Blogging Ahead For Christmas

The first of December

I have to remember

To blog for Champagne

On that day for Jane.

But also that day, sigh,

I get the needle in my eye.

So I'll write my words now

Hoping I'll remember how

To have it post on the first

And hope I'm not cursed.

Many of you know I havr wet macular degeneration in both eyes, but am lucky enough to profit by a new treatment with Avastin which allows me to keep my vision. Researchers are working at finding other drugs for this purposr, and some do look promising, but for now Avastin is it. At first I was taken aback by discovering the only way it could be given was by the retinal specialist injecting the Avastin behing my retina with a needle and syringe. But the first time I had it done, the nurse putting the numbing drops in my eye announce she was "the best number in the country" and all I'd feel was pressure. That turned out to be true.

So now, while I can't sat I enjoy the trearment, I'm confident it's not going to hurt and so don't get all tense about it. Sounds much worse thana it actually is. My eye (they never do both at once) is back to normal by the next morning. But the day it's done i can't read or use the computer because they dilate the other eye to as well to see how it's doing.

I always go on a Wednesday and it's a 68 mile trip one way. hence the need to blog ahead and see if i can figure out how to have it post on the right day.

My blog's about the Christmas season and incidents I remember from my childhood. Like the first time I wore an angel costume at Midnight Mass and we all got to carry a lighted candle while we marched down the ailses with our cancdles singing Silent Night, I must have been about seven, and we waited in a room in the church for this ceremony that was outside the altar and where the people were. Suddenly I realized I had to go to the bathroom really bad. The old church didn't have any public toilets. There might have been one for the priest to use somewhere, but, if so, we didn't know where it was. Finally, I took off my wings, white robe and halo, got into my winter gear hurried out a side door and raced a block to my house to use our toilet, terrified I wouldn't get back in time to do the angel walk. But I did. Funny thing is I don't remember the actual performance at all, but that part is very clear.

Our Christmas tree was usually a spruce from the woods around us, but sometimes a balsam. My dad usually bought it for fifty cents from some neighborhood kid who'd cut some himself and was lugging them around in a wagon from door to door. Spruce made a thicker, more attractive tree, but balsam had a wonderful scent even if it sometimes resembled what later became the "Charley Brown Christmas tree."

M paternal grandmother lived with us and made popcorn to string on the tree. We strung cranberries, too. I remember admiring the decorated tree the year I was eight, then puckering up and crying. Everne wanted to know why, but I never told them. The truth was I suddenly realized that sometime I wouldn't be able to either help decorate or admire a Christmas tree because I'd be dead. This was the first time I consciously realized that everyone dies sometime, even me.

Because I had a birthday two days after Christmas, only my parents ever gave me two separate gifts on two separate days. Other relatives always labeled my gift Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday.

I remember these times with nostalgia. But now the Viking from my past always remembers Christmas and my birthday are two separate days and two separate gifts. How lucky I was he found me again after so many years apart. A real gift of the heart.

Jane

"Yes I Can!"

I've always found that the greatest reason to write is to show people that yes, you can do something. There's always been someone in my life telling me I couldn't do something - "You can't make people love the Devil! God will get mad!" "You can't go back to the glory days of Ancient Egypt - It's dead, it's gone. Quit with the history already!" - but, I always delight in showing them my work and saying, "I did it. Bite me."

I'm in the middle of rewriting a story right now, more a series, actually. Basically, the premise is that a group of Gods who were once worshipped on Earth/Ceres (Namely, Thor, Anubis, Juno, Diana, Hestia, Rhiannon, Keridwen and Chang-O, collectively called the Eight) go against the wishes of the Gods' Council and send themselves back to the time of Atlantis' hey-day. The Eight fight, claw, hide, rage, flee and sabotage their way, as humans, through time to the Last War, which was once called the War of Faith/WW3, in 2055.

There are 2 ideas behind the story. One is that all the 'wrongs' of history are corrected, and the human race (might be) saved from destroying Ceres (I don't know yet - I'm leaving myself clues, but I don't know if I'll blow up Earth a second time). People say that you can't change history. but, write a good enough story, and you can definately change history. Maybe not in the world-wide sense, but you can change it in the minds of one or a few readers.

And you never know. The ideas you plant may one day be proved by noted historians and archaeologists that it was how it went. think Homer, Heinrich Schliemann and Troy/Ilios. After reading the Iliad as a boy, Schliemann became convinced that Ilios was a real city, and Paris/Alexandros, Priam, Helen, Agamemnon, Ajax and all the other characters were real people.

In the 1870s, Schliemann found what most people now accept to be the great city of the Iliad, hidden under the mound called Hisarlik, north-west Turkey.

Take that, nay-sayers!

The other point of the series is to illustrate that every idea ever created lives on, maybe not in our own world, but in some world. The Gods' Realms, Death Realms, Humans' Realms and the Gods' Oubliette all hold play to certain ideas (in order, the realm where every god that had ever been and will ever be, watches over their humans; where all people who are dead go, to be sorted into the afterlife of their choosing; the place called 'reality' by the humans, and the millions of worlds found therein; and the Gods' Hell, a place where only the worst gods go, hidden in the darkness for millennia, powerless and without followers to lend them strength).

What does that have to do with telling someone "Yes, I can"?

How many religions out there emphasise the fact that they're the one, true religion, and everyone else is stupid for not believing?
How many religions would take the idea of Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, Gaea, Odin and Quetzalcoatl dining together as heresay?
How many people wouldn't in their right minds, ever dream that Zeus and the Maori Sky God Rangi would get absolutely hammered and sing a romantic ballad up to the window of Odin's home? (In their own defence, they were trying to sing to Astarte, who was laughing herself silly 3 windows over.)

The idea of saying 'Yes, I can' in writing is what it's all about. It's that spirit that allows the great writers to break from a formula (Imagine, a story with slaves in the background, whose MC doesn't end up one of them! Dragons who are used only to protect gems, and not to ride on over mountains! Imagine, a detective who fails to catch the crook, or a teenage romance that doesn't end in either sex, a break-up or the guy revealling he's a closet gay!).

It's okay to break formulae as a writer - in fact, it's encouraged. If you read as much as I and one of my friends do, then you begin to love the small breaks in the formulae of writing.

So go out there, writerly people, and scream a big, loud "YES, I CAN!" to the world.

You might just surprise yourself with what you can do. Schliemann certainly surprised himself, and he was around in the 1800s. We can do better than that!

