Favorite Saying #PNIWritingChallenge Day 13

Hmmmm ... seems to me that we've had this topic before. Ah, yes ... we did! Here it is. A Quote I Try to Live By. I didn't say all I could have in that post, though, so you lucky, lucky readers are in for a real treat.

One of my favorite sayings is "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." I'm pretty sure it was Dr. Seuss who said it - but then again, I could be wrong. I saw it for the first time not long before we were to make our journey from Germany back to the States. I can't express enough how much I didn't want to leave Germany. I really didn't want to leave Germany and come back to Colorado. I was heartbroken. I would have done just about anything in order to stay in our house in Linden. When I ran across this saying, I took it to heart. There was nothing I could do to keep us there - but I sure was happy to have had the experience.

There I go ... being all optimistic again. I'd apologize, but, well, that's just who I am.

My son told me the other day that "people who constantly feel the sun shining down on their curly, blonde heads can be really annoying sometimes". Huh. Now I wonder just who in the world he could've been talking about? 

A couple of months before Scott made that comment, my daughter came upstairs so that we could go and take our morning walk together. I didn't utter a single sound, said not one word to her, and still my optimism rankled. She scowled at me and said "You're smiling too loud." I kept my mouth shut and decided on that day, I would be quietly happy.

Why share this? Well, first, let me share with you another one of my favorite sayings.

 

I wasn't always this annoying little ray of sunshine. I wrote another post called "Most Likely To ..." that explains what I mean by that. The above quote really captures how I feel about myself, and I embrace it.

Many people are on the fence about me - or at least about my positive outlook on life. Let's face it, I'm nice to have around when you're feeling blue. I will work my ass off to cheer you up. Many people are grateful for that. Then again, sometimes I'm a real pain in the butt. I do annoy people. I don't mean to, but I do. That's why this is another one of my favorite sayings:

I worked too hard to become who I am - and I really like me this way. Yes ... for me, the glass is always half full. And, as my husband said not long ago, I have glasses scattered everywhere. He's kind of a neat freak, but this is the kind of clutter he doesn't mind at all.

Lucky Charm #PNIWritingChallenge Day 12

About a year ago I wrote a piece for E.C. Moore, an author I met and worked with through Booktrope. I proofread her YA book, Every Big and Little Wish, and when she asked me to write an essay  for a series she was doing on her blog called True Stories, I eagerly agreed. 

I wanted to link her blog (and my post) here, but, while I was able to locate it, I couldn't get it to load. I haven't been in touch with Elizabeth - E.C. Moore - much since the BT debacle last spring. Something I intend to remedy. I do, however, have my own copy of the essay I wrote. While the topic for her blog was a bit different than the one for this post, I believe it still fits.

Mimi was my grandmother. My mother was very young when I was born and relied heavily on her while I was growing up. I spent a great deal of time with Mimi and was very close to her. She collected many things like spoons and books, magnets and coins. Her house was full of meaningful knick-knacks; framed photographs and hand-made gifts given to her by her children, her grandchildren, and even her great-grandchildren. One thing she liked in particular were angels. She had little metal angels, their glass dresses matching the birthstones of each one of her four daughters. This quartet shared Mimi's living space with all sorts of other celestial beings, and quite often, a visitor's eye would fall upon one, two, or three sweet, winged creatures before it was time for them to depart. Although many people collect angels, and they are often seen in everyday places, I can never see one without thinking of Mimi.

           

In 2009, we were relocated to North Carolina. Mimi was the hardest person for me to say goodbye to. She suffered from macular degeneration, which made it hard for her to see, so we kept in touch through phone calls and letters she would dictate to my mom.

           

In 2012, my family was faced with another move; this time across the vast Atlantic to Linden, a small village near Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany. By this time, Mimi was showing some signs of dementia, and her failing eyesight had grown worse. She didn't always remember where I was when I called. She recalled the names of our children, but often times spoke about them as if they were still infants or toddlers instead of the preteens they had become. She had difficulty grasping the fact that there was an eight-hour time difference between us, and when she remembered we were in Germany, she worried for our safety. The Germany she remembered was from her young adulthood, terrorized by Nazi's and full of danger.

           

Mimi’s health continued to decline. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and her daughters were faced with the emotional task of selling her house and moving her into a nursing home. I continued to speak to her on the phone, but it was clear to me that the disease had taken so much away from her. The last conversation we had was on Mother’s Day. She was very confused and disjointed. She died just a few days later.

