Holiday to do list:

Holiday Eating Tips (I don't know who wrote this but I think its good advice!)

1. Avoid carrot sticks. Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing of the Christmas spirit. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately. Go next door, where they're serving rum balls.

2. Drink as much eggnog as you can. And quickly. Like fine single-malt scotch, it's rare. In fact, it's even rarer than single-malt scotch. You can't find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an 'eggnog-aholic' or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it!!!! Have one for me. Have two. It's later than you think. It's Christmas!

3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat.

4. As for mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission.

5. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it. Hello?

6. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's. You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. This is the time for long naps, which you'll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog.

7. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape and size of Santa, position yourself near them and don't budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They're like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you're never going to see them again.

8. Same for pies. Apple. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or, if you don't like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day?

9. Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it's loaded with the mandatory celebratory calories, but avoid it at all cost. I mean, have some standards.

10. One final tip: If you don't feel terrible when you leave the party or get up from the table, you haven't been paying attention. Re-read tips: start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.

Remember this motto to live by:

'Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming 'WOO- HOO what a ride!

~Happy Holidays~

A Short Story to Nowhere

In Pigwell, time is not measured by days or weeks but by the number of eighteen wheelers that drive past my house. When I was five I thought they were kind of neat, like big dinosaurs that would roar past at all hours of the day or night. At ten I found them annoying. They were noisy, imposing giants that encroached upon the peacefulness of our small yard while I sat in the garden reading. By the time I was sixteen I longed to travel with them. I’d stare at them from the front porch and wonder what it would be like to see any place that wasn’t Pigwell.
I was on the front porch that hot July night trying to read as another truck roared past. I sat up to watch, pulling my wilted cotton blouse away from the sweat that covered my chest. New Jersey in August was as close to Hades as anyone could ever get.
The eighteen wheeler was white with long teal stripes down the sides. The word ESCAPE was written in bold pink letters. It looked neat, cool, and in control. Contrary to this hot, putrid sweat box I called home. Here there was no capacity for control or even the illusion of anything cool and neat. Home was a war zone and everyone looked out for themselves. Regardless.
I watched that pristine truck roll past on its mission from heaven. Going to see places that were far away from this pigpen of a town. Away from the bruises and pain that lived in Pigwell.
ESCAPE.
“You Bastard!”
“Stop, just stop.” That was my father. My mother was the one screaming profanities.
ESCAPE.
“It’s after seven. Have you been screwing around on me again?”
“Rosie, no. You know, I never—“
ESCAPE.
“You think I’m stupid?” Mom asked, right before she started throwing things. She broke the sugar bowl last week when I was too slow to do the dishes, she flung the ketchup bottle at daddy when he left his shoes in the living room two nights ago and we were down to three plates and two bowls. What ever she was throwing in there might just be the last of our dishes. I could imagine eating straight out of the pots for the rest of my days.
“Son of a Bitch!” More breaking glass.
ESCAPE.
I looked to the sky, then my gaze drifted to the woods beside our shack. The shadows were already filling in between the trees casting ghosts in their wake. I didn't like the woods at night, but it was my usual hidey place when my folks went at it. Especially when the night was as hot as this one. Sweat rolled off your back like drool off a Rottweiler. The woods had a cool dirt floor with trees to absorb the August heat. Usually I’d find a bower of leaves and lay out with my book until the house noise quieted and it was safe to return. But at night…
Another series of crashes from the kitchen and I thought of the white truck with the teal stripe.
ESCAPE.
“Rosie, stop—“ My father was a small, mousey man and not one to stand up to my mother. His voice was more of a plea then an order. Even though he was my favorite parent, most of the time I hated him for not having a spine. He never defended himself or me from the monster. A definite wimp, but the lesser evil in our home and I knew he loved me. Daddy was the one who tucked me in when I was little and made sure I was well taken care of. He was more of a mother then the woman who gave birth to me.
My mother was strong in every way. Language, body and temper. Most of her days were spent downing bottles of beer and she was usually half in the bag when Daddy got home. The woman struck first and asked questions later. She never apologized as no matter whose fault it could have been, she was never wrong.
Suddenly, it was quiet. The screaming stopped and all I could hear was some soft shuffling from somewhere in the house. I went back to hide in my book. Just another night in the land of pigs.
“Darla?”
I chose not to answer. Maybe she didn’t know I was out here. I looked to the woods again and regretted not going when I had the chance. When it was ghosts verses monsters, I’d take the ghosts every time.
“DARLA!”
I counted. If I got over thirty there was a good chance she had forgotten about me or passed out.
“DARLA, DAMN IT!”
With a heavy sigh I closed my book and looked to the road. I thought again about those eighteen wheelers and wondered where they were going. As I got to my feet, I thought, I had to get out of this place.
ESCAPE.
“Get me another beer, will ya?” My mother was sprawled on the couch, remote in hand.
ESCAPE.
My heart stopped as I entered the kitchen. The refrigerator door stood open and every glass jar inside was smashed on the floor, but that wasn’t what scared me. Olives, pickles and artichokes were smooshed in the broken glass along with streaks of dark red...blood? That stretch of crimson trailed across the kitchen floor. A smear, a drag.
“Daddy?”
The beer bottles stood untouched on the bottom shelf. Carefully I tiptoed over the mess and peered out the back door. The yard was empty. I came back and snagged a bottle of beer when I passed.
“Mom? Where’s Daddy?” I approached the couch with caution handing over the beer.
“Bastard! Do you know what he did?”
The image of mess and blood glared bright in my mind’s eye, a vivid picture of food and gore, “Is he okay? I can’t find him.”
My mother’s dark eyes lifted to stare at me. “Your father is a lying cheating bastard and that’s all you have to know.”
Her black eyes held no emotion and immediately I knew it didn’t matter if my father was hurt. All that mattered was what she thought he did to her. They had a name for this kind of crazy.
When I headed out to hide on the front porch again, she called me back.
“Clean up that mess, will ya? Your father is useless.” She cackled, a hysterical laugh that ended in a belch.
At the door I tried again, “Do you know where Daddy went?”
Another cackle as she stared at the TV. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing at my question or the show.
After cleaning up the mess I was sure it was blood. The color, consistency, it had to be blood. I looked all over the house without finding my father. His car was still in the driveway and I seriously doubted he was at the neighbor’s. After all the screaming and violence that went on in our house most of the neighbors kept far away. A short nod and half hearted wave was all we could hope for. I went back into the kitchen with cold dread clutching at my stomach. Sinking into a chair I noticed more blood on the other side of the table, toward the door leading to the basement.
“Daddy?” A nervous descent into the bowels of the house showed nothing. Although the basement was a jumble of boxes and old furniture, there was no sign of my father.
“It wasn’t that much blood.” I whispered as I prowled the basement. “It just looked like a lot because of the juice from the olives and stuff, right?”
I was on my way back up the stairs when I spotted him. Curled up in a ball beneath the stairs.
“Daddy?”
Moving closer to the stairs I knelt down and put a hand on his shoulder. I shook him and his head lagged, flopping off his arm onto the cold concrete with a damp thud.
“Daddy?”
A cold shadow fell over me as my mother came down the stairs, beer in hand, sneer creasing her lips.
“Get the shovel, Darla.”
I was afraid to look up. My eyes were locked on my father, taking in his bloodied head and ashen features. The word “dead” hanging in my brain as my voice cracked. “Daddy…”

