The Car Your Dad Drove?

My dad is a truck man.  

He had a blue Ford F150 with the manual transmission gear shift

on the steering wheel column instead of the floor. Friday evenings immediately after school, we would cram into the cab--all four of us--and drive to town for a fast food dinner and grocery shopping. 

Fashionista? Who Me?

As I sit at the kitchen table, keeping an attentive eye on the cubed potatoes frying in the black iron skillet on the stove, I'm glancing through the latest edition of a very popular glossy fashion magazine. 

The first quarter, if not more, of the magazine is mostly ads--sleek, glossy ads for designers whose names I cannot pronounce let alone afford. The models are aloof in that tall, gaunt gorgeous way of models. Here's the thing: in most of the heavily stylized ads, I'm not always certain what the designer is promoting. 

Nobel Prize? Rock Star? Oh My!?

Nobel Prize or Rock Star? 

This is an easy question for me to answer: Nobel Prize winner. 

While being a rock star has a certain appeal, I daydreamed about this raucous, glamorous life as a teenager (who didn't, right?) despite having zero talent and the idea of performing on a stage curdles my stomach. 

I must confess that the Nobel Prize in Literature captivates my winsome heart, although I don't qualify. 

Maybe rock star would be better after all.

What do you think? Nobel Prize or rock star?

This post was inspired by a writing prompt from 642 Things to Write About. No, this isn't a sponsored post. They have no idea who I am.   

Am I Good Enough?

As most of you know, I submitted my first manuscript, Alex and

Chase's story,  to the Golden Heart writer's contest sponsored by RWA. Winners of the Golden Heart earn recognition for writing an outstanding manuscript that is unpublished, which can pave the way for a publishing contract, though that is not a guarantee. 

Thank you all, by the way, for your heart felt good luck wishes when I announced my intention to enter the contest. Your support is tremendous and very much appreciated. Truly. I know that you believe in me as a writer and that's a boost to my ego, for sure.

Though now that I've submitted the manuscript, which has taken me well over 8 years to complete, I’m flooded with anxiety, truth be told. That scene I deleted? Maybe I should have kept it. That other scene? What if that was the scene I should have deleted instead? Is the manuscript tight enough? Good enough?

Winners won't be announced until March. That's a long time to brood. I try to distract myself by focusing on my second manuscript or writing blog posts, which has been difficult to maintain since I'm still recuperating from this fractured leg o' mine.  Although I can walk without crutches or a cane, I limp like Quasimodo and my leg and ankle are still very sore sometimes. Like everyone else healing their bodies long term, I have good days and bad days.  

One thing I know for certain is that there are a lot of really good writers out there, all of us trying to be heard. All of us vying for the attention of a publisher or an agent or readers. All of us writhing in equal parts doubt and confidence. As I put myself out there, so to speak, not everyone who reads my stuff will like it, which is the chance I have to take in order to find readers who do like my stories. 

I'm on a journey. Thankfully, you, dear gentle readers, have agreed to come along on this long distance marathon to keep me company. To reassure me. To bolster me. For that, I'm eternally grateful. 

Are You Going To Eat That?

I'm scared.

Do I really want to this?

What if it's poisonous?

Man, I'm hungry. How do I get this open?

Brine, thought the man, swallowing the fleshy meat of an oyster while squatting on the ground next to the recently harvested oysters piled like stones at his feet. His skin prickled with cold from the waist down from wading out into the cold bay water to gather his dinner. 

He ran his calloused thumb along the smooth pearly finish on the inside of the shell. Then he flipped it over, slicing the pad of his thumb on the edge of the shell.  

Multi-purpose, he thought. The shell could be used to cut things. The interior could be used for decoration. A necklace, perhaps, for trading. 

The man made a small pouch of the fur skin draped across his shoulders and dropped in the rest of the oysters to carry them back to his clan camping further inland. 

He wasn't dead from eating the oyster. At least, not yet. 

How was he going to convince the rest of his clan that eating oysters was a good idea?

This is the interior monologue I imagine the very first man to eat an oyster thinks as he evaluates whether or not to eat it. This was a writing exercise courtesy of 642 Things To Write About.  