           

My family and I flew back to Colorado to attend her funeral. I was asked to speak at the service and I delivered my part of her eulogy with a mixture of smiles and tears. I could not look at her lying in the casket, although I knew she’d be as beautiful in death as she had been in life. I didn’t want to remember her that way; cold and empty in a satin-lined box.

           

I’ve heard all my life that there is a heaven. If heaven exists, I know that’s where Mimi is right now. She has, undoubtedly, become like one of the angels she loved to collect. I’ve grown increasingly sure over the last couple of years that some part of Mimi is still here. Do I feel her every day? No, but she keeps showing up … and it’s always right when I seem to need her the most.

           

We made our way back home again; this time for good when my husband’s contract in Germany ended and he took a job in Colorado Springs. Our children and I arrived in the States first while Steven remained in Germany to tie up loose ends. We searched online for a suitable home, and one day we came across one that seemed to fit our needs. I was nervous. Choosing a home to rent is one thing, but choosing one to buy? It was largely up to me, and suddenly there was a lot of heavy responsibility on my shoulders.

           

Our realtor met us at the house and the first thing I saw when we pulled up was a stone angel sitting above the curved entryway. We had seen something above the semi-circle of bricks in the photos online, but it wasn’t clear enough to make out. There she was to welcome us; her head bowed and her hands cradling a book.

When we went inside, there were no family pictures on the walls, and some furniture had already been moved out. There were still some plants and rugs, but what stood out the most were all of the angels that decorated the space. The house wasn’t new. It was built in 1970; just a year before I was born, and even though it had been given a few updates, there was aging wallpaper everywhere, and the doors and carpets were all mismatched. The stairs squeaked, and the yard was an over-grown mess. It was only a few days before Christmas and there was snow on the ground. The trees were bare, the sky was overcast and the weather made everything seem a bit bleak—but something about it felt right. The neighborhood seemed fitting, and the house … There was just something about it that I couldn’t pin down, but it felt to me like we belonged there.

           

We saw a couple of other houses, all of them newer and closer to Steven’s office. None of them felt the way the house with the reading angel did. I told the realtor to move ahead, hoping we were doing the right thing. A few days later, the kids went Christmas shopping with their grandfather. When they came back, my son pulled from his pocket an oval shaped piece of silver, about the size of a quarter. He said he saw it in the parking lot and brought it home to show me. It was like a pendant, although there was no hole at the top in which to hang it from. I ran my fingers across the raised design and realized it was an angel with wings outstretched. I felt my stomach tighten. Was Mimi trying to speak to me? Was she telling me that this was the right house?

          

What would have been Mimi’s ninetieth birthday fell on Easter that year. Although I am close to my extended family, we had not spoken to each other about plans for the holiday. We, like most families, split holidays between one side or other. There are a lot of us and we aren’t always together, but Mimi loved it when we were. As the four of us trudged across the grass in the cemetery where Mimi was buried, I looked up to see half a dozen of my relatives headed to the very same spot from the opposite direction. There were lots of hugs, and we were all happy to see one another. I never thought it was strange that they, too, would come to the cemetery and put flowers on Mimi’s grave for her birthday. I did think it was a happy coincidence that we should show up at the same time. After I gave it a little more thought, I began to feel a bit suspicious. If Mimi had the power to get us all together in one spot at the exact same time, I wouldn’t put it past her to use it.

           

On our way home we drove through a series of rain storms. Off in the distance I saw a rainbow, and once again I thought of Mimi. She told me many times when I was young that rainbows symbolized a promise from God. She read to me from the book of Isaiah in the Bible that said “I have sworn that I will not be angry with you, and will not rebuke you. For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you.“ I watched the rainbow and waited for it to fade, but it only grew brighter. I began to cry as I wondered if that was Mimi’s way of telling me that she would always be with me. As soon as I voiced the thought aloud to my husband and children, the rainbow started to fade. Was it my imagination? Maybe, but I don’t believe it.

Mimi was a powerful woman for me. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t forceful. I don’t remember her yelling, and she was very rarely angry, but she had a presence about her. Everyone that knew her loved her. Everyone that met her remembers her. I don’t know about ghosts, and I’m not sure how I feel about heaven or angels, but I do know that a part of Mimi lives on. I don’t have to understand it to be grateful for it.

I never had a lucky charm before that day Scotty brought me that silver angel. I don't carry it around with me, but I keep it in a special place. I pull it out once in a while and brush my finger tip across the raised figure.