At midnight I dug the grave out behind the shed. Daddy was wrapped in the shower curtain, lying just a few feet away. Mom said that all the neighbors should have been in bed by then so it was a good time.
“Make it deep,” she sipped her beer as she sat in a lawn chair just off to the side.
“Is this good?” The muscles across my back ached, one shoulder felt like it was going to pull out of the socket if I lifted one more shovelful of dirt. And my father was dead. That wimpy, spineless man that I loved more then anyone else in the world was but a cold lump under that plastic shroud. We should have run, gotten away from the monster before it came to this.
, Daddy. Why didn't you take us away while there was still a chance?
Mom stood and peered into the hole. She drained her beer and tossed the bottle in beside me. “No.”
More digging. And when I finally climbed out of the hole Mom was smiling. She had another beer in her hand and her words were slurred as she staggered over to the hole to inspect it.
“Well, I guess dissh is a fitting end for the bash-tard.”
As I sagged back into the lawn chair, rubbing my sore hands together there was a rustle off to my side. Turning I watched my father stagger to his feet. Stunned, his name caught in my throat and I couldn’t move.
“Maybe we need another foot.” My mother swayed drunkenly over the hole.
Daddy blinked, taking in the shovel, the hole and my mother standing over it. One hand went to his head, coming away sticky with blood and rage flared in his eyes. Suddenly, he grabbed my mother by the hair and wretched her backwards. Drunk as she was, my mother had the insanity to bring her beer bottle up over her head and down over Daddy’s right eye. The end broke off leaving ragged red rips across his face. Together they crashed to the ground, mom on top. She flipped over and, straddling my father, she used the broken bottle to slice his throat.
I didn’t think, didn’t know I was moving until my shoulder screamed as I lifted the shovel above my head and brought it down as hard as I could across the back of my mother’s skull.
ESCAPE.
The road out of Pigwell had no streetlights, but dawn was breaking when I finally saw the first eighteen wheeler heading my way. I stood on the shoulder, one hand raised into the glaring headlights.
“Where ya heading?” The meek looking man was small of statue and reminded me of my father.
“Out of Pigwell.”
ESCAPE.
THE END.

STRESS & Therapy Season

I'm in clay pot heaven!
Stress! Work! Shopping! (which makes me sooo dizzy!) Cooking! Baking! Pain & PT! Shipping packages! God save me from the post office!
I really needed therapy.... so I started painting. First it was just to make a pretty little pot as part of my mil's gift. Then I figured I'd just do another...and another...and another... and I'm still going. Painting has lifted my mood so much that the stress is easing and now there might just be a possiblity that I'll survive this season.
What do you do for stress relief?

This ever happen to you?

You're tooling along. The writing is flowing, words are beautiful and then the dog jumps up and lays her head on your keyboard. You try to push it off before she types a row of skdfhjdxzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, but you never make it in time. Or worse yet she depressed the "Page up" button and suddenly you have no idea where you are.
You shove the dog off...repeatedly....until she finally leaves and then the other dog, awoken by the confusion comes over. This one decides its time to load the dishwasher. (Yes, she loves checking out all the dirty dishes at eye level) Its like her job. So she sits and barks at you. You get up to see if she wants to go out, needs a cookie, check the water dish--turn around she's standing in front of the dishwasher---waiting.
"I'M NOT DOING THE DISHES NOW!" Sheesh!
Get back to your writing, try and find the flow again and-- "YAP! YAP! YAP!"
"NO, GO AWAY!"
Reread the last paragraph...where was I? "YAP! YAP! YAP!"
"NO!"
Words, where are the words? They were here a minute ago.
"YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP!" Paw rakes down the leg.
"OUCH! NO! GO LAY DOWN!"
Get three words down. Hit the delete button, that stinks...where are those beautiful words that were here five minutes ago? I had it. Knew exactly where it was going...
"YAP!"
The dog is deaf. The paw is poised and ready to strike. I have no choice but to go finish the dishes now.
Dishes done, deaf dog happily sleeping at my feet while I play a few very important games of Spider Solitare...

A Time Travel Poll...

In discussing whats marketable and whats not right now an agent mentioned that Time Travel isn't so hot. To make a time travel sellable it would have to have a different hook.

Hmmm. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around this one. A time travel book is bascially a fish out of water book. Person travels back in some weird and unique way and is thrown into a place where she has to learn day to day basics, cope with people who might have a different view on everything and generally find love, solve a murder, or otherwise have an adventure. Its been done a million times so what would a "different hook" be?

I have a time travel on the shelf. Its been there a few years but I really don't think its got anything special. Girl travels back, adventure, civil war, fall in love, pop back to present time with the love of her life. Eh. What's so different there?

So? What would you have to see in a time travel type book that would be different enough so you'd plunk down your $10 or so?

What ever you do...

don't forget to dance your way through life! May the cockatoo be with you.

What makes a memorable character?

Ever meet a character that stays with you after you've closed the book? She follows you around for a few days-maybe months and you feel a bit of regret that the book was done. You can only hope for a sequel!
There was something in her adventure that came through and made you believe for a bit that she was a real live person. You connected with her emotions, thoughts and actions. The author did such a good job of it that you just don't want to let her go. That character is now like an old friend you want to check in on now and then. The big question is; HOW DID THEY DO THAT?
I want to create that kind of a character! I want readers to fall in love, hate or awe of my character, but how? I think the closest I ever came to this was when I reincarnated a woman as a chihuahua. In that story we saw how tough a tiny dog's life could be from the mouths of dog. (it was posted here a while ago) The people who read this story sent me emails filled with fear, anger and PASSION! They expressed raw emotions at the adventures of this little dog and cheered her on. So, why can't I do that in every book? (Too bad I can't find an agent you loves chihuahuas!)
Back to spoiled Scarlet from Gone with the Wind. Through the whole story this girl stays self centered with a small edge of meanness around some of her actions. Yet, we can't let her go. I hated Scarlet, admired her and watched in awe as she always came out on top. I wanted to hit Ret over the head for wasting his time on this bitch because she was never going to change and then there was poor dumb Ashley. I didn't see the attraction Scarlet had for him but who's to question love? Gone With the Wind stands strong even today becuse of these over the top characters but how did she do it?
Someone? Please? How do you evoke passionate responses to your characters? I need to know this magic formula so agents and editors will swoon at my work. I want them to laugh out loud, weep with desperation and cheer my girl onto the end. Well?

