tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33435030765557569672024-03-12T05:08:15.613-04:00Read. wRite. Ramble.AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05856184020625392516noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-78385265904816754052014-02-27T11:43:00.000-05:002014-02-27T11:44:35.963-05:00The 27th Annual Pennwriters Conference<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So, I'm coordinating this little thing called a writer's conference. It's the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Pennwriters-Annual-Conference/189724234458235" target="_blank">27th Annual Pennwriters Conference</a> to be exact. And it is AWESOME! Planning is much like plotting and this is something us writers do good, I mean, well. <br />
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So, if you're not doing anything May 16th-18th and you'd like to come to Amish Country, Lancaster PA, and hang out with <a href="http://www.kamigarcia.com/" target="_blank">Kami Garcia</a> and <a href="http://meredithmileti.com/" target="_blank">Meredith Mileti</a> and <a href="http://www.pennwriters.org/prod/" target="_blank">13 agents and editors and 31 speakers</a> and <a href="http://www.charlimac.com/" target="_blank">me</a> of course, then check this mutha out. <br />
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Charli Out. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-31555394596326192592013-11-12T17:12:00.000-05:002013-11-22T10:37:37.680-05:00Glad Someone Read To Me, The Outsiders<br />
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Today there is an event called, I AM GLAD SOMEONE READ TO ME. It's on <a href="http://gladsomeonereadtome.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Tumblr</a> and Twitter using, #GSRtME. I'd like to share with you my story. <br />
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When Sister Edward William read the words, “When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home,” I was hooked. It’s not easy getting an entire 8th grade class to pay attention but we did. We were all hooked by S.E. Hinton’s words, about kids our age from another era but who felt so much like home. The kids from the wrong side of the tracks, outcasts, misfits, poor, and with the weight of the world against them. I grew up two blocks from the Philly elevated train, in a neighborhood known for drugs and prostitution. Kids from a richer neighborhood also went to my school and it always seemed like it was us against them. Soc vs. Grease was a battle I knew well.<br />
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I knew kids that came from broken homes and often wandered the streets like Johnny. I knew kids like Dally, angry at everyone and the world. I knew class clowns and thieves like Two-Bit, dreamy drop outs like Sodapop, hardworking kids made to be adults too soon like Darry, and I knew too many kids taken from this world far too soon. Ponyboy was my kindred spirit. A kid who didn’t fit in anywhere. A kid who liked poetry and books. Sunsets and movies. A kid who wanted so badly to be accepted by his hood-rat peers but wanted so much more out of life at the same time.<br />
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It was here, where a passion ignited inside of me to write about broken characters, pained by life, but determined to keep their head held high and carry on. Sister Edward gave us an assignment afterward, to write the beginning to a novel of our own, about kids like us, much like S.E.Hinton did at the age of sixteen. My story was titled, <em>Stay Gold</em>. Not very original but it became a fan fiction of sorts. A story where a boy like Johnny lived to see a better life and where a boy like Dally found the beauty in a life worth living. A story where everyone got their happy ending. I couldn’t re-write my own family history, where my brother lived and my family wasn’t forever fractured by the loss. But I could write about kids that survived the impossible. Defying the odds thrust against them on the hard concrete streets of a neighborhood long forgotten.<br />
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I am so glad Sister Edward William read the Outsiders to me and my class. I wouldn’t be who I am today if not for the words of S.E Hinton, “Stay gold, Ponyboy, stay gold…” Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-28497539934929258822013-03-13T12:57:00.002-04:002013-10-31T13:05:12.935-04:00How I started writing YAOnce upon a time... in a genre far far away... was a cynical newbie writer who scoffed at the Young Adult authors of the world. Yeah, that was me. I thought, who'd want to write about teens as an adult? I didn't get it as I was too wrapped up in my grown up Women's Fiction world. It bugged the crap outta me that these authors were getting all the mad props. For what? Writing about angsty teens with their mouths forever gaped open? So, I decided to read Twilight. And I loved it. Damn. <br />
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Then I became the parent of a teen. A female one. Double Damn. <br />
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Such strange creatures I tell you. With every sullen stare, heavy sigh, and roll of the eye I remembered those days where I too was an eye rolling, angst filled, temperamental bitch with zits and body image issues. <br />
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I've wanted to strangle my darling teen on more than one occasion. Always ridden with Catholic Guilt after such murderous thoughts I call my mom and tell her how sorry I am for being such a horrible teenage witch and that I love her so very much. I figure if I give a heartfelt plea for forgiveness the gods will change my fate and give me a teen who does all her chores and hugs me often. <br />
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That hasn't happened yet. God, I hope she doesn't grow up to write a tell all Mommy Dearest about me...<br />
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So, what did I do with all that rage filled parental woe? I plotted out a story where a mother tries to kill her kid, fails, gets self killed, and then haunts kid for the rest of her days. Yes! Revenge by pen is oh so sweet.<br />
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The more I brainstormed this macabre tale the more I liked it. The more I loved this teen with a scarred face and wounded heart. One day on the El-train I took out my handy dandy notebook and scribbled some musings. 250 words. A possible opening. I took said scribblings to a Writers Conference and read it aloud to my crew of fellow geniuses. They loved it. With all their praise and encouragement I knew I had write this tale. It took a year to flesh out the full story before writing a single word. (I did this in between writing another novel.)<br />
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I pulled together other story tid-bits I had collecting dust in my brain, ideas I thought would make good fiction one day. A haunted house reality show had this little girl who'd been haunted for years by the shadow of a man wearing a hooded sweatshirt, just hovering over her bed. Creepy. And it stuck with me. A little girl forever haunted. What if the person haunting her was her mom? Even creepier. The movie THE RING totally freaked me out. Those big eyes, gurgling sounds, and jerky body movements of that long haired thing inspired my ghost mom. <br />
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Other stray thoughts weaved their way into my tale; a friends true story of almost dying when she was ten, a local school for the blind where students worked side by side with kids who could see, and the Spielberg movies I'd grown up with -those tales of an eclectic group of kids defying the odds. Marty McFly and his oh so fly two-toned jacket. (I had to write a tale where I could have hammer pants and two toned jackets!) My inner-city Philly neighborhood is a character in itself, with its graffiti speckled skyline and the diverse people who live in it. I wanted to give it a voice and a place in the literary world. <br />
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My brother's death in the end is what truly inspired this tale. The <em>what if</em> factor. What if he lived? What would've been different? If I could go back would I change his fate, knowing it may and probably would forever alter my own. My annoyingly awesome teen may never have been born. Such thoughts once bombarded me. Regret and what-ifs have their place in the grieving process. But I can't play in the world of make believe with my real life. I wouldn't be me if one thing were different and I couldn't live with that. So, the <em>what ifs</em> I'll save for my fictional world. <br />
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The final and most awe inspiring inspiration for my tale came from the 2012 Cold Play Mylo Xyloto Concert. I need a soundtrack to write and this tale had yet to find one. The days before the concert the teen and I listened to a contest winner on the radio gushing for tickets. We both agreed how awesome it would be to go. Two days later I got an email; someone had two free tickets. Wurd to ya mutha! Squee! Woot! Now, I'm bad with song titles. I just jam in my car and on the El to work not knowing those important details. I knew very little about the tour and their current album but was stoked either way. I LOVE Coldplay. Who doesn't?<br />
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Teen and I get there and gush as they give us bracelets. How cute, a souvenir. Then we see the set and its a graffiti laden paradise, glow in the dark even. My muse perks up and feels a soundtrack coming on. I peruse the interwebz for the set list and apparently the <em>Back To The Future t</em>heme is part of the show. Were the writing gods trying to tell me something? <br />
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Then the show starts. My hearts leaps inside my chest. It is the single most amazing show I've ever seen. Ever. And I've seen a lot of shows. The bracelets light up and are part of the concert. They blink to the beat of the music, each different color in tune with their own rhythm. And I got to share this with my kid. That teen who drives me to murderous fantasies. <br />
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<em>A Touch In The Dark</em> is nearly finished its first rough draft. It's my second novel and I'm plotting it out like a good girl. No pantsting for me this time around. I've wasted far too much time doing that. So, yeah, I'm writing angsty rolly eye ridden YA and loving every second of it. <br />
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Here's an amazing clip of the concert. Charlie Brown is my favorite and the first song on my soundtrack. It's where I envision Rori riding her bike through the streets of Frankford... my tale playing out like the opening scenes of a movie... Enjoy and maybe you too will be inspired. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-77422417151419499312013-02-06T15:01:00.000-05:002013-02-06T15:02:00.829-05:00The Good Daughter <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This book has magical powers. It forced me to read it in one sitting. I was unable to do anything else. Book in hand, I blindly got ready for my day, I huddled by a window seat on the train- nearly missing my stop, and I hid like Constanza at work. Feverishly reading while hiding. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was me but reading a book. </td></tr>
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Nothing gets in between me and a great book. Nothing. And <a href="http://www.janeporter.com/index.php" target="_blank">Jane Porter</a> writes one hell of a Good Book. <br />
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<a href="http://www.janeporter.com/bookshelf/daughter.php" target="_blank">THE GOOD DAUGHTER</a> is Jane Porter's second novel in the Brennan Sisters Trilogy. <a href="http://www.janeporter.com/bookshelf/woman.php" target="_blank">THE GOOD WOMAN</a> was the first and was an amazing read of straight up Women's Fiction. It's all about Meg's journey in an unsatisfying marriage and the choices she makes to reclaim her life and be happy. It's at times gut wrenching, loving, and makes us all think about the state of our own relationships. In the end, while you get a feeling all will be okay for Meg, you still aren't sure. You wonder about the other sisters and their story lines. I love that. I love when books mirror life. Not neatly wrapped up into a HEA package. No end credits. Just a satisfying end to the journey of the character. <br />
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Meg's tale got me so excited to read about Kit, our lovable Catholic School Teacher in the THE GOOD DAUGHTER. This is a more of a <em>Romantic</em> Women's Fiction read and I LOVE that its different from the first in the series, doesn't follow some archaic formula. I loved getting to read from not only the other sisters POVs but the guys too. There is a villain in this story and it's no where near a romance novel cliche where the woman needs to be saved by the hero. <br />
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The secondary plot lines are seamlessly woven into Kit's story. Kit is tired of being so good that she neglects herself. So worried about pleasing others that she puts herself in harm's way. For once in her life, and after ten years of living with someone who had no intention of marrying her, Kits sets out on her own. She finds out what Kits likes, loves, and won't stand for. She takes time to get to know herself again and the people she meets along the way, like a very sexy bad boy named Jude, only make her journey all the more enjoyable. <br />
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Jude is no cliche either. While yes he has long hair, tattoos, rides a motorcycle, and has a mysterious job, he's not this wounded hero that needs saving either. I really identified with him. The only thing I didn't like was Kit's worry about her family not wanting her with a "low life". I hated that Kit and those around her would be so judgemental. I grew up in a rough neighborhood and that kind of thing always rubs me the wrong way. <br />
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Kit also has some past baggage. Abuse from childhood. And to be honest I could hug Porter for not diving all too much into it. Leaving it there in the background. Something Kit's never opened up to anyone about. Something that keeps her from being able to enjoy intimacy and love. Something she is trying to deal with on her own. Again, no hero needs to save her. I know people who've been where Kit was. Some never told their spouses and dealt with their pain with a quiet grace, in the way that they needed to survive, to heal. Somewhere down the line I can only imagine Kit opening up to others but at this point in her journey that's not the focus. That takes courage to write about. It's honest and it's real. <br />
<br />
So much about Meg and Kit and the entire Brennan clan is honest and real. They feel like family. <br />
<br />
Maybe it's because I'm Irish from a big city. Maybe it's because I have siblings. Maybe it's because I too have most of my family in law enforcement or civil service. Or maybe, just maybe, like I said above, Jane Porter writes on hell of a book. <br />
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I think it's the latter. You should find out for yourself. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoiatGNxjY8XTx2R7IATY3uC0LjsWS_jEpdC1tjkt-VdjpDI7ZN3ryG5HXWXWu2R3O0tHTIRCDWnvae51LjKL_oI7wvfdOuiO-oMzh6OVX4n8dxa-1eDw83znmqfylDHNUo9nSXaFV_oU/s1600/photo-home_4707_sq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoiatGNxjY8XTx2R7IATY3uC0LjsWS_jEpdC1tjkt-VdjpDI7ZN3ryG5HXWXWu2R3O0tHTIRCDWnvae51LjKL_oI7wvfdOuiO-oMzh6OVX4n8dxa-1eDw83znmqfylDHNUo9nSXaFV_oU/s1600/photo-home_4707_sq.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isn't Jane Porter just so cute!</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-66248845181636818232012-12-31T15:40:00.000-05:002013-01-03T12:22:32.775-05:00Smell Ya Later 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZzCu_ATm2jQc383yeizziGTxoaYBq4l7Qy5Y8UmkgI7ddIsCwPOHq_mtyyoi1EluAEuUw_81tsvpQwj4mw7TKzcK5NpRBnwYf6wNa6HfOOe4JjKIt6YEM1cv5EiXig5JcRIdIcQuf_8IN/s1600/2013_beach_480x360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZzCu_ATm2jQc383yeizziGTxoaYBq4l7Qy5Y8UmkgI7ddIsCwPOHq_mtyyoi1EluAEuUw_81tsvpQwj4mw7TKzcK5NpRBnwYf6wNa6HfOOe4JjKIt6YEM1cv5EiXig5JcRIdIcQuf_8IN/s320/2013_beach_480x360.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Another year has kicked the bucket. It seems like yesterday that I blogged about <a href="http://ajandcharli.blogspot.com/2012/01/goodbye-2011-official-pity-party-post.html" target="_blank">2011 kickin' it</a>. <br />
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Wow. I sure as heck didn't blog all that much. I was kinda busy being mopey about how last year started. Curious? <a href="http://ajandcharli.blogspot.com/2012/01/i-liz-lemoned-my-miscarriage.html" target="_blank">Search and ye shall find</a>. <br />
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This year was my break from Social Media. I didn't blog over at Heroes and Heartbreakers that much. I could be found on Twitter or FB but it was sporadic. I also kept getting rejection after rejction for my Women's Fiction.<br />
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I may have physically started 2012 with an ectopic pregnancy but I seemed to be purging myself of my literary baby for the entire year. Ya know that first novel, that Jersey Shore Women's Fiction that taught me how to actually write a novel??? Yeah, I kinda put that baby to bed. For reals. And it's been cathartic. Cleansing. Freeing. <br />
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All those agents and editors read, squeed and gleed, but ultimately passed. I have some more submissions out there but I have the feeling it's all gonna be the same and it should be. The novel isn't where it needs to be. I know where it needs to go but I'm not going to write it. Not yet. Maybe not for a while. Unless one of those editors or agents says yes! Then well, I shall get right on it. But in the mean time they are outta sight and outta mind. I'm not giving up on the Irish-Latino Philly maniacs who took over my brain for the past four years. No way. I'm just moving on while they figure out how they want to be told. Yeah, yeah, I know I've said that before but this time its true and the reason is this; I'm finally writing my 2nd book!<br />
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A YA (Young Adult) Paranormal/Horror. I LOVE IT! I have an agent who said smell ya later to the Jersey gang but <em>wants </em>to read this. This agent also has the greatest last name in recorded history but that's another story for another time. <br />
<br />
So, will I blog more this year? Prolly not. But I will try. <br />
<br />
What I will be doing is finishing my YA and officially finishing my 2nd novel. <br />
<br />
Curious about my YA Paranormal? Well, I did NaNo for the first time this year and here is a little bit about it from my profile: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPMOjg-elfwkuENXITWhB_FIRWGTH1xCHrJAuCKI1Y6xtsRGermKhyMIufHtpS869dIKXBBhj8D6niKOu5uMAnJJxYoU9-CeneWXpngyn-zK9wLRMG6aJtzeNbkbnPlrxEhESp-G4Dd_x/s1600/imagesCA3Z282W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPMOjg-elfwkuENXITWhB_FIRWGTH1xCHrJAuCKI1Y6xtsRGermKhyMIufHtpS869dIKXBBhj8D6niKOu5uMAnJJxYoU9-CeneWXpngyn-zK9wLRMG6aJtzeNbkbnPlrxEhESp-G4Dd_x/s320/imagesCA3Z282W.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<em>A Touch In The Dark</em>-Book One of the <em>Fear No Evil</em> series:<br />
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<em>Aurora Ray O’Riordan died for ten minutes and has a scar on her face to prove it. She also has the ghosts that followed her back... and they are very angry that she is still alive.</em><br />
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<em>The scar on Rori's face is an everyday reminder of the night her mother died and she lived. It starts at the tip of her right index finger, snakes up her arm, twists up her scalp, and spiders out-— hugging her eye like a vine. Its compliments of the downed power line that snaked over her crumpled body, feet away from her dead mother. She remembers nothing of the ten minutes she lay dead on the hood of the family car. The scar is all she knows. <br /> </em><br />
<em>That and being the resident freak of her sophomore class. The girl whose hooded sweatshirts constantly cover her face, where sometimes lights flicker when she enters a room, and the girl whose very own mother haunts her dreams. <br /> </em><br />
<em>The dream crosses over into her real life as reflections of her mother’s ghost appears in mirrors and windows. Another specter, the dark silhouette of a hooded man with a rusted machete, joins her. And when Rori innocently bumps into Jimmy, the new boy at school, she somehow electrocutes him, sending him across the hall with a single touch. He has similar vine like scars on his neck and chest. In an instant they know they are somehow connected. <br /> </em><br />
<em>An attraction builds between the two and the fact they cannot touch only makes things more difficult. Especially when they begin to investigate their past and discover the same ghosts haunt them both. What they find will re-write her family’s history and put every life they come into contact with in danger, especially Jimmy’s. When the truth comes to light one of them will either join the deadly spirits hunting them or regret living to tell their tale.</em> <br />
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Scary? Intrigued? Hope so. If not, well, thanks for reading anyway!<br />
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Have a drink for me tonight. I'll be having one or at least two for you. <br />
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Until next time, may you have many snorts and Ha cha chas.<br />
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Happy New Year everyone. Smell ya in 2013. <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-24347135878587862762012-11-27T14:57:00.001-05:002013-02-06T13:31:48.565-05:00Jillian Stone=Ha Cha Cha!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfefP1LlYVnP0oIu_92yc92rf2f7J7psLhFiLaN7AzzwPhzRSij_NKJ4Kb1DwP6bFxPJNo1pijLRQb9_7kKkQ-I5IBxrNYElcme6ueMnemxoW44dMowV-06us-tWNSPgk6tCPCJmk2hEj/s1600/the-yard-men~~element307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfefP1LlYVnP0oIu_92yc92rf2f7J7psLhFiLaN7AzzwPhzRSij_NKJ4Kb1DwP6bFxPJNo1pijLRQb9_7kKkQ-I5IBxrNYElcme6ueMnemxoW44dMowV-06us-tWNSPgk6tCPCJmk2hEj/s1600/the-yard-men~~element307.jpg" height="320" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Pub Day to Jillian Stone! <br />
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Well, isn't that a Ha Cha Cha cover! Yum. I don't give out Ha Cha Chas to just anyone. The witty and wild <strong><a href="http://www.gjillianstone.com/" target="_blank">Jillian Stone</a></strong> sits in the front row of a very special class. <br />
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One of my favorite authors. One that has the ability to make me snort, sigh, and ah-hem, fan myself. <br />
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That's what I call the Charli Mac Ha-Cha-Cha factor. <br />
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And today <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Private-Duel-Agent-Gentlemen-Scotland/dp/1451629060/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1351791556&sr=1-1&keywords=a+private+duel+with+agent+gunn" target="_blank">A Private Duel With Agent Gunn</a></em> is officially on shelves! Woot woot! <br />
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I've <strike>read</strike> devoured some of the scenes from <em>Agent Gunn</em> already. As always, Stone delivers heart pounding action, thought provoking history, cackle inducing wit, and the cross your legs kind of steam that keeps one turning the pages. Agent Phineas Gunn "Finn" must investigate and keep tabs on a past love. A love so fierce it pains him still, especially since she believes he killed her brother. Cate, a famous ballet dancer, has plans on bringing to justice those that took her family and save her remaining brother at any cost. Problem is she's stalked by the man she believes is at fault, Finn. Together they search for the truth while keeping a suspicious eye on one another, and other body parts... Yum!<br />
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There's a very sexy ballet rehearsal scene. Hard bodies clashing in close proximity... Made me grab the old dance bag out of the closet for my very own private two step with the man. <em>(*Do not try this at home ladies. Unless you are a professionally trained dancer. Or at least in shape. Thankfully, I spared the hubby my Seinfeld Elaine-esque moves and just jumped his bones. Carry on.)</em><br />