I know that it's not uncommon for people to think of a loved one who is gone when they see a rainbow. I've heard that mentioned more than a time or two. It's certainly true for me.

Angels and rainbows. Yes, if I had to choose a lucky charm, it would be those two things. To me they are Mimi, and whether or not they actually bring me luck is not a question I can answer. They do bring me comfort, however. Maybe that's a little like the same thing.

Non-Fiction: Read and Unread #PNIWritingChallenge Day 11

I'm a homeschooling mom so I own a lot of non fiction books. Take a look at this ... here's a few of them.

Please ignore the fact that I really need to dust. Housework, man ... it's the last thing I ever find the time for.

Have I read every book in this shelf? Hmmmm. Let's say that every book here has been opened. I think that's a safe bet. I'm sure I've used a majority of those encyclopedias, (I wasn't raised on the internet, you know ... sometimes actual books are better) and the foreign language dictionaries. I'm decent at French, but the German? Well, I've needed more help in that department. This is only one of our homeschooling bookshelves. I have several more, but this gives you the general idea. 

I'm also a huge research geek. I love research. I know. My kids don't get it, either.

Oh, wait ... The Odyssey is on this shelf ... That's because this is where I keep a lot of my Greek mythology reference. Again, this is a small sampling of my non fiction collection. I have books all over this house. Fortunately I live with a bunch of readers and my book clutter hasn't caused too much grief.

So, the question today was "Do you own non-fiction books you’ve yet to read beyond the first page?" The answer would be  a resounding no. Have I read all of them cover to cover? Again, no. I have specific things I'm looking for, so those are the things I seek out. I have read many of them cover to cover - some of them numerous times. 

I guess that means I need to go and buy more books, doesn't it?

Snacking on the Job #PNIWritingChallenge Day 10

I've come to the conclusion that I like to snack while doing just about everything. I'm snacking right now as a matter of fact. Seriously, it's a given ... and I feel no guilt whatsoever about it. 

I'm a busy girl. I multi-task like you wouldn't believe. I'm like a computer with twelve different tabs open, and I run like that pretty much all the time. I need fuel.

My favorite snacks to munch on while I'm working are peanut M&M's.

 

One bag lasts me a long time. I grab a handful of them and put them in front of my keyboard. That handful slowly dwindles over a couple of hours. Sometimes it's a lot longer than that. Like I said, I have a lot going on at any given time. I'm at my computer switching between my own writing and various editing jobs, up and running errands, corralling dogs, cooking meals, teaching school and cleaning house ... There are times when that handful lasts all day long.

I also love iced chai and iced coffee. If it's really cold, I drink hot coffee, but I'd rather have it iced.

This looks huge, but it's actually only one cup of coffee. I just have it jam packed with ice and flavored creamer. My favorite is Cinnamon Dolce coffee with cinnamon/vanilla flavored creamer. Yum. I drink a lot of water, too, but I generally have at least one of these a day. The best thing? When my daughter, Maya, makes me a chai without me asking. I don't know why, but food and drink always tastes better to me when someone else makes it. Maya does it perfectly.

These are my favorite snacks, but I'm not picky ... and I give out hugs to anyone who visits and thinks to bring snacks with them.

Rejection Letters #PNIWritingChallenge Day 9

Today's topic asks if I've ever received a rejection letter. The answer to this, dear readers, is oh yes. I've received a great many of them.

In a previous post, My Publishing Journey, I shared what it was like trying to get my first book, The Color of Thunder, published. Talk about rejection letters. They came back just as quickly as I sent them out. I was hopeful each and every time I cautiously ripped one open, but no one was interested in publishing Faith's story.

I was incredibly discouraged. I was ready to throw in the towel. And then I got this letter from a literary agent in New York.

So ... if you read the letter, you probably noticed a couple of things. One - the book was called Shades of Gray back then. This was years before E.L. James published her world wide phenomenon with the same title. (Totally different books, hers and mine, by the way.)

Another thing -  this first manuscript was 947 pages long! That was double spaced, but Lord have mercy! I guess it's because I'd been working on it for several years at this point. I had so much going on with it - way too much, honestly. It lacked focus. 

Also, I wrote this novel in a very descriptive voice - much more so than any other novel I've ever written. While this agent remarks on the fact that I'd done that well, he also states that the story might benefit from a better balance between density and economy. 