Fear of the Query

You work for months, years, maybe even decades on your book. Its the love of your life. It holds things that have become part of you and it takes great courage to fan the pages and tell the world to take a look. So, now you have to query. Take your masterpiece and squish it into three sentences and hope (pray!) someone will understand its greatness...in THREE SENTENCES!
As much talent as it took to write your book needs to be worked into your query. Lets try it.
GONE WITH THE WIND: Spoiled southern belle loses love of her life. Is seduced by a bad boy and as the Civil War begins and finds out she has more resourses then she ever imagined. Still she stays spoiled and self centered.
TOM SAWYER: Small town con-boy has many adventures. This takes us rafting and spelunking as he is chased by a crazy man. This boy even attends his own funeral.
ONE FOR THE MONEY: Out of work woman, desperate for a job, starts bounty hunting. She chases down the bad guys with comedic timing while fending off the advances of one hot cop and another hunky bounty hunter.
I think I need more work on this stuff. Its much harder then I thought.

Sunday Writer's Prompt

Everyone needs a good push now and then. Here's your Sunday Prompt to carry around with you this week. When you're bored, waiting in line or simply looking for something to fill some empty space- FLEX YOUR WRITING MUSCLE!

This week's prompt:

You've been reincarnated as an animal. What animal are you and what's your average day like?

Now, go forth and write! (Feel free to post your masterpiece.)

More talk about Agents

I have to say something about Literary agents.

God Bless them.

Although they say writer's need to have thick skins, I now see the same is true for agents. I've been wandering around the blogs of several agents who post about the business. They also post about how writer's respond to their rejections. The bitter nonsense some writers take the time to send to an agent who rejected them is AMAZING! The only thing I can't figure out is why would a writer do that???

Do they only intend to write this one book and think they will never-maybe-someday need this agent? Her good will or professional advice? Does the writer think that agents don't talk shop when they get together? Wouldn't it be better to give a quick and polite "Thank you, maybe next time". I've met a few agents here and there and everyone was happy to share their insight into the business. I'm sure there are nasty ones, but perhaps when you find one in a bad mood there's a reason for it. Aside from the regular family/work/life problems they come to work, where they are hoping to find the next great novelist and they walk into a nastygram from a rejected writer. Then think of the writer. Imagine how long it took to craft that letter and think how much more productive that time could have been in writing your next book instead of lashing out against someone you might someday want for a friend. No win situation. You've pissed off a perfectly good business contact and probably spoiled someone's day. Think back to mom's advice, "If you can't say something nice...blah, blah, blah."

Either way, God bless the agents who have to face this nonsense.

For writers: Put those rejections in a pile in the corner and remember they are just notches in your writer's belt. Everyone has them and someday you'll be speaking at a writer's conference talking about them like they were distant history. A lot of the greatest writers on the planet have piles of rejections and the message they send is never, never, never give up.

Your question: Have you ever responded to a rejection letter? If so, what did you say?

My dog orders me to do the dishes!

Meet Princess Lokota, affectionately known as Lokie. Every night she expects the dishes to be put in the dishwasher directly after dinner so she can get her licks in. Please know this 13 year old shelti is well fed. She eats Breakfast promptly at 6:30 a.m. and there better be a half can of greenbeans mixed in or she'll follow you around poking you with her paw.

"Hey! Where's my veggies?"

No shower, no coffee until the meal is served. When I arrive home at 5 p.m. she expects half a cup of dry food with a tablespoon of low fat yogurt within fifteen minutes of coming through the door. She stands by her dog dish and yaps until this is delivered. Afterwards the family is allowed to eat but immediately after the dishwasher must be loaded so she can inspect the dinner plates. Well, tonight I was tired, in pain (still recovering from rotator cuff surgery) and sacked on the couch to tackle the dishes AFTER Survivor China. I'm the boss here, right? If I want to let the dishes wait-- I'm allowed, right? My dishes, my house...

Eh.

Sorry, Lokie yaps, thats not on the schedule. She's standing here poking and yapping. She pretends she has forgotten what "Go lay down!" means. I think she feigns deafness as the whim takes her but hears very well the whispered word-cookie.

"GO LAY DOWN!"

"Yap! Yap! Yap!" and a poke.

I've lived and learned a half century. I'm an adult, I've raised two children, held numerous jobs and managed many people. I have a black belt in Karate for crying out loud!

But here I sit at the mercy of a dog that barely comes to my knees. My whole existence measured by whether or not I forgot to buy the dog's yogurt.

When I was a kid and wondered what I would be when I grew up-- I don't remember dog-slave being on the list.

Tomorrow night they predict thunder storms.....I'll be here, pinned to the couch by a dog poking, shaking and whining ....its the only time I'm allowed to skip the dishes...

AGENTS: Gatekeepers to the Publishing World

This weekend I had the great pleasure to meet Jessica Faust of Bookends at the New Jersey RWA conference. What impressed me most was her professionalism and honesty. Jessica gave a talk on Perfecting Your Pitch. Unfortunately, I wasn’t ready to pitch my book. I had originally set the NJRWA conference as my goal for having the book completed, but was sidelined with an auto accident that resulted in rotator cuff surgery. This slowed down my work and although it’s complete in my head….its not down on paper yet. Either way, I still had to hear what Jessica had to say so I stumbled in and sat in the back taking notes.
Jessica took pitches from the audience. I was amazed how quickly she could take a rambling, run-on pitch and turn it into one or two sentences that cut right to the conflict. How I wished I brought my pitch with me!
She also gave great tips on how to talk to an agent. Reminding us that they’re human (we tend to believe agents are super-humans with great powers of deciphering the publishing biz), have piles of queries on their desk and are working hard every day to find that next great literary work of art. It’s a tough struggle on both sides.
After the session I nervously made my way to the front of the room to say hello. I had to get on line. Other anxious writers were waiting with pitch in hand to get her advice which she graciously gave to each and every one. (Oh! How I wish I had brought my pitch!) When it was finally my turn we chatted about blogging and when I found my self repeating things (a nervous habit of mine) I made a hasty exit.
Thank you, Jessica, for a great session. I’ll have my pitch ready next time and now it will be even better.

