Reviewing Books - Yay or Nay...Can't Decide.

Sometimes I wonder if as an author I should review the work of others.  Before I was published, I read for the sheer enjoyment, but now, after going through so many editing sessions and being whipped into an actual author, I cannot read without my internal editor whispering in my ear.  I read with an eye for pitfalls I've been advised to avoid rather than losing myself in the story as I once was able to do.  Heck, before my debut novel, I hadn't even heard half the terms I hear now--headhopping, passive voice, transitions, etc..  Now the simplest mistakes keep me from really connecting with the characters. It could be that the books I read all those years had been finely edited so assuming a place in the heroine's shoes came naturally. 

Don't get me wrong.  I think editors are an essential part of the process, and now when I read, I can definitely tell the novices from the professionals.  Is it fair to report to readers that I've found areas in a story that should have been caught by an editor and the reader advised to fix?  I'm not sure.  Does it make me come across as a "know it all?"  Trust me, I don't.  I learn a new rule every day, and the scary thing is that I'm never sure that the rule is hard and fast.

It's a fact that the majority of editors working in small press are authors as well, and possibly some that haven't been writing very long themselves.  Could it be they are just passing along what they've learned?  I've found that some of what I've been told isn't exactly true, but I think some of the examples I can share with you today make sense.  For example:  Overusing He/She if you've made it clear whose POV your in at the moment.  Read these two paragraphs and see which sounds more polished.

John smelled Joan's perfume as she twirled by him on the dance floor.  He envied the man who held her in his arms.  He believed she was the most beautiful woman in the room, and he vowed to ask her to dance the next time the orchestra played a slow song.  He intended to be the one to take her home tonight.

John inhaled the sweet smell of Joan's perfume as she twirled by him on the dance floor.  The man who held her in his arms was one lucky guy.  Before the evening ended, John intended to share a slow dance with her, and if his prayers were answered, he'd be the one to take her home.

See, you don't need he envied, he believed, he intended.  You've let the reader know by John enjoying the aroma of Joan's perfume that we're in his POV, so anything you type should be interpreted as his perspective.

Another pet peeve are needless tags.  It's always best to use an action tag in place of he said, she said, but if you end the dialogue with a question mark, do you really need to say, she asked?  I think the punctuation is a big hint.  *smile*  When only two people are in the room, using the character's names over and over becomes redundant.  The reader is usually smart enough to determine who is talking, and if you need to clarify, you can say something like:  "Are you crazy?"  John's eyes widened beneath a furrowed brow.

Editors become very important in keeping the redundancy out of the story line.  Authors don't usually write an entire book in one setting, so it's very hard to remember everything you've already written.  For example:  If you've pointed out to the reader that the heroine broke her leg by falling off a horse, it isn't necessary to repeat that information again in dialogue with someone and then add it in a descriptive paragraph pages later.  Readers, me included, roll their eyes and say, "enough already...I know, I know."

Since I don't plot my stories and find my memory isn't what it used to be, I've taken to making notes about the physical attributes of my characters.  It's quite easy to describe sky blue eyes in one chapter and chocolate brown in another further down the line.  Unless you're writing from the perspective of an Australian Shepherd, both eyes should be the same color and remain that way throughout the story.

As an historical author, I learned long ago, and I'm still learning, that you really need to be on guard to assure your language is appropriate for the period about which you write.  I've read some love scenes lately that left me shaking my head because of the present day terminology used for body parts.  It's really not believable that an Indian brave would bust out with the word "clitoris."

I've found the online Etymology dictionary most helpful in determining the origin of most words, but judgement helps too. Think about your story's time period and how people spoke.  While you might find word origins described from the 1500s, that doesn't mean they were used all over the globe.  Example:  Ma/Maw/Momma is how a child addressed their female parent rather than just Mom in 1840.  Although "kid" has been a word for a long time, the manner in which it was used in the 1800s most often referred to a baby goat.  Children were not kids, but you could kid with them (tease).  Historical credibility is all a matter of knowing your time period and doing your research.  Trust me, if you make a mistake, someone will notice and let you know.