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If you haven't had the pleasure of reading one of Stone's novels, imagine this: Novels filled Johnny Depp/Robert Downey Jr. -esque steampunk hotties. As a fan of the Sherlock Holmes films, I dare say it should be Stone writing the next script. Yes, she's that good. <em>The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard</em> Series reads like a well scripted and perfectly cast action packed movie. Her heroes and heroines have real issues, like Victorian Era PTSD. And they're so damned sexy to boot! The clever dialogue, luscious descriptions, and a fast moving plot have Jillian Stone and these hotties forever on my TBR list. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYvxVkwAYrG7VeqZYUK9uCOh-8Ngpj81iMi-BTOclSI1K-_-QVb3qPGoA4lzKpyx4queTrlBN0Agqog6eTAFgE_WnusElrBQLelLlZAKigrRQyb44jVgTIx9vBmRcpdv62sE2GMXO3VkiI/s1600/the-yard-men~~element309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYvxVkwAYrG7VeqZYUK9uCOh-8Ngpj81iMi-BTOclSI1K-_-QVb3qPGoA4lzKpyx4queTrlBN0Agqog6eTAFgE_WnusElrBQLelLlZAKigrRQyb44jVgTIx9vBmRcpdv62sE2GMXO3VkiI/s1600/the-yard-men~~element309.jpg" height="320" width="195" /></a></div>
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This past summer I had the honor of reading an advanced copy of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/A-Dangerous-Liaison-Detective-Lewis/dp/1451629052/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1335461235&sr=1-1" target="_blank"><em>A Dangerous Affair With Detective Lewis. </em></a>And I am ashamed to say that life got in the way of my reviewing here in a timely manner. So, I figured today would be the perfect day to do so. <br />
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Rafe and Fanny are childhood sweethearts torn apart by deceit. (My favorite trope!) Years later, after the gruesome murder of Fanny's father, Rafe is sent by Scotland Yard to protect her from further harm, as a plot to kill Industrialists is underway. Fanny is headstrong and determined to stay away from Rafe, the man who broke her heart and ruined her life. Rafe is determined to keep Fanny safe and win back said broken heart. Being chased and nearly shot at every turn keeps them practically on top of one another or at each other's throats. And that makes for some great tension, angst, and of course, my favorite: some HA CHA CHAS!<br />
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Here's a line that made me sigh, when Rafe notices a subtle part of Fanny with an implied longing. I love that...<br />
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<em>Rafe reached for her hand to help her down from the carriage. He caught a glimpse of white fingers through the crochet-work of her gloves.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Here's a line that made me swoon, when Fanny snuggles next to Rafe in bed after suffering a bit of shock and he comforts her...<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"What is that?"</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>He muffled a snort against the fine hairs of her temple. "A good guess would be my cock." He made an adjustment to his trousers. "Actually, I'm quite certain of it." </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>..Astonishing really, that he could find himself lying in bed with Fanny Greyville-Nugent and not make love to her. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Oh, and to make the post come full circle, we get introduced to Agent Gunn in <em>Detective Lewis</em>. And, well, two Scotty too Hotties in one book had me re-reading a few scenes. Sigh and swoon. <br />
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So, if you love this: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZAIXXU2UI7bYQPwvmJyqbbk1P3pG_8IpFlQ-6YWw7lncnJhqb3duaOI4cWtTX-T79ulMnsVRZylOZV3j-sW-5f1QeAC82WgkL8b3zqfSZcCWNH_XPNWFiPCNpR-8qvmCYPBrfeaeevb9M/s1600/4558-25566.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZAIXXU2UI7bYQPwvmJyqbbk1P3pG_8IpFlQ-6YWw7lncnJhqb3duaOI4cWtTX-T79ulMnsVRZylOZV3j-sW-5f1QeAC82WgkL8b3zqfSZcCWNH_XPNWFiPCNpR-8qvmCYPBrfeaeevb9M/s1600/4558-25566.gif" /></a></div>
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Mixed with this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJ7FucVjGRbqCdpszDvHmhPBwZYINiuToaMjm35qK0nzdScankgG4-jO5u7sbAajZe43JhapzhkyeHIRzBH0Ob3QcQs5DbKT1Pwg6G0ZIMgcEb2uCttMni3Vcmt_IXemrxjlYvyBspZ3w/s1600/tumblr_lx3bqa3E6R1qgx3a0o8_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJ7FucVjGRbqCdpszDvHmhPBwZYINiuToaMjm35qK0nzdScankgG4-jO5u7sbAajZe43JhapzhkyeHIRzBH0Ob3QcQs5DbKT1Pwg6G0ZIMgcEb2uCttMni3Vcmt_IXemrxjlYvyBspZ3w/s1600/tumblr_lx3bqa3E6R1qgx3a0o8_500.jpg" height="320" width="229" /></a></div>
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And you don't mind a little of this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqWhMAyhxWtHz9iTtDnrevuPrRmU8x1dKP2Aik-07aII8xjXLH1OoaTTVF7XkxM-hYJYol0tB6rVYcubBKsV2U9NJU9EtnQLJxXKHrhOR9fibC3j6nO9rFSc3GlF42mFPvMcLEnWtMSmc6/s1600/kilt2%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqWhMAyhxWtHz9iTtDnrevuPrRmU8x1dKP2Aik-07aII8xjXLH1OoaTTVF7XkxM-hYJYol0tB6rVYcubBKsV2U9NJU9EtnQLJxXKHrhOR9fibC3j6nO9rFSc3GlF42mFPvMcLEnWtMSmc6/s1600/kilt2%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a></div>
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Or a little of that:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvah117RoW6qfr9BZn7X5btmUfX9dsFVi13J6r4fswygO8cMwzhSEl7E9f50Ar2IxAoPMUEmuQbrZVy79EJSxDUSvb7PHrgDrfdtly1Y-8g37N3DHTQFybHsaL_D798JCbHSFCFzUezRH/s1600/SexyCouple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvah117RoW6qfr9BZn7X5btmUfX9dsFVi13J6r4fswygO8cMwzhSEl7E9f50Ar2IxAoPMUEmuQbrZVy79EJSxDUSvb7PHrgDrfdtly1Y-8g37N3DHTQFybHsaL_D798JCbHSFCFzUezRH/s1600/SexyCouple.jpg" /></a></div>
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Then you'll just adore her:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD_nKEzpbwpsHNcFH8bKZgL03U36E2cMwwklo5mKMBvMPbGypJb-u_eDRIrbcPemYsD2gqv6Xt4b98MokFFx9hrHJYciScsjrwuOA_-jbUAemkfvbe_I_yaDlWMWqVKgRi05b-86yPKoQg/s1600/JS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD_nKEzpbwpsHNcFH8bKZgL03U36E2cMwwklo5mKMBvMPbGypJb-u_eDRIrbcPemYsD2gqv6Xt4b98MokFFx9hrHJYciScsjrwuOA_-jbUAemkfvbe_I_yaDlWMWqVKgRi05b-86yPKoQg/s1600/JS.jpg" /></a></div>
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Jillian Stone</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-31363095817512382592012-10-04T12:27:00.000-04:002012-10-09T22:14:11.082-04:00The Power of the V... In Publishing<div style="text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNztulyuYatIQ0KU_SzRI-xRrTBRYoqT8TuhGykgANDU14pxFwj9pNYVulYdgUJNpf_NmADv8kQ0Gz4i6n3XEK-aK9JsSCZ2BpPilAmR-Rk4_7H2SrygR-1lIH1V6PfyzyS1z2WAU9R38C/s1600/Magic+V1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNztulyuYatIQ0KU_SzRI-xRrTBRYoqT8TuhGykgANDU14pxFwj9pNYVulYdgUJNpf_NmADv8kQ0Gz4i6n3XEK-aK9JsSCZ2BpPilAmR-Rk4_7H2SrygR-1lIH1V6PfyzyS1z2WAU9R38C/s320/Magic+V1.png" width="320" /></a></div>
It’s an election
year and whether you’re an Obama Mama or a Romney Mommy we cannot deny how
women have influenced campaigns nationwide. The current political dialogue may
teeter from the economy to health care but in the end, the focus comes back to
us, or rather, our vaginas. <br />
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What does this have to do with publishing? Humor me for a sec.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> This diatribe about our whoohas has a point. </span></div>
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Here's a chat I had with the hubby recently:</div>
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<em>Hubby: Are vaginas really magic? </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Me: Well, yes they are. You're here, aren't you? You constantly try to do things to it; some new, some old, and some from national geographic. It also makes your jiggly bits do things, too. </em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em> </em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>Hubby: Oh, yeah. Can they stop things from happening from just thinking about it and stuff? </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Me: Duh, of course they can. With just three Kegel Clenches, while whispering "There's no place like this V, there's no place like this V, there's no place like this V," Vaginas can prevent spontaneous combustion, calm murderous rages, simulate orgasms, and organize the hell out of a closet. We can't divulge all they can do. It's kind of a top secret thing. If everyone knew the government would weaponize them. Could you imagine Dr. Evil-esque lazer beams attached to them? The horror!</em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Watch the following commercial, “Hail to the
V”, about how the most influential Women in History
derived their power from a fresh clean feeling down under. Watch it. Now. <br />
</div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/e4Cs3Pp7mYg" width="560"></iframe>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Back? </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
Wow, right? You
totally want to run out and buy some vaginal perfume
products. You could be Joan of Arc or Cleopatra with the right stuff for your
stuff. But seriously, I believe that all Vs, regardless of being coiffed,
fluffed, or au’natural have immense power. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
And <strong>Empowerment</strong> is
amazing. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
So, I think I need
to take the time here and empower Female Authors. <br />
<br />
It’s hard being a writer. Rejection, self doubt, changes in the
industry, and constantly honing our craft. Just finding time for
ourselves, the creative side of ourselves amongst this daily thing called life
is a <em>huge</em> challenge. You know, those things called families and such. I have a job, a kid, a hubby, pets, ailing relatives, friends, and this little thing called <em>trying</em> to be a published author. I haven't even had time to dye my hair. The teen, bless her heart, told me, in her, like, totally shocked, and, like, so annoyed 14 year old voice, that I, like, seriously needed to cover those grays. If she only had clue where else I have them. But that's another post. <br />
<br />
I can't imagine being a published author, have all that pressure to succeed, <em>and</em> all of the above. I mean, its my goal to be there one day but it's daunting just trying to get there, with all of the above. Then to get there and not be as recognized as male authors? I have no words. Well, I do, but it's pretty filthy and one of the Nuns that taught me may read this. I push the envelope as it is already. <br />
<br />
Anywho. <br />
<br />
Writing
<em>is</em> a solitary venture. But, we are <em>not </em>alone. We
have a group of Amazing Women to draw strength from. It’s probably a group you
didn’t even know existed. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong><u></u></strong><br />
<strong><u>Female New York
Times Bestselling Authors.</u></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
Do you know that
in the past ten weeks 74% of the NYT Bestselling works of Fiction have been written
by women?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBm_0UM_2QnqclyxgL_9QGm9Eefjjd2KGICelHr0EeIM5Wd-cl6eUm1QCO5w8l_DWRZl6XcqFQmsWGvGCLD0QNjW4EYglweFvk7_cIYcRRBObSYqMQAvNHMTCKPuWXpBHa8SHK7qDErcwf/s1600/omg-stfu-retro-offensive-funny-tshirt300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBm_0UM_2QnqclyxgL_9QGm9Eefjjd2KGICelHr0EeIM5Wd-cl6eUm1QCO5w8l_DWRZl6XcqFQmsWGvGCLD0QNjW4EYglweFvk7_cIYcRRBObSYqMQAvNHMTCKPuWXpBHa8SHK7qDErcwf/s320/omg-stfu-retro-offensive-funny-tshirt300.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Yerp, you read
that right. And I will type it again. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">74% of the New
York Times Bestelling Authors of Fiction in the top 10 for the past 10 weeks
have been women.</span></strong> <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
For the weeks of
August 5<sup>th</sup> through October 7<sup>th</sup> three quarters of NYT
bestsellers were <strong>WOMEN</strong>. That’s combined print-hardback/paper, and combined
e-books and print. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
83% in combined
print and e-book<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
64% in combined
print- hardback and paperback<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
75% in total
overall. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The power of the
V. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Look at those
numbers again? What do they tell us? E-books and print alone were a whopping
83%! Not once, in either category of Combined Print and Combined E-book and
print did we ever fall beneath 50%, and we were only at fifty twice. The weeks
of August 26th and September 23<sup>rd</sup> we had 100% of combined E-books
and Print in the top ten! <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>100%!!!!</strong><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
These stats have
me thinking of an article <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jason-pinter/jodi-picoult-jennifer-weiner-franzen_b_693143.html" target="_blank">Jennifer Weiner and Jodi Picoult</a> did a while back about
how no matter how many books they sell that male authors continue to get the
literary praise, all the editorial write-ups in the NYT and other prestigious
papers, and especially more cash from publishers with marketing. And in case you're not putting two and two together that can mean less income for a female author. You can't market, you can't sell, you won't make as much money. <br />
<br />
Like most other industries,
women continue to make less than men. But Picoult and Weiner had the courage
to start this conversation back in august of 2010 and its still going on. I cannot not thank them enough. <a href="http://www.blogher.com/writing-about-womens-writing-popular-fiction-and-franzenfreude" target="_blank">Many have talked about it</a>. A
male author even recently stated how <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/27/jeffrey-eugenides-jodi-picoult_n_1918942.html" target="_blank">Weiner and Picoult are belly aching</a> about the
whole thing.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_6IR-Rg9NH0xkQvG6-LeWOOBGHc8UCQQUEpHamwqwY0aYMeUVPaIGP3YtdFr2fC1G6-h4ggIhoLPJo6Lh-Jz4gZhmjMmQnP5euSzMwiSVEQzLxxf-dRNXkhLmdKUFnUGExT6vi5OPOPO/s1600/girls-can-do-anything-for-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_6IR-Rg9NH0xkQvG6-LeWOOBGHc8UCQQUEpHamwqwY0aYMeUVPaIGP3YtdFr2fC1G6-h4ggIhoLPJo6Lh-Jz4gZhmjMmQnP5euSzMwiSVEQzLxxf-dRNXkhLmdKUFnUGExT6vi5OPOPO/s320/girls-can-do-anything-for-web.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
This little post is
not long enough to dissect the topic. But we can at least start the conversation. Like, why do we continue to be treated as such when WE are the dominating the sales? <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It’s a man world,
so some say. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But we can change
that by sticking together and writing great fiction. Staying in female oriented
groups and empowering one another. Maybe a few of us can come together and
write an article for Writer’s Digest and start the dialogue rolling in a more public venue? Maybe we
can just continue to craft great stories and allow our dominance to speak for
itself. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Either way, it is
our time to shine with our formidable Vs. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Power of our
collective Vs. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Vs that continue
to dominate the NYT top ten bestsellers list in fiction. This is the message we need to shout from the rooftops. <br />
<br />
<br />
When I have time, I will compile the stats for an entire year. When I have the time. Which may be never. Feel free, anyone here, to do so yourselves. Please. It would be awesome. My magic whooha needs to save its energy for other things. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Ha cha cha and
happy writing my fellow Vs. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPpaxsthTd-HlOR18iamk6dKmsTv6ybhgYZBMnhfMOPvcEYPLMRjbFJx-fIe4Xv2RTCtYrwloAelcSRkCI4matGaU7PEjWTgTRjesr1E_O7P85LlrHWZzHeEXzT7J7yDQYuzoPqJxY6Pc/s1600/bigstock-Silhouette-of-ten-young-women--15281810.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPpaxsthTd-HlOR18iamk6dKmsTv6ybhgYZBMnhfMOPvcEYPLMRjbFJx-fIe4Xv2RTCtYrwloAelcSRkCI4matGaU7PEjWTgTRjesr1E_O7P85LlrHWZzHeEXzT7J7yDQYuzoPqJxY6Pc/s320/bigstock-Silhouette-of-ten-young-women--15281810.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-41258804555404794052012-08-22T13:28:00.000-04:002012-08-28T17:56:44.442-04:00Flipping to The Darkside: I got an ereader!<div style="border: currentColor;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLZZUwGJEUwhFO0A246OhgehuLVXcXdPT_h9VH90eL9jehHNVv36ZsQb6qhMk4XIwWn89L3wUfzEM6hMC-bKJQLVUkawAHdcRNt3V8Zvt9h7VN8SlDKjswpOzmqF2-8Le3BdxpaFJCSQwu/s1600/ord_vader_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLZZUwGJEUwhFO0A246OhgehuLVXcXdPT_h9VH90eL9jehHNVv36ZsQb6qhMk4XIwWn89L3wUfzEM6hMC-bKJQLVUkawAHdcRNt3V8Zvt9h7VN8SlDKjswpOzmqF2-8Le3BdxpaFJCSQwu/s320/ord_vader_1024.jpg" width="320" /></a>So, I finally did it. I got an ereader. </div>
<br />
<div style="border: currentColor;">
Can you hear the Death Star's anthem in the background? Vader's heavy breathing? "Charli, welcome to the Darkside. Which book will you buy first?"</div>
<div style="border: currentColor;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border: currentColor;">
I must digress here. This reminds me of my daughter's recent nightmare with Valdemort. He's a greeter at a local grocery store, "Welcome to Valde-Mart, we're here for you home shopping needs." I guess Vader and Valdemort will be my greeters over at Amazon. VAder, VAldemort. Hmm, never thought about that. </div>
<div style="border: currentColor;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border: currentColor;">
Snort. Any who. Part of me did and still do feel like such a sell out. I love real books. I love perusing the shelves of real bookstores. No gadget can ever replace the crisp pages in my hands. But another part of me, that Vader we have in all of us, is relishing my new toy. </div>
<br />
<div style="border: currentColor;">
With gift certiciates burning a hole in my purse I trodded off to the good old electronics store, you know that big blue and yellow one. The techno-freak of a hubby assisted me with my selection. After about five minutes of me not looking at the one he wanted me to get he basically ordered one of the Geeks to snatch me up a Samsung Galaxy Tab. "You're getting this one." I am not the techy. He works part time at the store (just for the discount he gets and is completely addicited to) and basically said that for fifty bucks more I can have all this wonderous thing had to offer, email. internet, apps, yada. </div>
<br />
Whatever. I just wanted an ereader and bought the thing. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsUGsg29RpZyWTxP3_U51rf-O6-IR1w6im7RYDTqP5sXaLxVStInC1jYAnDbDCF6kYZjoaizCSL-5ExBOCjAjTJ9pHyF8Fnx1XBg-97e5zdogIYb67p52NzFM9MauTnqtTpwNtuhTgN3o/s1600/thumbnailcagqhk2h.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsUGsg29RpZyWTxP3_U51rf-O6-IR1w6im7RYDTqP5sXaLxVStInC1jYAnDbDCF6kYZjoaizCSL-5ExBOCjAjTJ9pHyF8Fnx1XBg-97e5zdogIYb67p52NzFM9MauTnqtTpwNtuhTgN3o/s1600/thumbnailcagqhk2h.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
How did I come to the decision to get what I once called the enemy? Honestly, it was simple. I've been wanting to get <em>Catching Fire</em> for weeks and its only available in hardback. Kind of expensive when you're tying to sell a kidney to send the teen off to private school at the tune of 12 big ones. I have to cut back. Books are a HUGE part of my budget. Since I had gift cards from my birthday and mother's day it was basically free. <br />
<div style="border: currentColor;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border: currentColor;">
Then I logged on and bought two books. One for $5.99 and another for $3.99. </div>
<div style="border: currentColor;">
<br /></div>
Ha-cha-cha-ching!<br />
<br />
However, there will always be books I MUST have a hardcopy of. Like Sarah Jio's upcoming release, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Blackberry-Winter-Novel-Sarah-Jio/dp/0452298385/ref=sr_1_sc_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1345656360&sr=1-1-spell&keywords=blackbery+winter" target="_blank">Blackberry Winter</a>. Like any Nicholas Sparks novel. Like Alma Katsu's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Reckoning-Book-Taker-Trilogy/dp/1451651805" target="_blank">The Reckoning</a>. The cover alone screams you must have this one, fo'reals. <br />
<br />
I devoured <em>Catching Fire</em> in two days and bought <em>Mockingjay</em> right away. As a writer there are so many books I must read for craft purposes but I may not necessarily want them crowding my bookshelf. I may even go digital with the craft periodicals. It's easier on the environments and lack of shelf space in my home. I may even subsribe to more magazines this way. <br />
<br />
Although I once thought of the ereading revolution as the death to traditional publishing, I can see now that it's actually letting people read more. Like me. What are some e-books that you've bought recently? Share your own e-books too.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-65634387102186437792012-07-05T12:55:00.001-04:002012-07-06T15:37:18.723-04:00A Game of Queries<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWOm759X9EdTsJS9zl7EtdJIjgBIDhaYAzWKPTRE1jQTMV4Uyh04WUK2S78yVCfYa94UuCPN_0lCFNzqPxjUjlDxU-H5o_LLbeaOhBFc3x2cTP_xLS95hpJcfDMhKvMr6UCqJj_aVBWfn/s1600/2006_tenacious_d_in_the_pick_of_destiny_wall_001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWOm759X9EdTsJS9zl7EtdJIjgBIDhaYAzWKPTRE1jQTMV4Uyh04WUK2S78yVCfYa94UuCPN_0lCFNzqPxjUjlDxU-H5o_LLbeaOhBFc3x2cTP_xLS95hpJcfDMhKvMr6UCqJj_aVBWfn/s320/2006_tenacious_d_in_the_pick_of_destiny_wall_001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
In my quest for Literary Representation I shall be thence forth called Tenacious C. Imagine an arena filled with agents, writers, and publishers. In the ring I am the one wearing a fiery red and orange spandex unitard with a big C emblazoned upon my chest. <br />
<br />
A bit much? Maybe. <br />
<br />
Okay, so a little while back an agent rejected me and that single rejection propelled me to a place I never expected to be. But let me back track a bit. (Insert Wayne's World Time Travel Effects.)<br />
<br />
With my Editor requests, which I am so blessed and lucky to have, I went on a massive query fest. The quest did not go so well. Some of my writing peeps hit me over the head when inquiring about the epic query fail. They screamed at me to query agents who rep Commercial and General Fiction. See, I'd been limiting myself to agents who rep Women's Fiction and/or Romance. What was I thinking, I know, I know. <br />
<br />
So, I cast my net wider. Got some bites. Then this kind agent told me she had to regretfully pass. Her plate was too full. But she went on to say she did not come to this decision lightly. That from my sample pages she could see why editors were reading my MS. Then she said something that changed everything. "If you're tenacious enough with this you will be successful."<br />
<br />
At first I clicked it off into the another rejection pile. But her words kept coming back to me. One word in particular. <br />
<br />
<strong><em>Tenacious. </em></strong><br />
<br />
<em>te·na·cious/təˈnāSHəs/Adjective: </em><br />
<br />
<em>1.Not readily letting go of, giving up, or separated from an object that one holds, a position, or a principle: "a tenacious grip".</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>2.Not easily dispelled or discouraged; persisting in existence or in a course of action: "a tenacious legend". </em><br />
<br />
Yeah, that sounds like me with this novel, my baby, my first born if you will. See, I'd read an article that said you probably won't sell "the book of your heart". It kind of deflated me. So much rang true but this book of my heart keeps beating within me. Something about it won't quit. As if it's<em><strong> tenaciously</strong> </em>clinging to my bloodstream. <br />
<br />
Anywho, two weeks later at a writing conference I pitched to an agent, Agent Lovely I shall call her. <br />
<div style="border: currentColor;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border: currentColor;">
This pic reminds me of her. Lovely. Elegant. Poised. And ready to make coffee, bake a pie, and sit down for a nice long chat. Agent Lovely turned the pitch into a 20 minute lesson. She wondered why I didn't tell her immediately that editors are reading it and about my contest wins. She also asked about my query status. I told her the honest truth. Then she hit me over the proverbial head with a smile as if saying in that southern way, "Bless your heart." </div>
<div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzc0a9QaIwSv1UQUl0TyaU3tkItzF0LaYojLmAiMe8QkILgtuNdn5TUGD6HmCDNWdleVv5jdJRSr4ECl88DsewLMKwQ-jYrI1k9984pGT1s9RPWG8gvXhZnWm6NTlDzBDDFtwSWfVN_9o8/s1600/imagesCA7WUGVF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzc0a9QaIwSv1UQUl0TyaU3tkItzF0LaYojLmAiMe8QkILgtuNdn5TUGD6HmCDNWdleVv5jdJRSr4ECl88DsewLMKwQ-jYrI1k9984pGT1s9RPWG8gvXhZnWm6NTlDzBDDFtwSWfVN_9o8/s1600/imagesCA7WUGVF.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="border: currentColor;">
