please stand up? Except I was already standing, and apparently so were several others.

The more I thought about the original conversation, the stranger it became. He had asked if I was “the chaos Sandy Davis.” I had assumed he meant the chaos I write about. He may have meant the podcast. Then he mentioned a book. I assumed he meant mine. He may have assumed the podcast woman had written it. His friend may actually have Between the Fenceposts, or she may have a completely different book by a completely different Sandy or Sandra Davis. It was entirely possible that every one of us had been having a different conversation while believing we were all talking about the same person.

There is something wonderfully human about that. We hear a familiar name, recognize enough of the details to make them fit, fill in the missing pieces ourselves, and keep right on going. I didn’t question “chaos” because chaos fits me perfectly well. He apparently didn’t question the book because he already had Sandy Davis filed away somewhere in his mind. Between the two of us, we may have constructed an entirely separate identity out of perfectly reasonable assumptions.

The best part is that the story isn’t over yet. His friend is supposed to send him the book. Eventually a package may arrive, he may open it, and Between the Fenceposts may be inside. If so, mystery partly solved. His friend really did have my book, although I still won’t know exactly how I became connected with Chaos to Calm in his mind.

On the other hand, he may open the package and discover a completely different book written by a completely different Sandy Davis. I hope he remembers our conversation if that happens, because I asked him to let me know how he likes the book. At this point, I really, really hope he does.

Until then, I seem to be faced with three possible endings.

Behind Door Number One, his friend really does have Between the Fenceposts, and somewhere along the way he simply confused me with the Sandy Davis who hosts Chaos to Calm.

Behind Door Number Two, his friend has a book by some other Sandy or Sandra Davis, and neither of us was talking about the same person from the beginning.

And behind Door Number Three, the package arrives, he opens it, stares at the cover, and thinks, “Who in the world is this woman, and why is she talking about manure?”

At this point, I’m not ruling out anything. I only know one thing for certain. Somewhere out there is another Sandy Davis helping people move from chaos to calm. I may even need to tune in sometime when I’m having a particularly chaotic day. And, somewhere up here in northern New Hampshire is a different Sandy Davis who seems to have spent a lifetime proving that calm is highly overrated.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Hot Air, Not Fresh Air

I opened my email one morning and nearly spit out my hot chocolate. There it was in my inbox—the email every author dreams of getting. An invitation from Terry Gross to be interviewed on NPR's Fresh Air. She had supposedly read Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure and thought my stories of life on a small farm would make an entertaining interview.

For about half a minute, I was already being interviewed by Terry Gross on NPR's Fresh Air. My biggest concern wasn't what I was going to say. It was what on earth I was going to wear for such a prestigious event.

Like most women, I have a closet full of clothes and nothing to wear. Actually, that's not entirely true. I have a closet full of perfectly good clothes that I've kept for the unlikely event my diet finally pays off and I lose enough weight to wear them again. They're hanging there in hopeful anticipation of the day I can once again button them without holding my breath. I just know someday I'll be glad I didn't donate them to Goodwill. Unfortunately, that didn't solve my immediate problem. Did I own anything that DOES fit me that didn't look like I'd just come in from feeding the chickens?

It was about then that my practical side finally wandered into the conversation. Why was Terry Gross emailing me from a Gmail account? That tiny little detail burst my bubble like a balloon at a porcupine convention.

I went back and read the email more carefully. It was beautifully written and surprisingly flattering. Then it hit me. They hadn't read my book at all. They'd read my recent OpenShelf interview and review instead. The glowing compliments sounded awfully familiar because they were little more than a reworded version of those. Whoever wrote the email had simply stolen OpenShelf's thoughtful observations about my book and presented them as their own. I have to admit, that's a pretty nice compliment to Justin and the OpenShelf team. Apparently, the scammers liked them well enough to plagiarize them.

They had done just enough homework to sound convincing without ever mentioning a single story, a single animal, or even one goat by name. The more I looked, the more obvious it became. Terry Gross wasn't inviting me onto Fresh Air. Some scammer was inviting me to become considerably lighter in the wallet.

A few days later another email arrived. Different sender. Different sales pitch. Same bait. This one came from someone calling herself a "Global Book Marketer & Discoverability Strategist." She assured me my book deserved a much larger audience and offered a complimentary "Book Snapshot" before explaining how she could help me reach thousands of eager readers.

Then came another one. Apparently, my writing career had reached the point where I was attracting professional admirers... all of whom would eventually want me to compensate them.

I never replied to any of them. Not because I was tempted to believe them, but because I knew replying—even to say "SCAM!"—would simply confirm that a real person had opened the email. Instead, I marked each one as spam and let AOL quietly escort them to the digital compost pile. From now on, they'll go there automatically. Then I wandered into the kitchen and raided the refrigerator instead. The leftovers were considerably more trustworthy. Unfortunately, they did nothing for my diet.