Now Mark Sullivan saw the whole manuscript, but about 98% of those who sent me a rejection slip only saw my query letter - which consisted of one sheet of typewritten paper. Some of them asked for the first 1 - 3 chapters, maybe three of them asked for the entire manuscript.  I can't remember how much it cost me not only to send this monster to New York, but I also paid for return postage as well. In hindsight, I'm wondering if it was a good thing (at least financially) not more agents and/or publishers asked to see the novel in its entirety.

This letter from Mark Sullivan was a very good thing for me. I didn't send any more query letters after receiving it. As a matter of fact, I put the manuscript away. Not for a few weeks. Not even for a few months. I put it away for more than ten years. After reading this letter, I knew that my story had merit. I also knew it was going to take a whole lot of work to get it where it needed to be before I tried to get it published again. 

When this came in the mail, I had a child who was not quite three. Reading it made me realize that I was not in the right place in time to be focusing my energy on rebuilding my novel. It also gave me a reassurance I hadn't ever had before about the importance of getting it published. It would happen. I wasn't sure when or how, but I knew it would be published.

I was right. It was published. It took a while, but it became available to the reading public on December 18, 2012. In book form, it turned out to be 372 pages long. Sometimes I think about getting in touch with Mark Sullivan again to let him know that I finally found my focus. 

Now that I've become an indie author and published three more novels - goodbye rejection letters -  I've learned a few important things. A Color of Thunder is now going through one more edit. I'm hoping to have a revised edition of the book out sometime in 2017. When that's done, I'll finally feel as though I've accomplished what I set out to do all those years ago, and the promise I made myself will finally be fulfilled.

What is the Best Gift I've Ever Received #PNIWritingChallenge Day 8

I'm going to write on the assumption that Randy Brown, our current writing challenge creator, means a material gift. If not, this post will get all mushy and there will be tears and an outpouring of emotion. It's Monday, folks. I'm not sure I can face all that right now. 

One gift comes to mind when I think about this topic. I am surrounded by so many kind, sweet people in my life. So many of them have been incredibly thoughtful when it comes to giving me things - but this one really stands out for me.

At the end of 2011, we moved to Linden, Germany. We visited the library on the Ramstein AFB a lot, but I liked going to the one on Vogelweh much more. They had this big wooden bin just inside the door where patrons would come and drop off books they no longer wanted. There were books of all kinds in there; cook books, self-help, comics, fiction, paperbacks, hardbacks ... you name it, they were there. We found some favorites written in German, (The Green Mile by Stephen King was one of them) as well as some text books. I donated a lot of things myself in the hope that someone else might find enjoyment from a book I no longer had room for, or ones that my kids had outgrown. 

One day, the kids and I were perusing the bin. I spotted a paperback of To Kill a Mockingbird and picked it up. I was excited to find it, but Scott, who was eight at the time, rolled his big blue eyes at me and said, "How many copies of one book does a person need?"  I shrugged and told him, "This book is my favorite. I can never have too many copies of it." A librarian I'd seen there many times was walking behind me and heard the two of us talking. She stopped and asked what book we were speaking of. When I showed her she smiled. I didn't know what she was thinking at the time. I was just happy to have found a treasure - even if my eight-year-old thought I was nuts.

That librarian was Holly May, and over the course of the two years we lived in Germany, she became one of my most cherished friends. When we met, she was undergoing chemotherapy and had gone through a masectomy due to breast cancer. Holly is the most vivacious person I've ever met. She smiles. She's bubbly. She's hilarious. She makes me laugh - oh lord, she makes me laugh. She's real. She tells you what she thinks about things. She doesn't mess around. She's a writer, and a wig maker. She makes costumes and she bakes. She's lived in some pretty fantastic places. She's a Marine. She's pretty remarkable is what she is.

It wasn't long after she'd overheard Scott and I talking that she stopped me and asked me why To Kill a Mockingbird was my favorite book. I'm sure I got all dreamy eyed when I answered her question, and I probably sounded all kinds of goofy. If she thought so, though, she didn't mention it. She was a librarian and she was my friend. Her asking me about my favorite book didn't seem at all unusual to me at the time and I'd forgotten she'd asked even before I'd left the library.

Holly started a writing club. I'd just published The Color of Thunder not long beforehand, and it was really fun to sit and talk with other writers. Some had been published already; both traditionally and indie, and some were writing wildly successful plays while others were poets. We gathered once a month and I met some very creative, talented people whom I'm happy to say I'm still in touch with.

One day as I was leaving the library, Holly took me into her office and handed me a hard cover copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. It was in pristine condition - the book jacket perfect without any tears or creases. When she opened the cover, though, my eyes filled with tears and I felt my chest tighten. It had been signed by Harper Lee. I felt this way about it even though I didn't realize at that moment that she was giving the book to me.