Agent Lovely informed me I am no a cold query. I have credentials. </div>
<br />
<em>Huh?</em> <em>Exsqueeze me? What the what?</em> I haven't been published. I have no agent. How in the hells do I have Scribe Street Cred? <br />
<br />
Hit over the head again. Bless my little naive heart again.<br />
<br />
Her answer:Major publishing houses are considering my work and I do not have an agent. I won/finaled in contests. <br />
<br />
Oh. That stuff. I never gave myself enough <em>credit </em>for all that. All that hard work, blood, sweat, and tears. And don't forget all those ledge moments, the cyber breakdowns, and woe is me phone calls to JAWS. I never let all that sink in and register. For me, without an agent I felt insignificant in this writing world. One among the masses. <br />
<br />
Agent Lovely went on to tell me I should be querying agents by leading off with my contest wins and editors submissions. That I can even query those closed to submissions. The worse that could happen? I hear nothing. Big deal, she says. See, the fool I am thought this agent wouldn't even be interested in my work. Being that she reps mostly non-fiction and that Women's Fiction isn't even one of her genres of interest on her Agency Bio. But the conference bio did mention she is actively seeking WF. And she was. Agent Lovely went onto to ask for a partial. Yay! <br />
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All this agently advice settled in my wee battered noggin over the next week and <em><strong>Tenacious C</strong></em> emerged. </div>
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I re-queried agents who'd rejected me the year before. </div>
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I queried agents not open to submissions. <br />
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I queried agents via email when they only accept snail. <br />
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I tenaciously queried my tookus off. <br />
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To date, I have 11 total submissions, only one is a partial. I am still awaiting to hear news on 9. One invited me to revise and resubmit. They wanted to see some things changed. I'll wait to hear from the other agents before jumping into edits. Bottom line, this agent loved my story and got my characters in a way no one else has. Another agency extended an invitation to submit my full exclusively. So, if the other agents pass, I can send to them. <br />
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You have no idea how nervous, excited, superstitious, and superstitiously nervous with excitement I am. Hopefully my next post will be about how I now have a Literary Agent! <br />
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**Please, do not take this post as an invitation to query at will. I broke rules with this query fest but did so with the advice of professionals.**<br />
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<img height="74" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYohh_KOTM3EtqaTFz5c2yu87q_qfNR1JXm1Gpk-8D4dCxSkM7WCw7DadmPhKOHOtzEJjKaqLivRFLlrTJnhqK-8owkAWloSF4WGs1X51W8UKe9AYqCS-uu4vi3DD0cySHIOAJf1qkmjcp/s1600/imagesCA64JCO6.jpg" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 281px; mozopacity: 0.3; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 1870px; visibility: hidden;" width="96" />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-30191077242233385172012-05-11T14:53:00.000-04:002012-05-11T17:34:29.026-04:00I am 36. There, I said it.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear Interwebz, <br />
<br />
It has been five months since my last blog post. These are my sins...<br />
<br />
Well, I really can't tell you all of them. But it has been ages since I've written a thing on here. You may last recall my whoa is me post about my girly bits. Sorry about all that pity party stuff. AJ has been MIA from here even longer. She is well. Thank you for asking. <br />
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Today is my 36th birthday. 35 was supposed to be my year. The year I got my proverbial shit together. Well, what fun would I have if I really accomplished that? Surely, I'd never Liz-Lemon anything again. I <em>have</em> matured slightly. <em>Slightly</em>, I say. We re-named our blog. I was tired of biting back at people. I have brittle teeth as it is. I guess I am mellowing out with age like a fine wine. And fine wine is my favorite!<br />
I am still on the road to publication. No agent yet, but a few asked for my dance card. Do they know I'm a kick-ass breakdancer in my own mind, I mean right? Yo, Jay, drop the beat! <br />
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Maybe this is the year I get my shizznit together. Either way, it should be an adventure of Lemonesque proportions. <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-22685027254217438462012-01-10T20:18:00.005-05:002013-07-03T14:25:11.607-04:00I Liz-Lemoned My MiscarriageIf anything were normal in my life I wouldn't be here typing. I thought the cathartic post on my <a href="http://ajandcharli.blogspot.com/2012/01/goodbye-2011-official-pity-party-post.html" target="_blank">horrible 2011</a> would set a tone of hope and renewal for me in 2012. But there's something about every New Year we fail to realize. It's just another date on the calendar. Life doesn't magically change because of it, or because of heartfelt resolutions and the purging of all the bad from the year before. Below is how my first week of the New Year started and ended, in Liz-Lemon fashion. Below are the emails I sent out to friends. <a href="http://0.tqn.com/d/weirdnews/1/0/z/D/-/-/Uterus_Plush_Toy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://0.tqn.com/d/weirdnews/1/0/z/D/-/-/Uterus_Plush_Toy.jpg" height="160" width="200" /></a><br />
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<em>January 5, 2012: </em>The results are in. My uterus is fetus-free and deformed to boot! <span class="Object" id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT1026"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arcuate_uterus" target="_blank">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arcuate_uterus</a></span><br />
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Go figure, right. I couldn't just have any normal miscarriage or uterus. It had to be on Christmas Eve, in Church. BTW, Santa is officially on my naughty list. He's on my shit list really. I could really kick that f*cker in the red velvety balls. My red clown nose, screw that, it's Rudolph's now cause I stole it. Then as my Happy Holiday lingers so does all the joy of what an actual miscarriage is. My first one lasted about a week, one hellish week of pain, but a week. This one is still going strong. The cramps are just as bad, if not worse. Son-of-a-Dingelberry! <br />
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I went to the doctor on Tuesday, as scheduled, and they drew blood. My HCG (the hey your preggers hormones that make the Home Pregnancy Tests positive) levels were high and they should've been practically down to zero. Concerned, my doc scheduled an ultrasound for today. They said that it can be anything really. Like that I still may be pregnant. I promised myself I wouldn't get my hopes up but I did. Like an idiot I actually thought that maybe I'd get a late Christmas present. But nope. Not my luck. Never is.<br />
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I had terrible shocking WTF cramps on Tuesday night and told the Hubby if I got anymore I think I needed to go to the hospital. They went away and I waited on the couch until my appointment with the perionatologist. <br />
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Said ultrasound confirmed my empty uterus. But the doc wanted to be sure all was well so he gave me a Vaginal Ultrasound too. Oh, boy! What FUN! Yes, it is as awkward as it sounds. And is basically a dildo shaped wand you have to stick up you Hoo-ha while the doc moves it around like an Atari joystick. Then, in the Liz Lemon fashion my life is, the Ultra Sound Machine runs out of film. Doc says, "Hold this a sec." Yes. I have to sit up and hold that wand in place. All the while the hubby is standing there looking at me like he ate a lemon, not Liz Lemon, a real lemon. Screw you big guy. I wanted to say but I had to concentrate on holding a dipstick up my ying yang. The doc fumbles to load up the machine with more film. He tries to make light of the situation with a joke that it always runs out during the vaginal. Not funny. Hubby now looks like he ate two lemons and should be eating my two fists but my hands are otherwise engaged. <br />
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After fifteen long ass minutes of Doc's joystick ride in my Jay-jay he makes his diagnosis. No baby. Ovaries look fantastic, though. (He said that like he wanted to date them, btw.) And my uterus dips a little. I felt like saying no shit, you just got done poking the crap out of it. But alas, it dips. The Tootsie Roll Song popped into my head.<em> (Now dip baby dip, come on now, dip baby dip...)</em> I really have no clue what function my brain is on half the time. <br />
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The Doc apologized for my losses and was so sincere the Charli Tough ass exterior practically crumbled. I have been ordered not to try to conceive for at least three normal cycles. Hopefully my HCG levels have gone down, I won't know til Monday. If they've stayed the same or gone up, then it's another complication. Wonderful. With my luck, I'll be back here next week with another WTF email. <br />
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Until then my friends, I cannot say enough for all your support and love. Like I said before, so few know in our family its been hard. Me and the hubby are struggling with what to say to one another. I have no writing mojo as my heart is broken, my body still healing, and my angry clown is festering to escape. I am looking forward to getting back to my writing life but until this is resolved, I gots nothing. Just that damn small spark of hope that I may still be pregnant. <br />
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<em>January 10, 2012: </em>I am home typing this on my couch. Recliner up, a heating pad on my belly, and I am heavily medicated. See, I am recovering from emergency surgery from an ectopic pregnancy. Yup, and it ruptured my right fallopian tube. But let me back track a little. <br />
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By Sunday my nerves were shot watching the clock, waiting around for Monday when the doc would call with my HCG levels, and the cramps had gotten worse. It was a bad weekend all around. The hubby's birthday was Saturday and he hoped I'd be all stoked to get out and celebrate. I wasn't at all. I was also fighting a nasty cold at this point and puked my guts up on Saturday morning. He thought that I was moping and the stress was making me sick. We had some heated words and basically didn't talk all weekend. Wonderful. <br />
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So, Sunday night I drag my sorry stressed out ass up of the couch and did some wash. Then I got dizzy. Then it felt like something exploded on my right side. I struggled up the steps from the basement to my 2nd floor bedroom, hoping the pain is gas or I may still be preggers cramps, not what I think it is. The pain lasted for twelve minutes. I can remember walking down the steps thinking I would fall down them. Through pain stricken tears I crawled to my hubby and said I needed to go to the hospital. I puked again before I left. I paced the kitchen floor thinking maybe the hubby was right, that maybe it was just stress. But my body was telling me something completely different. It was screaming at me. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2L5CS7wPI1P6zpxmHMt-YJRdYfxRll_UP3znhpsyRuRvLqd5-Bmm_KViDxEJY-EHBAPzkiuUvK9r2kbAAIkjia6Pq9l3YRvvagBnDMAXBWzE7BgvmcRDrIYmjqSN31gLghwPDvmlpnw0W/s1600/Dave+Chapelle+Free+Crack.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2L5CS7wPI1P6zpxmHMt-YJRdYfxRll_UP3znhpsyRuRvLqd5-Bmm_KViDxEJY-EHBAPzkiuUvK9r2kbAAIkjia6Pq9l3YRvvagBnDMAXBWzE7BgvmcRDrIYmjqSN31gLghwPDvmlpnw0W/s200/Dave+Chapelle+Free+Crack.png" height="200" width="172" /></a>We get to the hospital and I wait two hours in the ER waiting room. Now this is an inner city ER waiting room. Said ghetto-ness was in full effect. Crackheads, hookers, and a domestic dispute ended in fisticuffs right before my eyes. And crackheads in the ER are the worst. They think they'll get a flurry of free drugs and at the least a turkey sandwich. But it's one of the best hospitals and you gots to do what you gots to do in these situations. <br />
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I finally get back there and tell the sad tale to about fifteen different peeps fifteen different times. I try to be all tough and decline pain meds. When I sat still there was mild pain, the pain I'd had every moment of every day since Christmas Eve. But when they started examining and poking I nearly crawled off the ceiling. After the third doc doing this I caved and demanded some drugs. More tests, more ultrasounds, and the verdict was in. Ectopic pregnancy. For about ten seconds in the ultrasound I got my hopes up. The Doc said she saw a pregnancy. I was foolish enough to think it was my baby, alive.<br />
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But no, twas not. I waited about another hour before getting whisked off to surgery. Hubby had to leave by this time to get the teen up and ready for school. He hated leaving and I hated seeing him go. The list of what ifs on my consent form scared the living shit out of me. Possible hysterectomy, blood loss, and even death. I didn't get to kiss my daughter goodnight before I'd left to come there. I didn't get to tell her I loved her one more time. I told the hubby I loved him before he left but I didn't get to tell him sorry for the fighting we'd had all weekend. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2d7zYRM8pJp1eA2v8dOXsS6F3d8_n0bWSaE3EC3qdJKBYeZAwq8pBa0n2f7OkiCwFjPmauASL5BdW26wO_S830DMSZhYPuE-b0HCE4kp6oxnLn2YcFLz_acU5io02k0tLRgboVQPJ6vfi/s1600/go+to+hell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2d7zYRM8pJp1eA2v8dOXsS6F3d8_n0bWSaE3EC3qdJKBYeZAwq8pBa0n2f7OkiCwFjPmauASL5BdW26wO_S830DMSZhYPuE-b0HCE4kp6oxnLn2YcFLz_acU5io02k0tLRgboVQPJ6vfi/s200/go+to+hell.jpg" height="200" width="142" /></a>I prayed like the well trained Catholic girl I am. But while wheeling down the corridors to my possible death I started forgetting the words to the Our Father and Hail Mary. No good Catholic forgets those. If I died on that table I may not like my next location. Damn, I'd be going to hell for sure. Who forgets the Hail Mary??? So I started babbling to God to help a girl out. Then I started pulling images of my deceased brother and father, asking them to intercede and ask the big guy for a break. Then I started wondering why I was wasting my time on an entity that I wondered was even listening. That even if he was that I'd like to curse him out anyways for giving me all this hell. I finally settled on conjuring images of my daughter through the years, loving memories of me and the hubby. My family and friends. I even thought about the joy of writing for a moment. </div>
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Then as I am trying to calm myself I overhear the doc bitching how she's been up for 24 hours straight. Before I could protest I got shot with some happy meds. I started bawling and they asked what was wrong. Me, the tough chica from inner city Philly broke down. I told them I was scared while I scooted from the bed to the surgical table. I sobbed and couldn't get out that I was terrified to die, or lose all my girly bits, and that an exhausted woman would be cutting into me.<br />
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<a href="http://images.sodahead.com/polls/001918795/3710703302_polls_hairy_legs_3316_225798_answer_1_xlarge_xlarge.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://images.sodahead.com/polls/001918795/3710703302_polls_hairy_legs_3316_225798_answer_1_xlarge_xlarge.png" height="148" width="200" /></a>When I finally got settled instead of protesting about Doctor McSleepy I blurted out how sorry I was that I hadn't shaved my legs. I was mortified that they had to deal with my hairy ham hocks. Where in the hell did that come from? I really wonder what function my brain is on half the time. I told them that I'd rather die with dirty underwear then unshaved legs. That got a laugh from the crew and a weird calm came over me. I think it was the drugs. I figured if I could joke about my stubbly chubby legs then it was a sign. The doc looked so awake all of a sudden. And I could breathe and relief coursed through me. An oxygen mask covered my face and it all went black.<br />
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I woke up to bright lights, horrifying pain radiating throughout my entire body, and a throat that was on fire. I was told that the surgery went great. They got out the ectopic pregnancy and the ruptured tube . No baby, one less tube, and I was alive. A different doc did the surgery, saying that the other had just come off 24 hours straight with no rest. Divine intervention maybe? <br />
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This doc gleamed about his work. Said my uterus looked great, as did both my ovaries. He even went on to talk about how many women conceive with only one tube. That is something I've yet to decide on. Try again? I've lost two pregnancies since October. I only have one tube left and if I have another ectopic then I'll have none. <br />
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My body has been through the ringer these past few months, my heart more so. Recovery is going slow but its going. The family is taking care of me and my friends are awesome. The hubby stayed home all week. Being here for me. It's been so hard on us and it's not going to be easy moving forward but he's my best friend. He's always there for me. That is my true constant in all of this. His love for me and I for him. I'm so afraid until I look into his eyes. He keeps me grounded. He makes me whole but I'm afraid now I'm so broken I won't come back. Now, it's the me I have to work on. And I can do it with him by my side. With him I can do anything. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqV7zYks5Px6JS5n-bCiq7XCF1c4R7ig6UE8OrgKQL-1u9vVbpUchyxU6-geJWcwKeH4I_keiX9IAJC1vV0ns1JpemUWj4b4-mEGctlMOhokLdtGR_WoGHn490JJP7bsLS0rJa8Cbouv4/s1600/thank-you.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqV7zYks5Px6JS5n-bCiq7XCF1c4R7ig6UE8OrgKQL-1u9vVbpUchyxU6-geJWcwKeH4I_keiX9IAJC1vV0ns1JpemUWj4b4-mEGctlMOhokLdtGR_WoGHn490JJP7bsLS0rJa8Cbouv4/s200/thank-you.jpg" height="132" width="200" /></a>One day at a time. One keystroke at a time I am getting Charli back. Thanks for listening. Until next time my cyber friends. </div>
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Oh, I found out that a fallopian tube can weigh up to 10 ounces, so my New Years resolution to lose some weight is technically on track. Bad joke, I know, but at least I'm joking around a little. Honk-honk. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-9552769721181378102012-01-01T20:37:00.001-05:002013-07-03T14:17:04.300-04:00Goodbye 2011: The Official Pity Party Post<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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To say that this has been one hell of a year is putting it mildly. Not all was bad, nothing ever is, but lots of it sucked, sucked big time. <br />
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This year has been filled with immense loss. The kind of loss that changes you and how you look at life. The kind that makes you shake your fist at God or whatever the hell is in charge and ask why? WTF did I ever do that was so damn bad? <br />
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My very good friend lost an election, a campaign I worked hard on. Not too hard as I was concentrating on my writing, but hard enough. It was a personal loss and the fact I could've fought harder for him weighs on me day in and day out. My community lost more than anything. A community I live in, was raised in, and hoped to retire in. Not so sure about that now. I never thought I'd leave my 'hood. But I am thinking about it more now. <br />
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My beloved Aunt succumbed to cancer after a long, hard, and courageous battle. I hadn't seen her much until we got the news it would only be days. Then, when I finally saw her, the light was fastly dimming. Again, the guilt weighs on me. I could've done more. I should've done more. <br />
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The day my Aunt passed was my niece's 13th birthday, the day I met Nicholas Sparks, and the day I miscarried the baby I waited two long years for. Yes, after so long waiting to get pregnant, I did, and it only lasted six weeks.<br />
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Life couldn't be crueler, I thought, but I was wrong. I got preggers again right away. YAY! I thought. Finally something good may come out of all this grief. I lost that baby too. On Christmas Eve, right in church, as the choir chimed out Silent Night, before God and the newborn Baby Jesus, the cramp of all cramps came. I rushed to the bathroom and there it was. Massive clumps of blood and tissue. <br />
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My sick and twisted sense of humor had me thinking things no good Irish Catholic girl should. My baby, Gloopy we named it, (the first we named Klumpy), landed in the bottom of a church toilet bowl. Is Church toilet water Holy Water, I thought, too traumatized to think seriously. I made the sign of the Cross, looked one last time trying to be sure of what I saw, and then flushed. <br />
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When I returned to my pew my Hubby looked at me and he knew. One look and he knew. I had to tell him later what exactly happened. He never got the Christmas Eve gift I had planned for him. The positive home pregnancy test and a pacifier that said, <em>I Love Daddy</em>. It sits in my nightstand drawer now. Unsure if it will ever be used. <br />
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Then there are the rejections from this year. The ones on my first and only completed MS. The one that has gone through three title changes and god knows how many revisions. Those hurt but I learned from them. One of those rejections even made my heart smile. A lovely agent passed but praised the writing. She's made of awesomesauce and I even had a picnic lunch with her and other writing buddies in NY this summer.<br />
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The rejection that nearly killed the writer in me was for a piece I was ASKED to write. Was sought out for and begged to write. A FB writing friend said she'd been following me and was a secret fan. Yay, I thought, I'm unpubbed and have a fan! She was the editor for an English as a second language magazine in Korea. (I know right, I should've known!) The magazine was legit, so far as I could tell by the Internet, and I said okay. This "friend" saw my author bio page and asked me to write about how the death of my beloved brother sparked the writer in me. I ran some ideas by her and she signed off on me writing 2,000 words about the day my brother died from the POV from when I was 12. I dug up newspaper articles from that day. I asked my mother things she hadn't thought about in years. For two gut wrenching weeks I typed my little heart out, opening wounds long healed and letting them bleed all over the page. I was proud of what I'd written and sent it off. My editor was all smiles and tears. Then time went on and on and on. And nothing. I sent out some emails and was told the editor left due to illness and the new one wasn't interested in my story. <br />
<br />
Yeah. I had no words at first. Then I spewed some off. How dare they, I thought, ask me to drudge all this stuff up and then tell me thanks but no thanks. I have profound respect for those who write their memoirs. I only wrote 6 pages and still tear up when I think about it. <br />
<br />
However, there is the bright side.My daughter is so amazing and I know I am blessed to have the honor of raising her. And I have my husband. My best friend and soul mate who I wouldn't have been able to get through any of this without. He's my heart and my soul and the reason I am able to type this today. After all these years together I love him more than I ever thought possible. He's my rock. He's my home. <br />
<br />
I also got to see AJ twice, once in NY then later in Niagara Falls. I have a job, my health, family and friends who care about me. I have a great network of writers I surround myself with. I did win a contest and two editors from major houses are awaiting my full as I type. <br />
