Monday, December 31, 2018

Rituals and Prayers

Social media sites are awash with New Year greetings, assessments of the past year, hopes for the next year, and confessions of past failures. It seems we must all mark the new year's arrival and the old year's passage in some way.

In my youth, we had a Watch Night service at church. It was a small congregation of maybe...fifty members. We had a pot-luck dinner around seven PM down in the basement. Then there were board games and various contests and socializing. At 11:30, we went up to the church and had a quiet service. There were hymns, a short devotional, and then silent prayers for our country and our families and friends. At midnight, we sang one last song (usually Amazing Grace) and went home.

It has been many, many years since I have attended a Watch Night service. I'm not sure churches even have them anymore. But even all these years later, I remember the solemnity of the final evening service compare to the frantic, desperate frivolity of the Time Square celebrations. I can not imagine taking part in that insanity.

I don't judge those who do take part, but I wonder what the point is. The service I attended as a teen was centered around personal evaluation of past and future. It was one last chance to make private judgement about our life and what goals we might set for the next year. And then in the last final moments of that old year, as a group, we looked forward to the new year. We brought our hopes and prayers for all those around us in a prayer for the future.

I know a large number of folks no longer believe--in anything. Some say they are Christian or Jewish or Pagan or whatever. But those beliefs are...shallow, I think. They're lip-service instead of true service. Make no mistake. I don't believe going to church proves anything. I do believe that observance of ritual and prayer puts us in the frame of mind to worship, whoever and whatever, we serve. And it strikes me that the loss of ritual and prayers is something we can ill afford to let go.

Perhaps this evening we would be better served to gather our family in the dark shelter of our home, light a candle, voice our hopes for the future, and say a silent prayer for those in our circle.

Blessings for your New Year! 

Wednesday, October 31, 2018

Trick or Treat

She sat waiting on the wide wooden porch, a deep bowl of candies on her lap. Carved pumpkins, their eerie candles flickering in the light autumn breeze, provided the only light. Children and parents crept along the sidewalk bordering the dark yard. Though most hurried past, a few brave--or greedy--trick or treaters braved the scary trek up to the porch.

Those who found the courage to climb the worn steps were well rewarded. She smiled as she doled out the candies, speaking quietly to each child. Her soft white hair and bright blue eyes calmed their fears as she complimented them on their costumes and inquired if they'd collected many treats.

She noted the changes from other years, long past, when the majority of children dressed as pirates or clowns or cowboys or Indians or even a princess or two. Now, they all seemed to favor superheroes and Disney characters.

One little girl, dressed as Princess Fiona from Shrek stopped dead at the open gate and refused to go further though her mother urged her on. The woman's eyes met Fiona's for a sharp pregnant moment and then, Fiona was fleeing down the walk, her mother racing after her.

Well, now, the woman thought. There was more than met the eye there. Miss Fiona was a most perceptive princess. Her visitors usually saw what she wanted them to see. She smiled. They didn't know her at all. Or all the others like her who eagerly waited for this one day of the year. Some called it Halloween.

But others...called it the Night of the Hunt.

Friday, October 26, 2018

American Experience

Some folks believe the American Experience is the National Anthem. Other believe the essence of America is embodied in the pledge of allegiance. And still others think it's the fireworks of July 4th or the Veteran's Day parade. I believe the American Experience can be distilled down to the right to vote.

Yesterday the hunk and I went to vote, taking advantage of the early voting hours in Maryland. It was quite chilly as we stood in line outside, a longer line than I'd even hoped for on this, the first day of early voting. We arrived at 4:15 PM. It was 5:45 when we finished and walked back to our car. And all the time we waited and voted, I watched the folks around me, men and women, old and young, every skin color, and multiple languages as they patiently stood in line to vote. And it came to me that THIS was the American Experience.

Regardless of party affiliation or agenda, the true path to change is this simple act. We go to the polling place and exercise our right to vote. Yesterday, I stood with folks who showed up with their canes and walkers to vote. Young, old, wealthy, poor, they all came to join in solidarity for this most important responsibility of citizenship. They came to vote. One woman--possibly in her twenties--confessed it was her very first time to vote, and received a round of enthusiastic applause.

I have voted in every election since I was eligible to vote--fifty years now in several different states. When my children were old enough, we went together to vote, because the hunk and I believed citizenship is taught at home--not learned through school or television.