When she told me she wanted me to have it I was overcome with emotion. I couldn't believe that Holly would even think about giving me something as special as this. There was much hugging, and crying and astonishment - those last two all from me.  

I was a blubbering mess, and I laughed and smiled and cried all the way back home. I remember it well. Steven was concerned when I got to the house, thinking something was wrong. When I told him what Holly had done, when I showed him the book, he was as surprised as I was. He was probably the only other person who understood just how meaningful this gift truly was.

Okay. So much for keeping it unemotional on this Monday morning, right?

Holly gave me something else that is incredibly special.

Along with a display box for the book, she gave me a sheet of postage stamps featuring the unforgettable Gregory Peck in his role as Atticus Finch. She knew I would love them. I really do. They both hang proudly in my office. 

I've told Holly thank you for these gifts numerous times. I'm not sure if she really understands just how much her thoughtfulness means to me. That copy of To Kill a Mockingbird will always claim a very special part of my heart, and I will treasure it always. Much like I do Holly herself. 

A Question I Like Being Asked, and One I Don't #PNIWritingChallenge Day 7

I like being asked about writing. Yep ... I truly enjoy talking about my craft. It's probably one of my favorite topics. Ask me about my works in progress. Ask me about the books I've already written. If you ask me detailed questions, I know you've read them and that will make me even happier. 

Another question I like is about editing - whether it's about a manuscript you'd like me to take a look at, or about my fledgling business. (It's doing really well, by the way ... thanks for asking.) 

Something else I like being asked about is books in general. I love, love, love to read. I will go on for hours about those books that are my favorites. I will tell you about my most beloved authors and answer any questions I can about anything having to do with the written word. 

Now, for that question I don't like being asked ...

If you've been reading my blog at all in the last few months, I'm sure you're aware of the fact that I'm a homeschooling mom. I wrote about something that fires me up more than just about anything else in a previous post called Three Pet Peeves. After going back and reading that post again, I am convinced that it still expresses how I feel about it so I'm going to copy it here.

My kids and I have been learning at home for a little more than thirteen years now. The decision to homeschool was made after many, many discussions between my husband and I, and after much deliberation. I am one who enjoys research, and I had a lot of that behind me when I began teaching my daughter, Maya, the day after her fourth birthday. Homeschooling laws are different in every state. Yes, I've followed them in every place we've lived. Yes, I test our children - and with standardized tests that are not evaluated or graded by me. Yes, we follow a schedule (10 am to 4 pm, Monday through Friday). Yes, I follow a curriculum and keep track of what's required for not only our state, but the school district in which we live. Even though I take education very seriously, there are still naysayers - and that's fine - but one of my biggest pet peeves is when someone sits me down and quizzes me about my abilities, or the wisdom of our choice to homeschool when they know nothing about the way I teach. Socialization - blah, blah, blah - Please. Stop. Choir, soccer, dance, gymnastics, swim team, art classes, book clubs, bowling leagues ... the list goes on and on and on. Meet my kids. Have a conversation with them. Ask them about what they're studying and get to know them. They'll blow you away, and impress the hell out of you, and they'll do it in a very short amount of time. I guarantee it.

Ask me anything you want about my kids. They are my favorite topic. You can even ask about homeschooling. I encourage it. Just don't question the fact that I take my job as a mom and a homeschooler seriously, or that I am able to do both jobs exceptionally well.

My Muse #PNIWritingChallenge Day 6

I've heard a lot of authors talk about their muse before, but I've never given the idea of a muse much thought. Today I've given it a whole lot of thought - thank you, Randy Brown - and here are a few things I've come up with.

First of all, I've never tried to explain my writing process before. Truthfully, it's not the easiest thing I've ever been asked to do. I don't quite understand the whole thing myself. I think it's part magic if you want my honest opinion. Some strange - and let's face it, questionable - stuff happens inside my head. Where does it come from? Why is it there? Am I a genius or freakin' insane? Who the hell knows? I'd be willing to go more toward the insane side. Genius seems like a stretch to me, but I'll let you be the judge.

I've come up with three ideas on this whole muse concept. Grab on to something and hold on tight, folks. I'm not sure where this crazy train is going or how long the ride might be. 