<br />
But, the guts to send out anything is gone. At a conference I had another editor from one of the biggies ask for my work but she later rejected it. All confidence is gone and I am desperately trying to find it as I type this Woe is Me Pity Party Post. <br />
<br />
I am hoping 2012 brings the Charli Mac gusto back. The big balls that match my big red nose are sadly missed. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-18021836559904989222011-10-21T11:36:00.000-04:002011-10-21T11:36:45.199-04:00App for A Hot Guy to Feel You UpA very dear friend of mine sent me this link to give me a laugh. I hate to say it had a very different affect. My phone now sends me daily reminders to check my tots. They put the fun back in fun-bags! Love this!<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/VsyE2rCW71o" width="560"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-2408190830767117322011-09-08T13:15:00.000-04:002011-09-08T13:15:52.534-04:00The Outside Boy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUC4X3YTOPJyQWzdF8xcX4aE7hvIm74PDim_2UYPZMuFc8aETS-mwNDOKEsbXgZZpUoE9swx1PZq9yv-ZSKHpgFaCXgUANQ-YQuDsaxZ3FfIr7lzarNoIXGYUYFDS-8lHSg54oAGasJXn1/s1600/The-Outside-Boy-Cummins-Jeanine-9780451229489.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUC4X3YTOPJyQWzdF8xcX4aE7hvIm74PDim_2UYPZMuFc8aETS-mwNDOKEsbXgZZpUoE9swx1PZq9yv-ZSKHpgFaCXgUANQ-YQuDsaxZ3FfIr7lzarNoIXGYUYFDS-8lHSg54oAGasJXn1/s320/The-Outside-Boy-Cummins-Jeanine-9780451229489.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>To be truly free, you have to know who you are. </em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I don’t review or chat about every book I read. The ones I chose to discuss here mean something to me, have changed me in someway, and have allowed me to become a better writer.<br />
<br />
Such a novel is <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Outside-Boy-Novel-Jeanine-Cummins/dp/0451229487/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1315500443&sr=1-1">The Outside Boy</a></em> by Jeanine Cummins. I savored every word and cradled them in my heart. I sat in awe of Cummins’ ability to weave words so delicately, so gracefully and yet the strength in them holds you fast, like an anchor at sea. <br />
<br />
I met the lovely lass at a book reading a while back. Her debut novel tells the tale of an Irish gypsy boy's childhood in the 1950's and his struggle to find himself in a changing world. <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Ireland, 1959: Young Christy Hurley is a Pavee gypsy, traveling with his father and extended family from town to town, carrying all their worldly possessions in their wagons. Christy carries with him a burden of guilt as well, haunted by the story of his mother's death in childbirth. The peripatetic life is the only one Christy has ever known, but when his grandfather dies, everything changes. His father decides to settle down temporarily in a town where Christy and his cousin can attend mass and receive proper schooling. But they are still treated as outsiders. </em></div><br />
<em>As Christy's exposure to a different life causes him to question who he is and where he belongs, the answer may lie with an old newspaper photograph and a long-buried family secret that could change his life forever... </em><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_BbALsQpOqq-4-sIWCcWSFSmp75kIXzF_qgRN7P8zpBoN58HibIZs7L9x7yQdLP6whgo6nd99Nb3HCqpaIWEQKaDYUkLMxtDiWmVUkgdDlSzD13p2FUV0U1HCUW_vzuNB7wLYkWsoOeim/s1600/The+Outside+Boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_BbALsQpOqq-4-sIWCcWSFSmp75kIXzF_qgRN7P8zpBoN58HibIZs7L9x7yQdLP6whgo6nd99Nb3HCqpaIWEQKaDYUkLMxtDiWmVUkgdDlSzD13p2FUV0U1HCUW_vzuNB7wLYkWsoOeim/s320/The+Outside+Boy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Malachy McCourt’s lovely review of <em>The Outside Boy</em> made my heart smile:</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"In Hibernian society, there’s hardly a creature lower than the Irish tinker, a nomadic group ‘tis said was driven into the barren country by the fundamentalist Cromwell to starve. Regardless, the modern diminutive hero Christy, in Jeanine Cummins’s gloriously poetic novel, will burrow his way into your heart. It’s not often I hug a book, but with moist eyes and beginnings of a song in my heart, I followed Christy’s journey from a death to hopeful life. Read this lovely book and you will hug yourself."- Malachy McCourt, New York Times bestselling author of <em>A Monk Swimming</em>.</div><br />
Here is a short excerpt from chapter one. Here, Christy’s Grandmother stirs them all from sleep, wailing in the night. His father and uncle stand outside his grandparents wagon, waiting to face the inevitable…<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>My dad hesitated, put his hand on his brother's shoulder for a long moment, like he was gathering strength for what he knew he'd find. Then he nodded and turned toward Granny's wagon door. It was hanging open, too, and she howled again as he went. I shivered under our blanket, to hear the sound of that wordless pain, unleashed and raw, galloping around the camp. Granny was like a toothless wolf. We watched without blinking while my dad disappeared into the wagon. Martin squirmed in even closer beside me, and I could feel his elbow stuck between two of my shivering ribs, like we was twins for a minute, instead of cousins. We was joined at the eyes and ears, joined at the dread. Everything was silent and stretched—only the tidal rhythm of our shared breath pushed the seconds forward. I wished for my mother.</em></div><br />
<em>Dad came out again, shaking his head.</em><br />
<br />
<em>"He's gone," he said.</em><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>His face was pale in the moonlight. Gone. I knew what he meant. He meant my grandda.</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This tragedy spurs events that will change Christy’s life forever. Like Malachy McCourt said, I hugged this book on the very last page. Christy's tale is forever embedded in my heart and soul. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Below is an interview that Jeanine was so nice to do for our little blog and she let me gush over her like a little school girl…<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi01AVnFlI65jq0hB4XMLkCp1VHlVNg8qFXDpRlsw8d5qK_jd1QlRIJspbvb-puyhL-EFif0l9MkuMLdnlcS0i64dKekk3laI3VCs25qGubrY7YlEQYgDF9PrzKHM6mN8I1q4mVcIRelSZD/s1600/Jeanine2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi01AVnFlI65jq0hB4XMLkCp1VHlVNg8qFXDpRlsw8d5qK_jd1QlRIJspbvb-puyhL-EFif0l9MkuMLdnlcS0i64dKekk3laI3VCs25qGubrY7YlEQYgDF9PrzKHM6mN8I1q4mVcIRelSZD/s320/Jeanine2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The reading for The Outside Boy was my first reading ever. You were so gracious and lovely to chat with. As you read the excerpt, your emotion, slight brogue, and love for your story burst through. I sat, captivated, wanting you to read more. When it was over, it was all I could do to be polite and not rush home and continue reading. Do you often get audience members drooling? Or was it just me? </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>I often get audience members drooling, but usually only when I read to my daughter's preschool class. I'm so glad you enjoyed it! Writing can be a lonely job, and there's nothing more gratifying than those times when I do get to share my work, and I find a strong connection with readers. That makes it all worthwhile!</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Before you even read, and had me utterly mesmerized, I read the front and back cover along with the inside acknowledgements on the display table. I knew then I needed to read Christy’s story. But, behind The Outside Boy was your first book, a memoir entitled, A Rip In Heaven, A Memoir Of Murder And Its Aftermath. You mentioned that the emotional drain writing it is what created this need to write fiction. Was it difficult to switch gears going from something so profoundly personal to a fictional narrative? </div><br />
<em>For me, that wasn't difficult. I always wanted to write fiction, but I sort of had to write that memoir first. I had to get that out of me before anything else would come. I always knew I would make the switch. What was surprising to me was how similar the process was, between writing fiction and non-fiction. In the end, both stories come from the same place in my emotional landscape.</em><br />
<br />
Your background is so diverse and worldly. Can you share with us where you’ve been and where you are now? <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><em>My background isn't as worldly as it might seem. My dad was in the Navy, so we moved around a lot when we were kids. I was born in Spain, and lived all over the states. But I grew up mostly in Maryland. After college, I spent a couple of years in Ireland, and then I moved to New York, where I've been ever since. Okay, maybe it is worldly. I'm very sophisticated. AHEM. I'm also half Irish and half Puerto Rican. And in case you're curious, it's definitely the BACK half that's Puerto Rican.</em><br />
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You have quite a few impressive endorsements for The Outside Boy, but Malachy McCourt’s took my breath away. How did it feel to have an Iconic Irishman give you such poetic praise? <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Imagine it’s a cold day outside, and your house is pretty chilly. You lay down on your couch, but you don’t have a blanket handy, so you’re cold. Then all of a sudden two hundred kittens – two hundred ZOMG SQUEEEEE kittens – come climb on top of you. Then they all curl up into those impossibly compact little kitten balls, and some of them are laid out on top of others, and it’s just a mass of fuzziness and cuteness and whiskers that go on forever. And then they all start singing. Not your run-of-the mill-kittenpurr singing. Actual angelic furball singing from the heavens. It felt like that. I wept.</em></div><br />
The Outside Boy is about a group of Travellers/Pavees in 1959 Ireland. Where did the idea from this story come from? What inspired you to write it? Is there a little boy named Christy roaming the Irish countryside?<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>After my memoir, I knew I had to get out of the true story business. Writing about personal trauma was too painful. But I also knew that I always wanted to write about injustice. So I went looking for a story about injustice that was as far away from my personal realm of experience as possible. I landed on the Irish travellers. They were foreign enough to me that I felt I might have some emotional distance in the story (HA!), and I felt that they had been treated unfairly, that Christy's was a story that needed telling, from the inside out. I fell in love with them.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafziWv_J6sndBa-ZfUFttiyjz7Qh907wOO9-ZbCR0Xb_H9GHho2LHL__ZYaFJjzTDDaEeB4DdznrO6DYZTF2i9Ln4hysmKge8ow1IYOjTD8BxworS-ljtJJUIFx2JcAD0oQa_wNnQNt48/s1600/rip-in-heaven-200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafziWv_J6sndBa-ZfUFttiyjz7Qh907wOO9-ZbCR0Xb_H9GHho2LHL__ZYaFJjzTDDaEeB4DdznrO6DYZTF2i9Ln4hysmKge8ow1IYOjTD8BxworS-ljtJJUIFx2JcAD0oQa_wNnQNt48/s1600/rip-in-heaven-200x300.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> A cable show has recently gained some notoriety exploiting travelers/gypsies from Europe, especially England and Ireland. Is this a real depiction of true travelers in Ireland, the ones who you grew close to while researching your story? </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>My Big, Fat, Gypsy Wedding portrays the travellers about as accurately as some other cable show we know and love portrays housewives in New York City. As a housewife in New York City, I can tell you with certainty: It's not that accurate. Which isn't to say there's no element of truth therein. But there's a lot more depth to these people than we can see in thirty minutes of trashy television. (Note: Real Housewife Kelly Bensimon is exempt from the above statement. I'm convinced she is entirely devoid of depth).</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>What do you want the general public, especially readers, to understand about the Pavee culture? <br />
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<em>Well just that, really - that it's a culture. These people are not disposable, and they're not homeless. Their way of life is ancient and valid, and they deserve our respect. Their culture is worth preserving.</em><br />
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You mentioned in the reading how you were lucky to get a glimpse of Pavee life, that a few gave you a peek inside their world. Can you share with us one of those experiences?<br />
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<em>My favorite experience was going to visit Winnie and her family in Dunsink, outside of Dublin. I was astonished by the interiors of the caravans- I'm claustrophobic, and I couldn't imagine living inside such a small space. It still hadn't dawned on me then, that the travellers don't really live inside the caravans. They live outside them. The caravan is just a retreat from the weather, for sleep, for comfort. But their real lives go on outside, in the camps.</em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZXpujBz2I_xOwEC1Z3naCtUGAvreUadPXj0DrLMiUxCThqER5lWBm0KiZS30SKIwoAH6SrmvaqkezdeH8UPUV5w5oFWI8IdVSGjZKMwAJxrjHlS22TF1QT4RP-3mqARAmCSCjGtDsPJP2/s1600/l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZXpujBz2I_xOwEC1Z3naCtUGAvreUadPXj0DrLMiUxCThqER5lWBm0KiZS30SKIwoAH6SrmvaqkezdeH8UPUV5w5oFWI8IdVSGjZKMwAJxrjHlS22TF1QT4RP-3mqARAmCSCjGtDsPJP2/s320/l.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> The banter between the family members is so true to life. The scene which had me laughing out loud was the one where Christy sat up in his tree, razzing his Uncle Finty. I felt like I sat in the tree with him, causing mischief, laughing till my belly hurt. Then the chats between Martin and Christy, the fights, and the play; they reminded me and me and my wee sister. (See, you have me typing in brogue! LOL.) Where any of the scenes inspired by real life family moments?<br />
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<em>Hmmm, let me think. There were a couple of moments in the book that were inspired by true stories. The one where Beano yells "fair fucks!" to his sister in the middle of the classroom was stolen from an ex-boyfriend of mine – a kid in his school back in Ireland actually did that. Poor bastard. But beyond that, I'd say just the general psychology (and the resulting banter) of the characters comes largely from people I know, and I know a lot of Irish people. They tend to be rather witty. Or at least they think they are.</em><br />
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The nicknames Christy gives to the people he comes across is so true to children of that age. (Ah-hem, I even give nicknames to people as an adult). Did you know any Sister Hedgehogs, Beanos, or Finnaula Whippets growing up?<br />
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<em>I did not. Many of the nicknames in the book came from people that my Irish husband talks about from his childhood. He had a teacher called The Blob, and knew a kid called Beano. We're big on nicknames. I'm called Tink, and have been since the day I was born. My dog's name is Seamus, but we call him Comanchero. Yeah, I donno.</em><br />
This heartwarming story is, as the book cover states, about finding out who you really are. Did this theme come first or evolve as you created Christy’s story?<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>I always wanted the book to be about this kid's struggle to find out where he fits into this shifting landscape. His world is beginning to crumble around him, and he doesn't know who he is or where he belongs. That kid was me - maybe because of my diverse background, I always had certain questions about identity. I never felt like I fully belonged anywhere, so I wanted to explore what it would be like for a kid like Christy, trying to figure that stuff out.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0zAO3V8HhnmD9z7QLjK50mND-AfRTaZKdxMeCQrCCuIedbXPYEeJGnT7UAM0dRQv3rnp3kTy-L_dqd50ga1nrSV-td5SC1eYeBMCSmOYHoupOER88V1JdgoOj_lXlCPGTiggSW2ULh7ej/s1600/outside-boy-feature-010-535x355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0zAO3V8HhnmD9z7QLjK50mND-AfRTaZKdxMeCQrCCuIedbXPYEeJGnT7UAM0dRQv3rnp3kTy-L_dqd50ga1nrSV-td5SC1eYeBMCSmOYHoupOER88V1JdgoOj_lXlCPGTiggSW2ULh7ej/s320/outside-boy-feature-010-535x355.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> Did you cry while writing, as much as I did reading? (FYI, I was a blubbering idiot!)</div><br />
<em>Why, how much did you cry? If the novel made you cry, perhaps you should not read my memoir, which is a TEAR-JERKER, for reals. But yes, I cried when I wrote about Jack. I'd have to be a heartless bitch not to cry for poor Jack.</em><br />
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Fun stuff: If you could have a superpower what would it be and what would you call yourself? <br />
<br />
<em>I would be fluent in every language existent (which power comes with an appropriate level of cultural knowledge and empathy) and have my own zero-carbon-footprint jet which runs on water, so I could go visiting at my leisure. I would call myself Dan.</em><br />
<br />
If you could be any fictional character from a novel, television show, or movie who would it be and why?<br />
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<em>Oooh, all of my heroes die tragically, and I don't want to do that. I want to die old, eating doughnuts, and surrounded by my progeny. So I'll go with Bilbo. He got to have the same sort of adventures as Frodo, but without quite as much responsibility. And in the end, he lived out his days in comfort and joy.</em><br />
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What was the first book you ever read that made you say, “I want to do this; I want to be a writer”? <br />
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<em>I was so moved by so many books as a child; I think most of them made me think: I could never do this. I remember reading Yeats for the first time, and feeling entirely defeated by the beauty of his language. He disemboweled me. To be honest, I still don't think I can do this. I worry that people will discover I'm a fraud. DON'T TELL ANYONE.</em><br />
<br />
What can readers expect next from Jeanine Cummins? Will Christy ever be heard from again? Will we find ourselves reading about Spain or NYC, your other homes? <br />
<br />
<em>My mom wants me to write a sequel called Jack is Back! But right now I'm working on another novel, half-set in contemporary New York City, and half-set in Ireland during the famine times. And I'm also writing my first children's novel, which is FUN. It's about an Irish girl-pirate, set in the 16th century, and based on the legends of real-life awesome chick, Grace O'Malley. But I'm already looking ahead to the next project after that... I want to write about immigration issues in America, and the fallout for Irish and Latino subcultures here. There's so much that interests me. I don't think I'll ever run out of material.</em><br />
<br />
Thanks Jeanine for taking the time to answer all my questions and most of all, bringing Christy into my life. <br />
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I hope you all run and buy this book! Below is a lovely interview from <a href="http://jeaninecummins.com/">Jeanine's Website.</a> <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/YC1j7XDYoA4" width="420"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-48893542300274130712011-08-25T18:25:00.000-04:002011-08-25T18:25:24.425-04:00NYC, RWA, ATM, WTF!<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.rubyslipperedsisterhood.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/2011-Reworked-Conference-Logo-with-Background-300x228.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://www.rubyslipperedsisterhood.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/2011-Reworked-Conference-Logo-with-Background-300x228.gif" style="height: 160px; width: 210px;" /></span></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You're wondering why A.J. & I have yet to post about RWA Nationals in NYC. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, let's just say we're still recovering from the sticker shock of the 18 dollar not so Chocolate Martini, the walking from the left overs hotel to the conference hotel, the copious pints of Yeungling Lager, the near financial collapse of my visa card- Liz Lemon Style, the cheetah like stealth in which A.J. found a Coach store and snuck away from our picnic in the park, MASTERCARD in hand. Mission Impossible maneuvers on the NY Mass Transit System, and the best damn pizza ever made on the planet-truly. </span><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="http://media3.onsugar.com/files/upl1/1/15111/46_2008/d6220cc81a6142d5_liz-lemon-iphone.larger/i/Characters-30-Rock-Use-Apple-Products-Like-iPhones-iMacs-MacBook-Pros.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://media3.onsugar.com/files/upl1/1/15111/46_2008/d6220cc81a6142d5_liz-lemon-iphone.larger/i/Characters-30-Rock-Use-Apple-Products-Like-iPhones-iMacs-MacBook-Pros.jpg" style="height: 210px; width: 210px;" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My Liz Lemon shadow definitely followed me on this trip. The morning of, my laptop crashed. Lovely. Stubborn Hubby kept trying to fix it, making me leave later than I'd wanted for my first ever train ride to NYC from Philly. We got stuck behind a funeral procession as the minutes ticked by. I got there with seconds to spare. Whew. Train ride was lovely really. Until I got shushed. Apparently I picked the "quiet" car. A.J. was calling and I had to answer, my bad Mr. Cranky Pants. I resort back to texting as a link to the outside world I learn my teenage daughter has a secret Facebook Page. Lovely. Oh, and it's a basically "I hate my Mom" Homage to me. Again. Lovely. Let the other parental unit deal with it. I am outta here. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My cabbie didn't help me put my bags in and they ended up sitting on my lap. I get to said Left-Overs Hotel and go to check in. *Insert record player skurt sound effects here.* My credit card was declined. What-the-what is right. When I call the bank apparently fraudulent charges were made from NYC for other customers so they flagged all purchases coming New York and Ohio. It's a small local Philly bank, not national. Whoa is me! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Great. Awesome. I say, but I AM here in NYC, and I NEED money! (This nightmare takes all weekend to iron out, BTW) Right on cue, A.J. comes running in behind me. Thank Gawds the Canadian was packing some serious plastic or we would've been on the street people. </span><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN_YcVqr8NPogoRkD-6YJJZy6unrHv_4KBtytEw8c9yNrKAaDIdObDOGU0QnqzkfBD5EVPYNLIBWZzTaQT0mgJGjdiJbdC7gwOlGbMdLh74iOTtVaR6p4wxd84LhyasOhMyGpyzWocoI9w/s1600/NYC+TS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN_YcVqr8NPogoRkD-6YJJZy6unrHv_4KBtytEw8c9yNrKAaDIdObDOGU0QnqzkfBD5EVPYNLIBWZzTaQT0mgJGjdiJbdC7gwOlGbMdLh74iOTtVaR6p4wxd84LhyasOhMyGpyzWocoI9w/s320/NYC+TS.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 220px;" /></span></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And street people, or rather people in streets, there were many. RWA Conference, in NYC on the 4th of July weekend ... need I say more?</span><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A.J. saves the day. Canada rocks! Yet, here I am thinking the universe is colliding to royally screw with us. Not a good omen. But, I have my clown nose and a dream. I trudge on. Charli style, with JAWS, a.k.a A.J., her razor sharp teeth ready to take a bite out of anyone in our way. (very suspicious of everyone and everything)</span><br />
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</span></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANFN6ps3l_9Gq5ld0AP2p3Ix4u3oTwVQqKWA8-684PNUvyofcX7rpSvzEE7-CQXiz2lj4Jo0i5a_bDTOnnRvEIplbtcaEvio6LUC-qBogxZINmEtSAap6yjXFhyphenhyphenCVNB_jRfe14m3inkvJ/s1600/SScake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANFN6ps3l_9Gq5ld0AP2p3Ix4u3oTwVQqKWA8-684PNUvyofcX7rpSvzEE7-CQXiz2lj4Jo0i5a_bDTOnnRvEIplbtcaEvio6LUC-qBogxZINmEtSAap6yjXFhyphenhyphenCVNB_jRfe14m3inkvJ/s200/SScake.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 210px;" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We forge ahead and meet up with the fabulous peeps from <span style="font-style: italic;">Heroes & Heartbreakers</span> at the fabulously delicious, Juniors Cheesecake. In true, A.J & Charli style we are a tad bit late. But the cake rocked and so did the company. It was so awesome to meet peeps you only know through the internets. A.J. is not a cheesecake fan, I know, weirdo Canadian. But she got this kick-ass slab of strawberry shortcake. OBJECT IS BIGGER THAN IS APPEARS!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxfJLnMuPEtqxGKH5pQe-QJUorMnEpSVMAS3jbNKA6RCHDP_UmEbC__4D3kn3DEdLYof9C9APHQtPyF4-QcAZmfDPtcMJ7KafHkrOWHN7ka4YnQaIF0vI6a43IOrDyb8pkdI4OfxVVFI1/s1600/H%2526H.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxfJLnMuPEtqxGKH5pQe-QJUorMnEpSVMAS3jbNKA6RCHDP_UmEbC__4D3kn3DEdLYof9C9APHQtPyF4-QcAZmfDPtcMJ7KafHkrOWHN7ka4YnQaIF0vI6a43IOrDyb8pkdI4OfxVVFI1/s320/H%2526H.jpg" style="height: 200px; width: 270px;" /></span></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After our great conversation and a caloric induced coma we decide we need more than a wee bit o' cake and find Ray's Pizza. Wow. Awesome. Really. Great. Pizza. And Canada kind of got excited seeing beer in a take out fridge. Beer always gets me excited. BTW, A.J. wore these fabulous heels but, um, they were heels. Yeah, walking around in Times Square in heels is not recommended. A couple of slices later we trudge back to our hotel. A.J. limps and I undo the top button in my pants. *Burp* </span><br />
