SURREALITY

Yes, I made up a word. The past two years have been surreal and reality, hence Surreality. You’re welcome. Like most people, my world has been rocked and rolled over the past two years. I work in health care, so I continued to work through the pandemic, although my patient load and hours got cut back for a while. Things are roughly back to normal on the work front, so that’s good news. The home front is decidedly not normal. Over the years, we have enjoyed a relatively healthy existence. 2021 decided that needed to change, so in January, the entire household came down with Covid-19. I don’t think I’ve ever been that sick for that long, but we recovered without any major issues. During my downtime, I decided it was time to find a primary physician and made an appointment with my husband’s doctor. As a healthcare provider I have certain expectations of doctors, and this one didn’t make the cut. I take issue with any doctor who doesn’t ask basic questions regarding my health history, doesn’t address current conditions and concerns, and repeats no less than four times that I need to eat more plant-based foods (without asking about my diet). At least, she did request lab work, a mammogram, and a colon screen (done, done, and done). Now, to find another doctor. All was going along relatively smoothly until I woke up at 3am over Labor Day weekend in atrial fibrillation. Most might say they had heart palpitations. I’d call it an asynchronized kettle drum thumping on the wrong side of my chest. After an early morning trek to the emergency room (via Whataburger because mi esposo needed breakfast), voila–I now have history of a-fib. Fun. Fortunately, my little, ole heart decided to go back to a normal rhythm without further drama, and I went home with a very nice, shiny cardiologist to call my own. Yippee. That was nothing. The next week, mi esposo went in for a cardiac catheterization–nothing was wrong, but his cardiologist wanted to take a look around his heart’s arteries. Mi esposo came away with two stents and a buttload of blood thinners. Nothing wrong, my fanny! You’d think that would be enough, right? Nope. In October, mi esposo, the Mimi, and I took a tiny trip to Georgia to meet our new grandbaby girl (I shall call her Girlie). She’s gorgeous, adorable, magnificent, smart, opinionated, and possesses a set of lungs that lets you know she means Business (That’s my girl!). Anyway, on our last day visiting, mi esposo decided to help Myrtle the Elder put some things away in the attic. He took an ill-advised shortcut out of the attic and landed on the concrete garage floor. Did you know that bones don’t like concrete all that much? Nor do they appreciate 8-foot drops onto said concrete. We also discovered that morphine is not his friend, and neither is the LSD-type concoction that he received in the emergency room to control the pain. So, while mi esposo experienced life in a Georgia hospital and rehab, I had to come home and figure out how I was going to get him back to Texas. After three weeks, Myrtle the Younger and I trekked back to Georgia, sprung mi esposo from jail–I mean rehab, and hauled him home in a four-day, whirlwind trip that I’m still recovering from four months later. He’s healing well but has more therapy and surgery in his future. And we have a new normal. The weirdness of 2020 and 2021 has given me a lot of time and fodder for my writing. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve entered a few more short story/flash fiction contests and done pretty darn well if you’re interested (well, you must be if you’re reading this). A friend is producing an anthology this spring, and I’ve submitted a story for it. Stay tuned for more details. I have finished the first two books of my newest series, The Tess Corona Chronicles. (No, I did not name her after the virus! The name was given two years before the pandemic, and no, I am not changing it. So, there.) I’m querying agents and publishers for the first novel–And They Danced, and I’m working with my critique group on the second–And They Played. Writing of the third book, And They Hid, has commenced. If that isn’t enough, I still have to write the last book of the Spiritual Gifts trilogy, books 3 and 4 of the Daemon series, a non-fiction work, and at least a dozen or so short stories. Did I mention that I work full-time? And that mi esposo can’t do most of the things I need him to do? There aren’t enough hours in the day. T

Old and New

 Most of my social media feeds show people reflecting on 2020 and planning for 2021. I am not a planner–not even what’s for dinner–but I do make an effort to at least sketch out a calendar with important dates. This year I tried to at least look at what I accomplished in 2020. In a year of global ups and downs, I have to admit my year was mostly up.

Ups: I opened the year getting 3rd place in a local short story contest (Transplant), then got 1st place in August (All Saints). I published my 4th book (Valkyrie) in May, finished my 1st manuscript for a new series-The Cerveza Chronicles, and made headway on the 2nd novel. I participated in National Write a Novel Month for the 5th time, and PitchWars for the 1st time.

My learning process continued with (in person and online) meetings and classes for Skywarn, TCU Center of Texas Studies, Texas Discovery Gardens, Sisters in Crime (North Dallas, Heart of Texas, Houston, North California, National), Bourchercon-Sacramento, Writer’s Guild of Texas, Dallas Mystery Writers, Dallas Area Writers Group (DAWG), Roanoke Writers Conference, Writer’s Organizations ‘Round Dallas (WORD), and Frisco Area Writers Group (FAWN). Basically, if they let me in, I took notes.

My oldest–Myrtle the Elder–came to visit in January and bought her first home in February. She also got a new puppy–a Boston Terrier name Moose. My other granddogs are doing well. Doc had a bloody ear, but otherwise avoided having his stomach pumped again (win!). I’ve been able to keep in touch with friends through Zoom, Discord, texting, and the occasional porch or driveway visit.

T’s Adventures in Cooking including learning to fill tamales (yum!), making my first chicken and dumplings and beef stew, my first cobbler (blog post-Drunk Peaches), not-my-first-but-it’d-been-awhile Thanksgiving turkey, and the best smoked Christmas ham with a cranberry-dijon glaze (seriously good and ham isn’t my favorite meat).

Downs: In March, my husband and I had to put our 15 year old black lab to sleep (blog post-My Boy). I still miss my boy.

Covid-19 affected everyone I know in one way or another. One family member (a nurse) caught it early on but recovered. Friends went into strict quarantine due to health concerns, and most transitioned their work to home. My job (occupational therapist) doesn’t have the luxury of working from home, but we did have to decrease our hours temporarily. Fortunately, my employer did everything they could to keep us working, and I had over 100 hours of vacation time (because I forget to plan time off) accumulated to offset the difference.

Personally, I haven’t allowed the pandemic to limit me. I live my life, wear a mask, and respect others space. It doesn’t work for many, but it works for me.

What does 2021 hold for T?