Continuation of a Smelly Theme

Since Diana asked someone to post for her, I thought I'd pop in.

Sandra's Post on writing descriptive smells is something many writers need to read. Have you seen the commercial where the less than glamorous girl rubs cashews behind her ears and attracts all sorts of hunky men to her side? The aroma of baking pumpkin pie is supposedly the strongest olfactory aphrodisiac for the human male (sorry, Ms. Chanel) so why not use it in a love scene?  Totally immersing readers in the story involves all the senses, and unusual use of one or more will certainly make your writing memorable.

And  different areas most certainly have a distinctive attar. Here in the Arizona desert, creosote and sage imbue the area after a rain, washing away the dusty smell of hot dirt. But even when it's hot and dry, there's a unique odor to it, like herbs drying in an old woman's pantry. In the smaller towns of Bisbee and Tombstone a lingering metallic tang spikes the nostrils, oiled guns and copper occasionally tinted with someone's freshly baked peach cobbler. Tucson's southside smells of abuelitas: cinnamon and chile always in the air. Phoenix to me smells like tar, asphalt, and dead fish from the canal system. I know there are lovely smells in Arizona's capitol - orange blossoms and freshly-mown grass, perhaps - but my experiences there seem to have all been in the center of the city during the summer.

I've lived in South Carolina where the wild honeysuckle laid in the air heavy as syrup and weighed you down - no wonder those folks never moved very fast! Northern Ontario's perfume to me is  fish and frying bacon mixed with wood smoke, pine, and wet dog. My father would drag our entire family with him to a fishing camp every summer and the owner's English Sheepdog will forever be associated with the glacier lakes in my mind. The Gower Peninnsula in Wales smells of sea salt and daffodils - and of course, wet sheep - mixed with chlorophyll and mud; rural and wild and rustic.

So close your eyes and take a deep sniff as you're writing. Take your readers with you on a smelly adventure!

~Jude
www.scorchedhawkpress.com

I Smell a Story

Photo: Cottage in Northern Ontario. Smell the pine needles?

Happy Thanksgiving to my American friends! I'll bet you smell turkey right now. What goes with it - sage, apples, sausage, corn bread - wafts around the house while family members catch up.

Smells trigger so many emotions and memories for me. The powdery smell of a baby's head, the crisp odour of dry leaves on Halloween night and warm damp earth in the spring -- all make me glad to be alive.

When I write about different locations, I find it natural to include smells as well as sights. We often describe odours in bars, houses, flower shops and on people. The delicate smell of a special perfume or comfort food can trigger memories, but cities and towns also have a their own brand of olfactory uniqueness.

The lovely old city of Saint John, New Brunswick smells like hot road tar mixed with sea salt because of the proximity of the oil refineries along the Bay of Fundy. When I smell tar, I go back to the days when I was a kid, wandering with my cousins in search of mischief. I see in my mind's eye the multicoloured wooden houses with white trim. I remember steep hills leading down to the bay.

Northern Ontario smells like wood smoke and pine needles. It will always remind me of camping and warm rocks glazed with soft lichen.

My husband says Toronto smelled like rising dough when he was a kid, due to the flour and sugar mills along the shores of Lake Ontario.

Then there were the little lumber towns in northern Quebec. We lived in Chandler on the Gaspé Peninsula when I was seven years old. It always seemed to smell like an enormous fart.

Newmarket doesn't have many distinctive odours, except perhaps the smell of newly cut grass on a summer day, or lilacs. In winter I smell the snow. Really. I can't describe it, though.

What does your town smell like? Do any smells take you back to a place you once lived, or a special memory of a family gathering?

 Mmmm... My grandmother's Pette de Soeur (nun farts). The cinnamon smell takes me back to when I was five years old and stopped at her apartment on the way to kindergarten. I ate the yummy warm treats while sitting on the hallway floor with my wet boots resting on newspapers.

Sandra Cormier lived in many communities around the world. She now resides in Ontario, Canada. Bad Ice, a hockey romance, is her second novel.

Extremely Thankful

Other than the typical items I'm thankful for (friends, family, health (mostly)), I'm also thankful for this gift of writing I've been given. Additionally, I'm thankful that I (just last night) finished up all of the edits for my latest non-Aston novel, The Cure. Unfortunately, I've been spending so much time working on finishing it this month, I've been unable to come up with a regular writing-topic-related blog post.

So, for now, I'll bid you all a Happy Thanksgiving, and will catch everyone again next month!

A Thankful Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is a couple of days away here in the US. Every year I tried to take a look at my life and the things I'm thankful for. There are times I get far too involved in trivial matters and forget the important things. Family is the one thing that truly matters to me. There are times when that's hard to remember. The kids argue. Hubby gets lost in a television show. In the quiet moments, that's when I remember how much I love them.

Many of us even take the bare essentials for granted. There are some who have no bed tonight, no food, no home.

Try to remember what's really important the next time you are stuck in a traffic jam, or dealing with an annoying automated phone line, or longing for that career path that hasn't been working out. The little troubles in life don't really matter. There are times when it's just silliness keeping us from seeing the blessings.

I hope everyone has a Happy Thanksgiving.

--
Jennifer
aka jlmccale.com and JenniferCloud.com

Protect the writing

Your child comes home from school with news that you’ve been elected to bake 165 cupcakes by tomorrow because you were the only “Mom who didn’t work.”
Your neighbor asks you to watch her elderly mother for the next three days while she goes out of town, because “You’re home all day”.
Your husband doesn’t understand why you can’t have the house immaculate, cook a gourmet dinner every night, be a raging wild woman in the sack with energy left to spare to fix the guys a six-course snack during halftime because…well, “You have all day to rest if you’re tired”.
Protect the writing.
What does that mean? If you’re ever going to make a decision to write seriously for publication, you have to protect your work time. We all know that writing is a full time job and until we learn to put our foot down, we’ll never get the work done.
Writing is a job in which you have to protect the time that you have. If you set a goal to write from seven to nine each night, then everyone in your life who poses a risk to robbing you of this time must be informed that you are taking this seriously and you are simply unavailable during these two hours.
Protect the writing.
What do you say to the head of the PTA who asked that you attend two meetings per week? “I’m sorry, but I must work those nights. My writing is my job, and while I may not be earning money right now, I am making an investment in my business by working at a set time.”
Protect the writing.
The spouse who doesn’t understand? “Just because I don’t have an outside office, I clock in at such-and-such time just like you.”
Protect the writing.
Little Timmy and Susie who profess that you must solve their argument over who’s turn it is to run the remote? Hang up the “Unless your bleeding, do not disturb” sign.
Protect the writing.
Oh, and don’t forget to be good to yourself too. I recommend bubble baths.