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</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgael_mZRQQOQKd9sENG56IYizlkTimJe68y-BeEi_-1cRK7ner3AkBkKGMqdDiMTiZjlJHmZ_VbEiBA4W_cD4U5Eb0lQwomQ-uUbIjoNbQhjDdRpHn8ddG4ITbCqDnyaXv0JjUkB24_b4/s1600/492839847_ce477c869d.jpg"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644644078300553170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgael_mZRQQOQKd9sENG56IYizlkTimJe68y-BeEi_-1cRK7ner3AkBkKGMqdDiMTiZjlJHmZ_VbEiBA4W_cD4U5Eb0lQwomQ-uUbIjoNbQhjDdRpHn8ddG4ITbCqDnyaXv0JjUkB24_b4/s320/492839847_ce477c869d.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 160px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 210px;" /></span></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now its time for the First Timers Orientation! Yay! And we went. And that's all we really have to say about that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Moving along ...</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsVq2x2z4x_g2UoOnfBT3xboiR4CUCiacDTJo0QVunW912ioeFzwBzN6L9InWbXpZ6VlP42c_eCN5NpVYD4jAxz_lk18BRnWUcRxw385gfDl6RqfLpXrITtkQa-rrD_6T5q8VLIcmSNM/s1600/chocolate-martini-4_20.JPG"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644645728832745746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsVq2x2z4x_g2UoOnfBT3xboiR4CUCiacDTJo0QVunW912ioeFzwBzN6L9InWbXpZ6VlP42c_eCN5NpVYD4jAxz_lk18BRnWUcRxw385gfDl6RqfLpXrITtkQa-rrD_6T5q8VLIcmSNM/s200/chocolate-martini-4_20.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 110px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 85px;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We meet up at the Hotel Bar and schmooze with G. Jillian Stone! It was so awesome to finally meet her in person. We chat and A.J. orders that overpriced Chocolate Martini. Blech she says! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, I , Charli, get up in time for the breakfast and meet up with the super awesome G. Jillian Stone. A.J. dragged her arse out a wee bit later. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A.J. met up with us and we have a little time to kill before our RWA PRO Retreat. We take in the sights and realize, as nice the Conference Hotel is, it is a terrible place to hang out and meet people. The main floor has no lobby. The 8th floor has space to grab a quick bite or drink and its a hodge podge of places to sit. It's not at all what I expected. But sitting next to G. Jillian Stone and recalling her Cinderella story from the year before at Nationals, I guess I had high hopes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As did I (A.J.) The Chocolate Martini, a cloudy confection, claimed to be Grey Goose Vodka, a splash of crème de cacao, ringed with powdered chocolate …</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The murk in the martini is an omen, dear readers. Not all was as we thought it would be. Hyped does not even begin to describe how excited we were to attend Nationals!</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The problem was, and I say this with Charli’s blessing, RWA was not all it was cracked up to be. At least, not for us. What we expected and what we got were two very different things. Firstly, we’ve both been writing seriously for two years, and in those years we’ve consumed every morsel of information we could in order to hone our craft, improve our understanding of the publishing business and understand the market. </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Armed with an arsenal of information, I jumped on a plane, Charli hailed a train and we rendezvoused at the Manhattan @ Times Square, otherwise known as <em>the Left Over Hotel.</em> We tossed our luggage in the room and headed to the Marriott; excited to learn MORE.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchDpjeId-CVjosyvTDUizVF1mZNiErS0wtJwujCSIoAxkyKDWN9-lGbeMI_dbxaj74oYP5LVbxynOfW-QTUSSJoB6xRLto8qUUc7scV6ij7x_yVnn2QcvrEXbE5w8LnAy_ImBMbuL5dk/s1600/times_square.jpg"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644647901038668978" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchDpjeId-CVjosyvTDUizVF1mZNiErS0wtJwujCSIoAxkyKDWN9-lGbeMI_dbxaj74oYP5LVbxynOfW-QTUSSJoB6xRLto8qUUc7scV6ij7x_yVnn2QcvrEXbE5w8LnAy_ImBMbuL5dk/s200/times_square.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 160px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 260px;" /></span></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But sadly, what we got was a whole lot of knowledge we’d already attained. The conference itself, minus schmoozing with the Super fantastic Jill Stone, and Team Awesome Sauce from H&H, we strongly feel was for newbies; that is, writers in the beginning stage of their career, who know little, and would, at Nationals, learn a lot.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Most of the “workshops” were more or less panels, and had little interaction between, author/editor/agent and writer. So hyped were we for the PRO retreat, speechless is all we could be. One would normally expect a retreat to have some small group interactions. Perhaps a group of 6-10 people, all say, perhaps who write in the same genre, who could really benefit from chatting with an author/editor/agent who represents or writes what the author does.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instead, general questions were written on pieces of scrap paper, and possibly – not even half were answered – answered by one of the several, informative panelists. Oh, and the Powers That Be in the RWA – sounds like some sort of mob, IRA, CIA, etc. – made sure everyone stayed until the very end by offering up door prizes, ranging from free crits from editors and agents, to synopsis reviews from published authors. And who wouldn’t want that?</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Huh, hand up over here in Canada? You, Charli?</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxAdQGYSdTRDI-0Tn3mldea-4vaUk9-Bzi45jHJULzAuqVGIIaIae2fGqibEw-QF_1ZarHIU-nVgPGFDwtOB0aZwm5MGcOZxVW5SqU1W09yJiguWk00_hq3BT5Ac6a-_UoKIV06Yj-FDwP/s1600/Charli+Clown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxAdQGYSdTRDI-0Tn3mldea-4vaUk9-Bzi45jHJULzAuqVGIIaIae2fGqibEw-QF_1ZarHIU-nVgPGFDwtOB0aZwm5MGcOZxVW5SqU1W09yJiguWk00_hq3BT5Ac6a-_UoKIV06Yj-FDwP/s200/Charli+Clown.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 210px;" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogv6Fd1axXPS5cZZ965_dEKEHKFRyz5mXxj2B6bRKThnJaCm2MqNw_WhpiEkNpHVS29tqTPx90ggByOYhGXCtvDiyx6r5EboWm2Y9GNWXm6jB4S4sIxmiKfu3n2PhReA2g3RXo0Of-2Ha/s1600/AJ+Clown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogv6Fd1axXPS5cZZ965_dEKEHKFRyz5mXxj2B6bRKThnJaCm2MqNw_WhpiEkNpHVS29tqTPx90ggByOYhGXCtvDiyx6r5EboWm2Y9GNWXm6jB4S4sIxmiKfu3n2PhReA2g3RXo0Of-2Ha/s200/AJ+Clown.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 210px;" /></span></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Present, with clown nose on!</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I (Charli), too felt that this Conference was definitely geared toward newbies to writing, especially Romance. If you write Paranormal or Western you would have been in great company. We, um, don't. Actually the biggest Ah-ha moment for us clowns was that we don't write Romance. 'Twas clear. We write stories with Romantic Elements.Which in itself was a boon indeed! But worth the near fortune we paid to attend? Mmm, not so much. </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<a href="http://www.facebook.com/notes/sherrilyn-kenyon/keynote-speech/10150227610525810"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sherrilyn Kenyon's Awards Luncheon Speech</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> was a major highlight for me. There was not a dry eye in the house. When she spoke of how her brother's passing inspired her to keep going, I nearly lost it. Amazing. If you can get your hands on a recording of it, jump on it. I guarantee you will be inspired. </span><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGBjw6PRyUpB3UQoYig1mAXfbGM8aWZrN2fEJRPm63cc0fgTESolq8u1C-8m-APE4vIzvKktJXjNpKkWbIcRBkxDFjJjvcT2tii88zWfYjz_bUwvLeWdJbb9he6Gt4sR5OCLES0PP_Vbe/s1600/rwa-conference-thursday-in-nyc-2011-027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGBjw6PRyUpB3UQoYig1mAXfbGM8aWZrN2fEJRPm63cc0fgTESolq8u1C-8m-APE4vIzvKktJXjNpKkWbIcRBkxDFjJjvcT2tii88zWfYjz_bUwvLeWdJbb9he6Gt4sR5OCLES0PP_Vbe/s200/rwa-conference-thursday-in-nyc-2011-027.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 210px;" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of the morning panels featured authors Steve Berry, Diana Gabaldon, and Tess Gerritsen. Together they offered great insight into what its like to be a bestselling author. And since I LOVE LOVE LOVE <em>The Outlander</em> is was very thought provoking to hear about Diana's experiences as a writer. </span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did attend a few workshops that helped me a little. The <em>Buy This Book!</em> panel was worth its weight in gold. It really opened my eyes to what goes on when editors get your manuscript. Plus Jill was in the audience and she gave me much needed confidence as I flailed my way through presenting my book. Yes, I volunteered and made a fool of myself, Lemon style. But, 'twas worth it. </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD8e6CuWyqM6KiiphTxIen4BOTTK7qE1UIk6MUJmpHmvAF1219DLFDmXDidDKyFDzPQkylarKr0UAU1EVxgswInF9ZeK_leINs79E3F1EVIjuNCvuKcGQ7sDQ1wtiPlMnGn1kjoZvgpU83/s1600/110209tinafey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD8e6CuWyqM6KiiphTxIen4BOTTK7qE1UIk6MUJmpHmvAF1219DLFDmXDidDKyFDzPQkylarKr0UAU1EVxgswInF9ZeK_leINs79E3F1EVIjuNCvuKcGQ7sDQ1wtiPlMnGn1kjoZvgpU83/s200/110209tinafey.jpg" style="height: 220px; width: 210px;" /></span></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">BTW, there were several author signings and the books were all FREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What writer wouldn't want FREE books? Count that as another highlight! We got so many, A.J. had to ship two, VERY FULL boxes back to Canada! And amidst the crowds, we had the pleasure of meeting two very talented, and awe inspiring authors; Sherrilyn Kenyon and Julia London. SQUEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyWtqZuEwkTiBZMNjUJ1-fzINeddjb2p5sWN41smthxVWoBpl7iCyPa5p8mU4MVw2BGCHcP02zVcWkHz6DFrnXdjuzr3d-mSnrWIkCoPSq1sa3vV8oc_vvRRzx_mAB4rmPsQovEeoMLAr/s1600/271155_198254573557704_100001194889608_481534_7940407_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyWtqZuEwkTiBZMNjUJ1-fzINeddjb2p5sWN41smthxVWoBpl7iCyPa5p8mU4MVw2BGCHcP02zVcWkHz6DFrnXdjuzr3d-mSnrWIkCoPSq1sa3vV8oc_vvRRzx_mAB4rmPsQovEeoMLAr/s200/271155_198254573557704_100001194889608_481534_7940407_n.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 210px;" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75RWlbhnFGqrCtsLFAxzlz7UvQF7JuHOZAUDQkKb3d4HEzyvUK_by9BeF8i6sQVMdp7WABJHsNt5kTe5tKDEQ6Y9Yo669N0UdW_fROktspOjS6Zh0LqvCxxdJMDUr8IBFZp6p2rsL0P30/s1600/264783_198254413557720_100001194889608_481531_5765993_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75RWlbhnFGqrCtsLFAxzlz7UvQF7JuHOZAUDQkKb3d4HEzyvUK_by9BeF8i6sQVMdp7WABJHsNt5kTe5tKDEQ6Y9Yo669N0UdW_fROktspOjS6Zh0LqvCxxdJMDUr8IBFZp6p2rsL0P30/s200/264783_198254413557720_100001194889608_481531_5765993_n.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 210px;" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh, and in traditional <em>we always feck things up</em> style, Jill roamed the streets of NYC, in search of the House of Brews, only to realize they're were two within the vicinity! Oops! where's a GPS when ye need it? Drinks are on us! Poor lass was so tired by the time she found us we forgot to get a pic with her. So, the photos below are in honor of, Jill. </span><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnS0PJJiLzi5-jgWRsdw4egNCKVtKVKmd9W5kK8QCgerq8bcRzRpHI3Xghyphenhyphen6aHBfgoRNgIBGTgpjEClguUUuneyTxdNoQhACeXNMWpmYLNpfHl_bb81sp5YIvsFqs8Uf2N9AjOvRFAFmG/s1600/260459_198295083553653_100001194889608_481819_5972182_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnS0PJJiLzi5-jgWRsdw4egNCKVtKVKmd9W5kK8QCgerq8bcRzRpHI3Xghyphenhyphen6aHBfgoRNgIBGTgpjEClguUUuneyTxdNoQhACeXNMWpmYLNpfHl_bb81sp5YIvsFqs8Uf2N9AjOvRFAFmG/s200/260459_198295083553653_100001194889608_481819_5972182_n.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 210px;" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgothmES60tuX40xnwUr8jDXV_sxrgiEfR0Uy9CZ4yzXthRCnWy_5IexGiT4uagvET0i9vKI-XO9qo9lJ2shrf0LAxAykBrFQ8nDP3qDZejBVDGVZO1apXiBXV97tQ07B0tqFxevTJfF-kT/s1600/Pints.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgothmES60tuX40xnwUr8jDXV_sxrgiEfR0Uy9CZ4yzXthRCnWy_5IexGiT4uagvET0i9vKI-XO9qo9lJ2shrf0LAxAykBrFQ8nDP3qDZejBVDGVZO1apXiBXV97tQ07B0tqFxevTJfF-kT/s200/Pints.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 210px;" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Agents requested our work, we schmoozed as best we could in the maze like wren of mismatched chairs in the hotel bar, and attended the GH & Rita Dinner. Huh, oops, our bad, the <span style="font-style: italic;">dessert</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">coffee, dinner?</span> That doesn't sound right! Grr. Plus, like the tools we are, we paid extra for the event thinking we had to. Again. Liz Lemon. We were so annoyed at this point we jumped ship and headed to a little french cafe for some, your guessed it, brews. And it was called La Brassiere. Saucy! </span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitgP-H2xpsYXHLyZfxw9bwFk8twbfZp8PvWCSfaiIJWg8DgZUlIc-CPyy9cCgycFSpwteQiAXKPY4r5z-a57UCgVQfYa8TyNqPUL7d77JxlEspQNpw5pqCJvyQ_RfS1a72USEo7UARhA4/s1600/1301668179472.jpg"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644654281073615026" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitgP-H2xpsYXHLyZfxw9bwFk8twbfZp8PvWCSfaiIJWg8DgZUlIc-CPyy9cCgycFSpwteQiAXKPY4r5z-a57UCgVQfYa8TyNqPUL7d77JxlEspQNpw5pqCJvyQ_RfS1a72USEo7UARhA4/s200/1301668179472.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 160px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 210px;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After many more brews, we hit the sheets. Ah, Saturday, freedom. Conference over, we headed out for a wee bit o' retail therapy, a tour of NYC's mass transit and a walk about. After eating the best pizza EVER (photo below) we headed for Central Park and a delightful lunch with Savvy Authors and a Mighty Agent I am friendly with. She made all kinds of delectable treats. And this is where A.J. said she had to use the facilities, and ended up in the Coach store, caught red-handed, lassie! </span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRtWRX23D9ENgmjq-q22a9nDqO_BkezKOR0rtwA17uu_h5LKIgwS-Ky7cxqJdw9ntdd_TuiMEjBvzNATfd9gYgrq8Ex7ynqZZ8wXDiuED_J6yD_xmJho4JIOE3zMvoVN-G9_9bI0qnKsOk/s1600/Pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRtWRX23D9ENgmjq-q22a9nDqO_BkezKOR0rtwA17uu_h5LKIgwS-Ky7cxqJdw9ntdd_TuiMEjBvzNATfd9gYgrq8Ex7ynqZZ8wXDiuED_J6yD_xmJho4JIOE3zMvoVN-G9_9bI0qnKsOk/s200/Pizza.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 210px;" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjorehfe-diFKGok5EM2s3gRAXg0ipfBzl89wLJOjYCYBv23NaZF9RvC9d0jc8tU5U5pxr7DJ9Ka0PCqVymIlQKjxWG07Qifrz78d0T-bWtpUIhnKQMrFXIRBNPuhW5PjOk7HrMW5kSznY4/s1600/LES+Pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjorehfe-diFKGok5EM2s3gRAXg0ipfBzl89wLJOjYCYBv23NaZF9RvC9d0jc8tU5U5pxr7DJ9Ka0PCqVymIlQKjxWG07Qifrz78d0T-bWtpUIhnKQMrFXIRBNPuhW5PjOk7HrMW5kSznY4/s200/LES+Pizza.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 210px;" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqwPQ0qZTksUVqWX5fjXjnWBKIUnj0Ej_ow2BfUpxvOh9V8BkmgFIY0M3dgvMVktXeYFWOyFp0ndZeDSCxHDLT9yQ9Bmg9slEEJJrIoeSZlfOHhFNwJHnvOcjbUucjbUfdLwG5JoBeboYm/s1600/MW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqwPQ0qZTksUVqWX5fjXjnWBKIUnj0Ej_ow2BfUpxvOh9V8BkmgFIY0M3dgvMVktXeYFWOyFp0ndZeDSCxHDLT9yQ9Bmg9slEEJJrIoeSZlfOHhFNwJHnvOcjbUucjbUfdLwG5JoBeboYm/s200/MW.jpg" style="height: 190px; width: 160px;" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflmeSSd_bStv0daV0qIPjf7vTV9aVAj1adT5vvF5V50NgJBiGqWuqZtFZ-D8xzfoE7YXm2J_ew49fzObHj5vCQfhKIjEmnONtZvECLOHbPI0BEl6Kn1MdFKcD_3fzuFPxI7ssSHhDZfla/s1600/MH.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflmeSSd_bStv0daV0qIPjf7vTV9aVAj1adT5vvF5V50NgJBiGqWuqZtFZ-D8xzfoE7YXm2J_ew49fzObHj5vCQfhKIjEmnONtZvECLOHbPI0BEl6Kn1MdFKcD_3fzuFPxI7ssSHhDZfla/s200/MH.jpg" style="height: 150px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisaUFDB1csV6v_zw9STGlX4XSG8E4fuqxbTPIcrWNDpsWStcD4xzSkAIX99saKhsHQpY-Y1kGZlEkHcOnNYdYa0GRUqx36pAabX4ZsqUBnC_BXyBg9R59fff-I8RUSxVdu0gWNl4oJNwNB/s1600/PR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisaUFDB1csV6v_zw9STGlX4XSG8E4fuqxbTPIcrWNDpsWStcD4xzSkAIX99saKhsHQpY-Y1kGZlEkHcOnNYdYa0GRUqx36pAabX4ZsqUBnC_BXyBg9R59fff-I8RUSxVdu0gWNl4oJNwNB/s200/PR.jpg" style="height: 190px; width: 160px;" /></span></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anywho, did we have fun? Hells yes. Would we do it again? Hells no. RWA Nationals is not for us. But that's not to say its not for YOU! </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We're stalking the internets as you read this for Writing Conferences that encompass all genres of fiction. Conferences that give the writer one on one time with agents and editors in workshops, not panels, set in smaller numbers than the estimated 2,200 authors at Nationals. Do your research, we did, and we are amazed at what is out there. That, will be yet another tale to tell. </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://motherblogger.net/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/keep-calm-green-and-yellow-poster-small_medium.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://motherblogger.net/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/keep-calm-green-and-yellow-poster-small_medium.jpg" width="136" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">RWA Conference: 525.00</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Awards Dinner Ticket: 65.00</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Airfare: 350.00</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Coach Purse: 350.00</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having a MasterCard accepted at the Left Over Hotel?</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Priceless ...</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-52515540550858953062011-06-30T06:00:00.006-04:002011-06-30T06:00:05.827-04:00Fireworks Over Toccoa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXFCol13sr3swg_H_fR0LF9AU9K-tag_eAtDk6SQnvh3czQflWCDMwx1Evwt_P7TpYhvzlyr4YvriomrqCJiTVU4Oge1EUDYzt98rMwKySfnUV-vrK59hWG1D3dRUUK1UYJjCnlR1Pac7/s1600/fireworks-over-toccoa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXFCol13sr3swg_H_fR0LF9AU9K-tag_eAtDk6SQnvh3czQflWCDMwx1Evwt_P7TpYhvzlyr4YvriomrqCJiTVU4Oge1EUDYzt98rMwKySfnUV-vrK59hWG1D3dRUUK1UYJjCnlR1Pac7/s320/fireworks-over-toccoa.jpg" width="236" /></a></div>Sometimes you pick a book and sometimes a book picks you. This has been happening to me a lot lately. <br />
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I mean, just look at this cover. A beautiful starlit sky. A beautiful couple dancing. The slight smile on the man's face, the gentleness in which he seems to hold her hand, how his palm presses against her back- keeping her close. Can't you feel rustle of their hair, the heat of their cheeks touching... I can.<br />
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And that's just the cover. Jeffrey Stepakoff's words reached out from the page and held me fast, each passage captured my heart, and left me profoundly changed. This love story, and the true story that inspired it all, will remind you that everything <em>does</em> happen for a reason. That who we are today is the culmination of all the paths we've embarked upon and those who journeyed along with us. <br />
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<em>Every so often a story comes along that reminds us of what it’s like to experience love for the first time – against the odds, when you least expect it, and with such passion that it completely changes you forever.</em><br />
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<em>Lily Davis Woodward was married for just days before her husband was sent abroad to fight in WWII. Now, he and the other soldiers are returning, and the small town of Toccoa, Georgia plans a big celebration. Jake Russo, a handsome Italian immigrant, also back from the war, is responsible for the elaborate fireworks display the town commissioned. After a chance encounter on a starlit field, he steals Lily’s heart and soul- and fulfills her in ways her socially minded, uper class family cannot. Torn between duty to society and her husband- and the poor, passionate man who might be her only true love- Lily must choose between a love she never knew and a commitment she'd already made.</em><br />
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<em>Poignant and elegant, Fireworks Over Toccoa is a mosaic of all the emotions that only love can make possible...</em><br />
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Jeffrey had me at World War II and a love story. Throw in fireworks and 4th of July and I was sold. See, me and the hubby's anniversary is the 4th of July so the holiday and the thought of brightly colored skies makes my heart go pitter-patter. <br />
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Emily Giffin, Bestselling Author of <em>Love The One You’re With</em>, even praised this heartfelt story, “A luminous love story that readers won’t soon forget, <em>Fireworks Over Toccoa</em> transports you to another time and place. It is at once heartbreaking and triumphant—an affirmation of love in all its forms.”<br />
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The book opens with a couple of boys playing near a resovoir. They find something in the murky waters that has not seen the light of day for decades. When the historical society displays the artifact in the local paper, the original owner cannot believe its resurfaced after all these years. It brings forth a rush of memories that cannot be contained. An elderly Lily sets off with her granddaughter Colleen, to reclaim what is rightfully hers. A granddaughter she believes is about to marry the wrong man. Along the way she can only hope to show Colleen that there is no such thing as the perfect man or perfect life. Lily hopes that by sharing her past Colleen will make the right choice for her future. <br />
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The passage below is after Lily meets Jake in the field where he is setting up the fireworks display. Lily sees a burst of color in the sky and gets out of her car to investigate. She walks, unknowingly, to where Jake is testing the fireworks. He rushes to her, pushes her to the ground and covers her from an explosion. After he helps clean a wound on her knee he realizes he doesn't want her to go. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i43.tower.com/images/mm117186970/fireworks-over-toccoa-jeffrey-stepakoff-paperback-cover-art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" i$="true" src="http://i43.tower.com/images/mm117186970/fireworks-over-toccoa-jeffrey-stepakoff-paperback-cover-art.jpg" /></a></div><em>Jake realized that Lily was shaking her head. "You okay?" he said.</em><br />
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<em>"I'm just remembering, I've got a trunk full of ice cream and butter."</em><br />
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<em>"In this heat?"</em><br />
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<em>Lily realized her groceries were probably ruined. "I'm not usually like this. Really. I don't know what's wrong with me today."</em><br />
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<em>Jake laughed. Incerasingly certain that he was seeing a part of this young woman that very few ever saw. A part she kept carefully hidden, maybe even from herself. And he liked it. He liked it a lot. </em><br />
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<em>Jake had learned during his time at war that there are moments in one's life, critical moments, small moments, passing flutters of a second, in which decisions are made and actions taken, perhaps the slightest of offers extended, that the time on the surface seems simple and transparent but upon consideration or reflection are proven to be instants that can change the course of everything. </em><br />