My most recent editor pointed out her amazement that my heroine still had a bottom lip as she constantly chewed on it.  *lol*  It's so easy to utilize the same action without realizing you've overdone it.  Here again, that's because we don't write books in one sitting nor do we usually go back and re-read the previous chapters.  Thank God for those who devote their time and talents to making us stop and think about our writing habits.  What would we do without our editors...internal and external?

Welcome my friend, Lindsay Below...

The Fight for a Bride

By Lindsay Below

We all face challenges in our lives. Love and romance can be especially grueling. How many of us have had to fight before gaining the love we coveted?

Natalia, from my historical romance novella Unveiling His Princess, faces this very problem. Although she’s been betrothed to Bennett since birth, she’s never met him. She’s always known that she would someday marry him, and she’s accepted that fact. But one day, when her stepsister steals her identity and travels to marry Bennett in her place, Natalia is forced into a battle for the love of her future husband -- and she doesn’t even know whether she wants it.

Nevertheless, she disguises herself and sneaks into his palace, posing as a scullery maid during the day while she tries to convince him of her identity at night. To make matters worse, her stepsister soon learns of her arrival and goes out of the way to make her life as a scullery maid absolutely wretched.

Does she succeed? Does Bennett learn of the truth of her identity in time? Unveiling His Princess is now available from Liquid Silver Books!

How many of you have had to struggle before earning your spouse or partner’s hand?

L. K. Below writes romance and speculative fiction. Under her full name, Lindsay Below, she publishes young adult novels. Visit her online at www.lbelow.net.

Take a Peek!

As you probably know from my excitement, First Degree Innocence is published and available in both download (all formats) and print.  I decided the best way to entice you to read my book is to hook you with the first chapter.  If I've done my homework with regard to writing, then this should make you want to read it all. So, here ya go...

Chapter One

Nuevo Correctional Institution – Kern County, CA

“Okay, Lang, strip!” The guard’s bark made Carrie’s stomach roil. She cowered in the corner of the women’s processing area, shivering under the blast of cold air from the ceiling vent. 

“I said strip!  Don’t make me have to tell you again.”  The pudgy, uniformed female slapped a baton against her palm in a constant rhythm. In the empty room, the sound bounced off the depressing gray cement walls and echoed in Carrie’s head.  She forced herself to take a faltering step out of her shoes.  Her frigid fingers fumbled with the buttons as she struggled to remove her favorite pink cotton blouse.  She unfastened her jeans and let them drop to the floor, then gazed through bleary eyes at the other woman, praying she didn’t require the removal of anything more.

“This is all a big mistake.  I shouldn’t be here.”  Carrie’s voice trembled.  “Honestly, I’m innocent.” 

With deeply-furrowed skin and graying hair, the guard looked well past fifty. She walked closer, stopping when her face was only inches from Carrie’s. “Do you have any idea how often I hear that in here?”  Her breath reeked of cigarette smoke, and Carrie wrinkled her nose and turned her head.  How could someone she’d never met hate her so much already? Was there even an ounce of compassion buried beneath that deep sneer?

The older woman pressed the edge of her baton against Carrie’s jawbone and forced her face forward. Her stomach clenched. Evil gleaming in her eyes, the guard delved the wooden stick under Carrie’s bra strap, slowly guiding the silky string off her shoulder and down her arm.  Gooseflesh peppered her skin and she shivered. 

 “Stripping means everything, inmate Lang.  Panties, too, sweetheart. Move it!  I’m a busy person, so quit wasting my time.”  The matron strode to the other side of the room, leaned against the wall, and ogled Carrie while she finished undressing.

Lowering her head, she dropped her bra atop the pile on the floor then kicked her panties off next to it.  Feeling the cold invade every pore, she wrapped her arms around her upper body.   Threatening tears blurred her eyes, but she squeezed her lids together and tilted her head toward the ugly pipes snaking across the ceiling. Oh Lord, what did I do to deserve this?  Please, help me.  You’re my last hope. “Praying are you?” the gravelly voice taunted.  “It’s a little late for that.  Put those hands down to your sides and look to the front, missy.”

Carrie opened her eyes and swallowed hard. Did the woman expect her to know what to do?   “N-Now what?” she asked in a quivering voice.