Thanks for reading.

~ Nancy

http://www.nancyhenderson.com

You'll Never Guess What's Illegal!

Did you know, It is illegal to play checkers in public? That’s a law in Lacrosse, Wisconsin. Is there something about the game checkers I don’t know, or understand? Maybe the folks in Lacrosse were playing strip checkers in the street.

Butter substitutes are not allowed to be served in state prisons. So, I pay my taxes and can’t afford real butter, but convicted felons with free room and board get real Land O Lakes or Grassland Dairy butter. Meanwhile I eat chemically induced, artificially flavored, tasteless, butter-like substitute. Hardly seems fair.

In Sun Prairie Wisconsin, Cats are forbidden from entering cemeteries. Really? Has there been a big rush of people taking their cats to visit deceased relatives in the cemetery? I want to know what the police officer did to get demoted to standing guard at the cemetery to issue fluffy a ticket.

My favorite law still on the books is from Racine Wisconsin. Missiles may not be shot at parade participants. So, I’m wondering if it’s legal to shoot missiles at the spectators. Do they have a big problem with missiles being launched at the Miss Racine float as the girls are waving princess style…elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist?

In my action thriller, BOLT ACTION from Champagne Books, Detective Leslie Bolt would never have participated in a Miss Racine pageant. She is a tough talking, gun hording, motorcycle riding investigator. After a childhood of abuse suffered at the hands of her father, Leslie stashes a collection of pistols, revolvers, and even keeps a Browning A-Bolt Stalker Rifle in her broom closet. She is stand-offish and down right rude and having to work a serial murder case with her handsome ex-lover, Detective Lance Kestler doesn’t improve her disposition.

Is the “State Quarter Killer” taunting police? As the body count mounts, Leslie begins to fall for the sexy medical examiner Jack Donington. Detective Bolt’s brash disposition begins to soften. Perhaps a couple of Harley’s, paint drumming to music, and a new romance can help Detective Bolt conquer her own demons from the past to solve the “State Quarter Case”.

BOLT ACTION is available in paperback at:
http://champagnebooks.com/shop/index.php?route=product/category&path=27_49 and the e-book is available at http://www.omnilit.com/product-boltaction-426568-152.html
and http://www.amazon.com/Bolt-Action-ebook/dp/B003ZUY58U/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1

BAIT 'EM, HOOK 'EM, AND KEEP 'EM

This is a little tidbit about writing for tose of you who are beginning on that journey. However, for readers, it gives a little insight into how we work by giving examples. We hope you enjoy our venture into something different.

Anglers know that live bait will entice a silvery scaled beauty to bite. As writers we're baiting literary hooks, hoping to persuade a few readers to jump into our books. The hook should not be just the first sentence of a story but should exist throughout the story. Here are a variety of great ways to catch and keep a reader, for unlike anglers, writers try to never, ever let a reader's attention get away.

THE PERFECT CAST

Make the first sentence outrageous or terrifying or amusing, anything but lame or boring. This is your lure. It must sparkle. It must be irresistible.

Example: First line from CHASING YESTERDAY

The Atlantic whispered to Elizabeth in endless, hypnotic gushes of harmonic, consistent sound, ageless sound.

Notice this sets the tone, a haunting quality. Plus, it immediately identifies the heroine and gives a glimpse into her mood as well as the story's location.

JIGGLE THE LURE

Tempt them further with the first paragraph, don't give a reader a chance to glance away. Offer something amiss, something that will give chills, conflict, confusion, mystery, but mostly have them questioning.

Example: First paragraph from KILLER DOLLS

Under the blanket of a cloudy night an older rusty white Dodge van bounced along the dirt boreens adjacent to the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal. Proceeding slowly, lights off, the driver was dressed in black, black hair jutting from a ski cap. The vehicle converged into a wooded area, it known for frequent fornication by lovers who had only a car and no money for a room. This evening, most likely because it was after 3 AM, it was vacant.

The reader will want to know why the driver is in an isolated area in the middle of the night, why are his lights off, why is he dressed in black? Inquiring readers want to know.

CHUM

To ensure they continue onward, keep your sentences clean, keep the tension sharp, remember active verbs, action words, and be aware of the writer's favorite mantra, show don't tell. You're chumming, leaving lush bits and pieces of bait that keep the reader questioning what is next.

Example from SNAKE DANCE
She would not, could not, allow herself to be caught, yet there was something inside, something that tugged at her, whispers from a time she chose to ignore that hinted at thrill, promised dark splendor.

This creates tension as well as empathy for the character. She is being hunted, and as much as she resists, there is also temptation. Which will she choose? Will she have a choice?

PRESURE BITE

The end of every chapter, and when possible each scene, there should be something to pull the reader along. Create a sense of urgency. The writer's enemy is the bookmark. You don't want a reader to find a convenient place to stop reading.

Example from THE GARROTE FACTOR

(A) She studied the contours of his chiseled lips, the searing depth of his gaze, and then back to his lips, slightly parted, inviting, tempting. All thought to resist fled. All sense hitched a ride with it. Without true volition, her lips crashed against his.

This is the perfect time for a chapter or a scene break. At which point, a writer should interject a totally different scene, one apart from the main characters.

This is part of the first paragraphs of the scene that followed:

(B) Though having knowledge of David Masters' reputed history the younger man appeared also to be in awe of him. That truth of David Masters should have easily challenged that awe with loathing because the man was evil.

Like a lure being trailed through the water, the reader will follow along, yearning to find out what happens after the kiss. At the same time, they begin to have an interest in the new characters. To keep the momentum going, scene (B) should end with a hook as well. See (C).

(C) “Join me or die. Let me be your guide. The world holds no place for a weak or contemptible person, a fool. Be one with me.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

Pensive for one brief moment he nodded. “Rory,” called Masters. The man quickly entered the office. “Our friend here has asked to be this evenings’ entertainment.”


Now, the reader will want to know what happened to the young man. This is a technique that will keep a reader hankering for more, scene after scene, chapter after chapter.