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<em>As she stood there in her sandals in that field, smiling comfortably at him, an evening breeze kicking up, tossing her hair, rippling her dress, the feel of the skin of her leg rooted in his mind like a lovely haunting melody, growing louder and more resolute each time he tried to forget it, on a level that he was not wholly aware of at the time, this was one of those moments. It could have ended there, Jake knew. There was nothing else between them, and the last thing he needed was a complication. He was decidedly avoiding such things in his life. That was one of the main reasons he was here after all. </em>Say goodbye, wish her well, do the show, and move on to the next town, <em>he told his conscious self. </em><br />
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<em>But after several years living by his gut, literally surviving on what it directed him to do, he once again found himself acting on that core instinct. "Would you like to stay for dinner?" he asked. "I don't have much. But there's some risotto, and I'm not entirely bad with my little camp stove. And I suppose we could have ice cream soup for dessert."</em><br />
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<em>Lily was a little taken back by the offer. But she continued standing there. "You saved my life, you bandage my knee, I can't have you feed me, too. The Ladies Auxiliary will throw me out of Toccoa for being such a poor southern hostess."</em><br />
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<em>"So, we won't tell them."</em><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://img2.imagesbn.com/images/66310000/66316611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" i$="true" src="http://img2.imagesbn.com/images/66310000/66316611.JPG" /></a></div><em>How long had it been since she'd been invited to dinner, to anything, by someone besides her parents or someone who was connected to her parents? Dinner. More time with this man. Yes. That was exactly what she wanted. Was it okay? Was it proper? Was it right? She didn't know. But she was in the middle of a grassy field and the sun was going down and Jake Russo had been nothing but nice and kind and interesting, and all she knew for sure was that she wanted more. And that, that certainly felt right. </em><br />
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<em>"I can stay."</em><br />
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Later, Jake opens up to Lily about his experience over seas and in battle. <br />
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<em>For the first time, Lily got a glimpse into what Jake Russo had been through, what hurt him so deeply and caused him to wander cross-country without home or community. More than anything she wanted to soothe that pain, kiss away the anguish, but she dare not approach that place. She dare not battle an apparition she could not see or touch or know. So she remained silent and let instinct take over once again, running her hands through his hair. He liked that. His body was so responsive to her touch, so sensual. Could you love someone you'd known for barely one day? What if you felt that you'd known that person your whole life, even though you just met him?</em><br />
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<em>"You can share anything with me, Jake. Even, that," she said as gently as a person could. </em><br />
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<em>Jake inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. What could he say to her? </em>I am sharing everything with you, <em>he thought. </em>Every time my chest expands with breath against yours, every time my heart beats in tempo with yours, I am sharing everything. <em>How could he make her understand? He opened his eyes. "You asked me when we had dinner in the field if I had changed," he said. "What I've come to believe is that you have to cherish...this, the present. Life and death...it's a matter of breath, a heartbeat...a single footstep." He thought about Lorena, who had stepped on a mine in her vineyard, and he held Lily even tighter thinking about the simple timing of things. He had seen so much that was arbitrary- things you couldn't make sense of, let alone try to explain with words. He held her even tighter and tried to convey these thoughts with the stroke of his hands, the pound of his pulse, tried to pass them through his touch. "This, the here and the now, Lily, this is what you count on."</em><br />
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Oh sigh and super duper knee jerking sigh. Want to know how it ends? You'll need to buy the book for that. I've already read Jeffrey's second novel, <em>The Orchard,</em> and am reviewing it over at Heroes and Heartbreakers. Another must read love story by this amazing author. <br />
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Here's a little background on this master of words. His bio had me worshipping at the altars of literature, screaming, "I'm not worthy.. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHLB5jYKbyLTwjfR048kHfgGoSfyeyHcyIjpsDwr3YLLdDj_k_PtKBcKOCBrKVVDn7G9uV1Loq8Njcfcl1OBKZ2XzEPOfYOyjoYV3xNhLW2HbdRJoVIgKY7ausj-4oW4NNEiTupAJGo5m/s1600/step_headshot.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: left; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHLB5jYKbyLTwjfR048kHfgGoSfyeyHcyIjpsDwr3YLLdDj_k_PtKBcKOCBrKVVDn7G9uV1Loq8Njcfcl1OBKZ2XzEPOfYOyjoYV3xNhLW2HbdRJoVIgKY7ausj-4oW4NNEiTupAJGo5m/s1600/step_headshot.png" /></a></div>Jeffrey Stepakoff was raised in Atlanta, Georgia. He attended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill where he received a BA in Journalism. In 1988, the day after getting his MFA in Playwriting from Carnegie Mellon, he drove to Hollywood where he began writing for film and television.<br />
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Jeffrey has “written by” or “story by” credits on thirty-six television episodes, has written for fourteen different series and has worked on seven primetime staffs, producing hundreds of hours of internationally-recognized television, including the Emmy-winning THE WONDER YEARS, SISTERS, WILD CARD, HYPERION BAY, THE MAGIC SCHOOL, C16: FBI, ROBIN’S HOODS, LAND’S END, FLIPPER, SONS & DAUGHTERS, MAJOR DAD, THE YAKOV SMIRNOFF SHOW, BEAUTY & THE BEAST, HAVE FAITH, SIMON& SIMON, and DAWSON’S CREEK where he was Co-Executive Producer.<br />
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Stepakoff has also created and developed pilots for many of the major studios and networks, including 20th Century, Paramount, MTM, Fox and ABC. And he has developed and written major motion pictures, including Disney’s TARZAN and BROTHER BEAR, and EM Entertainment’s LAPITCH, THE LITTLE SHOEMAKER, Croatia’s selection for the 1998 Academy Awards.<br />
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A few years ago, Stepakoff returned to Atlanta, where he lives with his wife and three young children, and began writing fiction. FIREWORKS OVER TOCCOA is his first novel. Presently, he speaks around the country, teaches dramatic writing at Kennesaw State University, and is hard at work on his second novel for St. Martin’s Press. In his spare time, he builds forts in living room with sofa cushions. <br />
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You can read excerpts of both <em>Fireworks Over Toccoa</em> and <em>The Orchard</em> at <a href="http://jeffreystepakoff.com/">http://jeffreystepakoff.com/</a><br />
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Happy Birthday Jeff!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-29390224006443474512011-06-13T09:05:00.003-04:002011-06-13T09:12:38.060-04:00Beautiful Disaster is a Beautiful Must Read!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie4ItFXfTfJXYYvRwLgmztsHYCLRWI8Z5oK0dA9dlDg_BjwbhXFsaD6n67gTw6n9HHJuWB1G8EXZd0sX4TMt7RKq-FKAKImXTL1l7_B08DFmUF8Ln58hAj4hNtO7KvAkh8U5FETrMOd82s/s1600/bd.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie4ItFXfTfJXYYvRwLgmztsHYCLRWI8Z5oK0dA9dlDg_BjwbhXFsaD6n67gTw6n9HHJuWB1G8EXZd0sX4TMt7RKq-FKAKImXTL1l7_B08DFmUF8Ln58hAj4hNtO7KvAkh8U5FETrMOd82s/s200/bd.bmp" width="128" /></a> <a href="http://lauraspinella.net/" target="_blank">Laura Spinella's</a> BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, haunted me as I perused the bookshelves. The cover pulled me in and I wanted to read it, no, needed to read it. But my hands were full and I couldn't spend a penny more. Sigh, I hate when that happens. The solitary man on a that road surrounded by lush greenery kept staring at me, and it kept me there for a few beats. I finally put it down and resigned to come back the following week for it. Well, I was back looking for a gift two days later. Low and behold the book was staring at me again, not in its right place, just randomly in a spot where I'd be. 'Twas a sign. I bought said book and started reading on the train ride home from work. </div><br />
I COULD NOT STOP READING! I devoured this amazing story in two days. Flynn and Mia will capture your heart. You will need to know what happens, how did they get to this place and how it will all end. I sensed every move Flynn made, his persona, how he saw the world. Mia's vulnerabilities, her weaknesses, and the eventual strength she gained mirrored much of what many young women go through during those years of self exploration, years of loving only one man. The sacrifices Flynn made touched my heart and have stayed with me, coming back to my mind when I least expect it. When I finally finished it, I crushed it to my chest with a weighty SIGH, and so did not want it to end. <br />
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Here is a blurb from Laura's website:<br />
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Mia Wells is poised to finalize the deal that will make her eco-friendly career goals a reality. The moment is interrupted when an unexpected phone call ushers in a tremulous past. The man she’s always loved, the one who abandoned her years before, has mysteriously resurfaced. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoqVCkjO0_9bCKAqNyl3eTRnLG44i0sRP-X87LsAx8hm6aj5dmjE9C2wRCC07KIjNAf8drefadD44aqkX-yrRRQJM4IDXyEM2FHNcwkbfWLXSfagHTj_4qxVRXUU2jNITKkmQseApaB7HF/s1600/angleshot+BD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoqVCkjO0_9bCKAqNyl3eTRnLG44i0sRP-X87LsAx8hm6aj5dmjE9C2wRCC07KIjNAf8drefadD44aqkX-yrRRQJM4IDXyEM2FHNcwkbfWLXSfagHTj_4qxVRXUU2jNITKkmQseApaB7HF/s200/angleshot+BD.jpg" width="200" /></a>Set in the Deep South amid magnolia leaves and the innocence of college life, <strong><em>Beautiful Disaster</em></strong> begins with Flynn’s arrival. He’s a man with a doubtful past, half a name, and no ties to anything earthbound, except Mia. For a year they have the kind of love affair a man like him inspires. Mia trusts him with her life. It’s a precarious leap of faith when she learns that he’s a fugitive on the run. For the next twelve years she keeps his secrets, long after Flynn vanishes, devastating her. Succumbing to the common sense she once defied, Mia eventually marries. Michael Wells is a wonderful man: patient, successful, driven. She does love him; who wouldn’t? Never anticipating Flynn’s return, Mia does her best to put the past behind her. It’s a bittersweet truth as she must admit to a love and a passion that has never died. Yet, the future is grim as a gravely injured Flynn lingers, his dark past hovering like a storm. When he finally recovers, the puzzle unfolds. Flynn’s recollections are sketchy, piecing together the years and moments leading up to his accident. A smart man for whom honor has been a nemesis, Flynn unravels the truth: one well meaning lie has altered three lives, creating futures that should have never been. As the past and present reconcile, Mia’s <em>what ifs </em>are endless. Filled with sweetness and suspense, <strong><em>Beautiful Disaster</em></strong> is an achingly powerful tale—the kind of love story each of us wishes was ours to tell.<br />
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</div>They way Spinella immerses you into Mia and Flynn's world is seamless. There were moments where I could feel the stubble on Flynn's face, the sweat dripping down his back or the wind combing its fingers through Mia's hair. <br />
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</div>This passage here, simply made the air freeze in my lungs. Mia and Flynn have just met and Mia is re-thinking her decision to ride on a motorcycle alone with a stranger back to his hotel room. <br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">"Would you like to search it?" he asked, making contact with her stark eyes, tipping the bag in her direction. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">"Search it?"</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">"Yeah, are we having a language problem again?"</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">"Language...Oh, I...No, I don't want to search it." <em>Yes, I do, but that would be rude.</em> "Besides, you were a Marine, right? You can probably hurt somebody just as easily with your bare hands."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">The remark was intended to ease the tension, but his face went dark and distant. With a glare of agitation, far different from the one he'd used with the desk clerk, Flynn came toward her. Mia's breath halted halfway between in and out, making it impossible to speak...or scream. His hands hit with a thud against the knotty paneling on either side of her head. Escaping through a solid wall seemed more likely than getting past him. She was trapped. It appeared the train wreck was imminent. Soft blue eyes turned steely as they met with hers, and she blinked hard at him. But the sound of his voice was quiet and sure. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">"I would never <em>ever </em>hurt another human being like that. Know this much." His hands dropped from the wall, and he sulked across the room, picking up his drink. He stood with his back to her, finally speaking over his shoulder. "If you're ready, which I'm sure you are, I'll take you home now."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Mia peeled herself from the wall and tried to speak, but nothing would come. Instead she walked over and lightly pressed her palm to his broad back. His body grew rigid as her hand made contact and his head snapped to attention. "Flynn...I'm sorry about whatever happened to...Well, I'm sorry."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">This time the shaky breath was his. As he turned, his fingers reached up and traced the outline of her cheekbone. His hands, they were the opposite of her skin, uncared for and rough. But his touch was gentle, like butterfly wings, and oddly Mia found herself at ease. <em>What is that? In his face, his eyes, something I can see...but don't understand. </em>Something completely removed from her average existence. Mia fought a rush of involuntary tears- relief evidently he wasn't going to kill her, compassion for what she saw in his face. He started to say something. Mia leaned in, poised to listen, but instead found herself drawn into a long, sensuous kiss, and her average existence was over.</span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="color: #274e13;">***</span></div><br />
Soul crushing sigh! Now, can you see why I had to go back and relive this moment again? <br />
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I had the distinct pleasure of having Laura Spinella answer some questions for our little blog. I hope you enjoy her reflections and I hope you rush out and pick up a copy of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Beautiful-Disaster-Laura-Spinella/dp/0425238601"target="_blank">BEAUTIFUL DISASTER</a>. <br />
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Author Interview with Laura Spinella:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHzmvl6qWQPGslIUFL1VNvijnKwY4rNSxxYaB0eEwUKAqj9VWICTtnjogY5TDkEGDXnZ-voUSgRWKXmVrtXCTiSYGlVT_ka46AeQCwJvt6O277ApWNf0T34zGz6-LMwH6dfLVdRoL5E7Ol/s1600/Spinella_23+C+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHzmvl6qWQPGslIUFL1VNvijnKwY4rNSxxYaB0eEwUKAqj9VWICTtnjogY5TDkEGDXnZ-voUSgRWKXmVrtXCTiSYGlVT_ka46AeQCwJvt6O277ApWNf0T34zGz6-LMwH6dfLVdRoL5E7Ol/s1600/Spinella_23+C+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHzmvl6qWQPGslIUFL1VNvijnKwY4rNSxxYaB0eEwUKAqj9VWICTtnjogY5TDkEGDXnZ-voUSgRWKXmVrtXCTiSYGlVT_ka46AeQCwJvt6O277ApWNf0T34zGz6-LMwH6dfLVdRoL5E7Ol/s200/Spinella_23+C+copy.jpg" width="159" /></a>This is your debut novel. Diane Chamberlain gives an amazing endorsement of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beautiful Disaster </i>on the book’s cover, “Can this really be a debut novel? Laura Spinella weaves the past into the present with a sure hand as she tests the boundary between love and obsession.” I must agree, the transitions are seamless and the prose is a heart pounding, edge of your seat ride that left me with a chest crushing sigh when finished. So, it’s not really a question, just a shameless gush of praise. <br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><span style="color: #548dd4;">Well, that was easy enough! It’s an absolute thrill to have the awesome, incredible, fabulous Diane Chamberlain’s stamp of approval on BEAUTIFUL DISASTER’S cover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s an honor. </span><br />
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Did you have any other completed novels before BD or is this not only your debut novel but your first novel ever written. (Be warned, if this is the first book you ever wrote I will <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grrr</i> with jealousy at your frawesomeness.)<br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">No <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grring</i> necessary! Technically, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER is the second of five novels I’ve written. I wrote the rough draft in six weeks, but it took six years to see it on bookstore shelves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In between revisions, it spent a lot of time in a desk drawer, contemplating the error of its pages! There was nothing easy or quick about it, and it’s far from perfect. (Though I will say that I think it’s an entertaining read!)</span><br />
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<em>Yes, it is certainly entertaining, and IMO, perfect!</em> <br />
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What was the journey like for you from first drafts, to the query stage, to the big sale, to the final edits, and to publication at last? (How long did it take you to write, how many queries did you send, how long did it take your agent to sell, yada.)<br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">I answered a little of that in question two, so I’ll start from BD’s resurrection from desk drawer hell. I’d queried Susan Ginsburg at Writers House regarding a different manuscript. She rejected the book, but did write me a lovely letter complimenting my writing. It was enough to make me say, “Well, if you kind of liked that, maybe you’ll really like this.” That was BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. She did, but she also rejected it. I took one more chance and asked what she might change if she was representing the novel. She was very gracious and offered me a roadmap to what the ms lacked. The roadmap led to a treasure trove of ideas. A year later, I sent her a revised version. A few months after that, she sold it. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<em>Wow, persistence, hard work, and a little patience really paid off. You're someone many aspiring authors, like myself, can look up to.</em> <br />
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Laura, the cover of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beautiful Disaster</i> is what drew my attention. Did you have any input on it? And what did it feel like to hold it in your hands? (I am living vicariously through you with these questions, btw.)<br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">LOL, I hope I don’t disappoint. Sometimes I think I’m a writer b/c my characters are so much better at living life than I am! My only input was that I didn’t want stock art, the close up images of people and body parts that often depict the cover of women’s fiction novels. That didn’t seem right for BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Berkley</st1:place></st1:city> contracted an outside artist, Richard Tuschman, to design the cover. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After reading one chapter and a suggestion from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Berkley</st1:place></st1:city>’s art director, Rita Frangie Batour, that a romantic rural Southern road might be the way to go, he came up with what you see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think he did a phenomenal job! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As for the, “hold it your hands,” part, it’s probably not the answer you’d expect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The physical book didn’t have that much impact, which, I realize, is an odd response.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t see it as a giving birth moment, like when they hand you that baby in the hospital. To be honest, this took way longer and required a great deal more effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s more like when I look at my smart, accomplished, vivacious 22-year old daughter and think, “Oh, I had a big hand in that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does that make sense?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<em>Yes, it does. But this girl will be squeeing from the rooftops if her work ever sees print. But, I digress. </em><br />
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Did someone or something from your past spark the initial idea for this story? Was it the bad boy from your college days? A roommate’s personal experience? A local news story? Do tell. I need to know the inspiration for Flynn. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIceeE2ZPm_oPNUtlEVvjhrPAnAeb2NIxt9h08UDlOtXTiHAhSSgakSY6wG2frcIdOUwZ7bB0LY5AWha33fh1DIOFV9CFGlZrzHzsrwnxzQ8BbAY7bXofaVEs1ePRRW8pPm-dmHtIPoNsk/s1600/signing+BD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIceeE2ZPm_oPNUtlEVvjhrPAnAeb2NIxt9h08UDlOtXTiHAhSSgakSY6wG2frcIdOUwZ7bB0LY5AWha33fh1DIOFV9CFGlZrzHzsrwnxzQ8BbAY7bXofaVEs1ePRRW8pPm-dmHtIPoNsk/s200/signing+BD.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="color: #548dd4;">You mean, was there a Flynn? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I probably get that question more than any other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It does make me feel like a job well done, that he’s had that much effect on readers. So, I guess he’s as real as he needs to be! <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Athens</st1:city>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Georgia</st1:country-region></st1:place>, however, was a huge hands-on inspiration. It’s such a muse-like place, anything can happen there. It was a terrific canvas for a character like Flynn. When I visit <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Athens</st1:place></st1:city> now (my other daughter goes to school there) I find myself glancing down the street, half expecting to see him. Funny you should ask about the roommate. My still BFF and roommate from UGA did go to medical school… not unlike Mia’s BFF, Roxanne!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That said, you couldn’t find a similarity between her and Roxanne under a microscope, pure coincidence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People comment on it sometimes, and we laugh about it a lot. </span><br />
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<em>Funny, I see Flynn every time I see a motorcycle....</em><br />
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The love scenes are so sexy, loving, tender and far from cliché. Was it hard to put yourself in the mind set of a young college girl head over heels in love? <br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">Thank you and no. My opinion about love scenes: conversation (dialogue) is a desperately overlooked component when writing one. Sure, the sex is… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">there</i> in BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, but it’s the conversation, the verbalized emotion, between Mia and Flynn that draws you in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Body parts are just the mechanics. </span><br />
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<em>How true. </em><br />