DAY ONE- NJ RWA CONFERENCE

It’s my first writer’s conference and I’m so excited!
We start off with the Newbie’s meeting. A brief conference how-to. A lovely woman named Jessica Flasher stumbles into the room as if she’s in the wrong place and begins to tell us how to work a conference. Then she tells us how to stalk agents by shoving manuscripts under bathroom doors, dumping them on the breakfast plate and shoving them under the agent/editor’s nose at every opportunity. (All big no-no’s)
Then her alternate personality, Christine Bush, gave a great presentation on how to have a successful conference. Thank you Christine!
After that it was off to my first seminar (they had lots of good ones and it was hard to choose just one). I chose Weaving in Back-story. This group had a lot of great information and broke down the different types of ways the history of a character could be brought into a story without losing the reader. I couldn’t write fast enough!
Next I chose a talk by Nick Conrad of Elora’s Cave Publishing. Nick was a wonderful speaker who gave insight on the proper way to submit. No perfume or confetti needed. Write a good book, learn the proper way to prepare a cover letter, and make sure you submit to the right place. Thanks Nick!
After that I took in Jessica Faust class on how to perfect your pitch. My little secret is I’m not ready to pitch but just wanted to meet Jessica because I read her blog all the time. She gave a great seminar and I was impressed with her candor and honesty. She listened to pitches from the audience and critiqued them on the spot. It was a great way for us to learn what to do, what not to do and how to cut right to the conflict in your book. After meeting Jessica I can definitely say she is someone I’d love to have for an agent. Thank you, Jessica! It was a lot of fun.
I’m going back today for round two. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Gotta have it?

Does your story need sex? How much is too much? Do you need it at all?
When working on your latest novel it’s almost a given you get to the part where your hero may have the chance to indulge. Perhaps one of them meets an old friend—or a new one, or maybe he’s kidnapped by Amazon space women (or men!) from the planet Venus? If your plot isn’t really about the love story how integral is the sex part? I mean in real life people meet and fall into bed (or the back seat) all the time so any story could have the potential for a sex scene.
The question is: how do you handle it? I mean do you really want to spend your valuable word count talking about stoking your hero’s penis? I guess that would depend on what genre you’re writing for and the book’s overall tone.
Romance novels? These have all different levels from innocent to hot and spicy. Nuff said?
So what about the mystery? The spy novel? Sci-fi? How do you know how much sex is needed to “flesh” out your book or when you’re going overboard?
How do YOU handle this question in your writing?

INTERNATIONAL HARMONY-Where does it come from?

It comes from the next generation of course. Imagine if some of the leaders of this world who are so anti American had the chance to live with an American family and learn their day to day life? What if they were there through the highs and the lows and had a chance to discover that American's aren't so different from anyone else in the world. We have families, children and just go day to day taking care of everyone around us. And what if they discovered the freedoms we have here in America? They would have a chance to live in a country where they weren't arrested for speaking their opinions and learn its okay to disagree as long as you don't hurt anyone. What if they learned the beauty that lies in freedom and democracy first hand?
How do we give the children of the world this chance?
HOST AN EXCHANGE STUDENT~
Let the children of the world into America to discover what we're really like and let them go home and spread the word.
http://www.exchangestudents.org/
casenj@exchangestudents.org
Tell them the Aimlesswriter sent you.
:)

CHUCK & LARRY 5 STARS!

Just came from the theater where we saw "I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU CHUCK & LARRY" and it was great! These two high energy comedians fill the theater with laughs. A great supporting cast moves the story along so that quickly you won't realize that almost two hours have passed until the credits roll.

Probably not for kids but if you're mature enough and not offended by (sometimes a little crude) sexual comments go see this flick. It makes fun of homophobics and shows how being true to one's self can release your soul. Leave your preconceived notions of whats proper at home and dare to laugh!

I loved it. Still laughing in NJ.

Poor Jane Austen

Eighteen publishers rejected Jane Austen in the last few months. A writer named David Lassman changed the names of characters and title and sent Pride and Prejudice out to 18 publishers. They all sent rejection letters to poor Jane. I really want to read those letters. Were they just the standard form letters like the ones I have in a Mickey Mouse can under my desk? Or did they get more personal? Except for one who told the writer not to copy Pride and Prejudice so closely I think they were all standard. Did none of them recognize Jane’s work? Or did they and just didn’t want to waste time pointing this out to the author? Were they sitting at their desks thinking, “Another Jane Austen wannabe”.
It leads me to wonder why she was rejected. Bad writing? Slow moving story? Execution not up to par? Or perhaps it wouldn’t make it in today’s market. In this time that has gone beyond sex, drugs and rock and roll, through the times of instant gratification and into the new millennium with barely a glance to the past is it just that there is no market for Pride and Prejudice now? Or perhaps the craft of writing has grown/matured the same way society has grown up?
That leads to what’s hot now? They say chick lit is dying (however I tend to believe they are just renaming it), paranormal is in and, of course, romance in all genres is here to stay. Although, romance has taken on many different forms it never really goes away. What about mystery? Horror? Espionage?
Now I wonder about Stephen King? James Patterson? Dean Koontz? Would their first books jump to best sellers if they were submitted today? I’d like to hope so. I think some writers (forgive me Ms. Austin) just never go out of style. Murder, Sex and anything that pits human against ghost has a fairly good job of getting someone’s attention. Scare me, make my spine tingle and leave the lights on at night and I’ll stay up to read. J.A. Konrath’s serial killers are among the scariest dudes I’ve ever come across. The picture’s James Paterson paints in my head will probably never leave. And Stephen King? I think a part of me is still in the gym with Carrie.
Question: Do you try to write for the market? Or do you just write for your soul?

What I'm reading this week.

A new book out by Lois Winston. This book is a fast paced romantic suspense that hooks you from the beginning and takes you on a great ride. The writer delivers quick witted dialog that keeps you turning pages.

Check out an excerpt here: http://www.loiswinston.com/books/mocha.html

Buy the book!

WHAT I'M READING THIS WEEK:

Caridad Pineiro out does herself on this book. The vampire in this book has to be my favorite so far in the series. We see his past as a victim of the Spanish Inquisition, his transformation into the world of the undead and watch as he falls in love with a human he should never get close to.

Vampires, Sex, Love, and Intrigue! A vampire, Diego, falls in love with a human. She's in trouble and this undead hero just has to come to her rescue. Then he finds out his love is dying....will he saves her with his demon bite? Go find out: http://www.thecallingvampirenovels.com/

NO REDEMPTION

Another rejection. This time from Ellery Queen. Ho hummm.... So now I publish it here.

