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
I stare.
I sigh.
I pick up my glass of iced tea and swallow.
Twice.
My hips twist as I sit in the chair, the one in front of the computer.
The computer where I’m typing the new chapter.
The new chapter where my character Gregory gets caught in a web of… Continue reading
This past weekend, I brought the wrong cookies to my mother, and I attended a Writers’ Conference in Delaware.
Believe it or not, these two disparate comments belong together.
Flattered to be invited to attend and speak at the Word Shark Writing Conference organized by Karen Sanderson, editor, writer and blogger, I accepted after realizing I could combine the trip with a visit to my mom, who lives just a half hour away.
A few days before the conference, I worked on my presentation while also baking my mother’s favorite chocolate chip butterscotch oatmeal bars. My mom doesn’t have a big sweet tooth, but for some reason she absolutely loves my bars.
At 5:30 a.m. on the day of my long train ride to Delaware, I grabbed the special bars from the freezer, where I had stored them. Seven hours later I gratefully unloaded my bag with the special treats, basking in my mom’s gratefulness.
But as I pulled the bars out of their freezer bag onto one of her antique flowery dainty china plates, I gasped. Continue reading
I will never forget the time I made my mother-in-law (MIL) laugh.
She was a sweet, kind, quiet mother of seven children and grandmother of a growing brood. She smiled and cooed, she cooked and cared for all, but for the first years I knew her, she never laughed.
Until I stomped. Continue reading
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