I'm my own muse

I talk to myself. I talk to myself a lot. It's not usually out loud, but that happens sometimes, too. People who spend the most time with me have stopped commenting on it. For all I know, they don't even notice it anymore. I go back and forth with my mental counterpart. She comes up with some pretty great ideas sometimes, and I've learned to listen when she starts talking. She's certifiable, but she's absolutely hilarious, too. She's the part of me very few people really know. I don't let her out much. She's a fun - if not somewhat mentally unstable - kind of girl.

Each one of my characters takes turns in being my muse

I know this is absolutely true. I've also found that some characters are louder and pushier than others. Cheney McGillivray from The Gannon Family series ... man, that woman is persistent. She talks in a thick, Scottish brogue, too. She's damn hard to ignore. She's also one of my all time favorite characters. She's been quiet since I finished A Skye Full of Stars. The next (and final) book in the series starts out years before she was born. Knowing Cheney, though, that won't stop her from telling me what I should write. 

Lately, Archer and Frankie have been the voices in my head. They've been helping me tell their stories. Especially Archer. I've got a vague idea, but he's been leading this parade. That's what happens when you write about a Greek god I guess. They decide to take over. 

I get very attached to my characters. I build their framework, but they grow and become more complex and more real over time. If you yourself aren't a writer, this will probably make no sense to you, but when I'm lucky, my characters kind of take over the story. I just run after them and write what they tell me to. Good writing days consist of me following along. I absolutely love it when that happens.

The unknown muse - or "Where in the hell did that come from?!?!"

Yep. This one visits a lot. I often times wake up with an idea that demands attention right that very second. I have no idea what this muse looks like, or who or what it is, but if it has hands, it rubs them together in a devious fashion while saying, "How about that? Let's see what you do with that little nugget." 

A Color of Thunder started that way. It was an idea I woke up with - just this tiny little seed, and now it's a published book of nearly 100,000 words. 

This muse delivered the endings to each and every one of my other books, as well. I got up, ran to the computer and typed them out before I was even fully awake. What I wrote may not have made sense to me at the time, but I knew that's how those stories had to end. Someone dies in A Skye Full of Stars. I didn't even know it until I woke up with the last page written in my head. The fun part was then to figure out how this character comes to his/her demise. It's a little diabolical, I'll admit. It's also a whole lot of fun.

I don't understand this particular muse. I'm not sure I want to. It scares me a little. I'm also grateful as hell for it. It's come up with some zany stuff. There is a character in Brides, Beasts & Baklava. His name is Lou. I have no idea where this guy came from. He just showed up one day. He's the most unbelievable, most outlandish thing my brain has ever come up with - and I love him. Oh, just you wait. Lou is unforgettable.

So, did I overthink this topic? Probably. I'm trying really hard not to that so much, but it almost felt necessary with this post. 

The train has now come to a stop. We are at our destination. I hope the ride was somewhat enjoyable.

My Least Favorite Part of English Class #PNIWritingChallenge Day 5

When I was younger, the one thing I really hated about English class, (or Language Arts as it was called in elementary school) was diagramming sentences. I would write sentences all day. Read them? Absolutely. But I didn't want a damn thing to do with diagramming them. I always thought they were good the way they were. Just leave the sentences alone.

Now that I'm an adult, what do I do for a living? I'm an author and an editor. What does that mean? It means that I diagram sentences. The irony is not lost on me. It's the same thing but it's not? I hated it then and love it now? I'm not sure which it is. I love being an author and an editor, so either way, it works for me.

There wasn't really anything I hated about English class while I was in high school. Was it monotonous at times? Sure, but I didn't mind being guided so much back then. If wasn't in gym class or doing Algebra, I was happy. 

I was introduced to a lot of amazing literature and got the chance to write while in school - although I didn't get to write nearly as much as I wanted to. I was the geek who actually loved Monday essays for Mr. Dallas in senior year. He'd give us three topics and we'd have forty minutes to write a three point essay about one of them. I didn't always like the topics, but I never minded the writing part. Hell, I even loved writing the ten page paper on Victorian literature. I've already covered the fact that I'm a geek, right?

College. Some bad stuff happened in my life between the ages of 18 and 21. One of those bad things caused me to drop out of college the first time. When I went back, I wasn't as passive as I'd been my first go around. I wasn't a badass, mind you. I'm still not, although sometimes I like to pretend that I am. I fought for my grades, though, and I had one English professor that drove my blood pressure way up. His name was May, and we butted heads on many occasions.

One paper in particular really stands out. It was about my dad, so I was already fired up about it. I can't remember what the exact topic was, but I do recall feeling like I couldn't get around it. Instead of backing away from it, I decided to take a deep breath and charge right in. I know I have the graded essay somewhere. I'm positive that I saved it, but when I looked for it this morning it wasn't among the other handful of papers May and I argued over.  