To reiterate, the hook is something that should be a constant throughout the book, keep the reader guessing, keep them wanting more until the very last line, and if you intend a sequel, even that last line should be a hook.

Reel 'em in!


***

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at angeliahartandzi@yahoo.com and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS
SNAKE DANCE
CHASING YESTERDAY
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com

BOOKS can be purchased at
Champagne Books
http://www.champagnebooks.com

Linda Kage, Boat Rocker

I am a passive person. I may have my own personal beliefs and opinions, but I’ve never felt the need to climb onto some soap box and push my thoughts and feelings onto other people. In fact, it usually doesn’t matter to me what others believe or how they feel about certain topics. I’m sure they have a good reason to believe and feel the way they do, whether I personally agree with them or not.

I do not rock the boat. I avoid confrontations if at all possible, even sometimes when I shouldn’t. And being forced into a verbal debate is the epitome of hell for me, a fact which delights my husband to no end. A silver-tongued devil, that man can talk his way into winning any “discussion” we have, a fact which irritates me to no end.

I’m not good with immediate responses. I need a few days to think about my comeback, time to delete and erase, revise and edit until I create something eloquent and brilliant enough to satisfy myself. That’s why I prefer to write fiction. I can take all the time I need so my characters can deliver their immediate, witty comeback lines.

But for some reason, my stories tend to splash up some massive waves, making the readers in my boat-novel all kinds of jostled. I’m not quite certain how I do it. To me, I’m just writing a story. My characters need some sort of problem/conflict to overcome, so I throw a few obstacles in their paths, obstacles I think will be realistic enough. Maybe they’re too realistic though. Maybe they’re too controversial.

And eww. Controversial is a four-letter word to me.

So why, oh why, do I keep coming up with story ideas that have notorious topics?

Here’s an example. The story I just finished writing is about a man whose past has come back to haunt him. He was raped by one of his mother’s ex-boyfriends when he was twelve, and it’s time he finally has to deal with the trauma.

I thought it was a good internal conflict for my hero. But the rejection letter that came from submitting that story said their publishing house preferred to avoid such touchy issues.

Oops.

Another example is the story that just came out this month. When my critique group found out my hero was an alcoholic, they flipped out, telling me no one would want to read about an alcoholic hero. I personally didn’t think he was such a bad guy. He called his grandma once a week, saved the heroine from the life she hated, and even loved his mother. The only reason he drowned himself in liquor was because his first wife had killed herself ten-years before and he felt guilty for not being able to save her.

Here I thought I was writing a fun, but emotional, romance about this lovely woman coming into a troubled man’s life and helping him through his problems, a kind-of inspirational tale to show readers that it is possible to get past tragedy.

But, nope. I was told no way, no how. Eventually, I gave in and softened the alcoholism aspect of my story. And now it’s finally here, and I’m chewing my nails off, worried every reader who opens my book is going to throw it out the window because the hero has a little drinking problem.

And now I gotta know (the curiosity is killing me), what do you think? Is my story going to bomb because of the touchy subject matter? And don't worry, I won't be offended by your answer. Remember, I know your opinion is your opinion and you're entirely entitled to it!!

Here’s a little excerpt if you need more on which to base your opinion.


Hot Commodity
By Linda Kage
From Champagne Books
Available: November 2010
Contemporary Romance

EXCERPT:

By nine that evening, Olivia and Cameron arrived in Kansas City. She had one travel bag with her, full of all the possessions she had left in the world. She followed her new husband up the front walk into his sprawling mansion and stopped just inside the doorway, her fingers clutched around her suitcase handle.

Cameron tossed his keys on an end table and tugged a cell phone from his pocket.

"I have to make a quick call," he said, glancing her way even as he moved toward a doorway leading to another room. "This will only take a minute."

Olivia swallowed, wondering who he had to talk to so urgently. Probably some girlfriend, advising her not to come over tonight.

Jealousy thickened in her lungs, making it hard to breathe, making her follow him to the doorway and peek in.

With his back to her, he paced the sitting room. After a moment of holding his phone to his ear, he finally spoke. "Hello…? Grandma?"

Grandma? Olivia mouthed the word, her eyebrows puckering in confusion. He was in a hurry to call his grandmother? No way. It must be some kind of code language. Grandma was probably short for Hey, baby, can’t talk right now. Super secret spy stuff going on.

Olivia rolled her eyes.

"It’s Cameron," he said and, after a moment, lifted his voice, repeating, "It’s Cameron."

Okay, so maybe his girlfriend was hard of hearing. Either that or he really was talking to an elderly deaf woman.

A smile was clear in his voice when he added, "Yeah, it’s Sunday already. I can’t talk long though, I have a guest...What’s that? Oh, don’t you even worry about it, Grandma. I love calling you. No bother at all...Yes. Uh huh." After a second of listening, he threw back his head and laughed. "You naughty old woman, you. You’re going to ruin my innocent ears if you keep that up."

Curious, Olivia found herself moving forward to listen openly. He was really talking to his grandmother, wasn’t he?

How bizarre.

"No, wait! Don’t hang up yet. I wanted to tell you…"

Holding her breath, she wondered if he was going to announce his marriage or something. God, she hoped not. He’d give poor Grandma a heart attack.

"I have another spoon for you to put in your collection. What? Oh, this one’s from Chicago...Yeah, I know I already brought you one from Chicago, but that was in honor of the Sears Tower. This one is for the city in general… Oh, that’ll do then, will it?" he murmured, like he was repeating what she’d just said. Turning so Olivia could see his face, he grinned and added, "Good. I was worried you’d shove it back in my face." Though he didn’t sound worried.

Olivia must’ve breathed aloud because his eyes snapped her way. They both froze.

"I have to go, Grandma," he said into the phone. "Yes, I’ll call next Sunday. I love you too. Bye." Never taking his eyes off Olivia, he snapped the phone closed.

He and Olivia took a few seconds to stare at each other, both leery.

"That…" he cleared his throat, looking suddenly rueful. "That was my grandmother. She’s been a widow for a few years now and gets lonely. So, I, uh, I make sure to call every so often."

Olivia wondered what kind of man this was who took time out of his life to call a lonely old woman every week, just to flirt with her. Her chest felt very tight.

Cameron glanced away, looking awkward, as if he were embarrassed. "Anyway," he murmured under his breath. "Who needs a drink?" He didn’t look at her again as he strolled to a nearby shelf lined with books.