Catherine drove in a stupor, reflexes navigating around the other cars on the road and bringing her to a stop as needed. It was barely noon so the traffic wasn’t too bad and she was headed west, not north toward the city where most of the traffic congregated. Catherine hated traffic jams. Being stuck behind lines of cars, fumes and angry people gave her a horrible sense of being squeezed. Like a big elastic band was rapped around her chest, no air in, no air out.
She checked her watch, knowing she had to be careful. Her daughter, Maggie, was at summer camp till one, and she absolutely had to be there to pick her up. But there was more time, she could keep driving a little farther.
“This is ridicules.” Catherine told herself. “You’ll never get there and back in time for Maggie. And what will you do when you get there? Confront the woman?”
Catherine wasn’t sure she had the courage that would take. To stand there and look that woman in the eye and ask her why.
“Oh dear, can you tell my why you’re sleeping with my husband?”
Or maybe yell at her, “You whore! Stay away from my husband!” And maybe a bitch-slap, right across that perfectly made-up face.
Time to cross the Delaware and enter her state. Catherine placed a hand over the madly swirling butterflies in her stomach as she pulled to the side of the road and slowed to a stop. A horn blared as a red pickup sped past her, but Catherine didn’t even flinch. Instead she stared at the bridge in front of her. Should she cross? Would it be worth anything to her if she did? That woman was on the other side of the Delaware, over there hiding from the lives she was ruining on this side.
“This is crazy,”
Catherine put the car back in gear and pulled into traffic. She glanced at her watch; eleven thirty now, camp ends at one. She couldn’t forget to pick up Maggie. She was only five, leaving her standing outside would be something close to abandonment. No matter what else she found today, she had to be there for Maggie. Especially since her marriage was about to fall apart.
WELCOME TO PENNSYLVANIA.
“Five more minutes and I’ll go back.” She just wanted to see where this woman came from. Just to maybe understand a little about the woman her husband suddenly preferred.
Catherine wondered how she would survive a divorce. She had no skills, no education and didn’t know if she could support herself and Maggie. What if Greg fought for custody? An icy fist grabbed her heart. No, she could never lose Maggie. Ever.
“Other women do it.” Catherine said, “They do it everyday.”
But she was afraid. She lived with her parents and then Greg. Never on her own. A shiver of fear skiddled down Catherine’s spine. Just the thought of living alone was scary and she didn’t know, if it had to happen, if she could do it. To get a job that would pay enough to maintain a decent home, utility bills, car insurance? Impossible. And then there was sweet Maggie. Catherine knew she could not fail Maggie.
Driving another fifteen miles and she reached her destination. Kirkwood, Pennsylvania. A little town just the other side of the Delaware River. According to the internet this was where the she-devil lived.
Another glance at her watch and Catherine pulled her minivan into a small shopping center just inside the town limits. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and called her sister. “Susan can you do me a favor and pick up Maggie from camp?”
Catherine’s eyes scanned the parking lot, barely registering her sister’s answer. “Un-huh, One O’clock. I’m just a little tied up. I was running errands and lost track of time.” Not a total lie, Catherine thought. One of those little white ones. Not the kind that counted as a sin against your soul. No harm, no foul.
Across the street a blond got out of a red Mustang and walked into a deli. Catherine sat up straight and stared.
“I have to go, Soose. I owe you one.” Catherine’s pulse accelerated. “Call me and let me know when you have her. Or better yet, I’ll call you back in just a bit.”
That was her! The blonde bitch sleeping with Greg.
There was no sign of Greg and that was a good thing. If she saw him here, she didn’t know what she would do. Confront him? Scream at him? Catherine was beginning to sweat and kicked the air conditioning up another notch. But it was just her, the other woman. It cost forty dollars to do a search on the Internet and get an address for that license plate. It was registered to a flower shop around here somewhere. That and the bleach blond hair on top of that tight, petite body told her everything she needed to know. She had come to the right place. Rage filled her, oozing up from the tips of her toes like an Artic chill, making her legs quiver, turning her stomach to stone and then reaching her shattered heart. Catherine clasped a hand to her chest and wondered if one could have a coronary from a broken heart. It ached so bad.
Get hold of yourself, Catherine thought, you came this far, you have to confront that bitch. But not here, I don’t want to confront her here. However scoping out the enemy wouldn’t hurt either. I could use a drink. I’ll just go in and get a soda.
Catherine climbed from the car and walked over to the deli. Through the window she could see the woman standing by the counter talking to the guy who made the sandwiches. Catherine pulled open the door and stepped into the store. The frigid blast of air conditioning did nothing to cool her temper as she entered. Miss Blondie didn’t even glance in her direction as Catherine walked past her back to the soda case. A whiff of Obsession radiated off the woman and Catherine was shocked by this evil joke.
Obsession is my favorite perfume, she thought. Then another thought hit her. What if Greg gave this bitch her perfume? He said he always loved the scent. Maybe he loved it so much it didn’t matter which one of his women wore it?
Grabbing a coke Catherine pushed past the woman again and slammed the bottle down on the counter. The clerk took her money and she stormed out, drawing curious looks from the rest of the customers. Once at the car Catherine had to stop for a minute and get her bearings. Pain kneaded its way between her eyes as she felt the beginning of a migraine. She placed one hand on the hood of her minivan and held the cold soda bottle to her forehead. Damn that woman! Hatred seethed through her as she climbed in the van and started the engine. Digging two pain killers out of her bag she gulped half the soda before she was able to swallow them down. Now, she sat back and waited.
One month ago to the day, Catherine had deviated from her normal routine of going straight home after dropping Maggie off at school and decided to go shopping. Drop in to Macy’s and hit the clearance rack and then pick up a few things for dinner. No big deal. Until she spotted her husband’s blue pickup truck tucked neatly in beside this same red Mustang at the Angel Falls Motel. It was barely ten a.m.
She staked out the room for two hours before they emerged. TWO HOURS! They were going at it in there for two hours. Greg’s all time best was maybe twenty minutes and that was including foreplay. What could they possibly have been doing in there for two hours? And why?
All Catherine could think of was why he wanted this blond, all two hours worth of blond, more then he wanted his own wife? What had she done wrong?
She kept a clean house, did his laundry, cooked his meals, took good care of their daughter and did her best to be a good wife. So what had she done wrong? Their love life wasn’t spectacular, but she was always willing. Why did he need this tramp in his life?
Sitting this sweltering minivan where the air conditioning was having a losing battle with the unbearable July heat outside, Catherine wasn’t sure if it was the temperature that was making her perspire or the fact that just the sight of this woman made her blood boil. What right does this floozy have to walk into my life and take my man?
And Greg. Tears gathered in Catherine’s eyes as her throat tightened with grief. Was he ready to throw away everything for two slim thighs in high heels? Sadly, she had to admit her body wasn’t what it was before Maggie’s birth. Her hand went to her midriff and she touched the little pooch there. Her hips had gained an inch or so and the skin on her abdomen now hung slightly. No matter how many sit ups she did, that layer of flab refused to tighten. Was that her fault? The joy Maggie brought into their lives was worth way more then the perfect body she had sacrificed to deliver that beautiful baby girl.
Watching the Mustang now, she remembered the look on Greg’s face as he came out of that motel that day. How his eyes darted guiltily around for a minute before looking back to Miss Blondie and smiling. The woman touched his cheek as he kissed her goodbye, then got into the Mustang and drove off. Greg was whistling as he got into his truck.