No clue. I’m attempting to make a few plans. I’m going to take the leap and query agents for The Cerveza Chronicles. Honestly, I’m not sure how patient I will be with that process, but we’ll see. I am a new board member of Writers Guild of Texas (pray for them, they know not what possessed them). Any and all classes, meetings, critiques, contests, etc that I am capable of participating in, shall be participated in. And Myrtle the Younger and I will continue our Adventures in Cooking (she got a tiny waffle maker for Christmas-yummy!) so stay tuned for whatever crazy whim we get a taste for, without setting the kitchen on fire (it’s a skill I haven’t mastered yet. My mother has achieved that greatness at least 3 times that I know of).

Many blessing to all for a HEALTHY and SAFE 2021!

T.

Drunk Peaches

 I have mentioned in the past–more than once–that I am not a cook. It’s not that I can’t cook, I don’t like planning to cook, preparing to cook, cooking, and cleaning up after cooking. Except on special occasions like when I have help, inspiration, or a really good reason to darken the kitchen doors. Let me just say that I haven’t killed anybody or anything with my cooking–yet.

I should also mention that–despite not possessing the will to cook wholesome food for my family on a daily basis–I apparently inherited the family trait of collecting recipes and improvising, which I have passed on to the Myrtles. Myrtle the Eldest is quite amazing in the kitchen and Myrtle the Youngest is my partner in crime when I want to test out something wild and crazy.

The latter was the case a couple of weeks ago, but let me first give a little background. I live in Texas which has many “state foods”: BBQ, chili, Tex-Mex, corny dogs, to name a few. Cobblers might be considered a “state dessert” and are a staple at many pot-lucks. That said, I had never ever made a cobbler–homemade or otherwise. So June, 2020 rolled around along with my father-in-law’s birthday and I decided I would attempt to make a peach cobbler for him.

Now when I do cook, especially for a special occasion, I make an effort to do it right. I follow a recipe (not always–rarely–with precision), and, when possible, I use fresh ingredients. This peach cobbler had to have fresh peaches (it took freakin’ forever to peel and cut up six or seven peaches only to find one of them was bad). It smelled good, it tasted good, and everyone in the vicinity wanted a repeat. Which I proceeded to do a few weeks later for mi espouso’s birthday.

Moving on to a couple of weeks ago, I decided that peach cobbler with brandied peaches sounded kinda good. Have I ever had brandied peach cobbler? No. Have I ever sampled brandied peaches? No. Have I ever had brandy? No. Am I going to modify the current successful recipe to meet my current yen? Why yes, yes I am.

Fortunately, Myrtle the Younger is on board with this idea, so off we go to the liquor store (because one must have brandy to make brandied peaches, don’t you know–did I mention that I’ve never had brandy before?). Obtaining peaches and brandy, we proceeded to skin the poor little darlings and I decide that a cup of brandy in the pot oughta do the trick. But first, as all good chefs should do, we must taste the brandy.

I do not like brandy.

But I continue with the plan and allow the peaches to soak up as much alcohol as they wished while the bowl sat in my fridge. Every few days, Myrtle the Younger would ask when we were going to do the cobbler. I kept putting it off because–you know–I don’t want to cook. We even bought a few more unsaturated peaches to mix with the drunk ones so we would be able to drive after sampling the cobbler (not that we needed to go anywhere, but just in case someone had to go buy another dessert or go to the ER).

Finally, she corners me and I agreed we needed to do the deed today. The first thing we did, with great trepidation, was remove the lid of the sloshed peaches in hopes that they would still be edible. They seemed happy, so we moved to the fresh peaches. The three remaining ones were REALLY RIPE by this time but were still usable.

While I’m peeling the fresh peaches, Myrtle looks up the recipe and happens upon a recipe (get this) for brandied peach cobbler. It called for 1.5 TEASPOONS of brandy over fresh peaches without letting them set. If I recall correctly, I doused my little guys in about 1 CUP and let them percolate for two weeks. OOPS!

We continued with our endeavor, deciding to follow the original recipe, and lo and behold, we made a darn good drunk peach cobbler for dessert!

Now I have to get more peaches, before they are out of season, and set them to swimming in a new bath of brandy. I also have reserved peachy brandy marinade that I need a use for. Stay tuned.

T.

Thrilled and Humbled

 A couple of weeks ago, I did this thing–I entered a local writer’s group short story contest. Each month the Granbury Writers’ Bloc posts a challenge to write a story of less than 1500 words for a given prompt. August happened to be an open prompt category. While there are many contests out there, few offer a critique for each entry. This contest offers feedback for each entry, and that alone is worth the entry fee.

This month had the added incentive of receiving a “plot bunny”. Meet Lena the Lizard.

Lena the Lizard ‘Plot Bunny’

Lena promises to help me write more short stories (I have to provide the poop).

Before this year, I had written two short stories–SMACK! and A Smile for Noelle–as a challenge to myself. While I did submit SMACK! for a Texas horror anthology (I figured Hey! Why not!), those stories were never critiqued. In January, I submitted Transplant to the GWB Short Story Contest. I was pleased to get 3rd place for that effort. In addition to this contest, I’ve written a few flash fiction stories (under 300 words) for another group I belong to (maybe someday I’ll post those).

So back to my current short story–I wrote All Saints as a complement to my paranormal cold case series (formerly referred to as The Corona Chronicles, but now will be called Chronicles of the Cerveza Twins–or something like that). Wanting good feedback, I submitted All Saints as a short story.

And I won. First place. To say I was excited is an understatement. Mi Espouso said I was going to be difficult to live with (I think he’ll survive). There were only two comments given in the feedback, including the statement “One of the best stroies[sic] of any genre I’ve read in a long time.”

Lena thinks I did a good job.

Well, doesn’t that just put things in perspective? I am floored. This is someone who reads as much as I do, if not more, and my fourth attempt at a short story was the best they’ve read in a long time?

Wow. If that isn’t the incentive to keep writing, I don’t know what is.

My story, along with the 2nd and 3rd place winners, are posted at Granbury Writers’ Bloc. Check them out. Send them love and support.

Thanks!

T.

Firsts

 A while back, a friend asked about first concerts. You know the type of question: What was your 1st car ('73 government surplus AMC Ambassador station wagon--top that for ugly!), What was your 1st pet? (a Boston terrier--Lady Noble Blue (edit-the Mimi corrects me. It was Noble Lady Blue. Forgive me for screwing up a pedigreed name. I was one! I called her Boo or Blue)--given to me for my 1st birthday by my great-grandparents), etc.

Anyway, I assumed my friend was referring to big, popular music-type concerts. As the daughter of a musician, I've been to many concerts of the symphonic and choral variety as an attendee, volunteer, or participant. Of the typical rock or country concert, I have only attended a handful.

