Blue Attitude

Birth Announcement

2012-01-06T05:56:00.000-08:00

"The End"

Really, are there two more beautiful words an author can write? For me, finishing a new manuscript is like welcoming a new child into my family.

Meet my bouncing baby girl named PENANCE.

After she’s murdered, seventeen-year-old Jada Gayle arrives in the Afterlife Admissions office and discovers that a hold has been placed on her account. Florence, Jada’s Afterlife Advisor, informs her that she must stay among the living until she finds and stops the man who murdered her—her penance for messing around online and getting herself killed by a sexual predator. After she’s matched up with a newly dead homeless teen on Deathbook.net, Jada assumes the girl’s identity and gets assigned to a nice foster home in Miami’s Coconut Grove.

While she’s one of the transdead, Jada is not supposed to feel any emotions, so imagine her surprise when she discovers that an addendum to her penance was inadvertently left out of her paperwork: she must also learn to deal with normal human emotions since she didn't have them while she was alive. Ever since her father and best friend were killed in a drunk driving accident, Jada hasn’t felt anything. Now she’s bombarded with intense emotions she wishes would just go away.

Or so she thinks until she meets Lew Stanton, captain of the chess team and computer whiz. And if it’s not bad enough to have the hots for a nerd, Jada’s new best friend Annalee secretly likes him too, so Jada is torn between loyalty to her friend and the guy who makes her dead heart beat phantom rhythms in her chest. While Jada deals with all this unwanted teenage angst, the man who killed her is closing in on more foolish girls. Can she focus enough to stop him before he kills again?

My baby girl really kicks butt, huh? Even for a newborn!

Now begins the process of introducing her to an agent and/or publisher!

~Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true.

Success!

2011-09-19T16:02:00.000-07:00

Last month, I accepted Laurie Halse Anderson's challenge to write 15 minutes a day for the month of August. I DID IT! Some days it was actually revising what I'd previously written in my current WIP, but that still counts. Overall, I managed to write three entirely new chapters of PENANCE, my YA paranormal novel about a dead girl named Jada.

In celebration, here's a little teaser of what I wrote:

He was in front of her in three steps and tried to grab her arms, but she met him with a forearm to his throat that sent him reeling backward, coughing and gasping. He managed to stay on his feet, but Jada didn’t give him a chance to attack again. Mimicking one of the roundhouse kicks she’d seen in countless action flicks, her foot connected with his hip and knocked him completely off the deck onto the lawn.

Before he could recover, Jada dropped to the ground on top of him. With his arms pinned under her knees, she gripped his throat with her left hand and held her right over his face in a claw, like Mr. Miyagi in The Karate Kid.

“Time for your lesson, jockstrap. The next time you and your football buddies decide to put the new cheerleaders through an initiation at one of your parties, you’d better stick to dunking them in the pool. I don’t care how stupid or slutty or willing to grovel they are, they don’t deserve to be drugged and raped.”

Obviously, Scott still didn’t realize his precarious position, because he tried to argue despite Jada’s hand around his throat. “I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about. Me and my boys sure as hell don’t need to drug nobody. We got girls begging us for it all the time.”

“Liar.” Jada released his throat and drove her knuckles into the bridge of his nose, hard enough to break it but not hard enough to drive bone fragments into his brain. Scott uttered a decidedly unmasculine scream and tried to free his arms, but Jada held him down effortlessly.

“Okay, I’m sorry!” Blood ran into his mouth from his shattered nose and sprayed when he spoke.

“Better spread the word to the rest of the team too,” Jada said, “because if I hear about anything like this happening again, every guy on the team is gonna pay with a broken bone. And it’s gonna be whichever bone they need the most to play football. You’re the quarterback, huh? Right-handed or left?”

“No, please!” His eyes widened with fear. “I swear it won’t happen again!”

Jada shrugged. “Guess I’ll just have to break both of them.”

“The left! The left!”

Jada lifted her knee so she could deliver a faux karate chop to his right forearm. “Sorry. Don’t trust you.”

She stood and watched him rolling on the ground, holding his broken arm and crying. Was she a monster because she didn’t feel even a shred of sympathy for him? Nah. He sure as hell hadn’t felt any for the girls he’d drugged.

“Okay, Scott, let’s review our lesson, shall we? Girls are not objects created to amuse the male of the species, and even when they’re drugged or too drunk or too stupid to make intelligent decisions and tell you no, that doesn’t give you the right to take advantage of them. Got that?”

“Yeah, I get it,” he whimpered.

“Good. And don’t forget to share your newfound knowledge with the other guys, ‘cause I’m holding you accountable for anything they do. Oh, and in case you’re curious about how I found out about your little ruffie parties, you can thank Fallon and her bitchy cheerleader pals for gossiping about the new girls without checking to make sure nobody’s in the bathroom stalls.”

Jada went back to the deck and picked up the tub of ice and beer, even though it probably weighed close to seventy-five pounds. Scott was still on the ground, although he tried to scramble to his feet when he saw her coming back.

“Hey, I said I’d do whatever you want! Please don’t break anything else!”

“Dude, how cruel do you think I am?” Jada looked offended and pushed him back to the ground with her foot. “I’m not gonna break any more bones. I just think you need one more little reminder about why this happened in the first place.”

She set the tub on the ground beside him and smiled.

“Take off your shorts.”

~Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true.

Can I Do It?

2011-08-01T08:57:00.000-07:00

I am ashamed to admit that I'm notorious for accepting writing challenges that I don't follow through on. I know that makes me sound like an unreliable, irresponsible person, and I'm really not--I swear.

This time it's gonna be different!

Award-winning, best-selling YA author Laurie Halse Anderson has issued a writing challenge for the month of August. Participants are to write at least 15 minutes a day, every day. Laurie even helps out by posting optional writing prompts on her blog every day to get folks going.