Now, Catherine was sitting here watching Miss Blondie leave the deli with a cup of coffee and some treat in a little white bag. Before she knew what she was doing, Catherine put the minivan in gear and followed that red Mustang out of the parking lot. She looked at her watch; Maggie would be done with camp about now. Soose promised to take her to McDonald’s and have her back around four. Greg usually came in about five thirty or six.
“We’ll order a pizza tonight.” She muttered, “No way I’m going to have time to cook.”
About a mile down the road the woman pulled into another parking lot and followed it around behind the shopping center where there were a number of doors leading into the back of the shops. Catherine followed, but at what she guessed would be a safe distance. Miss Blondie parked and Catherine drove past, eyes averted. She pulled in behind a dumpster two doors down and slipped quietly from the van. Miss Blondie was just going into her shop. Above the door was painted, “FLOWERS BY LORRIANE”. Catherine edged her way over and peeked in through the screen door.
Lorraine, the dirty woman who was sleeping with her husband was named; Lorraine. The blond hair, tight ass and shapely legs that wrapped themselves around her husband’s waist were named Lorraine. How Catherine hated her.
“Do you send flowers to the marriages you ruin, Miss Lorraine-bitch?”
The door opened into some sort of a workroom and the heady scent of flowers filled the air. A large table in the center was covered with roses, pruning shears and bits of foam and wire. Catherine could hear the woman moving around in the front of the shop.
“This is ridicules, Catherine.” She whispered to herself as she eased open the door and stepped through, “What are you going to say to her? What the hell did you do in that hotel room for two hours? Are you fucking my husband?”
Catherine moved on silent sneakers across the tile floor and took a rose from the table. The blood red, fresh scent filled her head, bringing on a wave of nausea.
“Is this the scent he breaths when he’s kissing you?” Catherine said softly, “Does he smell roses in your hair with the mingle of my Obsession?” Unconsciously crushing the rose she gasped as one sharp thorn dug its way into her thumb.
The phone rang and high heels clicked against the tile, moving closer. In a moment of panic Catherine dropped the mutilated flower and ducked in beside the large glass front refrigerator just as Miss Blondie entered the room.
She watched as the woman, her back still to Catherine, reached for the phone.
“Hi, honey!” Miss Blondie cooed into the phone. “What’s up?”
She paused to listen, and then laughed. The laugh grated like sandpaper on Catherine’s already jangled nerves. She imagined Greg liked that laugh. It went along with the bleach blondiness and perfect body that held him in that room for two hours. Locked in those shapely legs and spilling his seed…
“Do you want to meet me there?” Another pause, “Okay, you got a date.”
All Catherine could think of was Greg. How he pecked her cheek as he went out to work this morning, lips barely touching her skin before drawing away. He was spending more and more time at work and not nearly enough with her and Maggie. She thought of how he smiled at Miss Blondie as they kissed goodbye in the motel parking lot, lips lingering, dipping in once, twice, three times for a taste before pulling away. Black rage welled up inside of Catherine as she pictured those full red lips touching Greg’s mouth and imagined what else they had touched. She shuddered. Now they had another “date”. Miss Hot Pants and her husband.
A woman who jumped into bed with married men, doing God knows what for TWO HOURS!
For Catherine the world took on a red haze. Heat flared up from her soul as her hands balled into fists. She started to pant.
Grabbing a large ceramic vase off the counter, she raised it high and in two quick steps brought it crashing down on top of that blond head. The woman fell forward, head bouncing off the counter before she dropped like a stone, face down on the floor and all Catherine could do was stare. Blood, bright red, pumped out of a gash on the side of Miss Blondie’s head, she twitched once, twice, and then lay still. The red stain of her blood, soaking the blonde hair as it worked its way into an ever-widening circle like some bloody angel’s halo.
A little bell chimed as someone came in the front of the shop, the sound snapped Catherine’s head around so fast the muscles in her neck strained. She could hear someone moving about the shop and that was enough to put her feet back into motion. She tried to step over the woman on the floor, but miscalculated. Her heal caught the edge of that bloody circle and she slid, split style, her one knee going down onto Miss Blondie’s back. Catherine’s breath was coming in short hitching gasps as she used the edge of the table to pull herself back up. Putting her hand right into the bits of gore and hair that stuck to the table where Blondie’s head had hit. Catherine pulled back and wiped her hand across the dead woman’s back. Gagging now, she levered up once more before the blood beneath her foot brought her down again and this time she sat down hard on the dead woman beneath her. A gaseous expulsion of air gushed out of the body and Catherine felt her breakfast move up into her throat. She fought down the vomit and panic. Not worrying about anything but getting out of there, Catherine rolled over onto her knees and then scrambled to her feet. The blood, more blood then she had ever seen before stained the legs of her jeans as she half slid, half ran to the back door.
She jumped into her van, revved the engine, and tore around the other end of the small shopping center, forcing herself to slow down as she reached the front so she could blend in with the rest of the lazy afternoon shoppers.
***
“Are you trying to get drunk?” Greg asked. “That’s your fourth glass.”
“It’s been a long day.” Catherine answered. All night she had been watching him for a sign. Did he know anything? Had he tried to call Miss Blondie’s shop? Taking a hefty swallow of wine she settled herself on the other end of the couch.
Catherine had raced home as fast as she could, stripped down in the laundry room and threw her clothes in the laundry with two cups of bleach. She gave no thought to ruining her jeans, but ran upstairs and scrubbed herself raw in the shower. When Susan and Maggie arrived home at four, Catherine was sitting at the kitchen table sipping her first glass of wine and trying to stop her hands from shaking.
Catherine was sure she could see a person’s soul through their eyes. She knew that looking into a person’s eyes could tell you secrets about them. You just had to gaze long and hard and it would be there. Secrets and sins, everything you needed to know. Now, she thought she should have turned that woman over and peered into her eyes. To see her soul or lack there of.
Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not kill….
Half of her brain told her the woman deserved what she got, but mostly Catherine was worried about her own soul. If the woman was dead would she burn in hell or was she exempt from this sin because the sin of adultery was there first? Was it still a sin to kill a sinner? No, it couldn’t be or there wouldn’t be such a thing as the death penalty, right? The law kills sinners all the time. But still…
Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not kill…
When the phone rang she nearly jumped through the roof. Greg went to the kitchen to answer it. She could barely hear his muted words as he spoke, but she knew what it was about. Her heart pounded and it seemed like forever before he came back into the family room. His face grave and she wondered if he would tell her. Would he confess to cheating now that his lover was dead? Tell her it was all an awful mistake and beg forgiveness?
A small part of her took pleasure in his pain as she drained her wine glass.
“Catherine,” he stood before her, “I have to go out.”
She tried to act indifferent and pretended to be examining the puncture mark the rose had left on her thumb.
“Oh?”
“The girl in my office,” he hesitated, “her mother was murdered today. She owned this little flower shop and they think she might have walked in on a robbery. Tracy is upset and…”
Tracy.
Catherine’s blood ran cold. She rubbed her sore thumb.
Tracy is upset.
Greg continued to talk, but she couldn’t hear him over the rushing sound in her ears. “Her mother was murdered today.” I murdered her today. Not a robber, me. She had killed an innocent woman. She was going to burn in hell now. Lost in the limbo of fire for all eternity. Thou shalt not kill.
Greg gathered his coat and keys and Catherine watched him go out the door to her.