My first was at the tender age of 12ish. My mother and a friend of hers took me to see Fleetwood Mac. That's a pretty cool first concert in anybody's book. I clearly remember 4 things from this event. The first was Stevie Nicks standing on stage, wearing a flow-y, handkerchief-type dress, standing in front of a fan which blew everything around. She was probably singing Rhiannon, but I don't remember for sure. My preteen self thought it was cool. Second, I remember Christine McVie apologize for John McVie's absence from the stage; he apparently ate some bad fish.

After that, the two things I remember weren't so much fun. There was the drunk-off-his-keister dude who plopped his smelly self on the steps next to me and proceeded to drink, smoke, yell, and flick his Bic while falling over into my lap. Mom removed me to the next seat and called for security clean-up on aisle 5. That was fun.

As we were leaving, another, equally stoned/drunk/stupid guy tried to stop me from leaving. Not the thing to do in front of a Momma Bear. Nope. I do not recommend it.

Needless to say, that experience set the tone for subsequent concerts. For my 16th birthday, my dad got me and 3 friends tickets to see Van Halen. I only remember David Lee Roth's backside-less leather jeans that he waggled around on stage (why did I think that was cool?), and the guy who tried to pick me up after the concert. Fortunately, my friends possessed more sense than me and told him off.

Then there was the Journey concert with mi (future) espouso, his brother, my brother, and whoever my brother was dating at the time. I think the concert was good, but I don't remember because a couple of girls decided to park themselves in the aisle to smoke their joints, block my view, and sing along (badly and loudly). It took me about twenty minutes to get mi (future) espouso to have security remove them from the vicinity. One would think with me beating on his arm for that long, he might have gotten the message a little quicker. I might have been a little upset by the ordeal.

Any excitement about going to see someone live has since been squashed. I'll go to see someone if it's a quieter venue or if it's part of another event like a ballgame.

That's enough about my concert experiences. Feel free to share yours. If you can top the 1st car category, I'm sorry...so, so sorry.

T

 

My Boy

As parents, we met December 2004, with the usual question: “What do you think Santa will bring you for Christmas?” I don’t know what we were thinking, but mi espouso and I were a little shocked when the Myrtles (aged 8 and 6 at the time) unanimously announced that the only thing they wanted was a—you guessed it—a puppy.

Now, mi espouso and I love dogs. We each had one or more growing up. Our only issue was that we were raising two children, finances weren’t the greatest, and we thought we were too busy for a dog. Considering our options, we decided it might be better to try a guinea pig or something caged as a starter animal for the Myrtles to see if they could take care of an animal.

In steps the Mimi.

My family has firm roots in Santa, going back to my brother’s pronouncement that he didn’t believe anymore. Nope, nada, no-how did Santa exist. That is until Christmas Eve. We were at my great-grandmother’s house, and he decided that he was going to sleep in front of the Christmas tree to be a tripping hazard for the Bearded One. Poor Mimi hadn’t planned on Santa gifts because of my brother’s assurances that there was no Santa. Needless to say, after the kids went to bed, there was a late night scramble to put some kind of Santa appearance under the tree.

Fast forward twenty-odd years, and Mimi was a devout Santa’s elf. If the Myrtles demanded a puppy, then a puppy they would get.

The weekend before Christmas loomed, and the Mimi arrived on our doorstep to drive me all over God’s green earth in search of the Perfect Puppy. Now, let us say right now, the Mimi and I have VERY different views on what constitutes a dog. She likes dogs that sit in your lap or prance around like tiny ballerinas. (She prefers girl dogs because boy dogs hike their leg. THE HORROR.) As we went to pet store to pet store to SPCA, she kept picking out teacup-sized puppies that wouldn’t stop yapping, while I handled puppies that had paws the size of dinner plates and were asleep.

Guess who won.

I called mi espouse on our way home, with a lap full of quiet puppy, to let him know that he was no longer the token male in the household (although the newest male was neutered). Thus began the Great Santa Puppy Exchange. With a week to go, we couldn’t let the Myrtles in on the secret before Christmas, so the Myrtles exited the front to go to the Mimi’s while the puppy (and all things puppy) entered from the back. Mi espouse and I spent a childless week acclimating one black lab-mix to the household until Christmas Eve when we reversed the process: dog (and all things dog) out the back door, girls in the front. The puppy reappeared for the scheduled Santa appearance at 5am when mi espouso arrived back with said puppy (and all things puppy) for set-up. The Mimi managed to keep the dog quiet for 2 hours, then kept the Myrtles at bay for another 30 minutes until show time.

It was an engineering feat, I tell you.

And well worth the effort. After multiple name options were considered, the puppy finally chose his own name—Chewie—when he agreed that he did indeed like to chew, giving a high-pitched whining yelp reminiscent of a certain infamous Wookie, thereby making his full title Chewbacca, Sir Chews-a-lot, Prince Mutley, the CHEW-MEISTER (with booming voice-over).

And he’s MY boy.

Fast forward 15 and a half years.

They say labs stay in puppy-hood for most of their life. That’s certainly true in Chewie’s case. His eyes, ears, legs, and bowels don’t work as well as they used to, but this morning he managed to spot a squirrel and chased it for about twenty feet. I don’t think the squirrel was too concerned to have a teetering old man-dog after him. Last week, we discovered a hole in the fence (thanks to some idiot who didn’t realize the alley was closed for destruction and decided to turn around through our fence). Mi espouso put garbage cans around the hole the keep the dogs in, but we didn’t think Chewie would even find the hole, much less escape. He did. Without delay.

Despite the evidence that he can still enjoy an outing, he’s not comfortable. He doesn’t complain, but we know it’s time. He’s given us over 15 years of love, which is several years more than a lab is supposed to give. I’m thankful we’ve had the privilege to love him back.

He’ll always be MY boy.

T

I'm Blue

For the past three years, I have looked forward to an event created by and for writers. Writers in the Field (WITF) is an opportunity for writers to get inside the head of experts in all manner of disciplines without kidnapping, torture, and self-incrimination. Many of these experts are also writers (or are related to writers) so they understand the strange browser histories which put writers on various watch lists.

The first year was at the tail end of a true Texas summer--hotter than your oven on broil. Last year's event is fondly referred to as Writers in the Flood or Writers in the Mud since Mother Nature decided to dump a load on our heads, complete with tornado. But still we slugged our way to the experts as they did for us. A few didn't make it, including the food truck, but those that did were rewarded with fond memories of slogging through the muck, ruining our shoes, and going mudding in our cars (that was fun).

This year, Momma Nature made up for the first two years. For the past two days, the weather gave us lovely fall-like temperatures (which only last about 5 minutes in Texas). The rain came in early, leaving the ground only slightly squishing in certain places. Life is good.