  Just a short time ago, she’d been frisked, photographed, and finger-printed for the second time in her life.  Her initial arrest had been horrifying enough, but she at least made bail for a time.  Now this?   She gazed down at the black ink smudges still visible on her hands. Why was this happening? Never had she felt so humiliated…and disbelieving.  How could the judge have sentenced her to ten years in prison?

The guard laughed, drawing Carrie’s thoughts back to reality.  The evil cackle indicated delight in her predicament and turned the room even colder.  Ms. Ogden, as her name tag read, placed her black baton under one arm and, with the other hand, reached into a pouch on her utility belt to retrieve a pair of plastic gloves.  She slowly pulled them on her age-spotted hands, leering at Carrie the entire time.  When she finished, she put the baton into a special holder on her belt then stood with her hands on her hips.  “Now, lift up those breasts so I can make sure you aren’t smuggling contraband.”

Carrie’s cheeks burned, but she did as she was told.  With her eyes squinted shut, she turned her face away, trying to halt the sobs wracking her insides.

“Okay, now bend over and spread ’em.”  The matron’s snicker was the final stab of humiliation.

Aghast, but shaking with fear, Carrie bowed at the waist, letting her hands dangle just above her toes.  The welling tears now fell, splashing against the darkly tiled floor. Her breath seized when the cool feel of plastic touched the skin of her buttocks, daring to invade places that should remain private from prying eyes and strange hands.

“Okay, that does it,” the guard said, stripping off the gloves.  “Now get in the shower.  There’s soap on the ledge and shampoo in the big plastic bottle on the floor.  It’s a ‘lice’ preventative, so make sure to give your hair a good wash. We don’t want any more critters around here than we already have.”  She turned to leave. 

Carrie crossed her arms over nipples erect from the cold and cursed the legs that didn’t want to support her.  She paused for a moment before entering the stall.  “What do I put on when I’m done?” Her voice was a mere whisper.

The simple question brought another evil guffaw.  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll bring you a pretty little matching outfit and a new pair of shoes.”  Ogden pulled a towel from a hook by the door, threw it in Carrie’s face and left.

The heavy metal door slammed with a clank.  Carrie glanced around the empty room, listened to the stone silence, and fought the nausea bubbling up from the pit of her stomach.   Her legs felt leaden with each step toward the faucet, and with trembling hands, she somehow managed to turn on the tap.  At least the water was warm. She stepped beneath the soothing stream, feeling the heat spread across her chilled skin.  With her face raised to the pelting shower, she prayed for divine intervention.  Her remaining tears bubbled to the surface, mingled with, and washed away in the shower spray.  She muffled her sobs against her fist, daring not to tarry.

After her shower and shampoo, she toweled off, wrung the excess water from her long brown hair, and forced herself to don the prison-issued dirty-gray panties and equally disgusting sports bra.  She’d ignored the grating of the door as it opened and closed during her shower, and now spied a uniform hanging on a wall hook.  Her skin prickled at the thought of how many people before her had worn the bright orange shirt and pants.  Once on, the uniform’s baggy fit completely hid all of her feminine attributes, and the accompanying well-worn shoes felt disturbingly strange.  She pictured all the previous feet that had molded the cracking rubber of the brown slip-ons, and an appropriate saying crept through her mind.  Walk a mile in my shoes.  Had prior wearers been this petrified?

 Dampness from her hair spread onto her shirt. She shivered at the coldness of the cement bench, hugged her knees, and waited.

The hair on her neck bristled when the holding cell door creaked open.  She swallowed hard to rid her throat of a lump that threatened to choke her.

The same portly woman leaned against the open door and leered inside.  “Get out here, Lang.  I have some new friends I want you to meet.”  The ensuing chuckle made Carrie shudder.

 Her mind raced.   If only she could wiggle her nose like Samantha in ‘Bewitched’ and disappear. Was there no end to this nightmare?

She shuffled toward the opening, her rubber footwear slurping as the wet soles adhered to the slick concrete floor. Avoiding the matron’s gaze, she stopped just inside the cell.

“Are you an idiot, Lang?  I said out!”  The guard pointed her baton toward the far wall in the booking area.