When I wrote about how much my dad drank, May didn't believe me. When I wrote about some of the things that had happened in his house, May wrote "Highly suspect" in the margin. Because this essay was not a work of fiction, I took offense. It wasn't my writing style or ability this professor called into question - his notes on that would have been helpful. I probably wouldn't have liked it, but I was there to learn. That would have at least made me a better writer. He wasn't questioning how well I wrote, but whether or not what I was writing was the truth. Life with my father was a scary, fantastical adventure - something I didn't have to elaborate or dress up. In fact, there are things that took place between the two of us that no one will ever hear about. It's the stuff I don't write about that's really messed up.  

May wound up giving me an A for his class. He handed out notes to everyone at the end of the semester, and I remember exactly what he wrote to me. He told me that he didn't agree with a lot of my subject matter, and that we had a lot of differing opinions about the things I was assigned  to write about - but he told me he thought I was a talented writer. He told me I'd probably become a very successful author someday. He also told me he'd probably never buy or read a single one of my books.

Is it wrong that this made me laugh out loud? It still makes me smile when I think about it. Especially when I sit down to diagram all of those sentences - written by both myself and others.

Finished Manuscripts & Rough Drafts #PNIWritingChallenge Day 4

I have three rough and unfinished manuscripts hanging out with me right now. One of them is my WIP, so it's coming along and soon to be completed - pretty, polished and ridiculously goofy. Don't worry. It's supposed to be all of those things.

As far as finished manuscripts go, I have some of those, too. Four of them as a matter of fact. I didn't just decide out of the clear blue to talk about my book babies ... I was actually asked. So sit back and relax a bit while I gush. I do love these books.

The first book I published was The Color of Thunder. I went through a publisher called Xlibris for my first go around. This became available on December 18, 2012. 

Faith Linsey is happily consumed with the day to day business of taking care of her siblings and being the obedient daughter of a well-liked pastor and his wife. Her view of the world is naïve and simple, and, at the age of ten, is only as large as her own hometown.

Unable to sleep one hot, humid night, Faith is surprised to hear her father on the front porch. Curious, she decides to follow him. While hidden behind a large tree, Faith witnesses something that pulls the innocence of her childhood out from underneath her. Once she steps outside the small world of her family’s home and church, she begins to question everything, including the belief that her father is an upstanding and respectable man.

Faith’s story begins in Jackson, Mississippi in 1946, soon after the end of World War II, and moves straight into the heat of the Civil Rights Movement. A string of events take place, both in her personal life and in the world at large, that force Faith to decide what it is she truly believes in, what things are important enough to fight for, and what things are best left behind.

This book was a long time coming - and I had no idea what I was doing when I published it. I've gotten some amazing feedback on this book, and it's got mostly 4 - 5 star reviews on Amazon. I have always retained all rights to it, but I am going to be taking Xlibris completely out of the equation here soon. The cover photo is mine, but the design is not, so I have to change that, and it's going to get a bit of an edit. I love this story. None of that will change, but I know a lot more now than I did back then. There are a few things about my writing that I want to tighten up.

Alabama Skye was my second book. I also published this one through Xlibris. This story started in my head years ago, but when my grandmother, Mimi, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, the characters and their tale morphed a little bit. I really wanted to write something in her honor, and so this book was dedicated to her. Unfortunately she passed away before I could publish it, but I'm pretty confident that she knows it was written for her.

When tragedy befalls Cheney McGillivray, she leaves her beloved home on Scotland's Isle of Skye and arrives unannounced on her sister Meara's doorstep in Kelby, Alabama. With her, she brings a plan—not only for her own future but also for that of her niece.

Greer, fresh out of culinary school and two months pregnant, takes the advice of her grandmother Sarah and agrees to a partnership with her aunt. Together they transform Sarah's historic home into a proper Scottish B & B right in the heart of America's Deep South.

Both women realize the time to face their pasts has arrived as they prepare for the opening weekend of Gannon's Glen. Debilitating nightmares make it difficult for Cheney to hide from the painful secret she thought she'd left in Scotland, and a hurricane sweeps in more than stormy weather for Greer when damage to his childhood home brings her high school sweetheart back into town. Although they are nearly strangers separated by a forty-year age gap, Cheney and Greer learn to lean on one another as they come to terms with their lives and realize what possibilities lie ahead.