So, off I went (with mi espouso and Myrtle the Younger in tow) with a clean notepad to attend WITF, intent on meeting like-minded people and experts, to discuss methods of murder and mayhem without threat of suspicious eyes and ears wondering just what the hell was going on out there. There sword fights, loin-girding, Renaissance dancing, lock-picking, blade-smithing, weavers, and dyers (to name a few) mix with experts from the FBI, Secret Service, police, and bomb squad to answer ALL our questions and insane ideas for our story lines. They offer suggestions on how to make our life--I mean writing--more interesting and realistic, while suggesting (gently) that perhaps that plot twist might now work the way we think it will (sigh).

So, why am I blue? Well...I dyed.

I know, it's shocking, but after years of vague ideas on how to make a tie-dyed shirt, I participated in several dying sessions and dyed my very own mustard-y yellow-y handkerchief. Over 2 days and under the watchful eye of Willoc the Dyer, six of us helped to dye a length of hand-woven, wool fabric a deep, rich blue-y purple or purple-y blue. I had the task of being under the wet cloth, dipping the cloth in the dye, ensuring it didn't get tangled on the turning dowel, and basically getting dripped on. One day one, my hands were red. Today, I was blue.

Very blue. As in Smurfette blue. And it DOESN'T COME OFF! (Pics on Instagram)

I'm blue.

T.

What's Next?

I don't know about you, but I don't really enjoy short stories. I like to have a little more meat--which is also why I don't like ribs or wings. There's too much work to get so little to chew on.

Last time, I mentioned wrote a children's story. It started as an attempt at a short story, because the idea plopped its hindquarter into my head in its entirety. No additional meat necessary. When I completed the story at 1200 words, I figured I'd edit it to a 1000-word flash fiction because there are local flash fiction contests. (I haven't ruled out the possibility--just so you know.) As I worked on it, the visual of a picture book formed and I couldn't convince myself otherwise. Others agreed. However, I know NOTHING about writing, editing, targeting, etc. anything related to children's books.

Now what?

Well...Myrtle the Younger is my resident (literally) artist and oversees any and all artistic endeavors since I can't draw a stick figure to save my life. So, I figure I've got a built-in illustrator for my little story. She agreed and rendered some delightful concept art. At the same time, I get an invite to a workshop on writing children's books.

The workshop was today. Off I go with my lovely jug of hot tea. (Yes, I know it's summer in Texas, and it's roughly about 1000 degrees in the shade at 8am. You have your caffeine fix, I have mine.) One of the first things I learn is that this author has a studio less than a quarter mile from my mother's tiny-town home (by tiny, I mean about 300 residents). It's a small world, folks.

After about three hours, I have a couple of take-aways: 1) I have a children's story, and 2) I don't know what to do with it.

One of the recommended steps is to determine what age child my story is geared toward. I can honestly tell you--I don't know. I know my main character is a child. If you push me, I'd say he's about 7-8 years old--ish. Part of my problem is that I view this as a story to be read TO a child, not the child doing the reading. If that's the case, why does the character's age matter?

The next step is to plan, plot, and write said story. Done. However, current day children's books are between 300 and 800 words, preferably under 500. Mine sits at 1100 words. Now, I haven't worked with Myrtle the Younger yet to determine how much of the story can be illustrated, so 500 might be doable. Stay tuned.

A word about the illustrations--don't. This is a problem. The accepted wisdom is to have the agent/publisher pair the writer with an illustrator. If that's the case, then how am I supposed to get my work under 500 words and submit a complete concept without pictures? I'm missing something here. Along with not submitting illustrations, an children's agent or publisher apparently likes to have multiple story submissions to keep the cash flow going. Understood. (I have one.)

It's okay. I've got this. Right after another cup of hot tea.

T

Something New...Now What?

Hello, all. It's been a while. A year to be exact. Sorry about that. It's hard to relate what I'm doing when I truly don't have a clue.

It's been a productive year, methinks. I finished the sequel to Healer and am in the process of editing and proofing. The book cover is...a work in progress? (She tells me she's working on it. Sigh.) My goal is to publish it soon. That's about as close to a commitment that I can muster.

My work-in-progress list has grown. I still have the two Daemon series additions, as well as the final two of the Spiritual Gifts series to finish, and I've begun a paranormal suspense series that I'm calling The Corona Chronicles. That's the one I mentioned in my last post. It's proceeding differently than my other works, so I can't wait to see how it comes together. I've now started two other pieces: one a non-fiction based on my work and philosophy as an occupational therapist, and the other appears to be a children's story.

The non-fiction is interesting. I do not consider myself an expert on much of anything, but this piece insisted that I was the one to bring it forth. For the moment, it's called Need and addresses basic truths about health. Writing non-fiction is different than writing a novel, so I'm on an interesting learning curve.

As far as learning curves go, the children's story is another level of What am I doing? The story was easy (and based on a true story), and I actually have a vision of the final product (for once), but I am clueless on how to proceed with editing because I need to gear the story toward an age or reading level. I attended a panel discussion of children's writers a few years ago, but my take-away isn't helping me now.

My primary thought during and after the panel was the focus on who would be reading the children's book. The writers assumed the child would be doing the reading. At the time, I had spent time with my brother as he sought books HE wanted to read to his daughter. Yes, he wanted her to enjoy the book, but he also wanted to have fun as well. He looked at books from the stance of What silly voices can I make up while I'm reading this to her? and How many times will I read this book before I want to throw up?

Mi espouso and I have two daughters (both grown now--not sure how they survived us). One of the stories their daddy read to them was Bark, George by Jules Feiffer. Mi espouso aspires to do voice-over acting and especially loved the many animal noises he could incorporate into reading this book. The girls thought he was hilarious and helped him out with each oink, moo, and bark. If that's not father-daughter bonding, I don't know what is. That's what my brother sought, but had difficulty finding.

Hmmm...that was a soap box, wasn't it. Okay, then. I'm done. Back to writing adultish stuff and figuring out what to do with this kiddie thing. (Suggestions welcome.)

T.

The Writer's Life

I must say that writing is exhausting work. My brain doesn't shut down except when it must. Personality tests say its due to being an INFP. If I had ever undergone psychological testing, I might have been diagnosed with some version of attention deficit disorder. The bottom line is, I can carry on a conversation, drive, eat, and watch TV while brainstorming book scenes without breaking a sweat.

This might explain why I'm trying to write 5 books at the same time. Insane, I know, but it's my reality. I have two more books each for the Daemon series and the Spiritual Gifts trilogy, plus the beginnings of another series.