A short Rejection from The First Line. (Sorry! Rated V for violence)

Sorry I haven't posted in a while! Life, work and all that suff gets in the way. But here's my latest rejected short story. Enjoy!

ESCAPE
In Pigwell, time is not measured by days or weeks but by the number of eighteen wheelers that drive past my house. When I was five I thought they were kind of neat, like big dinosaurs that would roar past at all hours of the day or night. At ten I found them annoying. They were noisy, imposing giants that encroached upon the peacefulness of our small yard while I sat in the garden reading. By the time I was sixteen I longed to travel with them. I’d stare at them from the front porch and wonder what it would be like to see any place that wasn’t Pigwell.
I was on the front porch that hot July night trying to read as another truck roared past. I sat up to watch, pulling my wilted cotton blouse away from the sweat that covered my chest. New Jersey in August was as close to Hades as anyone could ever get.
The eighteen wheeler was white with long teal stripes down the sides. The word ESCAPE was written in bold pink letters. It looked neat, cool, and in control. Contrary to this hot, putrid sweat box I called home. Here there was no capacity for control or even the illusion of anything cool and neat. Home was a war zone and everyone looked out for themselves. Regardless.
I watched that pristine truck roll past on its mission from heaven. Going to see places that were far away from this pigpen of a town. Away from the bruises and pain that lived in Pigwell.
ESCAPE.
“You Bastard!”
“Stop, just stop.” That was my father. My mother was the one screaming profanities.
ESCAPE.
“It’s after seven. Have you been screwing around on me again?”
“Rosie, no. You know, I never—“
ESCAPE.
“You think I’m stupid?” Mom asked, right before she started throwing things. She broke the sugar bowl last week when I was too slow to do the dishes, she flung the ketchup bottle at daddy when he left his shoes in the living room two nights ago and we were down to three plates and two bowls. What ever she was throwing in there might just be the last of our dishes. I imagined eating straight out of the pots for the rest of my days.
“Son of a Bitch!” More breaking glass.
ESCAPE.
I looked to the sky, then my gaze drifted to the woods beside our shack. The shadows were already filling in between the trees, casting ghosts in their wake. I didn't like the woods at night, but it was my usual hidey place when my folks went at it. Especially when the night was as hot as this one. Sweat rolled off your back like drool off a Rottweiler. The woods had a cool dirt floor with trees to absorb the August heat. Usually I’d find a bower of leaves and lay out with my book until the house noise quieted and it was safe to return. But at night…
Another series of crashes from the kitchen and I thought of the white truck with the teal stripe.
ESCAPE.
“Rosie, stop—“ My father was a small, mousey man and not one to stand up to my mother. His voice was more of a plea then an order. Even though he was my favorite parent, most of the time I hated him for not having a spine. He never defended himself or me from the monster. A definite wimp, but the lesser evil in our home and I knew he loved me. Daddy was the one who tucked me in when I was little and made sure I was well taken care of. He was more of a mother then the woman who gave birth to me.
My mother was strong in every way. Language, body and temper. Most of her days were spent downing bottles of beer and she was usually half in the bag when Daddy got home. The woman struck first and questioned later. She never apologized as no matter whose fault it could have been, she was never wrong.
Suddenly, it was quiet. The screaming stopped and all I could hear was some soft shuffling from somewhere in the house. I went back to hide in my book. Just another night in the land of pigs.
“Darla?”
I chose not to answer. Maybe she didn’t know I was out here. I looked to the woods again and regretted not going when I had the chance. When it was ghosts verses monsters, I’d take the ghosts every time.
“DARLA!”
I counted. If I got over thirty there was a good chance she had forgotten about me or passed out.
“DARLA, DAMN IT!”
With a heavy sigh I closed my book and looked to the road. I thought again about those eighteen wheelers and wondered where they were going. As I got to my feet, I thought, I had to get out of this place.
ESCAPE.
“Get me another beer, will ya?” My mother said as I entered the house. She was sprawled on the couch, remote in hand.
ESCAPE.
My heart stopped as I entered the kitchen. The refrigerator door stood open and every glass jar inside was smashed on the floor, but that wasn’t what scared me. Olives, pickles and artichokes were smooshed in the broken glass along with streaks of dark red...blood? A dark stretch of crimson trailed across the kitchen floor.
A smear, a drag.
“Daddy?”
The beer bottles stood untouched on the bottom shelf. Carefully I tiptoed over the mess and peered out the back door. The yard was empty. I came back and snagged a bottle of beer as I passed.
“Mom? Where’s Daddy?” I approached the couch with caution handing over the beer.
“Bastard! Do you know what he did?”
The image of mess and blood glared bright in my mind’s eye, a vivid picture of food and gore, “Is he okay? I can’t find him.”
My mother’s dark eyes lifted to stare at me. “Your father is a lying cheating bastard and that’s all you have to know.”
Her black eyes held no emotion and immediately I knew it didn’t matter if my father was hurt. All that mattered was what she thought he did to her. They had a name for this kind of crazy.
When I headed out to hide on the front porch again, she called me back.
“Clean up that mess, will ya? Your father is useless.” She cackled, a hysterical laugh that ended in a belch.
At the door I tried again, “Do you know where Daddy went?”
Another cackle as she stared at the TV. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing at my question or the show.
After cleaning up the mess I was sure it was blood. The color, consistency, it had to be blood. I looked all over the house without finding my father. His car was still in the driveway and I seriously doubted he was at the neighbor’s. After all the screaming and violence that went on in our house most of the neighbors kept far away. A short nod and half hearted wave was all we could hope for. I went back into the kitchen with cold dread clutching at my stomach. Sinking into a chair I noticed more blood on the other side of the table, toward the door leading to the basement.
“Daddy?” A nervous descent into the bowels of the house showed nothing. Although the basement was a jumble of boxes and old furniture, there was no sign of my father.
“It wasn’t that much blood.” I whispered as I prowled the basement. “It just looked like a lot because of the juice from the olives and stuff, right?”
I was on my way back up the stairs when I spotted him. Curled up in a ball beneath the stairs.
“Daddy?”
Moving closer to the stairs I knelt down and put a hand on his shoulder. I shook him and his head lagged, flopping off his arm onto the cold concrete with a damp thud.
“Daddy?”
A cold shadow fell over me as my mother came down the stairs, beer in hand, sneer creasing her lips.
“Get the shovel, Darla.”
I was afraid to look up. My eyes were locked on my father, taking in his bloodied head and ashen features. The word “dead” hanging in my brain as my voice cracked. “Daddy…”
At midnight I dug the grave out behind the shed. Daddy was wrapped in the shower curtain, lying just a few feet away. Mom said that all the neighbors should have been in bed by then so it was a good time.
“Make it deep,” she sipped her beer as she sat in a lawn chair just off to the side.
“Is this good?” The muscles across my back ached, one shoulder felt like it was going to pull out of the socket if I lifted one more shovelful of dirt.
Mom stood and peered into the hole. She drained her beer and tossed the bottle in beside me. “No.”
More digging. Another two feet down before Mom decided it was a good and proper grave. When I finally climbed out of the hole Mom was smiling. She had another beer in her hand and her words were slurred as she staggered over to the hole to inspect it.
“Well, I guess dissh is a fitting end for the bash-tard.”
As I sagged back into the lawn chair, rubbing my sore hands together there was a rustle off to my side. Turning I watched my father stagger to his feet. Stunned, his name caught in my throat and I couldn’t move.
“Maybe we need another foot.” My mother swayed drunkenly over the hole.
Daddy blinked, taking in the shovel, the hole and my mother standing over it. One hand went to his head, coming away sticky with blood and rage flared in his eyes. Suddenly, he grabbed my mother by the hair and wretched her backwards. Drunk as she was, my mother had the insanity to bring her beer bottle up over her head and down over Daddy’s right eye. The end broke off leaving ragged red rips across his face. Together they crashed to the ground, mom on top. She flipped over and, straddling my father, she used the broken bottle to slice his throat.
I didn’t think.
I didn’t know I was moving until my shoulder screamed as I lifted the shovel above my head and brought it down as hard as I could across the back of my mother’s skull.
ESCAPE.
The road out of Pigwell had no streetlights, but dawn was breaking when I finally saw the first eighteen wheeler heading my way. I stood on the shoulder, one hand raised into the glaring headlights.
“Where ya heading?” The meek looking man was small of statue and reminded me of my father.
“Out of Pigwell.”
ESCAPE.
THE END.