I hope there's a record turnout, because when it gets down to the most basic tenets of our society, the right to vote is there at the top. Vote. Take a friend. Go with your youngsters. Demonstrate good citizenship!

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Where Were You?

A lot of words have been written, folks asking, "Where Were You?" I believe this is one of the best answers...

Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)

Where were you when the world stopped turnin'
That September day?
Were you in the yard with your wife and children
Or workin' on some stage in L.A.?
Did you stand there in shock at the sight of that black smoke
Risin' against that blue sky?
Did you shout out in anger, in fear for your neighbor
Or did you just sit down and cry?
Did you weep for the children, they lost their dear loved ones
Pray for the ones who don't know?
Did you rejoice for the people who walked from the rubble
And sob for the ones left below?
Did you burst out with pride for the red, white, and blue
And the heroes who died just doin' what they do?
Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer
And look at yourself and what really matters?
I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN, but I'm not sure I can tell you
The diff'rence in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith, hope, and love are some good things He gave us
And the greatest is love
Where were you when the world stopped turnin'
That September day?
Teachin' a class full of innocent children
Or drivin' down some cold interstate?
Did you feel guilty 'cause you're a survivor?
In a crowded room did you feel alone?
Did you call up your mother and tell her you love her?
Did you dust off that Bible at home?
Did you open your eyes and hope it never happened
Close your eyes and not go to sleep?
Did you notice the sunset for the first time in ages
And speak to some stranger on the street?
Did you lay down at night and think of tomorrow
Go out and buy you a gun?
Did you turn off that violent old movie you're watchin'
And turn on I Love Lucy reruns?
Did you go to a church and hold hands with some strangers
Stand in line to give your own blood?
Did you just stay home and cling tight to your family
Thank God you had somebody to love?
I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN, but I'm not sure I can tell you
The diff'rence in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith, hope, and love are some good things He gave us
And the greatest is love
I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN, but I'm not sure I can tell you
The diff'rence in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith, hope, and love are some good things He gave us
And the greatest is love
And the greatest is love
And the greatest is love
Where were you when the world stopped turnin'
On that September day?
Songwriter: Alan Jackson

Monday, September 10, 2018

Common Sense

There are days when I wonder if the human race will survive the week. When did we choose to send our brains on sabbatical? When did we decide to let someone else do all our thinking?

I love this picture because it's a perfect demonstration of the current 'climate'. We've ceased using our brains. It's easier to let someone else tell us what to think, what to do, what to wear. A casual glance at the timeline on your facebook or twitter (or any other social media, I suspect) reveals just how far we've fallen.

A lot of folks have withdrawn from social media in self defense. They've chosen to go elsewhere, seeking out someone, anyone with a brain. Some stay and block or remove posts, valiantly fighting against racism, political idiocy, and general stupidity.

I generally end up ignoring the majority of posts. But occasionally, I put in my two cents worth...and then move on. Engaging in long-winded debates serves no purpose. My comments are only posted to let the individual know there IS a difference of opinion. I think it's important to show others don't believe the same things. And if I have researched the post and know it to be false, then I simply post the word 'FALSE' in the comments and move on. It's up to that poster to rectify the issue.

I would say 95% of political posts in particular are at least partially false. I always wonder why people post them. Does the post reflect their beliefs? Their hopes and dreams? What? Do they honestly think it will change someone else's viewpoint?

Wake up, people. I know it's hard to think when you stay up all night watching junk on television, then stumble out of bed, down your latte and sugar/fat fuel before heading off to work, but try. Make the time and effort to consider the long-range consequences of your actions. Look around you. Observe what is really happening in your family, your neighborhood, your town.

Figure out whether the stone is wet, swinging wildly to and fro, or gone.    

Wednesday, September 5, 2018

Sock Thief

IF I had a cat, I would certainly believe this. However, since I don't have a cat, I'm stumped. In the last few weeks, I've worn short, cotton sports socks 24/7 because I had a prescription cream I had to apply to my feet twice a day. That's a lot of socks to wash. And every load I washed, one sock disappeared.

I've looked in all the usual places. Static cling to my nighties, underwear, where. I looked inside the washer and inside the dryer. I checked down both sides of the washer closet. No socks.