Needless to say, the past few months have seen much time spent researching everything from Viking weaponry, Renaissance country dancing, the Texas Rangers (not the baseball team), and various Texas myths, legends, and murder mysteries. In my zeal for information and ideas, I've visits a few cool places and events, and collected a few souvenirs.

I mentioned previously that I attended a gun and knife expo, searching for information and inspiration on knives. While I didn't find reference material, I discovered a love of custom knives and purchased my first.


Did I need a knife? No, I don't. Do I love my knife? Yes, yes, I do. Ain't it pretty?

In May, mi espouso and I went to Scarborough Faire, one of the biggest Renaissance festivals around. While most women go there to eat turkey legs and get their hair braided, I really wanted to buy a sword, but demonstrated admirable restraint. Instead, I focused on the tour of a dungeon, various forges, maps, and anything that might help my quest.


The woman in the tapestry shop called this guy a library dragon. I called him the Book Wyrm. After she thought about it for half a second, she realized I was right. I'd like to think she will forever refer to this piece correctly.

Yes, I found a few book-related goodies and spent way too much money, but more importantly, I came away with usable ideas for sequel to Healer.

A week later found me in Waco, with mi espouso and the Mimi, headed to the Texas Ranger Museum. I came away with a buzzing head and confirmation that my new series might just work after all. I've collected a few books for research purposes (and curiosity of the absurd).


Don't judge. I'm a writer. (I saw a tshirt today: My Browser History Can Get Me Arrested. So true. Too bad they didn't have my size.)

The past 2 days have been spent at my first DFW Writer's Conference, complete with agents. I haven't tried the agent route, so being in the room while they played the Query Gong Show was an interesting experience. (Panel of agents are read an anonymous query letter. They hit a gong when they've heard enough to reject. Three gongs & you're out. At least, you hear the reasons.)

So for 2 days, I have attended lectures about screenwriting, the hero's journey, editing, marketing, book covers, challenges, writing courtroom drama, and historical research. Each topic could have had another 30 minutes tacked on. To say the speakers were excellent would be an understatement. The keynote speaker was Scott Westerfield, author of The Uglies. His topic was amazing: the evolution of the novel and teens into the current popularity of Young Adult fiction.

While I am still processing all the information and ideas from the event, I did come away with a few souvenirs.


Mi espouso can never have enough tshirts.

I think I'm done for today.
T.

Blinking Cursor

We as humans tend to ask useless questions. Probably the most common one is "How are you?"

The recipient's knee-jerk response is usually a generic "I'm fine." This answer might or might not be followed with the same question asked back, and we repeat a circle of lies. Sometimes the conversation is left at that, which is fine, but if two friends are meeting, they might delve into the muck underlying the answer to get to the juicier bits. (Yes, this was my lunch yesterday with a friend I hadn't seen in 6 months. Had a great time catching up!)

Some questions are asked with true intent, but are equally useless in getting a response. The one which I especially abhor (yes, abhor) is "What do you want... (for your birthday/Christmas, to eat, to go/do, etc)?"

My answer to that question is a resounding blinking cursor. I don't care what is being asked, but those words in any way, shape, or form are asked of me, my little brain wipes clean. As a whistle.

I can tell you what I don't want. I don't want anything slimy on my pizza. I don't want jelly beans or anything gummy. I don't want to watch reality as entertainment (if you tell me I would love a certain movie or book, I probably won't). I don't want to be in a large crowd of people I don't know.

As a result, I typically don't answer the want question with anything serious which frustrates my family to no end. My typical answer for what kind of gift to get me includes a winning lottery ticket and a best-selling novel (mine). Two years ago, that was my answer and mi espouso presented me with a scratch-off worth $2 and The Fault in Our Stars. Yes, it was a winning lotto ticket, and yes, it was a best-selling novel (not mine). He's so funny and thoughtful.

I made him return the book (because a book/movie about two cancer patients is too close to reality for me) and use that money to win a bigger lottery prize. (He didn't win.)

I have found a better question to ask: What do you need?

It's easier to consider what is needed than what is wanted. Maybe I am simply a here-&-now type person, but a need is something I can identify. Something that is tangible in my little mind that is easy to verbalize: I need an umbrella today (too bad it's sitting in the car, prepared to do its job when I need it to get to the car), I need to finish Daemon book 3 and Spiritual Gifts book 2 (yes, they are in to works; no, I don't have a publish date yet), and I need new socks.

What a person wants, while it may be tangible like wanting red boots (ooh, maybe I need), tends to be more of a pipe dream. Mostly, I think "wants" equate to esoteric or unrealistic dreams. I want a small house, on a beach or in the mountains, with a housekeeper/cook and no bills or maintenance. I want huge royalty checks. I want everyone who has ever read my books, to write a review or share their thoughts with me.

Like I said, unrealistic.

T.

Friends Rock!

I did something today I haven't done in my adult life: went shopping with friends. And they had no idea what a big deal that was.

Those who know me well (the Mimi, mi espouso, the Myrtles) know that shopping is torture for all involved. My mother is saintly(-ish). She usually takes me shopping for my birthday and buys anything and everything that fits. She learned a very long time ago to shove me into a dressing room and bring anything in the store that remotely resembles my size. Sometimes we make it out of the store a couple of tops and, maybe, just maybe, a pair of pants. There is usually frustration, yelling, and maybe a few tears involved. (For some reason, the sales clerks think we are hilarious.)

We are talking about a pseudo-phobia here. My shopping experiences are akin to the scene in Pretty Woman when Julia Roberts goes into a store and the clerk says, "I don't think we have your size." (or something to that effect, don't quote me on quotes, but you get the idea) Don't even ask about online shopping. (Really? So not happening in my lifetime.)

The curious-minded might ask why? Why indeed. Why can I not walk into a store, find a pair of jeans, pay for them, and walk out? Because I only look normal.

You heard me.

I am tall. Not overly tall (IMHO), but enough for people to notice. No one believes me when I tell them my height. Arguments ensue when I say I'm anywhere between 5'10-6' (I do not claim 6', in spite of my mother's insistence). Not that it matters...except when buying pants (and shirts and anything else). The average inseam for women's pants runs up to about 30". I can get by with 33" but preferably I look for longer. Do they measure women's pant length by inseam?

Why no. No, they don't. We lucky women get to guess if we are petite, regular, or tall/long. Long usually works. (I say usually because the past few years have seen fashion designers make pants to include a heel, which I don't need.) Regular length might work if I add a ruffle.