Looking back, I'm almost grateful for the experience. Not because Terry Gross never interviewed me. Not because I still haven't found the perfect outfit. And certainly not because those hopeful clothes are still hanging in my closet, patiently waiting for the day my waistline finally decides to cooperate.

No. I'm grateful because in the end, even though I didn't get an interview with Terry Gross, I did get another story. After all, when you're a writer, that's not a bad consolation prize.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Another Unapologetic Brag!

What do goats, sheep, livestock guardian dogs, and a naked neighbor all have in common?

Believe it or not, they all found their way into my recent author interview with OpenShelf.online, an online book discovery site that introduces readers to new authors through book reviews, interviews, and featured books.

We talked about the inspiration behind "Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure," what people often get wrong about farm life, why I believe stories don't just preserve events—they preserve people—and, of course, a few of the unforgettable characters (both two-legged and four-legged) who have made life on the farm such an adventure.

If you've ever wondered how a simple life in rural New Hampshire can produce enough stories to fill a book—and still have plenty left over—I hope you'll enjoy the interview here.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Unapologetic Brag!

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

A Pasture of Memories

People occasionally ask me where I get my story ideas. This is usually asked with the expectation that there is some sort of method involved, perhaps a notebook, a filing system, or a secret room where story ideas are carefully organized and labeled.

I hate to disappoint them, but if such a room exists, nobody has given me the key.

My mind works less like a filing cabinet and more like the little brook that wanders through a pasture behind our house. The brook doesn't seem to have much sense of direction. Instead of flowing directly from Point A to Point B, it loops around rocks, wanders through clumps of grass, disappears into the trees, and occasionally appears to stop and admire a particularly interesting mud puddle. If you looked at it from above, you might conclude that the brook had forgotten where it was going. Yet somehow it always arrives where it's supposed to.

Apparently, so do I.

That realization came during a recent conversation that started with a news story and eventually wandered through personal safety, childhood memories, farm animals, dog training, Tony's pizza, my mother's philosophy on consequences, and somehow ended up with a story. If you're wondering what any of that had to do with the original topic, you're not alone. The funny thing is that none of it felt random while it was happening. The brook simply followed the landscape. Most people would probably call this getting sidetracked. A writer calls it research.

Somewhere along the way, I realized this may be why I've never suffered much from writer's block. Many writers sit down and imagine what the story will be about, how to develop the characters and the plot. That sounds exhausting.

People assume I sit down intending to write about something specific. I don't. The story appears somewhere along the way. I start with whatever happens to be rattling around in my head at the moment. One thought reminds me of another. That thought bumps into a memory. The memory opens a door to something that happened thirty years ago. Before long I'm wandering around inside my own brain looking at things I haven't thought about since I was a teenager. Eventually I stumble over a story.

Now, occasionally a story presents itself immediately. Walking outside and finding Gus standing over what appeared to be a dead rooster required very little excavation. The story practically introduced itself. The same thing happened with the chicks that spent several days touring New England through the postal system before finally arriving at my post office. Some stories show up on your doorstep carrying a suitcase and announcing they've come to stay.

Most stories aren't that cooperative.

Most arrive through the scenic route. A conversation reminds me of something. That memory reminds me of something else. Eventually a long-forgotten incident sticks its head out from behind a mental hay bale and says, "Remember me?" That's usually where the story is hiding.

Maybe that's one of the differences between writing fiction and writing memoir. A fiction writer often begins with a question: What if? What if a dragon lived in New Hampshire? What if a detective discovered a clue? What if a spaceship landed in a pasture?

I begin with something entirely different. Remember when? Remember when I met my neighbor drunk and naked in the road? (Him, not me!) Remember when Jack kept getting bonked in the head by the tennis ball launcher? Remember when Dad refused to eat coleslaw because he didn't like mayonnaise, but somehow considered potato salad perfectly acceptable?

The raw material is already there. I'm not making stories up. I'm digging them out. For years I was convinced this wandering train of thought was simply evidence that I was easily distracted. Then it occurred to me that perhaps the wandering wasn't the problem. Perhaps it was the process.

After all, a creek doesn't travel in a straight line, but nobody accuses it of being lost. It follows the shape of the land. Along the way it discovers things. A rock. A fallen branch. A frog. A mud puddle. Eventually it arrives somewhere interesting. My mind seems to do the same thing.

The truly surprising part is that people actually pay money to read the results. I'm as astonished as anyone.

So the next time someone asks where I get my ideas, I suppose I should tell them the truth. I don't really get ideas at all. I simply follow a wandering brook through a pasture of memories until it eventually leads me to a story. And if the brook happens to stop and have a conversation with a mud puddle along the way, who am I to argue?

After all, that's usually where the good stories are.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Where’s a 6-Year-Old When You Need One?

I have reached the stage of life where I can remodel a room, install flooring, raise livestock, stitch up minor injuries, drive a tractor, cook from scratch, play the piano in church, and write a book. But apparently I now require the assistance of a first grader to operate modern technology.