I used to have a cat. Maybe she's trying to get my attention. In the meantime, I have six unmatched sports socks, waiting for the rest of them to reappear. I hope they're having wonderful adventures.

Tuesday, September 4, 2018

Free-range Contemplation

Folks don't take time anymore for contemplation. In our guilt-driven culture, you're not supposed to take time out to mull life. You know--where you're going? Where you've been. What you're goals in life are? No...mostly we do life on the fly, hoping we don't make too many mistakes.

That is why I knit. Knitting (painting, crocheting, carving, beading), really almost any handwork project allows for some free-range contemplation. Reading doesn't work because your mind is engaged with the story. For some folks--like me--music irritates and annoys. Electronic interfacing such as television, computer, gaming all take up too much of the mind for true contemplation.

Back in the day, I used to do a lot of contemplating while ironing. That was a perfect occupation for contemplation. You were 'chained' to the ironing board so you couldn't pursue too many distractions and let's face it--ironing is boring. Sooooo boring, your mind naturally wanders.

With the advent of new technologies, we have less of the mindless work we used to do. So, less gardening, less weeding, less ironing, less handwork and more time spent engaged with electronics. In the past, the telephone was a tool for communication, seldom used unless you had a job that required it. Otherwise, it sat on the desk or hung on the wall, silent for most of the time. Now, too many people, young and old, spend hours in fascinated interaction with their phones. I confess, I have no idea why. What is the attraction?

Perhaps, just perhaps, it's a way to escape contemplation. Who knows what thoughts might occur if we allowed them to form? Is that it? The ultimate escape from self-knowledge and awareness? What drives us to flee from peaceful contemplation? And what would change if we pursued it?

Maybe...we would embrace less rage, less judgment, less greed, and find more joy, more peace, more love.

Friday, August 24, 2018

Uncomfortable Truths

For more than forty years, I've researched my family history--and the hunk's. Back waaaay before the convenience of the Internet, we traveled miles away, making stops at state libraries, local libraries, local government offices and national archives. I must have made a zillion photocopies of census records, pension records, birth/death/marriage records, Bible records, and collected letters and wills from all over the southern U.S.

I have four--no, five file cabinets full of papers.

When you start out researching your family history, it's mostly just a fun attempt to find out cool things about your family. Where did they come from? How many kids did they have? Did they fight in any wars or do anything strange or awful or weird?

If you continue with your pursuits, that wears off when reality sets in. Then you start to find out stuff you never aimed to discover. You find out your ancestors were slave owners. You find out a family connection was a pedophile--and the entire family was aware, so children were not allowed to visit without adult supervision. You find out a particular ancestor was cruel and beat his wife and daughters. Or another was a womanizer to the point there were several children born to multiple women while he was married.

You see, family history isn't all romantic with pirates or horse thieves or bank robbers or all those other possibilities. Mostly, it's about real people, some flawed, some outright terrible, some survivors of terrible events.

I am the keeper of all the uncomfortable truths. The real stories as opposed to the airy-fairy stories passed down to cover those truths. I don't share the whole truth with just anyone. That's the reason I know those secret truths...because people trust me and talk to me. But if someone comes to me, asking specifically for a certain truth, I will tell them.

Mostly what I've discovered is this: People don't really want to know. They would rather cling to the romantic, rose-colored view of their ancestors. That's their prerogative. Of course, many, many, many of them share that view through various Internet sites and that's exactly why I don't rely on them. Such information is iffy, at best. Researchers aren't interested in sharing reality.

No one wants to hear the uncomfortable truths.

Thursday, August 2, 2018

From the Outside

A relative recently asked me for help with our mutual family history research. He's new to the game. I've been working on it since I was in high school. As I looked through notes and obscure entries in old records, I thought a lot about the family dynamics. Genealogy isn't just some dusty old list of family information with marriages and deaths and lists of children. For every family group, there were heartaches and joys and grief and laughter. Too often, from the outside, we forget they were people with triumphs and defeats, just like any others.

Every time I look through the files, I am reminded of my own failings as a parent and I wonder what those long gone mothers and fathers thought about their own children and grandchildren. Did they too wonder what difference they could have made it they'd chosen different actions?