Unfortunately, the powers that design clothing think tall/long equals toothpick. I am NOT a toothpick. 'Nuf said.

Whether it be shirts (short-waisted, narrow-shouldered, let's not discuss the girls), pants (see above), or shoes (did I mention my left foot is larger than my right)...anyway, I do not have a size. In all my years of shopping (aka torture), I have found I have many sizes for each body part. I have come to a conclusion--one size fits none.

So...back to my morning excursion. Here I am, shoe-shopping, with two friends who are smart, savvy, and more fashionably aware than me. I watch them try on some adorable, and slightly wild, shoes while wandering around, hunting for my usual fare (comfortable, multi-purpose, but with style/interest. Cheap is good, too.)

Imagine my surprise to find a pair of brown ankle boots with embroidered red flowers. They fit. They are comfortable. They were on clearance. I had a coupon. My friends said to get them.

So I did.

I'm on a roll. I might go shopping again.

T.

Still Learning

As a writer/author/manipulator of verbiage, I consider myself an experienced newbie. Yes, I've published 3 books and 2 short stories. Yes, I've blogged for the past 4 years or so. That said, there's a lot I don't know. I've mentioned before (I am cursed) that I only look like I know what I am doing.

As with any other field, I have to keep learning. Writing is no different. This weekend was spent meeting other writers, discussing various and sundry issues related to writing, and researching. And, of course, I dragged the spouse and Myrtle the Younger along for the ride (because they need to know this stuff 'cause I said so).

Writer's Organizations 'Round Dallas (W.O.R.D.--clever) was created by all manner of writers to give each other a chance to cuss and discuss. We're talking screenwriting, play writing, novels, non-fiction, poetry, short stories, and everything else are accounted for, which means they have absolutely brilliant ideas.

Take this weekend: WORDfest 2.0 was an event designed by writers, for writers. All of the member organizations got to strut their stuff and we writers had the opportunity to meet and learn together. They also host a weekend hand's on retreat for writers in which you get to handle stuff like armor, weapons, guns, pick a lock, court dancing, and wine tasting (you can guess which ones I signed up for).

Up next for a weekend of writing research included a jaunt to the Lone Star Knife Expo, which just happened to be inside a gun show. Who knew?

Why a knife show? Because there are sharp, pointy things there and I must write about sharp pointy things. You know...RESEARCH.

So, Mi Espouso and I trek to Dallas Market Hall in search of books and peoples willing to discuss daggers, swords, battle axes, and the ilk, only to find pocket knives, straight blade razors, and fishing knives.

Now one might think that these might be the run-of-the-mill Swiss Army knives and the like. One would be incorrect. These were hand-crafted knives made by people who LOVE their craft. In other words, my kind of people.

There were some gorgeous knives for sale. Most had traditional blade forms and handles made of high-quality rock (crazy lace agate--nice) or wood (you name it), but others...whoa...alligator gar skin! Cactus! Pinecone! (I bought that one, it be pretty!)

While I didn't find any reference materials about Viking era blades and practices, I came away with my very 1st handmade knife, one birthday gift, and...

TA DA! Meet Hugo: a Lego-compatible Viking figure, complete with a period battle axe and shield. (This is his happy face. I can turn his head around to have a grumpy Hugo.)

I guess you could say that I have found my writing inspiration and partner. Yea me!

T.

A Curious Mind

Apparently, author-hood means being the proud owner of an insatiable curiosity for the oddities of life. I find I am no exception.

A fellow writer posted this on their page:

While these are not MY searches, I'm now curious enough about Canadian police procedures regarding werewolves to do a little side research. Who knows where that yellow brick road will lead.

However, if one happened to be curious about what my searches consist of, one only has to look at my Pinterest page. In the lovely world of suggestions based on previous searches and pins, Pinterest thinks I'm in desperate need of Wiccan spells, materials, and clothing. Just because I research a lot of mythology,astrology, cemeteries, history, art, weaponry, and medicinal herbs and oils (to name a few) does in NO way mean I want to cast a few spells (although the one for invisibility is intriguing, I've always wanted that to be my superpower).

A certain big name (who shall remain unnamed) bookstore puts suggestions for future purchases on their receipts. Today I left said big name bookstore with reference books about angels, ancient healing practices, and an illustrated history of pistols. My receipt suggested I might have missed out on the excitement of  tarot cards, a book about angel therapy, and oracle cards (I have no idea what oracle cards are, but I will be looking them up as soon as I'm finished here).

Now, if you will excuse me, I must resume my study of demonology.

T.

FUNerals

Hello, again. It's only been a month since I last posted, but it's been busy. Obviously I survived Grinchmas. (I heard that sigh of relief. Thanks!)

So other than New Year's (I think I went to bed around 10ish. Another year? Yawn!), I've tried to stick to my guns and write. Hah! The universe has other plans.

Unfortunately, right after the new year, mi espouso's uncle passed away and we had to trek to the great city of Orange, Texas, for his funeral. If you know mi espouso, you know he wields puns mercilessly on Facebook. This uncle was one of those to blame. Uncle James was a joy to be around and will be greatly missed.

Our seven hour, overnight excursion to Orange gave us a few free hours to explore before the funeral. As you can imagine, Orange doesn't have much to offer for Sunday morning visitors. So what did we do? Drove 15 minutes into Louisiana, then turned around and drove back. Woo hoo! (PawPaw sat in the backseat, thinking his eldest son and daughter-in-law had lost their minds.)

Now with two and a half hours left to kill, we decided to explore the nearby city of Bridge City. Does Bridge City have a bridge, one might ask? Why, yes. Ye, it does. Two big-ass bridges that go over the Neches River. The new(er) bridge,  Veteran's Memorial, stands 143 feet above the water while the old bridge, the Rainbow bridge stands a paltry 176 feet over any form of terra firma.

Have I ever mentioned heights and I don't mix? Or that I have a recurring dream of driving up a tall bridge, only to find that it has a huge hole on top and I drive OFF said bridge? Uh huh. (Go ahead and psychoanalyze.)

On the other hand, I believe I HAVE mentioned at some point in time that I enjoy driving and (above phobias aside) I enjoy driving over water (which means driving over a bridge). Go figure. I don't have to make sense to anyone but me. So there.

Since I was the one driving (as usual, because otherwise I go insane faster than you can blink), I point the car toward the bridges and hope there are no holes at the top. I might have screamed a little as I drove up the steep incline and over the crest. Just a little.

One bridge down. Turn around. Bridge two awaited.