Carrie slunk from the holding cell and stopped where instructed. Another female guard shoved a scratchy woolen blanket and two badly worn sheets at her, followed by an oft-used towel that had long ago lost its whiteness, an equally aged washcloth and a packet of toiletries. On top of that she plopped a second change of clothing, two pair of socks, panties and a black mesh laundry bag.  Carrie fought to balance the lot and glanced apprehensively at Ogden, waiting for further direction—daring not to move.

“Follow me,” the woman snapped.  “I have a special bed reserved just for you.”

Clutching her new belongings, Carrie trailed behind, her heart pounding hard against her chest wall.  Never in her life had she felt so frightened or been treated so disrespectfully, and there was not a thing she could do about it.  She took a long, calming breath and placed one foot in front of the other, although she didn’t know how on legs so wobbly. Two smirking male guards held open the steel doors, allowing the women to pass into a hallway.

She chewed her bottom lip and peered around her load. The corridor seemed endless. Beneath overhead lights, the tiled floor glistened with a freshly waxed sheen.  Painted block walls displayed the same dismal gray as the holding cell, and the distinct smell of bleach hung in the air.  The chlorine did little to mask the odor of unwashed bodies and co-mingled with the aroma of the most recently-served meal.  Bile rose in her throat and she struggled not to retch.  The same question kept echoing in her head. How could this have happened?  She didn’t belong in this place.

Ogden unlocked yet another steel door and, holding it, motioned for Carrie to enter.  Foggy disbelief clouded her mind, but she did as instructed, waiting for the guard and staring down yet another endless passageway.  The slamming door sliced the silence and made her jump.  At once, the desolate area came to life with a cacophony of catcalls and lewd comments directed at her. Reaching hands stretched between bars from the confinement of the cells, grabbing at the air as she passed.  She gulped and tried to keep her eyes forward, but found it difficult to ignore the myriad of strange faces that peered between the bars and vied for her attention.  She hunched her shoulders and gripped her prison issue, trying to draw into a ball to avoid being touched.  She had nothing in common with these women.

Run away, run away.  You don’t belong here.  The voice in her head drowned out all other noises and encouraged her to do something she knew wasn’t possible.  Cement, steel doors, and endless hallways stood between her and freedom.  Not one person in the place had believed her when she’d proclaimed her innocence.

With the turn of a key, a single cell swung open, and Ogden shoved Carrie inside.  “Sweet dreams.  If you need anything, just call room service.”  Again, the woman’s taunting guffaw pierced Carrie like a knife. 

Clutching her meager belongings, she stood, frozen in place, and grimaced when the door clicked shut and the overweight guard waddled away.  Finally, Carrie turned and surveyed the narrow room.  Graffiti littered the confining walls, a timeless testimonial to the previous residents.  Her gaze passed the metal bunk beds and rested on the lone lidless toilet, jutting from the back wall and visible to anyone walking by.  Claustrophobia squeezed at her chest and tears threatened again.  How much more degradation was yet to come?

 “Welcome to Hell.” A voice came from behind her.

Carrie’s heart jumped into her throat.   She jerked around to see a prone form on the bottom bunk and struggled to find her voice.   “I… I thought I was alone.”

“No such luck.  They prefer to keep the cells full.  It makes serving meals and head counts a lot easier for the coven of witches who work here.  My name’s Susanna Crane.”  A tall blonde with bright brown eyes and full lips stood and offered her hand, then chuckled.  “Oh, sorry, I see you have your arms full.  The good news is, it’s nice to have company, and the bad news is you get the top bunk.  The bottom one is the only perk around here, and it’s first-come-first-served.”  Her pleasant giggle was a welcome sound.

Carrie stood on tiptoes and dumped her issued items on the bare mattress.  Marks of age crinkled the cold plastic. In a few ripped places, the cotton filling poked through—like her, it sought escape from a hellish confinement. A quiet chuckle bubbled to her lips until she tried picturing what type of people had slept on the bedding before her.  She cringed.

At home, her downy mattress was practically new, still bearing the tags that threatened penalties if they were removed.  How ironic. You couldn’t be more law-abiding than that.