Children grow up and move on and make their own choices. And parents watch from the outside, unable to intervene, unable to share the wisdom they've acquired unless it's sought out. No, they have little choice but to sit back and pray their children won't make the same mistakes they made themselves. Who knows? Perhaps they weren't mistakes, but the only viable choices at the time.

Over the years, I have acquired a reputation for trustworthiness regarding family secrets and therefore, many different folks have shared the 'real' story rather than the public version. Families traditionally keep secrets with the best. Each succeeding generation adds a new layer of secrets until the genealogist is confronted with a bewildering maze of truth and lies. Much of it is never committed to paper (or computer) so descendants go through life puzzling over their ancestors' choices and actions.

Is it better that way? I don't know. I believe how we view our forefathers is directly related to how much truth we know about them. Too often, because we're viewing them from the outside, we look at them through rose-colored glasses, assuming they had no faults, made no mistakes, and lived untroubled lives. When we take that view, we do ourselves a disservice, giving ourselves an impossible standard to live up to. 

Wednesday, July 25, 2018

Change, Change, Change

Editing and revising a previously published novel is difficult. Editing and revising a previously published series is tortuous. Doing so without making new errors or timeline mistakes can give me gray hair. I suppose it's fortunate all the ones I already have will hide the new ones.

Or maybe, I can just color 'em all blue...Then I'll blend in with the rest of the folks in Mystic Valley.

Tuesday, July 24, 2018

You Are Not Me

A child once asked, "Why don't white people and black people like each other? Why are they mean to each other?"

I could have answered at length. I could have explained about slavery and white privilege and all the long history of different races and ethnic groups. But I didn't. That would be a way to white-wash the truth. The simplest truth in the world is this: they are not us.

From the dawn of humanity, we've protected our own and fought off the 'others'. One would think we've learned something, but obviously not. A lot of folks think only whites are racist, but that's not true. You only have to be the minority in another racial group to find out the reality of this.

The hunk and I once worked at a fast food restaurant where we were the ONLY white employees. Most of the customers were a mixed group of black, Latino, and even Asian. The rare white tourist wandered in looking lost and uncomfortable. In our time there, the other crew people treated us with respect and courtesy, but the customers...well, that was different.

I didn't take it personally because I understood the underlying mechanism. I was not one of them. I didn't look like them. I was in their space, making them uncomfortable and wary. That is the hard, unvarnished kernel of truth.

In our multi-cultural, multi-ethnic world, it is tough to integrate when underneath we still have that visceral caution. They are not us. We are not them. We look different, speak different languages, worship different gods, dress differently, eat different foods. It doesn't matter how much effort we put into understanding each other, we never will on that deep visceral level, anymore than men understand women or straights understand gays or any other number of differences out there.

So what's the solution, then?

Kindness, courtesy, and a celebration of our differences. As long as we allow them to divide us, all the talk about racial equality or gender equality or any other equality will be just that--talk. Instead of talking, maybe we should celebrate our commonalities and showcase our differences. Share those things that make us who we are.

We can't do that until we admit who we are. I am a senior citizen. White, female, protestant, heterosexual. As far as I can tell, that doesn't make me special in any way. If I have special qualities, I hope they are things like generosity, empathy, love, and comfort. Those are the things that count. That other stuff? It's just the casing I was born with. Nothing special at all.

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Willful Blindness

When I was a youngster, there was a well-known story titled, the The Emperor's New Clothes. It was about an emperor who strolled around naked while all the sycophants surrounding him exclaimed over his new clothes because none of them had the courage to point out he was naked. It takes a child to point out that the emperor is in fact naked.

Today, our congressmen and congresswomen, our judges, our department of justice are too cowardly to declare that in fact we are naked. They refuse to see the obvious truth everyone else sees. Instead, they spend their time bragging about the wonderful new clothes we wear. In November, we have the opportunity to reveal the truth by going to the polls to vote.

Isn't it time we declare the truth for all to see? In fact, we are naked.

Thursday, July 12, 2018

The Contract

Recently noticed a spate of posts of Facebook mourning the (sudden?) death of an author. Many of the posters mention various ways the deceased author mentored them or how much they will miss the author's books.

I find it sad that we wait until someone dies to tell them how much they mean to us. I further venture there will be folks who buy this author's books now when she's no longer around to know or care. What is it in our makeup that we wait until folks are dead to celebrate them?