What do you imagine the first man to eat an oyster thought? Leave a comment below. 

The Bride's Blue Shoes

Something old. 

Something new.

Something borrowed.

Something blue.

For the gazillionth time, Samantha recited the folkloric rhyme in her head instructing brides what to wear on their wedding day for good luck.

What's Your Word for 2015?

Gratitude.

Simplify.

Declutter and organize. 

These are just some of the self-explanatory words some of you may think of when considering one word to describe the way you want to live during the new year. 

Facebook status updates to my future self

Pretend and fast forward to the year 2017. 

What would my FB status updates be? Here's what I imagine:

What Could Happen In A Second?

What could happen in a second? 

Lightning can strike the ground. A tree. Your heart. 

Cast Your Vote Now!

A writer friend, Janet Lee Nye, is a top 10 finalist for Harlequin's So You Think You Can Write Contest, which is a significant honor in and of itself. 

Her manuscript, Man Maid, is fun and sexy and supremely well written. Read her complete work and vote for her here.

The winner will earn a two book publishing contract!

Good luck Janet.   

What A Nightmare!

I was in the fifth grade when I watched my first horror movie--Nightmare on Elm Street--at my friend Robin's birthday party. 

Ghosts! Goblins! Oh My!

My grandparents' house was haunted. This was my paternal grandparents, Bill and Marie's house, by the way. 

I know what you're thinking. Isn't everyone's grandparents' house haunted? Probably. You can read about the ghost haunting my grandmother Scott's farmhouse here. 


It wasn't a ghost, per se that haunted Nannie and PapPap's house. It was more like a green goblin. Or "little green men." And they lived in Uncle Ervin's closet. 


Or so he insisted. So I believed. 

Part of the attic was haunted as well. Let me explain. Part of the attic was finished off into a small room with a low pitched ceiling. The other half, the unfinished portion, was crammed with furniture, clothes, and various stuff. That's the side the ghost haunted.

During the day, I didn't mind hanging out with my very cool aunt Judy up there on her side of the attic, the finished side. At night, however? No thank you.

Happy Halloween!   

     

Kill the Princess!

Kill the princess!

Or maybe just make her sleep for a very long time.

Let's Buy A Farm! Who's With Me?

I adore Jenna Woginrich. I follow her blog and read her books and daydream that I'm going to be as cool as she is because she homesteads on a six acre farm in upstate New York, raising sheep for both wool and meat. She has, not one, but two horses, a brood of chickens, a piggy or two, a border collie and a turkey (or two, maybe more) among other animals that I'm probably forgetting to include on my list. 

I just finished reading her latest book Cold Antler Farm, her memoir about growing food and celebrating life on a scrappy six-acre homestead as the cover reads.

On the second to the last page of the memoir, Jenna talks about the motto of the Scottish Mackenzie clan: "I shine, not burn." 

The Fractured Leg Saga Continues

I'm like a two year old who needs help using the toilet. I can't balance myself and manage to pull up or down my underwear or jean shorts to use the toilet. 

It's undignified. I'm humbled. I'm humiliated. 

How I Fractured My Leg Part III

Coming home from the ER with a leg fractured in two places and using crutches for the first time was unsettling to say the least. I'm wobbly and just a little dizzy. 

How I Fractured My Leg in Two Places: Part Two

The other day's blog post, I left off with me on a gurney in the ER and the two EMTs exchanging information about my vitals with an in-take nurse. 

How I fractured my leg in two places, part one

A woman's hysterical scream cuts through the song of crickets and katydids filtering in the open bedroom windows on a cool late summer night. 

One of My Favorite Things

"One of the saddest lines in the world is, "Oh come now--be realistic...." 

I heard this a thousand times when I announced to friends and family that I wanted to be a writer.  

'...The best parts of this world were not fashioned by those who were realistic. They were fashioned by those who dared to look hard at their wishes and gave them horses to ride." Quoted from Richard Nelson Bolles.

This week I'm focusing my effort on entering manuscript #1, Chase and Alex's story, into a contest. I have a list of do's and don'ts and I'm checking it twice. 

Wish me luck.

Business Plan Part 2: What do you value?