He’d barely talked to her the entire day, and Olivia was fast learning she’d married herself a moody man. He could go from one extreme to the next. One moment, he was grinning and cracking jokes like a comedian. The next, he was quiet and withdrawn, wrapped up in some inner demon that made her wonder what could put that haunted look in his eyes.

Olivia figured the mood swings were why he was so successful. Growing up with Vivian as her mother, she’d met dozens of millionaires and discovered they all possessed quirky personalities. It must be a trait common among the insane masterminds. Next thing she knew, Cameron Banks would probably pull a Van Gogh and cut off his ear or something.

She had to admit, however, even at his nastiest, he had an innate kindness. He could never in a hundred years be what Vivian was. His sour side didn’t seem to come naturally. It was like he forced himself to be rude, as if some emotional struggle was taking place in him, making him guilty about every smile he revealed, so he had to counter it with a snarl.

Apprehension attacked every nerve ending she possessed. Everything felt new and foreign. She was a long way from California, hundreds and hundreds of miles from the only home she’d ever known.

Ignoring her, Cameron rummaged through the books on the shelf until he came to one thick dictionary. But he didn’t seem interested in reading. Instead, he tugged it out of his way and reached into the open gap to extract a glass decanter filled with amber liquid.

Olivia rolled her eyes. Letting go of her suitcase handle, she strode toward him and jerked the container from his hand as soon as he’d taken his first swig.

"Don’t drink that!"

Wiping a drip that dribbled down his chin, he frowned. "Why not?"

Yeah, why not?

"Because…" Olivia sighed in irritation. She didn’t want him to think she was actually worried about him. She had a feeling he’d make fun of her if she showed him any tenderness. But, honestly, she didn’t want him to suffer any more. Despite how easily he could get her back up—not to mention how easily he got her back down on a bed—she was in his debt. He’d successfully removed her from Vivian’s life. The kind of gratitude that act inspired made her want to save him from himself.

"Horrible things happen to me every time you drink," she said, instead of revealing her compassion. "First, I ended up marrying just the man I wanted to avoid. Then, the next time I ran into you while you were drunk, my mother found out about everything and I lost the only home I’ve ever known. And now, I’m stuck here, clear across the country, doing God knows what with my life. I’m telling you, Bud, that’s not a very good track record."

"Maybe it’s just plain old me that’s bad luck for you," he suggested with a careless shrug.

He reached out to take the bottle from her but she held it away from him.

"You didn’t drink a drop all the way here from the hotel this morning," she said primly. "And no pianos have fallen on me yet, so I’ve concluded it’s the alcohol. Besides, I thought you were a recovering—"

"Yeah, yeah," he snapped. "I know." Cameron switched his scowl from the bottle to her. But as soon as their gazes meshed, he blew out a breath and closed his eyes. "Sorry," he said as he rubbed at his forehead. "You’re right. I’ve been imbibing more than I should lately. I’ll stop."

When he opened his eyes, his irritation was gone. He gave her a sudden seductive grin. "So, if I’m not allowed to drink, you’re going to keep my mind occupied on other matters, right?"

You've Come a Long Way Baby,

In 1998, I heard about e-books, and to be honest at first I scoffed. They can't be serious, I thought. However, the more I considered the idea the more intriguing it became. First though, a little history, which will give you some understanding why I quickly changed
my tune from scorn to excitement.

For many years I taught school, and when computers were introduced into the schools, I was fascinated. Although the Apple computers first introduced didn't do much, I could see a use at least in record keeping and any teacher will tell you there's a lot of that.

I also worked as a travel agent and the introduction of the computer was invaluable. No more long, long waits on the telephone for an agent for information now available on my computer. It wasn't much of a leap to go from the typewriter to the computer to write my books.

So the idea of a digital book began to grab me a few weeks after I heard about e-books.
Since the NY gothic industry in print was dead and I had a gothic to sell, I thought I would try the market. Low and behold I sold that book. I was an e-author much to the disgust of my fellow authors. For a NY published author to stoop to writing a book
for a nonexistent market was ludicrous, or so they thought.

From my standpoint, the mechanics weren't much different. I had a cover artist, an editor, a copy editor and a publisher. Of course, not too many people were going to read my book. Back in 1999 there weren't many readers, I didn't have an actual paper book, and there was no distribution to speak of.

But, today it is a totally different story. Kindle is out there, the Nook is making news, Sony has a reader. Not only that, we have the iPad, and cellular phones. Everyone I know has a cell phone and most have applications capable of downloading books.

It's no longer strange to see someone reading from a reader. I've seen them in doctors' offices, even customers reading from them in McDonald's. Retails stores are now carrying them and the price has dropped so much, they are actually affordable for many.

Oh, there are still die-hards out there. Occasionally I hear, "but I like the feel of a book in my hands" or (and I never figured this one out) "I like the smell of a book!"
HUH! The paper might smell, if it gets wet and the ink might smell, but the book?
For those of us who have arthritis, a reader is a wonderful help, and even better is the ability to change the size of the font so tired eyes can read without strain.

Just this past week, the NY Times announced it would now have a list of digital best sellers, and last fall, one of the NY publishers announced it would only be selling digital books. It a wonderfully feeling to know that I was in on the ground floor as the world of technology explodes. Digital books are here. So "we have come as long way, Baby!"

Allison Knight
"Heart-warming Romance with a Sensual Touch"

Christmas Lights

I put up the Christmas lights last weekend. Yes, I know that isn't even the middle of November yet but we usually put them up the weekend of the Toronto Santa Claus Parade so I'm only a week early.

I had really only intended to take advantage of the relatively mild weather to put them up without turning them on yet but my kids disagreed. I should have known that waiting a week once they were up would be impossible and to be honest I don't really mind.

Christmas is the one holiday that we really decorate for and we have the storage containers to prove it. We have 15 Rubbermaid storage containers just for Christmas, plus several boxes for the larger Santa figures and one big one for the tree. Easter, which has the second most storage containers, comes in a paltry second place with only 3 Rubbermaid containers.

We don't go all Griswold in terms of lights but we do have a couple of red-nosed reindeer that we've picked up over the years. We also put fresh pine garland on the railing and add some lights so there is still more to come.

We haven't done any inside decorating yet so we'll probably do it next weekend and then watch the parade on TV. It's kind of become one of those Christmas traditions that you don't realize you are developing until after it happens.

So what about you? When do you put your lights up? What are your favorite traditions?