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Did you ever go for a motorcycle ride with a sexy stranger? If yes, details please.<br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">My Uncle Billy took me for a motorcycle ride when I was eight. See, I told you I’d disappoint. Actually, my brother-in-law is a bike enthusiast and I drained his brain for insight. But I never did go for a ride. Honestly, there are days when I regret the biker aspect of the book. Flynn is so much more than that, and the motorcycle was literally meant to be a vehicle. But I get it. Flynn turning up in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Athens</st1:place></st1:city> in a Volkswagen doesn’t have the same impact. </span><br />
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<em>A little disappointed. Uncle Billy doesn't sound as sexy as Flynn. (Sorry Uncle Billy.) And you're right. Flynn pulling up in a VW is definitely not the same!</em><br />
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Did you have to do much research on motorcycle accidents, ICUs, or the military for certain aspects of the book? Did you have first hand experiences with any of these topics?<br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">Actually, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER required a lot of research. I interviewed an ICU nurse who answered all my medical questions. The day I visited, there just happened to be a patient in a coma, the result of a motorcycle accident. Observing him was powerful insight. I also interviewed an ex-special ops marine. I learned enough to piece together Flynn’s background and make it realistic. Even the fight scene at the concert was choreographed. My son’s Taekwondo instructor and his partner worked it all out for me; I sat on the floor and took notes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some readers have commented that I must be into eco-friendly design, like Mia. That makes me chuckle. I didn’t know the first thing about holistic design. I found an expert via the internet and she provided all the necessary details. It’s been my experience that people are happy to share their area of expertise. I’m very grateful for all the people who advised me; each one is thanked on the acknowledgement page. </span><br />
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<em>I can just see you on a the floor taking notes, while watching guys duke it out. Pretty cool.</em> <br />
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As a writer, what motivated you while writing? Certain songs, a room, time of day, etc. <br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">BEAUTIFUL DISASTER definitely has its own playlist, but I’d never listen to it while writing. I’m a dead silence writer. If the neighbor’s dog barks, it drives me nuts. I do like to write in my sunroom, which can also be problematic if it’s too sunny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d probably write just fine in cement walled solitary confinement. Writing for me tends to be more of a compulsion, therein lies the motivation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<em>Continue using the same method from when writing BD, worked wonders! LOL.</em> <br />
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Any advice on aspiring authors like myself with the passion to tell a story? <br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">If you have a passion to tell a story then I think you’re halfway there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But to answer your question, I think Anne Lamott said it best, (and I’m paraphrasing) “Publication will not make you more confident or more beautiful, and it probably won’t make you any richer.” Unless you’re incredibly successful, the rewards do not outweigh the effort and risk—at least not in my small experience. If you’re willing to accept that and do it anyway—well, that might be the other half. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, if you happen to come across someone who knows what they’re talking about and loves your writing, politely sink your teeth in.</span><br />
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<em>My critique partner, AJ, her nickname is JAWS. She'll love that last bit about sinking her teeth into someone. I'll need to remind her not to literally bite anyone, though.</em> <br />
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Fun stuff: If you could have a superpower what would it be and what would you call yourself? <br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">As a kid, I was a huge Bewitched fan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved how everything could be solved with the twitch of a nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems like a streamline solution to so many things!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As for the power, I’d have to say the ability to teleport one’s self. I could have breakfast in Bali, stop in <st1:city w:st="on">Athens</st1:city> for lunch with my daughter, and pop over to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Paris</st1:place></st1:city> for dinner. What would I call myself?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clearly, I’d call myself to my next meal.</span><br />
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<em>I am the Time-Stopper. Who wouldn't want to his snooze, freeze time, wake whenever they wanted, and still be punctual.</em> <br />
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If you could be any fictional character from a novel, television show, or movie who would it be and why?<br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">Oh my, these are getting harder!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m such an observational reader, I don’t know that I envision myself anybody’s book—including my own! I really enjoy the sideline view. The only television show I’ve watched in recent years is Gilmore Girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My daughters and I, we’re completely obsessed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At five o’clock everything stops, and we watch the nightly rerun on the Family Channel. (I know, it’s a far cry from Flynn and Mia’s more sultry moments) I don’t know that I’d want to be in it, but I would have loved to be on the writing staff—such snappy, witty, brilliant dialogue!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<em>I'd be Bridget Jones. That girl has all the fun! Or, thinking, I'd be Mia to get me some Flynn. Yup, definitely Mia. ;)</em><br />
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What was the first book you ever read that made you say, “I want to do this, I want to be a writer”<br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">Hmm, for that you have to go all the way back to Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Little House series.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I completely loved them as a kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were probably more influential than I realize. But I don’t think any one book or author gave me that, “I want to be a writer,” moment. I think it’s just who I am—like being left handed or having the ability to sing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That and if you’d seen my math SAT score, you’d understand why I had to find an alternate occupation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<em>I loved those books and remembered reading the first one! I took idiot Math in college. Yes, I agree, if you are a writer its in your blood.</em> <br />
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What’s next for Laura Spinella, what tales can we expect to submerge ourselves in? <br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4;">THE IT FACTOR: Aidan Royce, rock icon, has it all, money, fame, and an incredible life. The one thing he doesn’t have is Isabel Lang, the girl who left him on their wedding night in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Las Vegas</st1:place></st1:city>. Fate brought together a spitfire Jersey Girl and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Catswallow</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Alabama</st1:state></st1:place>’s own Conrad Birdie. Circumstance drove them apart. Seven years later, Isabel works at <i>98.6—The <st1:place w:st="on">Normal</st1:place> FM for Easy Listening</i>. It’s a classic AM format with a touch of irony; it’s a world away from Aidan’s rock-n-roll life. When the station is bought out, demanding a huge promotional event, the always independent Isabel has no choice but to contact Aidan. He’s the boy she loved, the one she left to keep him out of jail and to secure his amazing future. </span><span style="color: #548dd4;">The book lends itself to the same past/present rhythm as BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, still very passionate, but very a different story and characters.</span><br />
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<em>Can I read that now, please??</em><br />
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Thank you Laura for taking the time to be with us. I look forward to reading THE IT FACTOR and until then, going back and hanging out with Mia and Flynn. :)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-44470148938788684172011-06-09T21:11:00.000-04:002011-06-09T21:11:24.146-04:00AJ's New Business Cards<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMCionlrPG-K5kPMF2oonu5hr6rne3aw3TiAAay2rQb2mlzP603b_w7p2qiOhd9UxYy1Ot64JXsjIU2ddIO7_zBXETE-07skT1DVEkp3fjSZyAa5VrcUTUllvCZQj8YHvP1W05GcdU0zRZ/s1600/AJ+Card+Front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMCionlrPG-K5kPMF2oonu5hr6rne3aw3TiAAay2rQb2mlzP603b_w7p2qiOhd9UxYy1Ot64JXsjIU2ddIO7_zBXETE-07skT1DVEkp3fjSZyAa5VrcUTUllvCZQj8YHvP1W05GcdU0zRZ/s400/AJ+Card+Front.jpg" t8="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__SEK4yLz4LUalNjsdAcVjlLI7XlOXADa1JniTLDVpDMNO-bpUWyQEpXhnYALfth7i_lDVZwXmHgSTq0qaojzHuTUxdLLg9i8FFI0yBtD0V-WIZzSEtwP_qUst0PK0EdTEyrEkdHX5Pqs/s1600/Aj+Card+Back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__SEK4yLz4LUalNjsdAcVjlLI7XlOXADa1JniTLDVpDMNO-bpUWyQEpXhnYALfth7i_lDVZwXmHgSTq0qaojzHuTUxdLLg9i8FFI0yBtD0V-WIZzSEtwP_qUst0PK0EdTEyrEkdHX5Pqs/s400/Aj+Card+Back.jpg" t8="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-10268547320472143482011-06-08T22:14:00.000-04:002011-06-08T22:14:24.335-04:00My New Business Cards<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmm_Uk0Y_lCoEcFyIW4ZgweGhd0Snk6kHvOIYkHUKrLJ9rFFhyphenhyphenSUQ0SkDDvmRboEn_frY34mWTY1BOt16vuPaWT7OpQb7YRV4BcVdnjnlqukFyel0tyoo9IjcCacnU375LUWjbO8s4xlI/s1600/livepreview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmm_Uk0Y_lCoEcFyIW4ZgweGhd0Snk6kHvOIYkHUKrLJ9rFFhyphenhyphenSUQ0SkDDvmRboEn_frY34mWTY1BOt16vuPaWT7OpQb7YRV4BcVdnjnlqukFyel0tyoo9IjcCacnU375LUWjbO8s4xlI/s400/livepreview.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5tbQbKqrG-Ya2J0mC9OLsOZJcamZM9hyphenhyphenOSTDCKGWRAW0xmFG_NY7NWmthKNPhUzVLEDeCItpU-HQqRGnxHcKW-NUf-UNXzP_-EwCdW9KD6CdM1oHW52X6GsugF64oFMMIYsotGn9jO0c/s1600/livepreview+back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5tbQbKqrG-Ya2J0mC9OLsOZJcamZM9hyphenhyphenOSTDCKGWRAW0xmFG_NY7NWmthKNPhUzVLEDeCItpU-HQqRGnxHcKW-NUf-UNXzP_-EwCdW9KD6CdM1oHW52X6GsugF64oFMMIYsotGn9jO0c/s400/livepreview+back.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-40975201623646994302011-06-02T12:40:00.003-04:002011-06-02T15:07:19.768-04:00Cruelty To Innocents Blog Tour<a href="http://www.bannerfans.com/" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Powered by BannerFans.com" border="0" height="320" src="http://img862.imageshack.us/img862/1769/131067481896.jpg" width="192" /></a><br />
I used to be a James Patterson fanatic. I devoured his books. I inhaled Dan Brown, Stieg Larson, Elizabeth Kostova, and any other adrenaline rushed reads I could get my hands on. You can say I went through this Thriller/Killer phase. Then somehow I got to reading those mushy love stories and I haven't really picked up a thriller since. <br />
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A while back CK Webb chatted about her and DJ Weaver's new release, <em><a href="http://theinnocents.weebly.com/">Cruelty To Innocents</a></em>. We are FB buddies and you know how those cyber-author-friend relationships go. You chat about the writing life and strangers on the interwebz become comrades in arms. I believe in supporting fellow authors and I agreed to join this blog tour as soon as CK asked. <br />
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I won't lie-I was a bit nervous about it. It had been so long since a read the genre. But, who doesn't love a free read. The blurb alone gave me chills:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>What if you were in your car alone with your small child and you came upon an emergency scene? Would you stop to help? What if, while you are trying to assist a victim of an accident or mugging, you left your young child alone in the car, thinking he or she would be safe. What if, instead of help, the call to 911 brought a terrifying, sinister result?</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Someone’s abducting children from 911 emergency scenes in Aberdeen Maryland, while their parents call for help and lend aid to accident victims. Someone who’s also listening in, is a monster and vicious child abductor. In the midst of the chaos and confusion of the scene, that monster slips in and steals the innocent children leaving behind no trace for authorities.</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Sloanne Kelly is unprepared for what awaits in her hometown as she travels back to Maryland. Her goddaughter is one of the victims and the clock is ticking. Together with her best friend and a local fireman, Shawn Tyler, Sloanne will face the most insidious of criminals and fight to recover the children before there is anymore, Cruelty to Innocents.</em></span><br />
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The opening scene will leave you breathless, jaw dropped, and turning the page in a flash. They had me at psycho! I love when thrillers open with the bad guy. This creep is taking little kids at the scenes of 911 emergencies. The horror! *Shakes fist*<br />
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As the story progresses you not only <em>have</em> to know who the killer is and if his victims will live, but you become invested in the characters as a whole. This is not seen in many thrillers. As a former Patterson junkie I loved this approach. For me, this was a story about the characters, their lives, and how these unspeakable crimes have affected them-brought them together. I am a character driven writer so I relished every detail about Sloanne, Shawn, Skip, Chloe, Patty, Dani, and the others. As the mother of a teenage daughter I actually teared up in places, the emotion in this story is that good. <br />
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In Thrillers/Mysteries <em>and </em>in real life the act of the crime itself becomes the focus, the subject, the plot.The victims are treated as secondary characters. In <em>Cruelty To Innocents</em> it was about the victims and their loved ones. I fell in love with them all. As an aspiring writer and a detailed critique partner I could've noted the telling and passive bits but, for me, it didn't matter in the least. The story was that good. It's a fairly quick read at 162 pages and there is a major WTF moment at the end where your heart races and head shakes at the same time. I love when that happens. <br />
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You are also left hanging, I know I was. Now, I'm awaiting the next book in the 911 Abduction Series. <br />
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I have a free copy to give away. The 9th person to email me at <em>charli555 at comcast dot net </em>will be the winner! Thanks for stopping by and check out <a href="http://www.facebook.com/CKWebb73">CK Webb</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/raven555">DJ Weaver</a> on facebook, their <a href="http://webbweaver.net/">blog</a>, the <a href="http://theinnocents.weebly.com/">Cruelty To Innocent's</a> Website, CK Webb's <a href="http://twistedwebb.blogspot.com/">Book Review</a> site, and on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cruelty-Innocents-911-Abduction-ebook/dp/B0052TMF02/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=books&qid=1306680114&sr=8-1">amazon</a>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-79426389860930257672011-05-30T14:34:00.001-04:002011-06-06T11:40:35.482-04:00In Memorium<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://blog.ewm.com/files/2009/05/memorial-day-banner1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://blog.ewm.com/files/2009/05/memorial-day-banner1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
Today is Memorial Day in the good old US of A. Today we sleep in, BBQ, shop, and do things having little to do with remembrance. <br />
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Today is Memorial Day. We are supposed to remember those who have served our country, those who are currently defending this country, and those who gave their lives for our country and the freedoms we have. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://wkdzsports.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83451af2069e20133f4a17439970b-800wi" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://wkdzsports.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83451af2069e20133f4a17439970b-800wi" width="185" /></a></div>My father was in the 101st Airborne in the 60s. When I asked what he did, he told me he did his job. I learned later he was in Vietnam, Iran, and Iraq. He served his country with pride and later became a Philadelphia Police Officer. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/tescosuicide/ALa3/FrancisStraubJr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/tescosuicide/ALa3/FrancisStraubJr.jpg" /></a></div>I have friends with loved ones serving as we speak. I went to a funeral for a Philadelphia boy who was killed in action in Afghanistan, Francis Straub. I taught his sister, Dana, that year. I remember praying for him everyday with our class. I also remember holding his Mother's hand when she received the news she would not be able to view his body before burial. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.eaww.uconn.edu/images/Revolutionary%20Women/molly_pitcher.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="http://www.eaww.uconn.edu/images/Revolutionary%20Women/molly_pitcher.gif" width="320" /></a></div>I remember learning about Molly Pitcher in grade school. The brave woman of the revolutionary war who did her duty and served, regardless of the rules. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tuskegee.edu/Uploads/images/About%20Us/Airmen/airmen8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="http://www.tuskegee.edu/Uploads/images/About%20Us/Airmen/airmen8.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The Tuskegee airmen showed their country that all men, regardless of the color of their skin, can serve gallantly. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.54thmass.org/images/446_Battery_Wagner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://www.54thmass.org/images/446_Battery_Wagner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The 54th Massachusetts Regiment marched into certain death on a warm summer day. They were the first all black regiment in the civil war. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.warriorswatch.org/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/mcdonald_patrick_ofcr_killed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.warriorswatch.org/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/mcdonald_patrick_ofcr_killed.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>I also remember the men and women in blue of my great city, the City of Brotherly love, who gave their lives protecting its citizens. Sergeant Patrick McDonald was my husband's friend. It was a run of the mill traffic stop. The passenger had outstanding warrants. He did not want to go to jail that day and decided the price of freedom was Paddy's life. He shot him, then stood over him and continued to unload his weapon. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.marc-cleansweep.com/images/Skerski.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.marc-cleansweep.com/images/Skerski.jpg" width="253" /></a></div>Officer Skerski was our community relations officer. I'd seen him a few days before he was gunned down in cold blood. He'd given us his personal number to call him about problems in the neighborhood. He was working overtime the night he was killed, saving for his children's college fund. <br />
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In total 7 Philadelphia Police Officers lost their lives over a three year period. Today, I remember them all, not just the ones I knew. I remember all those who have served and hope you do too. <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/kNN7wKUGUUM" width="425"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-52587465288454499992011-05-27T20:09:00.011-04:002011-05-27T22:27:38.819-04:00Breaking Up Is Hard To Do<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJonyW-oDpArrXTypwm7BW0K_SCN_bCUpYXloJ6G2ZaH5Kl3_wSiy5OLQPXqeJOjhn9cg6BNMHabJFxSJN1zelj-Bxp7Bw611YIb5LbU05davEbAZ0WASG3mUoBt8ClBsw8k_1oESNgk/s1600/5cb7d645bcd1bc8.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: georgia;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611557614982202818" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJonyW-oDpArrXTypwm7BW0K_SCN_bCUpYXloJ6G2ZaH5Kl3_wSiy5OLQPXqeJOjhn9cg6BNMHabJFxSJN1zelj-Bxp7Bw611YIb5LbU05davEbAZ0WASG3mUoBt8ClBsw8k_1oESNgk/s320/5cb7d645bcd1bc8.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 190px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 250px;" /></a><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Divorce is hard. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes it’s messy, sometimes amicable. But never easy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No, I’m not baring my soul here, or sending out cyber tears, I’m talking about a different kind of divorce.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The kind you go through after writing, editing, and thoroughly vetting a manuscript. For months you bleed onto the page, through the written word, giving the world a little piece of your soul. And when its over ... you can't let go.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To me, my characters are REAL people. People that live in me wee noggin, but people nonetheless.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Crazy? Sure, but I've been called worse.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And while said MS is in the hands of several awesome agents, and queries are being bounced around cyber space, there are still times – almost everyday – that I think of something to add, change or edit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These are the times I pick up the phone and call 911 ... er Charli. Usually she’s doing the same</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivdjJAXsedHXZj_5v_JxhQeEwwh0B_rpiLZC977NaMioO5vvZO9_3Yzc7xOT-lWp74z_S5lKPozA8UbtrBwJzv3wUASQndnmtRVgUXgzTinLttz-9F41xiSLrmoJslGry2KhGEYq6SouE/s1600/Piny+%2526+The+Brain.jpg"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611559441548538130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivdjJAXsedHXZj_5v_JxhQeEwwh0B_rpiLZC977NaMioO5vvZO9_3Yzc7xOT-lWp74z_S5lKPozA8UbtrBwJzv3wUASQndnmtRVgUXgzTinLttz-9F41xiSLrmoJslGry2KhGEYq6SouE/s320/Piny+%2526+The+Brain.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 190px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 250px;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> thing … no, not contemplating taking over the world with me, much to your dismay.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She’s adding a wee piece of dialogue here, taking away a smidgen of a scene there. So whilst I’m hoping she’ll give me a dose of, <span style="font-style: italic;">cut it out and move on sister</span>, we chuckle and talk about the changes.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know what your thinking, daft wenches.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You’re not far off the mark, but I digress.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The characters in my next MS are secondary characters from my first MS, and though I know them – we’ve met, chilled out, had a few beers – we’re not best buds yet.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don’t know if my hero chews and talks at the same time, or whether or not he likes to bath </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">regularly – I write medieval historical’s.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not yet at that point where I can comfortably sit for hours inside their heads, as I crave to be. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m hoping this divorce settles soon.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">However, I suspect such things may continue for years, for when is a writer ever truly done?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" id="yui_3_2_0_2_130654144930492" style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</div>AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05856184020625392516noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-87736681375448291572011-05-26T16:56:00.003-04:002011-05-26T17:47:57.680-04:00The reality of being THIRTYSOMETHING<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSToLGlv84O60KqdevmkIblu0k1_37wWXjnJ-oijMpigFe3PIv3nBJLw4wPN3BhfHKYChHg8md3ZUgDykisAZBuGYyCcfGC7WgmkoAL_LCLJ1Xrc8W4V55BCqbawmNKfF_Nle6WRD21mQE/s1600/35birthdaycake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSToLGlv84O60KqdevmkIblu0k1_37wWXjnJ-oijMpigFe3PIv3nBJLw4wPN3BhfHKYChHg8md3ZUgDykisAZBuGYyCcfGC7WgmkoAL_LCLJ1Xrc8W4V55BCqbawmNKfF_Nle6WRD21mQE/s320/35birthdaycake.jpg" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I turned 35 recently. The big 3-5. The mid 30s, oh so closer to the 40 mark. I am supposed to be wiser, have found myself already, and responsibly saving for retirement. That was my goal. By this age I <em>should </em>know my real bra size, no what color <em>not</em> to dye my hair, be a morning person (one who cooks her teen breakfast every day with a smile), have my checkbook balanced, be in shape after losing all that pregnancy weight (ah-hem 13 years later), and have my home be the epitome of design and style. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUKB9zpkNr-IiUfbLaj8wOgMrwt415tp0vcORJALy301wPAzn0bfZoGhMtoldALKv2_MyQ68qat8WGPVLfwD8GZvn75iBjiH_7XQhHychyphenhyphenv4L7OQeVSwB4Rv4DtUcFMiKfjA3Hj7ZvK42/s1600/carrie+bradshaw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUKB9zpkNr-IiUfbLaj8wOgMrwt415tp0vcORJALy301wPAzn0bfZoGhMtoldALKv2_MyQ68qat8WGPVLfwD8GZvn75iBjiH_7XQhHychyphenhyphenv4L7OQeVSwB4Rv4DtUcFMiKfjA3Hj7ZvK42/s320/carrie+bradshaw.jpg" t8="true" width="248" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Yeah, um, we'll get back to that later. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Carrie Bradshaw was Thirtysomething in <em>Sex in the City</em>. That cool <em>I am woman hear me roar</em>, age. The age where you've traveled enough to be worldy, where you read the <em>New York Times</em> everyday, where you have that hipster loft downtown (like Partick & Demi's from <em>Ghost</em>), the age where your style is solidified, clothes beg to be worn by you, they fit perfectly, make your butt look awesome, and high heels are comfortable to not only wear but run in, and you have that dream career of being a Best-Selling author. The age where all you've worked for and dreamed of comes to fruition. <br />