CELIACS OF THE WORLD UNITE!

Right about now most of you are wondering who are the Celiacs? Some strange political group? A fancy new club? Well, there are an estimated three million Celiacs in the United States alone and half of them don’t even know it! They go about their lives, dealing with Celiac issues, all the while they are oblivious to what is going on in their own bodies.
Celiac Disease is an auto immune disease that causes a person to react to gluten, a protein found in wheat, rye and barley. (Okay sometimes oats too-especially in the USA, but that’s controversial so I won’t go there.) If you have Celiac Disease and eat wheat, rye or barley your immune system goes haywire and the villi in your intestines is destroyed. Flattened! Squashed! (FYI- Villi are the little hair-like fibers in your intestine that move the food along and grab up all your vitamins and good things to feed you and make you healthy.) Now, without these little villi just try to absorb those nutrients!
Symptoms are mostly digestive include bloating, the big D, fatigue, nausea, vomiting and some not so subtle symptoms like anemia, bone pain, headaches, and a wonderful little rash called dermatitis herpetiformis. From “failure to thrive” in infants to any problem associated with vitamin deficiencies Celiac Disease can present it self in many ways. So, how do you diagnose something that hides under so many hats? Celiac disease was once thought to be extremely rare but the times they are a changin’. It starts with a blood test and is confirmed with a biopsy (so they can see those squashed and flattened villi).
When diagnosed Celiac Disease is like this giant monster living in your house. It sits on your shoulder where ever you go and hangs around your neck like a ball and chain. Gone from your life are the cookies, cakes, breads, cereals and pasta you love. No more beer! You go to parties and have to refuse just about everything on the menu because wheat is the cheapest filler known to man. It’s in most of the gravies, soups and sauces (thickened with flour-and yes, four is made from wheat too). Clean out your cupboards and get ready for a change of lifestyle.
Then we learn of cross contamination. Yeesh! Enough already! So, the chef is in the kitchen making your lunch. Cheese burger, no roll please and you think you’re doing good. But the chef is busy and he takes the spatula—YOUR SPATUAL—and leans over and flips a piece of French toast, then he flips your burger. POOF! You’ve been contaminated! Tiny flecks of gluten from the toast have found their way onto your burger and your plate and will work their way into your gut, throw your immune system into chaos and hammer down your villi. All from one careless flip of the spatula. So, beware when you belly up to the buffet because you have to wonder if the people before you moved the spoon from the croutons (wheat) into the olives. Oh, the joy of Celiac!
Now relax. Push the panic aside and know there is hope. It takes time to tame this Celiac beast, but it is possible. You do your research, check out the Celiac organizations for more information and you learn it’s not so bad. Most health food stores now carry every kind of gluten free food you could imagine. Even your mainstream grocers are starting to stock the stuff. So you’ll buy one of the gluten free pastas turn the first few pots in to glue (cooking was never one of my better talents!) and learn to manage this life. Experiment, find the brands you like and maybe even learn to bake a few of your favorites. You either eat before you go to the party or bring a little gluten free dish with you. If you do find food you can eat just serve yourself first so those cross contaminators don’t get you! Day by day it gets easier, you know at a glance what you can and can’t eat and you stock your home with good food again. The beast shrinks in size and now fits in your pocket. He’s still there, but can’t scare you anymore.
Then comes the payoff: you FEEL GOOD! The nausea that’s followed you from sun up to sun down is gone, bloated tummy, aching joints and headaches GONE! The beast has given you back your health.
And I found the best tasting bread up at Whole Foods so I’m going to take some cold cuts, cheese, mayo and chopped up olives and make the best Dagwood you ever saw! Life goes on, it gets better. (There are about four or five kinds of gluten free beer on the market, too.)
-Jeanne -Gluten free since 2003
http://www.celiac.com/
http://www.celiac.org/
Local Celiac support group: http://www.geocities.com/seashoreceliacs/

THE DEVIL'S PITCHFORK

I have to recommend THE DEVIL'S PITCHFORK written by Mark Terry. This fast paced drama will keep you turning pages. (I was actually late for work one day because I had to find out how it ended) The main character, Derek Stillwater, is a hero everyone will love.

What if a bunch of scientists created a super virus with no known cure? And what if it fell into the hands of a crazy man?

Read THE DEVIL'S PITCHFORK!

http://www.markterrybooks.com/books.php

Recommending KISS HER GOODBYE

Find KISS HER GOODBYE at your local book store. You won't regret it. This book keeps you on the edge of your seat and takes you places you could never imagine.

I just finished it and still can't get it out of my mind. Robert Gregory Browne is definately an author I'll buy again ...and again, and again, and again!

Couldn't resist....