David

Posted by David Boultbee

Porcine Pretenders Pig Out on Pumpkin

Just when you think you don't have anything to write about, friends (well, maybe not friends, exactly...) come to call and give you ammo - I mean inspiration.

What we started with...

 We're talking javelina banging on my front door. Literally. Scared the crap outta my poor fifteen-year-old one-toothed redneck kitty. Took a whole Bounty to picker-upper. The younger cat, Ritz The Fearless, did a standing jump from the floor to the very top of a six-foot mesquite room divider. (The kid has hops.)

For those of you not familiar with the fauna of the Sonoran Desert of Southern Arizona, javelina (pronounced have-a LEEN-a) look like wild pigs but are actually peccaries, related to hippos. Like pigs, they love to eat things found in garbage like watermelon rinds, corn cobs, and squash. And this time of year, they be lovin' them some pumpkin.

First there were two...

Yes, I should have known better. In fact, I meant to take my kitty-inspired jack o'lantern and roll it down into the arroyo for the wildlife when I got home from work that evening - the night after Halloween, or All Souls Day. But as often happens with this menopausal mama, I became easily distracted and forgot. I'd just tuned in to watch Rick Fox shimmy his handsomeness on Dancing With the Stars when - BAM-SLAM! The front door shook in its hinges.

A huge crash followed: the cast-iron plant stand slamming to the concrete, shattering the two-foot pot the jack o'lantern had sat on and dumping potting soil and pumpkin across the entryway.  Then through the open windows wafted the distinct pungent perfume of musky rancid elephant doo-doo and I immediately knew the javelina had grown impatient with my lackadaisical waitress schtick and had opted for the self-serve buffet.

Baby between the two on the left

One thing you should know about these creatures: they look cute (especially the babies) but they are certainly not harmless. A pack of peccaries disemboweled one of the neighborhood Golden Retrievers a few years ago. Those teeth are sharp and fully grown males have tusks every bit as lethal as a boar's. They don't see well and are extremely territorial around their young. So forgive me, Governor Brewer, but I had no intention of enforcing SB1070 and demand to see verification that they were in the US legally. I stood behind the door and stuck the camera out with one hand to snap photos.

Piggin' Out on Pumpkin

It started with two. Then they called the cousins - which is really frustrating because my cell phone doesn't work in the house but they somehow got 4G service: the word went out fast. Suddenly my front yard was Peccary Place. Mamas brought the babies, and Daddies strutted around grunting like my husband and his friends at a tailgate party. They made short work of the pumpkin but milled around waiting for free refills for the next three hours. Picky, these peccaries: they didn't even nibble on the other big pot full of vinca by the front door. For which I am grateful.

Bet they gave me a horrible restaurant review. I'll have to do worse next year...


~Jude

www.scorchedhawkpress.com


 

Writing From Your Soul

Sometimes I don't honestly 'love' to write. Sometimes writing is a job, a chore--something I have to do. I think that can be true for all of us, no matter how much we love what we do. There are times when we get stuck, fall into a rut, or find ourselves up against a deadline and without a fresh thought.

The challenge in these times is get past the roadblock or over the hurdle and move forward. I've discovered during those times I often need a boost to get over the wall. Yes, I resort first to chocolate. While it gives me a sugar buzz, it doesn't do that much for my brain power. Besides, writing is about more than using the brain. It's about tapping into the deeper parts of ourselves.

I've discovered that other forms of art can serve as a means of getting me refocused and keeping me focused on my work in progress. I have at least two songs that I identify with each of my books. The lyrics fall into the same theme as the story and, when I get stuck, will help to get me back on track. I have artwork around me that fits with the themes in my writing and that pull my focus back into my story.

For example, my book Shooting Into the Sun is about a young woman who has developed impenetrable boundaries around herself to keep from being hurt. The song that carried me through that book is Taking Chances by Celine Dion. I think it should be used as the credits roll when this book is made into a movie. (Hey, you've gotta believe!) As I wrote my current release, Love, Sam, a story that deals with loss and grief, a Karla Bonoff song--Goodbye, My Friend--played an important role.

I think my muse was a musician in her former life. Or it could be that I'm connecting with my own background as a musician. Music and art speak to my soul. And writing is soul work.

What touches your soul and keeps you focused?

Linda Rettstatt

http://www.lindarettstatt.com/

Defiant Dancer Debuts

Rulers try to suppress her. Humans want her dead, and a powerful male intends to possess her no matter the cost. They should have known better.

Mikial drags her reluctant people toward a tumultuous future where they can stand against human incursion as a united race. She learns that the true cost of leadership is paid in fraying friendships and strained alliances. It is the best time to discover love in another’s arms. It is the worst time for humans to return to her world.

Sunken cities. Space combat. A lover’s triangle that turns deadly. Defiant Dancer is the third installment in my “Dancer” series, and has a lot to live up to. Both previous novels earned Finalist status in the EPIC E-book Awards, and Rogue Dancer garnered Champagne Books “Best Book of the Year” for 2010. I aim to keep the pages turning while plumbing deeper into the personal cost of being shoved into the role of a savior few want. Roles change, friendships grow or wither, and a seemingly frivolous sect reveals far darker shadows. Oh, and this novel has to have the catchiest opening line I’ve ever wrote. Here is the opening for Defiant Dancer – due for a December release. You can read the first chapter in its entirety at www.kmtolan.com.

~*~

DEFIANT DANCER

By

K M Tolan

One

“Your pet human just escaped.”

Mikial's amber eyes closed for a moment. Do you have to keep calling him that? She relaxed her grip on the exercise rope and dropped to the hardwood floor. Her muscular six-hand frame easily absorbed the fall. Knees bent, Mikial pulled back an unruly swipe of cinnamon hair and glared at the Lead of her Surian Guard. “Ryan Donald is Earth's Ambassador... providing I can ever get him back to his home again. He's nobody's pet, Nenya, least of all mine.” She stood, wiping a rivulet of sweat from her light mocha cheeks. Nenya's irreverence bordered on contempt... as usual.

Nenya clasped her hands in hollow contrition. “Forgive me, my Suria. Your... Ambassador just escaped.”

And to think we came from the same background. Like Nenya, she had been born into the Datha combat sect as a rare female Dathia, and still had the claws to prove it. Neither of them were within a stone's throw of petite, most of their curves owed more to predatory physiques than shapely breasts and hips. They were both barely into their twenties, and unmarried, but that was where the similarities ended. Mikial envied Nenya's ebony skin, having lost much of her own pigmentation in an unasked for metamorphosis from which Surias emerged.