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You know, like Carrie. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>When I was a teen, the TV Show <em>Thirtysomething</em> was all the rage. I didn't get it. Old people acting like teens and being crazy. Gross. My parents were in their 40s then, but there was no way that in their 30s they acted like these people. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaoXXg2bpMrL5Xmn4wa3E_S4hLEh3g9T1D2_-IwyZsmUdPuZr8uDw5MEqeB8URrQrCtV4qUsQY-WHSa4XWwdxkSHLggsxoV8ki258doUscMmg48E6HhQ4H1ZKQXABiurCfqAMcFTrXSQzL/s1600/30something.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaoXXg2bpMrL5Xmn4wa3E_S4hLEh3g9T1D2_-IwyZsmUdPuZr8uDw5MEqeB8URrQrCtV4qUsQY-WHSa4XWwdxkSHLggsxoV8ki258doUscMmg48E6HhQ4H1ZKQXABiurCfqAMcFTrXSQzL/s320/30something.jpg" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Years later, and being smack of the middle of my Thirtysomethings, I can only laugh at the temerity of my youth. Who at 35 has it all figured out? Why was this year going to be different for me? Why have I put so much pressure on myself? </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">All those things I listed above, yeah, I'm still working on all of that. I just figured out my bra size, I think anyway. This month I like the color I dyed my hair. Um, about that weight... yeah, um, I'm as heavy as I was when I was 9 months preggers. My style, well, I try to keep up but get lazy in my comfy chubby girl clothes. I am never going to be a morning person. My checkbook has its own sense of balancing. My home is not a trendy downtown loft and seems to be an eternal mess of DIY Construction (thanks Hubby for starting 10 projects and finishing none). High heels are not my friends. I have traveled but not to enough places to be worldy. I do not read the paper. Clothes laugh at me in the dressing room, some actually cry for me not to try them on. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Why did I think I'd magically wake up and have it all figured out? Well, I still believe in fairytales. I guess I should've known better. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfewswr8mZZ0b6XwKAWgKILVpOxYkd-qbWIDDyzA5D1nl1gTrQBtalUKRACEaXzcPnakxgUmB1aokPWls2iCe2NKcLO1vSlmotQY84p0Mgpf9QEwCN_HrPUWESDuyNubRnZYEFNsU2nnI/s1600/fallen1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfewswr8mZZ0b6XwKAWgKILVpOxYkd-qbWIDDyzA5D1nl1gTrQBtalUKRACEaXzcPnakxgUmB1aokPWls2iCe2NKcLO1vSlmotQY84p0Mgpf9QEwCN_HrPUWESDuyNubRnZYEFNsU2nnI/s400/fallen1.jpg" t8="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The days preceding my birthday I was in a grand place. My plans of having my life fall perfectly into place were moving along quite perfectly, thank you very much. The local campaign I worked on for a dear friend had all the momentum it needed. Things were more than good. I had 2 full requests. TWO! One with an agent I think is the bees-knees and the other with an fabulous editor I met at a conference. And for the first time in years I was excited to celebrate my-bday. I've had many loved ones pass away and they seem to do so the week of my birthday. My brother died two days after my 12th birthday. My Dad died five days after my 24th birthday. My friend and hubby's cousin, who was more like his brother, died three days after my 29th birthday. Yeah, you can see how a girl wouldn't want to celebrate her birthday. Life is a real BITCH, btw. Only a girl would piss all this bad luck on me.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I am not telling you all of this for a pity-party. No tissues needed or Wah-wah-wambulances needed to be called on my account. It's just the reality of me never wanting to celebrate my birthday since my brother died. I'm not crying about it, really. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ZGes7FDmHAM" width="560"></iframe></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But this year was going to be different. Turning 35 was supposed to be different. I <em>wanted</em> to celebrate being me and the <em>awesome </em>place I was in. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Yeah, let's revisit that little thing about how life likes to eternally kick me in the proverbial balls in May. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF5fqIo194VqtZNM15bjtrx4nyfb7tqka445l7GUAdaKNlwBkYryv6Fb94TEbmx3nBvz0Eal84GYMe8qnrHDwkGiMWCCX5Fc4ZGvBn68TfIj4uSuOlG2vMU-iRR1LXBQ386TQ9JKBnHhK3/s1600/david-and-goliath-girls-kick-balls-tee_gif.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF5fqIo194VqtZNM15bjtrx4nyfb7tqka445l7GUAdaKNlwBkYryv6Fb94TEbmx3nBvz0Eal84GYMe8qnrHDwkGiMWCCX5Fc4ZGvBn68TfIj4uSuOlG2vMU-iRR1LXBQ386TQ9JKBnHhK3/s320/david-and-goliath-girls-kick-balls-tee_gif.jpg" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Birthday celebration was thrwarted twice by life. Friends and family tried, they did, but it wasn't meant to be. Election day did not go in our favor. Not at all. And it was ugly, mean, and everything people hate about politics. I am grateful that my dear friend kept his hands clean and can sleep at night. Kudos to him. I got rejected by that agent. I expected as much since my novel is not exactly within the genres she represents. But we have this really great internet correspondence and I think she is full of awesomesauce. She has to be the sweetest person I have come across on this journey to publication. In this tough, cold business that says a lot. To be honest, I am lucky she even requested to read anything at all, since my mushy love stories aren't her style. Her rejection was filled with more praise than a Penecostal Church on Easter. It warmed my heart, truly (I will be posting about that very soon, btw). It just makes me nervous about the full with the editor. With the rate I am going this May, it doesn't bode well for me. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But, I <em>am</em> very happy. I am. I have a husband I love more and more everyday. He is my highschool sweetheart and this summer marks 19 years of being together. My daughter is blossoming into a young, strong, and intelligent woman, who happens to have one hell of an arm for softball and one hell of a singing voice. My two dogs are the cutest pound puppies, ever. My friends are always there and so is my family. My critique partner is the most kick-ass CP in the world. I am gainfully employed and have my health. I am truly blessed. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So happy, I just feel like whistling and singing a little Bobby McFerrin. Besides, anything with Robin Williams just cracks me up. :) </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/d-diB65scQU" width="425"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-5509249932086255342011-05-22T14:14:00.001-04:002011-05-22T14:19:34.813-04:00We Don't Do Dead People<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://blog.iwantoneofthose.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/zombie-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="http://blog.iwantoneofthose.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/zombie-large.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>Walk! Don’t Run! The Zombies are taking over our books shelves and big screens. You really can walk, zombies don’t move very fast.<br />
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Zombies flicks and books have been around forever. 700 BC’s Mesopotamian hit, The Epic of Gilgamesh is an epic poem where the Goddess Ishtar promises the undead to rise up and eat the living. You have literary giants like Poe, Mary Shelley, and King weaving tales using entrails. More recent authors like Jonathan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Maberry</span>, David Wellington, and Phillip Pullman are fresh and fleshy masters of the genre, garnering spots on many bestseller lists.<br />
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I (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Charli</span>) really can’t get into the zombie genre. Even if it’s a well written piece of prose all I will think about is when will the body parts start falling off and when will the brain eating commence.<br />
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I (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">AJ</span>) really have a phobia of Zombies. They scare the sh*t out of me. My first real taste of the brain eating ghouls was 28 Days Later ... quickly followed by every other zombie flick that my husband could get his hands on. Oh god, every time I heard a bump in the night, my overactive writers' imagination would jump into overdrive. <br />
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And why would I read a book that meddles with the perfection of Austen? My brother gave me a copy of Pride & Prejudice For Zombies. I scoffed at the notion, for a few reasons, but decided one night when I had nothing left to read, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">meh</span>, I might as well give it a try.<br />
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“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains will be in want of more brains.”<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://theronneel.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/Pride-and-Prejudice-and-Zombies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="http://theronneel.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/Pride-and-Prejudice-and-Zombies.jpg" /></a></div>Whilst Jane Austen die hard’s just might vomit from the moment they read the first line, anyone with a sense of humor will chuckle at this tongue in cheek impertinence that author Seth Grahame–Smith employed in adding a subplot of ‘unmentionables’ (zombies) to this classic Regency novel.<br />
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Whilst about 85% of the writing is done by Austen, Smith’s transitions are <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">seamless</span>, satire at its best. The plot does not deviate from that of the original Pride and Prejudice, with the exception, of course, of the added zombies.<br />
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As the story unfolds, a strange plague has stricken England; the dead are rising from the ground. Feisty heroine Elizabeth <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Bennet</span> and her sisters have been trained in the deadly arts as zombie fighters, sworn to purge the countryside of the unmentionables, however, she's distracted by the arrival of the proud and haughty, Mr. Darcy.<br />
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Smith explains, “It’s not a parody, because it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">wasn</span>’t my intention to make fun of the original. Pride And Prejudice is a brilliantly written book by a brilliant author, and all I wanted to do was give its themes and characters an absurd canvas to play out upon."<br />
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“Many of Austen’s characters are rather like zombies,” he continues. “They carry on single-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">mindedly</span> in their bubbles of immense wealth and privilege, no matter what’s going on around them. They pride (sorry again) themselves on discipline and politeness and repression and subservience. These people simply carry on with their gossip and romances and manners and balls, despite the fact that people are being gored and eaten alive.”<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JtaGsiO-tOo1Iy-G3iKMf-JHSJrG9Ky8x4qJUIrsQJY0QVm-iL9AKzw25OeEu4x1C7lGEfXr6U9EnNabes3heiEdxCG7KMsw_3U-NQXY8oSmzjkvqvhUH0jAnn0c4_lSjVtbANHvegA/s1600/zombie+couple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JtaGsiO-tOo1Iy-G3iKMf-JHSJrG9Ky8x4qJUIrsQJY0QVm-iL9AKzw25OeEu4x1C7lGEfXr6U9EnNabes3heiEdxCG7KMsw_3U-NQXY8oSmzjkvqvhUH0jAnn0c4_lSjVtbANHvegA/s320/zombie+couple.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>Now whilst there is no romantic lead ,i.e. a zombie vying for the heart of one of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Bennet</span> sisters, there are tales out there casting these <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">unmentionables</span> as leads. Seriously? We can take them being monsters and bad guys but heroes and romantic interests? GROSS! No nooky with yucky zombies! What if it falls off, you know, um, during sex? What if you swallow their tongue? Can you get VD? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Preggers</span>? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Ewww</span>. Must stop now, we’re getting nauseous.<br />
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What’s next, a Highland Epic Historical Romance about William Wallace limping around in a kilt looking for a wee <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">lil</span>’ lassie to come hither and help him put his bits back together? A Rotting Rogue seducing a brainy courtesan? We certainly hope not.<br />
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I (Charli) told AJ about a local author <a href="http://jonathanmaberry.com/">Jonathan Maberry</a>, a Bram Stoker award winner. His novel Rot & Ruin, and Patient Zero is all about the ghoulish fiends. But they remain that, monsters to be exterminated. AJ actually read them. Could not put them down. Devoured them like a zombie would brains. The lassie will be chatting it up with Maberry soon enough. <br />
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I (AJ) am terrified of the decomposing dudes. But this book below, and Rot & Ruin, were both non-stop horrifying page-turners. As horror books should be. I HATE ZOMBIES and could, not, stop, reading.... like a night crawler possessed. Zombies are not heroes or romantic leads. Yuck. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://dawnofthelead.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/patientzero.jpg?w=307&h=450" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" j8="true" src="http://dawnofthelead.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/patientzero.jpg?w=307&h=450" width="136" /></a></div>All this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">jibber</span> jabber about the ghastly ghouls reminds me (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Charli</span>) about that movie in the 90’s. The one where the dead kid comes back to get the girl and take her to prom, My Boyfriend’s Back. The only Zombie flick I could stomach. This <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">wasn</span>’t so bad but I still kept thinking about the logistics of dating a guy whose flesh can fall off at any moment. BTW, this movie totally has a hot and fresh and very alive Matthew Fox looking oh <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">soo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">friggin</span>’ foxy. Ha-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">cha</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">cha</span>. Another surprise is Matthew Fox’s villainous side-kick, a very young Phillip Seymour Hoffman. What would Capote say to that?<br />
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<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Hmm</span>, Tiffany for Breakfast could be the next <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">mashup</span>! Someone call Philip Seymour Hoffman and tell him to summon the long dead scribe and get on it. Then he can star in the film version of how a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Zombied</span> out Truman Capote rose from the dead to write his <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">latest</span> masterpiece. Not sure what grosses me (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Charli</span>) out more, a dead Capote writing such a tale or Hoffman playing a zombie Capote.<br />
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Bottom line, we don’t do dead people. Literally, in film, or by the written word. Gross!<br />
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Did you know that according to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Wikipedia</span> that Zombies are now competing with Vampires for popularity as the number paranormal entity among the masses? Imagine that as a YA book. Dead <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Vampy</span> High. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">AJ</span> may actually read that. Someone please get typing.<br />
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<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Charli</span> Mac & <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">AJ</span> Wilson<br />
Aspiring Authors & Future Rulers of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Zombiverse</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343503076555756967.post-44290079237476066972011-05-07T12:54:00.000-04:002012-08-27T14:24:26.752-04:00Don't Bring Him Home To Mama!There are some guys you should never bring home to meet your Mama. You know the types. We've read them in books, seen them on TV, and listened to their music. These characters maybe cliche' but they are real or at least could be. And could one day knock for my teenage daughter. <br />
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As the mother of a thirteen year old young woman, I am writing this from a Mama’s perspective, not an aspiring author. Consider it my checklist, my reminder as to why I have to snoop in her diary…<br />
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The Jersey Shore Situation, AKA, The Pervs:<br />
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No one wants a perv to come knocking on their door for their precious little baby. Guys like this should be sterilized for the sake of humanity. They’re gross, dirty, and only have one thing on their minds… getting in your little’s girls pants. They’re the poster boys for clinics around the world, condom ads, and may be the only hope to keep Planned Parenthood in business. The are so slimy that their shirts cannot stay on, apparently. They're a situation you don’t want to deal with. Speaking of grenades, the CDC needs to grenade their nether regions. <br />
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Chet from Weird Science, AKA, The Jerk:<br />
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We all have experienced these douche nozzles. The bully, the jerk, the guy who pushes everybody around just because he thinks he can. A few dates with this charmer and you’re daughter will end up fetching beers from the fridge and emptying ashtrays like some servant. This type of guy will usually be found scratchin’ his crotch, hitting on every woman that passes, and will be unemployed for most of his life. <br />
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Smokey, AKA, the Hood Rat:<br />
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This guy is a one way ticket to the Maury Povich show. The only suit this guy owns is a track suit. New sneakers are considered dress shoes and a white tank top is his only dress shirt. He will most likely never be filing a tax return but will have a suspicious amount of disposable income. <br />
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Howard Wolowitz, AKA, The Mama’s Boy:<br />
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Your poor daughter may be scarred for life dating this guy. He pays more attention to the corns on his mom’s feet than showering your girl with affection. He’s needy, annoying, and probably a suspect in various serial murders involving older women. <br />
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Gerardo, AKA, Rico Suave:<br />
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The lyrics to his 1991 smash hit go a little something like this…<br />
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<em>I don't drink or smoke ain't into dope</em><br />
<em>Won't try no coke, ask me how I do it, I cope</em><br />
<em>My only addiction has to do with the female species</em><br />
<em>I eat 'em raw like sushi.</em><br />
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Nuff said? I agree. <br />
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Dudley “Booger” Dawson, AKA, The Weirdo:<br />
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The name says it all. Booger. He’s odd, has poor hygiene, stares inappropriately, and wears obnoxious t-shirts that aren’t funny- just plain gross. His claim to fame is winning a burp contest and being in college longer than I was. Oh, and as an old weird guy he cruises high-schools for chicks. He’s that guy who worked at the local skating rink or movie theater but hung out with all the teens. Yeah, you know him. There’s the distinct possibility he is not allowed within 500 feet of schools or playgrounds. The same should apply to your daughter. <br />
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Brian, AKA, The Hippy Stoner:<br />
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The only shining light with this guy, he’ll be too stoned to knock your little baby up. Too stoned to make out, too stoned to show up for the date actually. The only threat this guy has is if he Puff-Puff-Passes to your angel. Down with dope, up with hope! This guy has to go to Rehab or it’s no, no, no to date your girl. Besides, his t-shirts and music choices probably give you flashbacks. Keep this guy away, for both your sakes. <br />
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The Entire Cast of OZ, AKA, The Ex-Con:<br />
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Have you ever seen an episode of Oz? Taken a jailhouse tour? Visited Uncle Freddy on Sundays? This is a no brainer. Your kid starts dating any one of these guys, move. Change your name. Flee. <br />
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Brad Bottig, AKA, The kid who doesn’t know he’s gay:<br />
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This one hurts. This one you have no idea how to handle, for many reasons. It’s someone’s sexuality we’re talking about. But it’s also your little girl’s heart. Heartbreak is heartbreak, whether you get dumped for another girl or guy. But when you look at all of the above choices, this guy is the safest and will be able to help you pick out an outfit for Girls Night Out. Bonus. <br />
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Did I miss anyone? I hope not. I have to keep this list handy. These teenage dating years are creeping up quick. <br />
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Happy Mother’s Day! Now go and read your teen’s diary, just to be sure. Also, take urine and hair samples, and stalk her on Facebook and Twitter.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06732854288433860194noreply@blogger.com5