She turned back to her cellmate.  “Don’t we even get pillows?”

Susanna shook her head. “Not anymore.  I hear they used to issue them, but some idiot tried flushing one and backed up the whole sewer system, so now…”

“I don’t think I can sleep without one.”

“You’ll learn.”

“So… we all get punished for what one person did?” Carrie hoped she misunderstood.

“That’s the way it works.  It’s an incentive program.”

“Incentive for what?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.  I think they expect us to police one another, yet fighting isn’t tolerated.  That seems pretty stupid, considering the best way to stop someone from doing something that’s gonna screw us all, is to beat the livin’ shit out of ’em.  Go figure.”  Susanna’s lips practically disappeared into a thin line.

Carrie was taken aback by Susanna’s language.  At first sight, with her shoulder-length hair and big eyes, she looked like the all-American girl.  The one you’d find in church or at the Red Cross.  Carrie figured her for twenty-five at the most.  She glanced around the cell, pondering Susanna’s last statement.

“I’m not sure I understand.  How can they expect us to prevent things from happening if we’re all separately caged… like animals?”

“Oh, we get recreation time… a whopping two hours a day.  You’ll love it.  You get to socialize with the cream of the crop.” Susanna’s voice held a teasing tone, as she sat back on her bunk, pulled out a netted laundry bag and held it in the air. 

 “Here’s the answer to your pillow.” She plumped the contents.  “Just add your clean clothes and, voila!”  She ducked her head, plopping onto her back, and rested against her makeshift cushion.  “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get some sleep.  I work in the kitchen and have to get up at three a.m.”  She pulled her scratchy woolen blanket up and rolled to face the wall, leaving Carrie with questions still begging for answers.

Susanna glanced over her shoulder.  “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

Carrie massaged the headache looming above one eye.  “Carrie…Carrie Lang.  Good night.”

An eerie silence filled the cell.  She glanced at the top bunk, knowing that sleep would be elusive. The sleeping accommodations offered no appeal, and her mind raced far too fast to rest.  She glanced around, taking in the harsh reality of her new home.  Tears clouded her vision and frustration gnawed at her gut.  This had to be a nightmare, the worst in all her twenty-four years. She prayed someone would wake her soon.

She walked to the bars separating her from the hallway, pressed her face between them and peered down the long corridor. Her hands clutched the icy steel so tightly her knuckles blanched. It was hard to believe in just a matter of weeks her life had been completely turned upside down.  One day she was happy and carefree, and the next, a convicted felon.  Why wouldn’t anyone believe she was innocent?   She had nothing to do with that bank robbery.

The lights in the prison dimmed, signaling bedtime for all the inmates, she supposed.  Carrie turned and stared at the toilet.  She always peed before she went to bed… but maybe not tonight. 

Her gaze returned to the long hallway and the depressing empty walls.  As the murmuring voices from adjoining cells faded into quietness, fear gathered in the pit of Carrie’s stomach.  Her eyes grew tired from straining to see someone—anyone—return to the cell to announce this was all a horrible mistake.  She stood a long time before exhaustion gave the strange bed more appeal and reality sunk in.  There was no yellow brick road, and she definitely wasn’t Dorothy.

Copies are available at multiple places.  BooksWeLove Publishing Partners link will take you to Smashwords, and the links below will take you to the Kindle Store for the download, and Createspace for print.

      

Just Released from Muse It Up Publishing

 I'm into "sneak peeks" this week.  So, here's more than a teaser from my most recent release from Muse It Up Publishing:

A Wing and a Prayer

Callie Corwin passed down the aisle of the 757 one more time before takeoff. Her heart thudded in her chest like the jet engines. Hopefully, she’d done everything by the book. This was her first flight as an attendant, and everything she’d learned during training seemed to have gotten lost in her muddled thoughts of the training manual and its long checklist of things to do.

Making her way back to her own seat in the front of the plane, she halted at a huge pair of cowboy boots blocking the aisle. “Excuse me, sir.” She jostled the muscular shoulder of a person in repose, most of his face hidden by a black Stetson.

He lifted the hat higher on his head and pulled his long, lanky legs back into place. “Yes?”