How many times do we attend a funeral for someone, often driving many hours or flying across the country, guilt-ridden because we didn't visit them when they were alive? It's not enough to say we would have visited if we could. If we can go to the funeral, then why not before they die? After all, the only ones who know we showed up are the living.

So here's my idea. Let us have a contract with each other. Every single day, let us find one person to celebrate publicly. This person might be family (though no one should have to remind us to celebrate our family)! But I propose we choose someone unrelated--someone who likely has no idea what their contributions to our life have meant. Call them out. Brag on them to all our friends. Let them know just how special they are to us.

While they're still alive to appreciate it.

Wednesday, July 4, 2018


More than any other 'holiday', Independence Day calls forth memories of the past. I suspect most of them are false collective memories. There are memories of parades and cookouts and picnics and other such. Oddly enough, I don't have any of those memories until we moved to Chicago.

When I was a youngster, we lived in Arizona. There were no parades. Or cookouts. Or any commemoration of the day that I remember. Perhaps it was because we lived in tiny villages. Perhaps it wasn't such a big deal before it became a commercial vehicle. I bet if there was no money to be made from it, the Fourth of July would sink back into the obscurity of private backyard celebrations with sparklers and water sprinklers.

Patriotic posts notwithstanding, there really isn't much patriotism marking our national birthday. Mostly, it's dwindled into a day off work that serves for an excuse to terrify the neighborhood with obnoxious fireworks and excessive drinking.

I like a cookout as much as the next person, though not as much as I've aged. I confess I enjoy the AC on a hot steamy day and find the summer pests like flies and mosquitoes generally annoying. But all of that is just window dressing for a day that seems to have lost it's meaning. Like most of our holidays here in the states, we've forgotten their origins in our rush for pleasure and excess. I wonder if this is deliberate ignorance, or simply more comfortable than true remembrance.

Some folks bemoan the lack of respect for the flag or the national anthem or other patriotic issues, but the truth is more subtle than that. As a nation, we've forgotten what this date was chosen to commemorate. If we were to ask the average citizen why we celebrate, most of them wouldn't be able to explain any particulars past the bare event denoted as our nation's birthday. MOST have no idea what the Declaration of Independence is all about. They don't know the real sacrifices made by the men--and women--who dared to stand up for what they believed to be right.

In the hullabaloo of fireworks and cookouts, we've forgotten why we have this holiday. It isn't because we're the greatest or the most powerful or have the biggest military (though I do offer my humble gratitude for all those who serve--present or past!) This day should be a remembrance of the fifty-six men who laid it all on the line back in 1776. They were men who had no idea what would come of their actions. I feel certain they would be most astonished at the spectacle we've turned it into today.

If you would truly honor them, then take time to gather your family and friends around you and read the Declaration of Independence aloud. Read the names. Honor them with a moment of silence and respect. Without that, the rest is empty rhetoric and hotdogs.

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Where is the Story?

There's a weird thing about writing a series--sometimes a character (or two) can get lost in the undergrowth. When I started preparing the Mystic Valley series for republishing, I planned to go through each book, checking for grammar/spelling/timeline/continuity issues. You know--things like someone being in two places at the same time.

Since this series is already at five books, plus the prequel, Everything Lovers Can Know, and since the majority of the stories all overlap, it was necessary to create a detailed timeline.  Once that was complete, I highlighted the actions/characters for the different books in individual colors.

An odd realization slowly crept over me. The hero/heroine for Traveller's Refuge didn't really have much of a story. At least, they were robbed by competing characters and didn't get a chance to tell their story. Instead, bits and pieces were just stuffed in willy-nilly so the reader doesn't ever have an opportunity to know what makes them tick and why they fall in love.

For that, I apologize to both Traveller and Wrenna, and the readers. I had tentatively scheduled the release of Traveller's Refuge on July 1st. But if I want to truly give Trav and Wrenna the chance to show who they are, then that's going to have to be postponed. For that, I hope I'll be forgiven.

The thing is, Traveller was always my favorite hero from this series and I don't want him or Wrenna, the love of his life, to be short-changed.'ll be a little longer before their release. And I promise to make the wait worthwhile.

Friday, June 15, 2018


When I was around five, my overwhelming ambition was to grow up to do all the stuff my mommy did. I had an actual electric toy iron that almost started a fire and my mommy decided I needed a few more years before I'd be ready for the next step. However, dollies were safe so I had a lot of them and since my mommy was an excellent seamstress, every dolly had several outfits. I was a good mother.

When I was ten, my mother died suddenly and I abruptly assumed some responsibility for my brothers. I confess real 'parenting' was not nearly as much fun as pretend parenting. At that point I decided being a mommy was overrated and it would be much better to be a nurse or teacher. Little did I know those two professions pretty much encompass the same territory as being a mother. When I found out that was the case, I decided I would be a writer.

At the same time as my mother's death, my family also moved several states away so in one fell swoop, I lost friends, home, and mother. I read. A LOT. I sneaked the flashlight out of the kitchen drawer and read under my covers in bed in the middle of the night. It seemed to me a writer must be the most wonderful job. I had a vivid imagination and longed to be 'old enough' to write a real book. It never occurred to me that I could start right then. I thought I had to wait until I finished college or something.

Through my teens, books continued to be my bulwark against the chaos and uncertainty of the 60s. The world was a scary place with friends going off to the Vietnam War, peace marches, rioting in the cities, airplane hijackings, integration in the schools, and the first of the famous killers--Richard Speck--right in the city where I lived. Reading gave me a safe place to learn out the world around me.

Then I met a young man. We married, had three children in rapid succession, and reading occasional treat in between washing and folding an unending stream of diapers and baby clothes. Heck, I didn't even have time to watch soap operas. My friend and I took turns watching and reporting anything new that happened.

At our sixth year of marriage, the hunk called one day to say we'd been transferred to Houston. Twenty-eight days later we arrived in a strange city with no place to live, no family safety net, and no acquaintance there at all. We found an apartment. The hunk worked two jobs so we could break even and I spent a lot of time alone. And I rediscovered books. Romances. I devoured them like a starving, ravening beast, hauling bags of them home from the library in the baby's stroller. I sat up late at night, reading them in the bathroom so I didn't wake anyone. And I started to glimpse again that old dream of writing my own book.

The next year we moved into a house. Did I mention we moved a lot? My last move was #41. Anyway, the library was very far away and I didn't have any transportation so once my oldest child was in school, I started writing. First by hand. Then on a typewriter. I was somewhat of a perfectionist so I spent more time correcting, than actual writing, but the bug had truly bitten me so I spent a lot of time working on various bits and pieces. I don't recall ever finishing anything. And in a shocking turn of events, we had another baby.

During this period, I started writing letters to my favorite authors. And I discovered a second hand bookstore owned by a woman who was active in the fledgling Romance Writers of America. I met authors there. Many of the authors who wrote for the early Silhouette and Loveswept lines stopped by to talk to the owner. She would call me when they showed up and invite me down to meet them.

Once while I was there she received a phone call. It was from Sharon Curtis, one half of the husband/wife team who had won the Rita that year. I wandered around on cloud nine for days after talking to her.

I wrote to Jayne Ann Krentz, one of my favorite authos, and she wrote back. Twice. I still have her letters.

Looking back, I can't imagine what the various authors I met or spoke to, or wrote to thought, but they surely kept me going through some dark days. And their encouragement meant everything.

We moved again. To the Hudson Valley in New York. Money was always an issue so I took a job at a local Waldenbooks warehouse. And I took advantage of one of the employee perks. We could 'borrow' any book in the warehouse for two weeks for free. Oh, yeah. This was my place, in spite of sore feet, tired back, and working until midnight every night. And once again, I started writing in my 'spare' time.

I started working out a scenario about two families that intermarried in a strange valley. Step by step I worked out different issues. In between there, I lost my job when the warehouse closed, went back to school, found another job...and kept picking at my story.

And then we moved again. To Baltimore. Abruptly, I found myself childless, jobless, and with a lot of time on my hands. My son, and the hunk, pushed me into the back room with my brand new computer and said, "You've always wanted to write. Do it!" I was fifty-five years old.

After a few false starts, I sat down and wrote a 120K opus about the families I'd worked on for years. It occurred to me I should find out what the publisher guidelines might be, and when I did, I realized I was going to have to make some radical changes. So I chose one couple from my 'novel' and wrote their story. I fussed over it, editing, revising, until I couldn't think of anything else to do to it. And I sent it off to an online publisher on a dare from the Hunk.

Three weeks later I received an e-mail asking for the entire manuscript. And about four weeks later, they offered me a contract. My first book in the Mystic Valley series was a reality. Six months later, Dancer's Delight was released.

I suppose you're wondering what this rambling hot mess is all about. It's just this--life eventually balances out if you just keep plugging along. 

Thursday, June 14, 2018

Ups and Downs

Unlike the timing is not always 'on'. Such is life. I've been at the edge of the publishing curve, not quite where the readers are. Not quite with the pack.

I am slowly re-publishing my older books--the ones I've received my rights back on. And there's been an occasional sale. Last year in the doldrums of my life, I received six dollars from book sales. Our IRS lady didn't even list it as income. At that point, she said, it was a hobby.

Nevertheless, I persisted. I'm stubborn like that. Every year, the hunk and I each choose something to spend a small portion of our tax refund on. I chose to spend mine on excellent book covers for my re-pubbed books. I have to say, the enjoyment I received from choosing new covers was worth it, even without the spectacular sales I hoped for.

In the time since I started releasing the books on Amazon in February, I've made the princely sum of fifty-five dollars. Compared to last year, I'm practically a best-seller!

I confess, there are days I wonder about the feasibility of this whole writing gig. The number one way authors get feedback is sales. The second way is reviews, which are sadly lacking for my books. The few I had were lost when the books were taken down by my old publishers. Amazon doesn't seem to have any facility for transferring them to the new reissues.

But, the third way authors receive feedback is from direct contact through e-mails and instant messages. And there my timing seems to be spot on. Just when I decide it really isn't worth it, a reader will reach out with a note. I received one this morning. This reader is very excited about having my Mystic Valley books available again as she lost hers when she changed to a kindle.

What can I say? Thank you, thank you, thank you for taking the time to type those few words to let me know someone out there stills loves the books. That's all I need. Just to know someone is reading the words I wrote. So...there's that UP note that keeps me going.

Saturday, June 9, 2018

Talinea the Heartsinger

Then from the corner of her eye, Talinea caught a glimpse of the old man slowly approaching the fire. When he reached the rocky ground just past the circle of firelight she asked, “Are you hungry?”
He squatted on his bare heels and stared at her without replying. An errant wind plucked at wispy strands of white hair, blowing them across his craggy face and tangling them in his beard. He absently brushed them away.
“Perhaps you would like something to drink?”
“No. Thank you.” His voice was harsh from long disuse. “Who are you?”
“I am Talinea,” she replied calmly.
“What do you want?”
She shrugged. “In a vision I was shown this place. So. As you see, I am here.”
His body swayed to and fro as he considered her explanation. She noted the threadbare clothing and absence of shoes and marveled at his stoic toleration of the terrible cold.
“Tell me of the king,” he demanded abruptly.
“Romaden? No one knows if he lives or dies.” A rush of bitter wind howled through the small clearing, nearly extinguishing the tiny fire. She tugged her thick chintain closer about her shoulders. “As for his siblings, I have heard nothing. There are rumors he is raising an army, but I’ve seen no evidence of it. On the other hand, if he is, he would do well to keep it a secret.”
“You are a Heart.”
It was a statement of fact she was tempted to deny. At the last moment, she changed her mind, nodding instead. “Yes.”
“If he fights, will you guard his back?”
Her body froze as she pondered his disturbing question. The king’s guardian was usually a mighty warrior—unless he or she was also a Heart. In that case, because they were bound body and soul for life, the warrior’s skills were not required. The binding was less—and more—than a marriage, for the intimacy of the mind-to-mind bond was far stronger than any physical touch.
From the time her talents matured, her thoughts had centered exclusively on her own survival. She’d steadfastly denied her true calling. Yet here, with one penetrating challenge, the old man flung down the gauntlet of destiny. Fragmented visions and ideas coalesced into crystalline conclusion. Her breath caught, and her heart seemed to stop. She pondered the irrefutable call to commitment posed by the old man.
As the king’s Heart, her personal survival would always be secondary, her own dreams and wishes would always be deferred for her king. Then with a sigh, she surrendered to fate. Wherever he was, she must find Romaden. But before that happened, her first responsibility was to find a priest willing to take her oath of fealty to her king and the crown.
Meeting the old man’s eyes, she solemnly vowed, “I will guard his back.”

Friday, June 8, 2018

A NEW Book!

It's been a while since I've written a NEW book. Yes, I know, but life happened on multiple fronts and interfered. So...The Makepeace Sword will be released on June 15th. It's the first in a new series, set on a new world. The country of Baryna is partially sci-fi, partially medieval, so there's something there for everyone. Baryna is suffering under the rule of a terrible dictator who overthrew the monarchy and murdered the king.

The king's heir, Romaden, is grown now, but certainly not ready to take his rightful place as king. As a matter of fact, he doesn't even know he's the heir! But when his guardians urge him to overthrow the dictator and assume his rightful place, Romaden quickly finds there's more to it than just showing up. First he has to locate his Heartsinger, the one person in the kingdom who can keep him on the straight and narrow.

And then there's the missing Makepeace sword...

Friday, May 25, 2018

Getting Out Alive

When I was eighteen and could walk miles without really thinking about it, I never ever considered the day might come when it would take a major effort to walk down a partial flight of stairs. Oh, how the mighty are brought down.

A few weeks ago, the hunk went to the doctor for a stomach infection and ended up going for a bunch of tests because his EKG wasn't normal. This week, both of us went to see the doc for our six-month check-up. The hunk was sent to a cardiologist because he has significant blockage in a couple arteries.

Then the doc concentrated on me. My EKG was not normal. The doc shook his head several times and repeated that. "This EKG is not normal." Yeah, I got it. So in the near future, I'll be off to have a CT cardiology angiogram. Whatever that is.

I put out a feeler about getting rid of some of my meds because of the brain fuzzies I have. After some discussion, he added a brain MRI to my ongoing to-do list for the near future. Yeah...maybe a little mini-stroke or some such in there.

I asked him to look at a spot on my toe. Uh-huh. After more discussion, we added a trip to the skin doctor as little black spots on the toe are unusual enough to warrant more in depth study. And since I was going, why not have the doc check out a couple other spots?

By the way, it's time for my annual mammo which it so happens can be scheduled the same day as the MRI. See how convenient that is?

And wasn't it fortunate that I fasted before my appointment so the daytime vampires can take a hefty blood donation?'s a cup. Please pee in it for us.

Stomach issues are lurking in the hinterlands...colonoscopy, endoscopy, whatever else they dream up. How about that liver? Is it still ticking along? Don't forget the bone density test that's overdue. On the up side, I lost another 1.6 pounds. That's something good, right?

So...I anticipate a busy week or two, what with one thing and another. They say getting old is not for sissies and that's the total truth. Of course, it's better than the alternative. Every single day.

Saturday, May 12, 2018


Yep, it's that time again. Mother's Day...or as I like to call it, Other's Day. It's not a Hallmark Card moment, you know. For most of the women in this country, it's another day that just emphasizes how very unimportant we are.

I'm not mad at my kids. I'm not mad at the Hunk. I want to speak a truth most folks don't want to speak. Many, many years ago our family was in counseling. We'd been in counseling for quite some time. One afternoon, our counselor turned to me and said, "You don't seem very happy. What's on your mind?"

And for once, I told the unvarnished truth. "I feel like if I walked out the door today, none of my family would miss me until they ran out of food or clean clothes."

The counselor turned to my husband and children and asked, "What do you have to say about that?"

And they all agreed it was true.

That was a turning point for me. That was the day I finally realized other people--no, not even your husband or children--will not value you, if you don't value yourself. If you sit back and allow them to walk all over you, treat you like a rug (a tattered, filthy rug), then that's what you'll get. People like to say you have to earn respect, but my friends, you can't earn it by groveling.

I cannot tell you how many posts I've read on social media where women are moaning about not receiving cards or flowers or blah, blah, blah for Mother's Day. Their kids don't call. They don't write. Oh, woe is me.

I don't remember the last time I received a Mother's Day card. Sometimes they call. Sometimes they send me a nice posting on Facebook. And that's all okay. BECAUSE it's an artificial holiday. What I need from them isn't some big deal on one day a year. I want them to send me a quirky card for just because. I want them to call me because they want to talk to me. I want them to send me pictures or pages my grandkids have colored for me.

One day does not a relationship make. It's what happens on all the Other Days in our lives that counts.