Mi espouso and PawPaw are still shaking their heads. If only they had known how easy I was to please....just find me a bridge over water and follow it up with a brick oven pizza and a cemetery. (That was the best calzone I had ever eaten!)

Mi espouso offered to drive me over the bridges again so I could experience the fun as a passenger. (Un)Fortunately, it started to rain and I decided going over two tall bridges a second time in the rain might be pushing my luck. Besides, we had a funeral to go to.

Uncle James would have approved.

T.

Merry Grinchmas and Shenanigans!

Yes, I know. I'm a lousy blogger. I've been busy.

Christmas is upon me, yet again, and thanks to a new job (full-time, yea!), I can do some of the things I've wanted to do for the past four years.

That doesn't mean I won't have a little fun, Grinch style.

Like most families, we have a tradition. We don't simply wrap gifts; we make the recipient work for it.

The tradition began in the early '80s when my baby brudder announced to all that he no longer believed in Santa. Taking him at his word, Mimi wrapped all gifts without anything from the white-haired one and packed us off to Big Grandmother's house (I had a boatload of grandparents, all named Grandmother and Grandaddy. I was a confused child.)

Picture the scene: children's bedtime, Christmas Eve. All is good until my baby brudder announces to the adults that he's going to sleep by the damn tree so Santa will step on him and wake him up. You can imagine the words out of my mother's mouth, and in front of her grandmother to boot.

Yeah, it wasn't a pretty picture.

Long story short: Santa arrived as scheduled and the baby brudder will never live it down. Since then, many gift-giving occasions have been opportunities for mayhem.

There was my 16th birthday when I returned from my grandparents house to be handed cleaning supplies, necessary to remove all the toilet paper from the huge bois d'arc tree and the painting mess left behind.  Apparently many insults were painted onto my walls as they redid my room, complete with redwood furniture.

There was a dismantled oboe for Mimi, used to make a Christmas tree. Poor oboe. They don't reassemble well. Fortunately the real oboe was in another room.

There was a humongous box on my baby brudder's 16th, filled with car keys to the Thunderbird, a pilot's log, pilot lesson books, and covered in mountains of trash which he had to sort through to find every last stinking gift.

Another large box, filled with weights, hid Mimi's 1st VCR.

Oh, the memories! What fun!

This year, I haven't done that much evil. Just one gift wrapped in plastic wrap for the Mimi and another wrapped in zip ties for mi espouso. 

Been nice knowing y'all!

T.

Long Time, No Hear From

I have an excuse for not posting. Really I do. I've been moving.

Yes, I have. It's been a painful process, mostly in the physical sense. My back is still not speaking to me and the bruises are a lovely combination of blue, purple, green, and puke yellow. I counted twenty on my arms alone. I didn't count the ones on my legs, probably a thousand or so (I bruise if you look at me funny). Myrtle the Younger won the mosquito award with 55 on her legs. She believes she will get the Zika virus or West Nile.

I'll keep you posted.

By the grace of God and the much appreciated help from friends, we managed to empty 90% of our house into two storage units. Why storage? Because we have too much crap and are moving in with my father-in-law (aka PawPaw). This means we will have storage units until two households are consolidated into one, assuming that is possible.

Moving presents an excellent opportunity to clear out some of said crap. PawPaw is a saint. He keeps saying "nothing is sacred" meaning we (meaning I) can keep or get rid of anything I want. Easier said than done.

Some things are ridiculously easy to unload: 10 rolls of aluminum foil and 11 rolls of plastic wrap are prime examples. I now must choose what I want to keep from the multitudes of baking sheets and casserole dishes. However, I have discovered a few personal challenges to the end goal:

1) If it's old, it must be an antique and therefore worth something. I know, I know; it's not worth a plug nickel. (But it might be worth more than a nickel.) (I probably watch too much Antiques Roadshow.) But I have determined that no matter how much they might be worth, the collectible Dallas Cowboys glasses from the 70's and 80's are going away post haste. And, if I find any more tucked into some box somewhere, I will smash them to bits. That ought to further increase the value of any remaining glasses.

2) It's family. Either great-aunt Melba got that coffee mug as a wedding gift and used it for her snuff habit for sixty years or Granny's boyfriend gave her that ceramic vaquero at her first county fair and had it on her dresser for as long as anyone can remember. (I made up the coffee mug, The vaquero is real. It had a note sitting underneath with its history written by my mother-in-law. Anything with a note should be kept, right?)

3) It's handmade. Considering I make a lot of stuff, I have a place in my heart for items made by hand, whether it be a crocheted doily or a bookcase which PawPaw built. There's a piece of someone's soul in their work. That's hard for me to let go of.

So, pray for me while I sort through this stuff. I've told everyone in the house that we will NEVER need to purchase plastic baggies, foil, plastic wrap, office supplies, and band-aids. EVER.

T.

Getting Even

Sometimes you have to be proud of your kids. Especially when they pay your parents back for some evil act of yesteryear.

Case in point: driving with the Mimi.

When I was a lowly teenager, learning to drive at the ripe age of 15 (Texas allowed for younger drivers to get a permit at 15 if a hardship could be proven), my mother was responsible for much of my driving practice.

Before I say more, allow me to paint a picture for you. I always win the ugly car contest. Always. The entire world is under the mistaken impression that their first set of wheels was the worst ever in the history of automotive...you get the point. Y'all ain't seen nothing!

Picture this (because I sure as hell didn't keep a picture of it): an 1973 ice blue, government surplus, no A/C (this is Texas, remember?), AM radio, AMC Ambassador station wagon. Damn thing was a tank. It is impossible to drive down the road, incognito or otherwise, in that THING.

And it was indestructible, too. I got mad one day and backed into another car. Luckily the other car was a land yacht because it only took a dent to the fender while Old Blue had a shattered tail lamp cover (which mi espouso-then boyfriend repaired with red tape and all was good).

And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

Mimi decided one day that I would drive her home from the grocery store in Old Blue. I think it was my first or second time behind this particular set of wheels. Did I mention this thing was a TANK? Did I mention my depth perception is pretty crappy? Anyway, I am trying to turn from the parking lot onto a busy street and I hit the curb. We've all done that, right? No biggie.

Not with Mimi in the car. She's screaming. I over-correct and run the tank up onto the curb. I stop before anything gets damaged, but Mimi is still screaming. I don't recall what happened next, but I'm pretty sure harsh words were exchanged and possibly a few tears were shed.

Fast forward to today's text, and I quote: "Child drove down her first mountain with Mimi screaming all the way."

The parties involved include Mimi (of course) and Myrtle the Younger. They are currently touring the southeast part of the US (watch out, y'all have been warned.), with current destination of Monticello. Now I must point out that both Myrtles are excellent drivers and MTY is equally gifted with navigation. I must also note that Mimi has OCD, but let's just say her navigation skills leave a little to be desired. (Ask me about Alabama and live explosives sometime.)

All I can hope for is 1) they were on the right mountain, 2) MTY still has her hearing and will to live, and 3) they are having fun.

Y'all pray for them!

T.

Part of the Beginning

Do you remember having a dream? Something you wanted to accomplish, but only had a vague idea of how to make the fantasy become reality? Or maybe you knew how to get there, but weren't sure if the end result would be what you expected?

I think we all can relate to those desires. At some point we wanted to become a rock star or a famous actor or an astronaut. Some dreams happen magically, others require a ton of work and a little bit of luck, while other fantasies drift off into a mist of "what the hell was I thinking?"

Writing, for me, has been a warped bit of that journey. Did I dream of being an author? Not really. I toyed with the idea once or twice, but there was no burning desire to sit down and write words. In fact, most of the time, I would sit down to write an assigned essay or story and my mind would go totally blank. The same thing happens when I tried to be an artist or a songwriter. Nope. Nada.

Until the day, the story/dream planted its carcass in my pea brain and wouldn't leave until I wrote it down. Then more ideas filled the hole and refused to budge until I shoved and molded that sucker into a book. (Let's not talk about the other five ideas waiting impatiently to take their turn in that hole.) Then my OCD took over and made me organize, edit, and proof until I couldn't see straight.

That's when I decided I needed a cover. I knew what I didn't want (unrealistically depicted 8-packs glistening in the sun with a bulging...well, never mind) but I also didn't know what I wanted. Cue in Myrtle the Younger.

As previously mentioned somewhere in the bowels of this blog, I think I have mentioned maybe once or twice that I have two extremely talented girls, the younger of which desires/fantasizes/dreams and is well on her way to becoming an outstanding artist and animator. As any good and responsible parent, I want to help my child build her self-confidence, soooo...I asked the child to create a book cover.

I can tell you that there is no greater feeling than placing your child's work into their hands as a finished product. The look on MTY's face when I handed her the proof of If You Touch My Mind was overwhelming to say the least. This was more than posting a drawing on the refrigerator door. This was part of her portfolio and resume; a stepping stone to her future.

The same thing happened ten months later when I published Keep Your Eyes On Me. No one can take that experience away from her. Nothing can take those memories from me.

With my third book waiting a cover, I again turned to MTY but with her busy college schedule, she ran into difficulties. What to do? I turned to a the son of a friend. He is about the same age as MTY and is studying graphic design. Over the past few months, he and I have worked back and forth until he delivered cover art which mi esposo could work into the finished cover.

Last night, I placed the proof into this kid's hands. Guess what? I got the same response from him as I got from my own daughter. Overwhelmed. Thrilled. Maybe just a little scared, but that's okay. Yes, there were things he wanted to change. Yes, there were things he and mi esposo need to experiment with, but this young college student has something in his hands which moves him forward in his dream.

Today, his mother shared his Facebook post. He had posted a picture of the proof and summed up his feelings eloquently: "wow".

I may not have birthed this kid, but I am just as proud of him as I am of my own girls. I am thrilled to be part of his beginning.

T.

Would You Rather...?

I admit to a secret indulgence: personality tests. (I know it's weird. You have your own little quirks. I won't judge if you won't.)

Now, I can hear you now: "T, I don't care what color your personality is." (All of them, depending on my mood when taking the test.) That's okay, because that's not what this post is about. (Thank the Lord!)

I come up with my own (non)scientific explanations for how the universe and it's humanoids operate, and I always begin with the one I  know the most about: me. (You thought I was going to say mi esposo, didn't you?) (He's the 2nd person I wonder about, but I still think he might be an alien.) Years ago, I developed some pseudo scientific, well-thought-out and developed explanations for how to choose which medical career (aka: Why I'm an occupational therapist and not a physical therapist or a nurse) and a theory of male mental age development (or lack thereof). If you have any interest in the above, let me know.

More recently, I have been considering authors/writers and their target/victim, the reader. I have done my research: reading, attending lectures, reading, writing, and, of course, reading. Now, I have formed my expert conclusions to share. (I can hear your bated breath. Exhale now.)

From what I've been able to figure, there are two types of authors:

1. Writers who read. These are people trained, or at least subscribe to, the Science of the Written Word. Every detail of character, plot, subplot, descrptions, grammar, verbiage, etc is carefully executed to perfection. When they write, the emphasis is on what the Reader wants to see. When they read,  the emphasis is on the quality of the writing.

2. Readers who write. These subscribe to the Art of the Written Word. The written emphasis is on what the Writer wants to read. Characters, plots and subplots get most of the attention; while grammar, POV and other details are of lesser importance. The same goes when reading.

Which one would you rather read?

As a lifelong, avid reader of both styles, I will tell you my preference is #2. Why? Because, if the story is engaging, I can forgive most grammar issues (although my OCD will still go haywire), and other "unforgivable" problems with writing like point of view (POV). I get lost in flowery language and detailed descriptions. As long as I can enjoy the story, then I'm happy. (I also read the last chapter after the reading the 1st 2-3 chapters. Gotta make sure things are going to be okay in the end. Same goes for movies. Give me a spoiler any day.) (Don't judge.)

Personally, I hate reading a romance novel with single person POV. It's boring. A romance novel is about developing a relationship between 2 people. I want to understand where both people are coming from without impacting the pace of the story. Some authors will give each character their own chapter but rehash the same event. No Bueno! (And please don't insult my intelligence by telling me this chapter is Ben's POV, then this is Beth's POV. I can kinda figure it out on my own, thanks.) It's fine to be in one person's head for a mystery novel. They're trying to figure out who done it.

Sorry. That was a tangent and a rant. Anyway...

What brought this on? I attended a writer's meeting this week and one writer mentioned that she was having difficulty getting her book published, and questioned what she needed to do to be seen. The response was to give her character quirks (make them more interesting). This is not the first time I had heard this discussion, nor is it the only answer I have heard for why X, Y or Z hasn't happened. Any suggestion is fine and dandy in my opinion, but I think an important point is often overlooked: publishers tend to look for Writers who read, not Readers who write. This is one of the reasons why writers are told to keep submitting their work and to expect 50 or more rejections before they get a break.

This is one reason why I self-published in the first place. I don't have that kind of patience.

T.

P.S. I'm trying to write a horror story. Kinda creeping myself out. Stay tuned!