She swallowed hard, seeing eyes bluer than a Montana sky staring back at her. “Y…you’ll have to buckle your seatbelt for takeoff.” Her gaze drifted down the length of him and rested on his bag. “And you’ll have to stow your carry-on under the seat in front of you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He doffed the brim of his hat and nudged the black case forward with his foot.

She tried to be professional and not chuckle at his adorable accent. With a smile and a fluttery stomach, she turned and continued to her jump seat in the galley. That cowboy certainly was a piece of eye candy. Too bad there wasn’t time to get better acquainted. Still, the eleven hour flight from California to England would certainly offer another chance.

She harnessed herself in and smoothed her hands across her skirt. So far, so good. No one had gotten angry, everyone found their allotted seat, and the safety instructions had gone off without a hitch. Of course, no one really followed along with the pamphlet in the seatbacks, but at least she managed her safety belt demonstration without dropping her prop. She never expected to be so nervous. Her palms dampened even now as her fellow flight attendant announced they’d been cleared for takeoff.

Flying backward always bothered her. Why couldn’t they have put the crew’s seats on the opposite wall? As the airplane picked up speed, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, planting both feet firmly on the floor. On the climb, turbulence swayed the fuselage, and Callie’s fingers clenched into a knot in her lap. “Bumps in the road,” she muttered, reminding herself of the words her instructor had shared. She’d flown many times in her twenty-two years, but she’d never get used to the roughness caused by air currents. As she often did as a passenger, she counted backwards from one hundred. Usually before she got to twenty-five, things smoothed out. This time was no different.

After a cleansing breath, she opened her eyes and then fidgeted to find her gaze locked with those Montana blues again. Just her luck. The aisle seat of row four had a perfect view of her seating area and at this moment, her. She managed a weak smile and prayed for the captain’s signal to begin in-flight service. Diverting her attention, she turned to chat with the attendant sitting next to her but warmed from the heat of seat 4C’s blazing stare.

As soon as the plane leveled and the buzzer sounded, Callie flexed both fists on the armrests, took a deep breath, and unfastened her safety belt. Pasting on a smile, she rose, and forcing herself to take calm, measured steps, crossed the aisle back to the galley.

 Behind the privacy divider, she pulled sodas from the icebox and prepared them for the orders her fellow crew member was already taking in the plane’s forward section. The aft handled their own. As she lined the cans by type, she mentally ran through her list of duties. Once the drinks and light refreshments were served, she’d pass through the cabin, offering pillows and blankets. Maybe she’d heat a bottle for a baby, or help an elderly person to the bathroom. Whatever was needed for the passenger’s comfort, she’d do.

Unbidden, the image of that angular jaw and those piercing blue eyes filled her head, and she cut herself on a pop-top. She quickly pressed her finger against her lips, winced, and then grimaced at the salty taste of blood. After dipping a napkin into melted ice, she dabbed at the painful slice. Methodically, she moved to the first aid kit, found a band-aid, and applied it. Darn, why couldn’t seat 4C have been 28B instead of the constant distraction he’d become?

The plane lurched upward. Callie grabbed the counter and narrowed her widened eyes. Would she ever get used to those dratted bumps? A buzzer summoned her. She checked the lights above the seats for the passenger who rang—9D. As she made her way down the aisle, Mr. Eye Candy lowered the lashes of one eye in a definite wink. Pretending to ignore him, she continued past, hoping she showed no obvious reaction. Drat! The guy really tested her resolve, and she couldn’t afford to be sidetracked when she was trying to prove herself on the job.

A dark-complexioned man sat beneath the lit service light. Callie released his call button. “May I help you, sir?”

He thrust his plastic glass at her. “I want more.” He spoke with a heavy accent, unfamiliar to her. Beneath bushy brows, his dark eyes and thin lips conveyed an aura of ice.

“Of course. I’ll be happy to refill your glass. What were you drinking?” The spicy aroma of his aftershave hinted at Whiskey. She hoped he had the correct change as she had none.

 “Tonic with a twist of lime.”

She figured him for something much stronger but nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

As she turned, he removed a cell phone from his pocket, flipped open the top and started to dial.

 “I’m sorry, sir.” She reached toward his hand. “You aren’t allowed to make calls during flight, unless you use the phone in the seatback in front of you.”

The man stared at her with ebony contempt, recoiling from her intended touch as if she might infect him with something. “Do not lay your hands on me.”

Callie straightened and pressed her hand to her throat. “I’m sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect. I simply—”

“Is there a problem here?” someone asked.

Callie turned, leveling her eyes on a familiar checkered shirt pattern. She raised her gaze to the handsome face of the man from seat 4C. “N…no. There’s no problem.”

The two passengers exchanged glares before the cowboy brushed past and continued on to the bathroom. Callie cleared her throat and turned back to the seated passenger. “I’m sorry if I offended you, sir. I’ll be right back with your drink.” 

Find you copy at Muse It Up Publishing.  Hey...where else can you be entertained for ninety-nine cents?

A Long Look Back...

I cannot believe today is the last day of 2010.  It seems like only yesterday we were all apprehensive about the coming of 2000 and how our computer hard drives were going to be obliterated.  I recall the tech staff at the university working overtime to safeguard against what a new millennium would bring.  How shocked were we when nothing happened after all the hype?

As I look back over the past 365 days, I find so many friendships for which to be thankful.  I've forged lasting relationships with people I wouldn't recognize on the street.  Those who don't understand the kinship probably think I'm a fool, but those about whom I speak know exactly what I mean.  Anita, Ro, Lea, Phyllis, Jannine, Lin, Margaret, Melinda, Tricia, Lisabet...just to name a few women who have made such an impact on my life...a positive and much-appreciated one.  To Debbie, my exercise buddy, I say thanks for being such a good friend.  I wasn't sure I would ever have one that could actually come over and spend time with me.  You're a breath of fresh air.

Despite saying I was never going to move again, the house I so loved was filled with black mold, and we were uprooted once again after one year.  I've been much happier in my little condo then I ever expected, and I truly believe we've found our niche.  We have a welcome mat, but there's a two-day limit on your stay.  *lol*

I discovered Muse It Up Publishing and not only landed six contracts, but made a whole slew of friends that became a new family circle.  I've been with several publishers over the year but truly this is the most tightly knit group I've experienced...but not so tightly knit that they don't open their arms to all newbies.  Being part of this team has been most uplifting. 

Although the dynamics of Eternal Press has changed a bit, I still maintain solid friendships with most of the authors there, and I appreciate Kim Richards for all she's done for me over the years.  The lion's share of my work is there.

I could go back through my blog and recap, but if anyone is that interested in my life, I'll let them do it.  *lol*  What's most important to me is  I enter the new year healthy, optimistic, and thankful for all the blessings I've received in 2010. I have a wonderful family, especially a grandson who is the light of my life.  The only thing I wish I could change would be that my son, Scott, lived closer.  I miss him terribly. 

Through Facebook, I've re-connected with old friends and classmates.  It's awesome to reconnect with Caryl, Margie, Judy, Shirley... and today, on the very last day of this year, I received a phone call from someone I haven't seen or talked to in years...Karen who was my closest friend and confidante for years.  What a nice way to end one year and begin another. 

To those who have helped me through the hard times, celebrated the good times, and loaned a shoulder when I needed one, I say "thank you."  May God continue to bless us all and give us the wisdom and strength to deal with the times that don't seem to be as blessed.  Having just turned sixty-five, I must say I approach the future with a little apprehension, and a big prayer that the Lord allows me to stay around a while longer and see some very important things through to the end...like making sure Spencer grows up to be a good man...which I have no doubt he will.  I just want to be here to see it.

God planted me, and I've learned to blossom where I landed.  I may never make the NYT Best Seller list, but the friendships I've forged and the fun I've had being an author makes me one of the richest writers around.  To those who continue to follow my blog, receive it by email, and care about me and my work, what can I say?  You inspire me to bigger and better things.  Happy New Year everyone, and thank you for being part of my life.

If you think I'm not going to end this blog with some shameless promo...then you don't know me.  *lol*


 


Remember...almost all my work is available in Print if you prefer.  Hey...get a Kindle...they're awesome.