Grabbing a towel from its rack next to a series of kick bags, Mikial wiped her face and pressed on with the conversation. “So how did Ryan manage to escape? Kinset has nothing but water around it, and I don't think he is that good a swimmer.”

Nenya smiled. “He stole your airsail. If you hurry, you can see him flying overhead.”

Mikial stared at her, mouth sagging. “He... took my airsail?” She threw down the towel. “There isn't enough charge in those batteries to light a glow stone!” Not caring if her public image as her race’s supposed savior was tarnished by anyone seeing her running about in only brown exercise shorts and a brief top, Mikial made for the door.

Nenya, looking far more respectable in a two-piece black dress uniform with flowing side skirts, dashed after her. The three other members of her Surian Guard were quick to join them in the tower's foyer, speeding with her through double ironwood doors and down polished black basalt steps. Outside the southeast tower entrance, she had an excellent view of a coastline cast in the gold hues of an early morning.

“There!” Nenya shouted, pointing beyond the cliff edge upon which the Datha war college perched like a great red brick. “He's already over the strait.”

Squinting, Mikial caught the orange glint of a rising sun off twin props. She watched as the airsail flew unchallenged toward the distant shores of Kioranna. “He's not going to get much farther.” She launched herself across the intervening green between the college and a road winding along Kinset's three gorges, her goal a wide flagstone path adjacent to a scenic turnoff. The soft grass between her bare toes spurred her into a fresh burst of speed.

Nenya easily caught up with her. Together they vaulted over the decorative railing bordering the grounds. “Excuse me, Suria, but where are you going?”

“The sea!” she snapped. Then, mindful of the warning tone in the Dathia's contralto voice, panted as she ran, “I have to keep the only human ambassador we have from drowning!”

Nenya leapt forward and turned to block her halfway across the road. “You're not allowed to swim in the ocean! You know that!”

Mikial stopped with a threatening growl of her own. “Who mentioned anything about swimming? Didn't you say your family were fishers? You can still pilot a boat, can't you?”

Nenya bared her teeth only enough to remain on the edge of insubordination. “No tricks, my Suria.”

No tricks? You're actually going to go along with this?

Occupational Hazards

After resisting for two years, I finally caved in and watched the first few episodes of Californication on Showtime. Aside from the ubiquitous boobs that a show of this title implies, I found myself liking Hank, the once-bestselling-author-now-suffering-from-writer’s-block. And I could especially relate when, after getting caught talking to a nonexistent person in his car, he says, “Sorry. Professional hazard.”

I suffer from professional hazards of this ilk on a daily basis. My daughter, who is only seven, recently said with a sigh, “Mama left the planet again.” I’m afraid I often have trouble staying focused, and don’t even get me started on what happens when I’m driving with a film score playing in my CD player. Let’s just say I can go miles without actually “seeing” anything, though how I can still have the wherewithal to slam on my brakes if need be I’ll never know.

Another occupational hazard referenced in the fictional world of writers comes from Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon. He calls our creative insomnia the “midnight disease.” When I get to the point where I have trouble falling asleep – for hours – I know I’m on a good writing streak. It seems that as soon as I put my head on the pillow, the best ideas begin flowing. Sometimes I have to give in and get up, regardless of the time, to write whatever it is that’s drilling a hole in my brain.

My favorite, and probably the most unique of the writer’s occupational hazards, is Internal Narration. This too gets a humorous nod in Wonder Boys. I have a terrible habit of narrating everything I observe or experience, especially when I’ve just come from a long bout of writing. I’ll mentally describe the appearance of the woman in front of me in line, or the way someone’s eye twitches while they’re talking to me, or the colors in a sunset. Unfortunately nothing is taboo when it comes to my internal narration; even sex gets translated into flowery prose. (Sorry, Jim.)

In that same vein of internal narration is my inability to resist visualizing everything I read or hear about. And I mean everything. This includes every cliché, metaphor or proverb coming to life in my mind. If I don’t know the person being referenced, it doesn’t matter. I will just picture a vague form doing…whatever it is. So please, best to keep your scatological humor or sayings to yourself. And don’t tell me about your latest sexual exploits. Call it an overactive imagination; it’s automatic and there’s nothing I can do about it.

So in conclusion: I’m sorry if I was composing dialogue in my head while we were having lunch. I’m sorry if I drove past the bank. Twice. I’m sorry I mentally described your eyebrows as geriatric caterpillars. I’m sorry I stole the name you were saving for your baby and gave it to one of my characters. Along with one of your personality disorders. And I’m sorry that I’m tired and cranky today; I was up at 3:00 a.m. reworking my ending. Oh yeah, and I’m sorry dinner wasn’t ready when you got home. I was blogging.

The thing is, I just can’t help it.

www.ashleyjbarnard.com

January Release - A Way Back

 
I thought I'd share a blurb and short excerpt for my January release. A Way Back is a time travel romance set in the 1930s oil fields of East Texas. I had such fun researching and writing this story.

Pictures to the right were taken in the East Texas Oil Museum in Kilgore, Texas. I'll post the cover when I receive it. I can't wait to see what it looks like.

In the 1930s oil fields of Texas, a woman from the future finds new purpose as she helps a banker rebuild his financial empire.


Amber Mathis, a Wall Street investment banker, returns to her office after burying her mother. Distraught, tired of the rat race, she's determined to make a career change. In the elevator she falls and rises to find herself in a vintage lift. The date is February 25, 1930, and a man stands on the window ledge in her office ready to jump.

Wellman Hathaway, owner and CEO of Hathaway Bank in New York struggles to pay his depositors half their losses. A woman claiming to be from 2010 appears in his office and involves him in a scheme that forces them into marriage. With Amber's knowledge of the financial history of the 1930s, they travel to the oil fields of Texas to recoup Wellman's funds.

Two people from different centuries are thrown together to survive a difficult time. Will they find more than A Way Back to prosperity?

Excerpt:

Do it her mind screamed. In one swift move she locked her arms around his waist, pulled, and dropped to the floor. She cringed at the loud crack when his head hit the window sash as he fell back landing on top of her.


They both remained still for a moment. The air knocked out of her, she managed to gasp out, “Could you move? You’re squashing me.”

He rolled and her head bounced on the floor as she changed positions from trying to rise to flat on her back. Long arms held hers above her head and muscled legs kept her body from moving. Striking gray eyes pierced hers, examining every inch of her. Her face flushed at the intrusion and she struggled to get him off. He applied more pressure and she stilled.

A lock of blonde hair fell over his forehead, a patrician nose flared in anger, as his square jaw tightened. He ground out, “Who the hell are you and why’d you try to knock my head off?”

Check out my blog at http://www.lindalaroqueauthor.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment to be entered in my monthly ebook drawing.

Happy Reading and Writing!

Linda
http://www.lindalaroque.com/



Nothing is by Chance

Serendipitous angels are the real muses
　
For writers, serendipity is a visit from the muse. Spiritual serendipity is that odd way we have of being somewhere we need to be at the right time and place to learn something or be saved from something. Sometimes it’s being there for someone else, a stranger who might need our help. And, sometimes it’s all that.


On a short Christmas cruise of the Caribbean, my husband and I sat across the lunch table from a young couple talking about her chronic health condition. She wondered how she could manage it, perhaps for the rest of her life. Never one to ignore the opportunity to practice medicine without a license, I said, "See me after lunch and I’ll tell you what works for me."


"Tell her now," said her husband. "I can take it." So I did. Three days later she waved a happy goodbye from the gangplank. We never saw them again; we’d never seen them before. But we were in the right place when she needed my suggestions.


When my youngest daughter Lynne was seven months old, we had just relocated to Xenia, Ohio. Lynne and I developed sore throats. I found my way to the doctor’s office despite a steady rainstorm. My child cried beside me in the flimsy car seat (1964). Returning, having had our shots and our prescriptions filled, I thought I’d become turned around on the four-lane highway and made a U turn though a median strip that rivaled a rice paddy. The gurgle beneath the car told the tale. I threw open the door and saw that the water had stopped at the center of the hubcaps. My daughter was asleep, so I stepped out of the car into the sucking mud and drizzle to flag down help.


I hadn’t been standing there a minute when a non-threatening little old lady in a vintage, Model T, Ford came along, rolled down her window and asked, "Do you need help, honey?"


"Yes please, and do you mind if I bring my baby?" (The shot hadn’t kicked in yet.)

At the service station, I arranged for a tow truck and sat down to wait. A burly policeman walked in and took one look at me shivering on the metal chair with the baby on the floor in her contraption. He shook his head. "Is that your car in the median strip?"


"Yes, sir." I’d learned to use sir and ma’am recently after we’d moved so close to Cincinnati and the Kentucky-Ohio border where southern manners began in the Midwest.


"Well," he said stroking his chin, "I should give you a ticket, but I think you have enough trouble."

Two angels for the price of one.
***
In 1977, I was in Chagrin Falls, Ohio, driving home from a meeting with an editor when I heard what sounded like a MACK truck behind me. Sure enough a huge semi was coming to the crossroads right on my tail. A few minutes later I heard him again. He sounded so close that I sped up and looked in the rear view mirror. But the truck was gone. I slowed down and the sound changed, lower this time. It was my first flat tire on our new German car. Luckily it hadn’t even swerved.

I was only half a mile from our veterinarian’s offices. Knowing that I needed a flat surface to be able to use the European jack, I rolled onto the vets cement parking lot. Right behind me followed my next angel/knight. His shining armor was a red and black Pontiac GTO. He asked if I’d like help changing the tire.

"Would I ever! Thank you."


It wasn’t long before he was puzzling over the jack and the metric tools in the trunk. "Do you have an instruction manual?" he asked.


"It came with the tools." I retrieved it from the glove compartment, where women generally keep trunk items.


He opened it to the German section first, then turned it upside down and started reading again. While he was changing the tire, I went inside to call home.
***
A few years ago we were on a cruise in the middle of the South Pacific when I met Jim Woods, Champagne author, editor and short story and article writer. He is also an expert on guns and Africa. This was an unlikely place to meet a man of action, but for a week, his friends and my duplicate bridge group had been telling us that there were two writers on board.

He found me in the library—of course.

"Are you the writer?" he asked.

"Yes. Are you the other one?" I answered. In the course of our conversation, he told me about Champagne Books, for which my romantic novels were suited.

Had I not been on that cruise, I’d have not met Jim, and Champagne might have eluded my search.

Spiritual and creative serendipity is not just luck. It’s being in the right place at the right time, then listening to the person providing the help. Thanks to all you angels and muses, past, present and future.


Julie Eberhart Painter is the Champagne Books author of Mortal Coil, in which she practices both medicine and law without licenses, and Tangled Web, a story close to her heart. See Julie’s Web site at
www.books-jepainter.com The World, the Flesh and the Devil, American Castles and Tahitian Destiny are available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble Her nonfiction e-book, From the Inside Out, a volunteer looks at staying motivated, is considered a best seller on the Net.

How Famous?

It's funny to think about certain people & their level of fame & recognition. Whether or not they are writers, actors, or musicians, I'm sure everyone has their own ideas of when they "made it big".

I think it was Matthew Broderic who said he knew he made it when he became a McDonald's toy. Maybe this only comes to mind because I have the COMPLETE inspector gadget by my bed on a book stand. Yes, I'm still 12...

Singers become so famous, you know them by only 1 name. Madonna. Reba. Cher.

Some books that are best sellers get made into movies. Meyers, Niffenegger, etc. are now infamous. (You know - infamous. "I think it means more than famous." ~ Dusty Bottoms) [If you are not a three Amigo's fan - get outta my post ;) ]

Some authors are so famous in their fan's eyes, they have lunatics that want them to sign their boob.

If they are really a hit - you get a theme park. Yes, JK Rowling, bloody awesome.

Today, I was working on some wedding invitations at work & looking through the font "webdings" for a specific shape. I was kinda surprised to see one that was the Mona Lisa. How proud would DaVinci be, huh? "Look Michelangelo . I'm a webding and you're not. Nanner nanner nanner....."

I'm not into writing and being published so much for the recognition as the feeling I get when someone sends me 43 text messages while they read my book. "OMG! I love him for...." "You kill XXXX off - & I'll kill YOU!" "I never cry at romance! Damn you!" etc. There's no feeling like it. At that point, I've already "made it" in my book... and that's the only one that counts.

What would make you think "I made it!!" ?

June Kramin
Author - Paranormal Romance ~ Dustin Time
http://www.junekramin.com/