I’m not against technology. I enjoy my Windows laptop and my Android phone. I even recently purchased a robo vacuum because, between my back and my ankle, pushing a regular vacuum around the house had become less “housekeeping” and more “where's my heating pad?” As I told a friend recently, yes, it’s difficult slowing down physically, but at least my floors are clean. She laughed after a slight delay. My best comments usually require a few seconds for processing.

What I don’t enjoy is technology that requires seventeen hidden steps, three passwords, an app, an update, and a blood sample just to perform a simple task. I remember our first home computer—a Texas Instruments TI-99/4. It was small, clunky, and had less computing power than today’s microwave ovens. I sat there carefully reading the instruction manual, terrified I would hit the wrong button and somehow blow up the machine. Meanwhile, my thirteen-year-old son wandered over, casually pushed a button, and instantly made the contraption do exactly what I’d been trying to accomplish for the last twenty minutes.

“Mom,” he said, with the confidence only teenage boys possess, “just start pushing buttons and something will work.”

This approach horrified me. I came from the generation that believed buttons should not be pushed casually. Buttons existed for a reason. Pushing the wrong one could launch missiles, erase bank accounts, or possibly summon government officials. At the very least, I was certain smoke would start pouring out of the back of the computer while expensive repair bills floated gently down from the ceiling. Apparently children are born without this fear.

Take Apple products, for example. My husband owns an iPad and spends a surprising amount of time saying things like, “Why can’t I do this?” while poking the screen with increasing irritation. Meanwhile I’m sitting beside him on my laptop casually dragging files around like a civilized human being. Apparently with Apple, there is always A Way. Unfortunately, that way is usually hidden behind a tiny symbol in the upper corner that only becomes visible during a full moon or after chanting softly near the charging cable.

Recently I was trying to set up my author profile on BookBub, an online site where readers discover and follow authors and books. This sounded simple enough. Upload a photo. Add a biography. Link the book. Done. Except then BookBub wanted links from places like Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Google Play Books and Apple Books. Amazon and B&N worked perfectly, the others did not. 

Suddenly I found myself wandering through the dark underbelly of modern publishing distribution systems. Google Books informed me my book might exist but perhaps not in the correct dimension. Apple offered me a lovely preview page where apparently I could admire my own book but not actually purchase it unless I entered the Sacred Apple Ecosystem through an approved ceremonial pathway. At one point I found myself muttering, “WHY DOESN’T IT WORK?” loudly enough to alarm the dog.

This is exactly why I hired Palmetto Publishing to handle formatting and distribution. I’m a writer, not a publishing infrastructure technician. As Bones from Star Trek used to say, “Damn it, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a bricklayer.” In my case it becomes, “Damn it, Jim, I’m a storyteller, not an EPUB engineer.”

People assume older folks struggle with technology because we can’t understand it. That’s not necessarily true. Most of us could figure it out eventually if we absolutely had to. The real issue is that we come from an era where tools were expected to cooperate. You picked up a hammer and hammered something. You picked up a drill and drilled something. You sat down at a piano and pressed a key and music happened immediately. A violin may create beautiful music, but first you have to spend half your remaining lifespan fiddling with strings and tuning pegs before the thing stops sounding like a distressed goose. That's why I play piano and not violin.

Now every device requires an account, a verification code, synchronization, permissions, updates, and a tutorial narrated by a cheerful twenty-three-year-old who says things like, “It’s super easy!” No. No it is not.

This is why every family now needs at least one technologically gifted child under the age of seven. Somewhere there is a first grader who can solve in ten seconds the problem that has caused three adults to lose their tempers and consider throwing electronics out the window. The child walks over, sighs heavily, presses two invisible buttons, and says, “There.” Meanwhile, the adults stare in humbled silence, realizing that the future no longer belongs to us.

Still, I suppose every generation eventually reaches this point. Someday those same children will be old too, muttering at holograms and asking their grandchildren why the toaster now requires facial recognition. And somewhere, hopefully nearby, there will be another six-year-old ready to save the day.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Wow! Wow! Wow!

If I thought getting those 5-star reviews on Amazon and Goodreads was exciting, I’ve now been wowed all over again. I submitted several articles to a few homesteading magazines, hoping maybe one might be a fit. As it turns out, two of them not only accepted them, they’re paying me for them—and have invited me to submit more stories.

Color me amazed, surprised, grateful, and more than a little pleased. Breaking into the magazine market is no small feat. Editors have limited space, high standards, and no shortage of people hoping to see their name in print. So when someone says, “Yes, we want your work,” it means something. When they say, “Send us more,” that means even more.

As a writer, every yes is encouragement to keep going, to keep trying, and to keep believing there may be room at the table after all. It’s easy to assume opportunities belong to other people, somewhere else, doing bigger things. Sometimes they’re waiting right where you are.

What’s next, you ask? Well, I’ll let you know when I find out. For now, I’m just standing here grinning like a hen that found the feed room open.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm