I was given notice this week.
Of my five-year blogging anniversary.
My mind automatically flew backward five years ago, when I lived in the SF Bay area, creating stories for the writing classes I taught, spending hours writing chapters for my novels, and stuffing it all in computer files and sagging file drawers.
And then my nephew arrived. Continue reading
Apparently, my skin is not nearly thick enough.
In my world, skin shouldn’t have to be thick. I slather it with lotions to make it soft, sunburn-free, and smooth. I’ve never encountered a lotion claiming to:
“THICKEN YOUR SKIN! Lavender or Rose Scent. Never again let a mean word seep in.”
No, I rub lavender body lotion day and night to keep skin from drying out in the NE weather.
Apparently, that lotion has also thinned my skin.
At least, that’s my first guess when I go on the Amazon page for my book The Right Wrong Man and read – gasp – a bad review.
My stomach turns into a turnip, my eyes moisten, and my soul shrivels into a sniveling snail.
How could this reader be so…so… mean? Continue reading
I had just earned my graduate degree. I was ready to take on the world in a career that would be so exciting…so invigorating…so worthwhile, that …well, I never went past the exciting, invigorating, and worthwhile parts.
I just knew I wanted a great career.
I read the ads in the newspapers. I talked to the headhunters, who chuckled over the phone. “A Master’s in English? And you want to do what with it?”
I didn’t have an answer. I knew what I didn’t want: No more school, no teaching, no secretarial position. They laughed and hung up.
I was offered three jobs at the University where I received my M.A.: one at the registrar’s office – secretarial; one at the Dean’s office of education – clerical; and one at the mailroom – sorting mail. Instead, I accepted a position that I read about in the classified section of the Newark Star Ledger: Continue reading
No one ever told me that hands become gnarly after too much time in the sun.
My hands are as gnarly as the bark on an old oak tree.
But, at least they’re sun-kissed – the color of a beige antique car.
My hands soar when a story strives to alight from my funny, surprising brain, a brain that is awash with jangled memories and silly jokes, serious worries and spurts of light-filled love. Continue reading
Here’s a “game” I dare you to play with me. Read the three small stories, below. Two of them are true. One is false. In the comment section, guess which one is the False story (and the reason you think it never happened). The one with the right answer and the most clever reason of why the story must be false, wins a copy of my romantic thriller, The Right Wrong Man, in paperback. (Thank you, Vanessa-Jane Chapman, for the idea!) Continue reading