Alabama Skye is a story about the strength of four generations of women who discover that the ones who stand by you and carry you through both good times and bad are the ones you call family.

~~~

I was pleasantly surprised how much readers liked the mix of southern U.S. and Scotland in this tale, and then I was told over and over again how they wanted to know what happened next in the lives of these characters. I was asked specifically about Noah, who is the best friend of one of the main characters. I had no plans to write more of this story line. When I wrote Alabama Skye, in my head it was a stand alone novel. I was so encouraged by the response I got that I decided writing a second book might be a whole lot of fun. A little more than a year later, A Skye Full of Stars was released. 

This was the first book I published completely on my own. Surprisingly, readers seemed to love this second book even more than the first. I think about that a lot, how I never had any plans for writing this one, and it's one of my readers' favorites. I kind of love that, actually.

Life is good in the small, coastal town of Kelby, Alabama. The days are busy and satisfying, if not a touch predictable, but change is in the air. Spring is coming, and it’s bringing with it more than tourist season.

When Cheney receives word that a package with her name on it has been found by a family friend near Glasgow, she decides to take Meara back to Scotland with her to retrieve it. Together, the sisters discover surprising evidence of an unknown life led by their father long before either one of them was born.

Noah’s happy life is shaken when her father falls ill, and the mother who abandoned her ten years before reappears with news that makes Noah question everything she thought she knew. Things are further set off kilter when Noah’s childhood crush, Keene, drives into town with all of his belongings packed into his truck … everything, that is, except his wife.

A Skye Full of Stars takes readers from war torn Scotland, where the Gannon family tree first took root, to the modern day southern shores of Alabama’s gulf coast. It’s a story about how blood isn’t always what it takes to build a family.

I am now working on the third and final book in what has now become The Gannon Family series. This one was also prompted by readers who wanted me to go back and tell Sarah and Finlay's story. It's a prequel, but one that should be read after the other two. This third book will be titled Under a Southern Skye, and I'm hoping to have it released sometime in late 2017. (Perhaps 2018.) The first two books already have new cover designs now that they are a part of a series, but I haven't republished them with their new wrappers. It will happen soon, I promise.

~~~

My latest novel kicked off a whole new series for me. This one is a romantic comedy chock full of sexual innuendo, food and Greek mythology. It's light hearted and silly, and has been incredibly well received. Whew! This was a huge departure from my other books. I'm happy my readers are flexible.

Dead Beat Dates & Deities is the first novel in my Goddess of Tornado Alley series. Oh my gods was this a fun book to write. :) 

Frances Reed has kissed a lot of toads, but has yet to find her prince. Recovering from another disappointing date that not even three margaritas could improve, she consoles herself by shopping at her favorite lingerie shop, Cupid’s Closet. Before she can get to the Aphrodite Ultra Sleek push up bras, she trips headfirst into the decorative Aphrodite fountain.

Lying in the fountain bleeding, Frances watches the stone deity come to life. Angry, Aphrodite berates her for damaging her shell and for being an unworthy descendant.

Wait. What? A descendant of Aphrodite?

Later, after her hunky paramedic falls for her best friend, and a spark is ignited between her mom and her doctor, it becomes apparent that people fall in love when in Frances’ presence. She’s just got two questions—what in the world is a goddess born of the sea doing in Tornado Alley? And why can Frances make love connections for everyone in town but herself?

Aphrodite may have given her the gift of matchmaking, but it will take Cupid to teach her how to use it. 

This book has received consistent five star ratings - which has made me so very happy. If you hear maniac laughter it's probably just me, writing the second book, Brides, Beasts & Baklava. If you remember, I mentioned that at the beginning of this post. It's one of my rough and unfinished drafts. I'm hoping this second installment will be ready to introduce into the world in late February of this coming year. Fingers crossed.

As far as the other rough drafts ... I'll mention a couple of them briefly. 

One is called Clever as the Devil, and I started it way before I really dug into my first published book. It's a bit of a thriller, so that should be fun.  

Red Beard and the Ravens is a manuscript I started back in 2013. It's about Frederick Barbarossa, who was the Holy Roman Emperor in the 1100's. I learned a lot about him while living in Germany, and his life interested me. This book will be about him and his family. I think it will be historical fiction, but I'm also throwing a bit of a ghost story into the works. We'll see what happens.  

Please click on any of the highlighted titles of my four published books to go to their links on Amazon. I've also been known to gift e-book copies to those readers who will promise to leave reviews. Just a little something to keep in mind.