I think maybe my failure in the past has been because I have a deep-seated obstinate gene that makes me resistant to writing what I'm told to write--even if it's my own book! I hated when my teachers did that and called it "creative writing." Essays were different. I didn't mind writing about a topic for an essay assignment, but, by God, if they were going to call it "creative" then I didn't want them telling me what to write! (Yeah, I was a real rebel, huh? Valedictorian with a vendetta!)

Anyway, that's what I like about Laurie's challenge. I can write whatever I want as long as I write for 15 minutes every day. This blog post takes care of today, but you know what? I think I'm gonna go write a new chapter in PENANCE, the book I'm working on.

Thanks, Laurie! Your non-dictatorial challenge has helped!

~Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true.

(Note to Aston West: Every 8 months my butt, Flyboy!

Tag, You're It!

2011-07-25T07:42:00.000-07:00

Yep, it's another blog tag meme! I was tagged by my "friend" Carrie Cox, also known as Wonderwegian Here are my incredibly pithy responses. Feel free to leave your gushing admiration in the comments section!

What do you think of when you the hear the word tag?
Toe tags. Yeah, I know it’s morbid, but I am writing about a dead girl, you know!

Do you think you're hot?
No, but my husband does, and that’s all that matters to me!

Upload a picture or wallpaper that you're using at the moment.

When was the last time you ate chicken?
Thursday night. Foosackly’s chicken strips with honey mustard—yum!

The song(s) you listened to recently.
Seeing as how I am listening to music most of my waking hours, there are way too many to list, so I’ll just go with a couple of favorites—“Simple Man” by Lynyrd Skynyrd and “Perfect” by Pink.

What were you thinking as you were doing this?
I really should be writing, but at least this will update my woefully outdated blog!

Do you have nicknames? What are they?
Toyce (my husband doesn’t call me anything else!) and my daddy called me Hot Shot. Can you tell I was a Daddy’s Girl?

Tag 8 blogger friends:
Lee Ann Ward
Joyce A. Anthony
Aston West
Chris Cox
Ryan James
Wanda Argersinger
Janet Elaine Smith
Ron Berry

Who's listed as No. 1?
Lee Ann Ward, my best friend and literary sister. (Yes, I know there’s a space in her name because it goes there!)

Say something about No. 5
One of my fellow members of the Mobile Writers’ Guild and creator of Elwood Cox, librarian extraordinaire!

How did you get to know No. 3?
We had the same first bad publisher! Fortunately, we both got our rights back and went on to find another publisher. Aston is my favorite intergalactic flyboy, even if he does have a weakness for a certain yellow liquor!

How about No. 4?
Chris is so many things to me—circulation manager of the library, fellow MWG member, facilitator of the Classics Revisited book discussion group, critique group partner, and favorite faux-British actor!

Leave a message for No. 6.
Wanda, I know I’ve been MIA from Jay’s group lately, but I promise I’ll be back as soon as school starts and a certain—ahem—distraction is gone from my days. I’m glad we’re friends on Facebook so I can still keep up with your hilarious adventures!

Leave a lovey dovey message for No. 2.
Joyce, you are one of the most compassionate, loving people I’ve ever known, and you never fail to brighten my day when I read anything you’ve written. I’m so proud to call you my friend (or fiend as we call ourselves in Jay’s Playhouse!)

Do No. 7 and No. 8 have any similarities?
Hmm . . . well, they’re both Yankees. And they’re both talented writers with a great sense of humor! But I have to point out that Janet is way better at self-promotion than Ron. Of course, Janet is way better than everybody I know!

~Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true!

Challenge Me, Will Ya?

2011-06-07T12:37:00.000-07:00

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

FACT: I need to finish my work-in-progress, a YA paranormal novel titled PENANCE.

FACT: It has already taken me longer to write this book than it took me to write my first three.

FACT: All productivity on my part comes crashing to a halt whenever my husband is home.

FACT: My husband is a teacher.

FACT: School is out for the summer.

Consequently, I have decided to join author Theodora Goss in her YA Novel Challenge, a NaNoWriMo type event meant to inspire/boost/dare/taunt some of her fellow writers into writing or revising a YA novel, or part of one, between June 1 and August 31. Obviously, she understands flummoxed writers like me since she’s made the rules so flexible!

I have every intention of winning this challenge with a completed manuscript. I’ve even got a big head start since I’ve already written almost 40,000 words of it. However, if I don’t finish my book, at least this challenge will make me update my woefully outdated blog more often, so I shall be claiming success either way!

Time to get off now and write. My mantra for the next few months is “BICHOK now, BICHOK forever!”

At least until August 31.

~Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true.

Number Three--Jess and Lee

2011-02-14T09:52:00.000-08:00

From my third book, SYMMETRY:

When Lee picked her up, they drove to a roadside stand that sold wildflowers. Jess helped him select a mixed bouquet for his dad, their simple beauty fitting for a man as down-to-earth as Hal had been. Lee made no effort to hide his tears when he placed the flowers on his father’s grave, and Jess had to wipe hers away as well.

Lee took her hand when they started back to the car, and she let him hold it.
They didn’t talk much on the drive back to the house, but when Lee parked in the driveway and shut off the engine, he took her hand again. “Thanks for going with me, Jess. Dad always loved you, so I know he’s happy you were there with me.”

“I’m glad you asked me to go,” she said. “Really, Lee.”

He lowered his gaze. “I miss him like hell, but I’m kinda glad I don’t have to face him right now and explain why I’ve screwed up my marriage and haven’t accomplished anything he could be proud of.”

“That’s not true, Lee. Your dad was always proud of you.”

He shook his head. “I know how disappointed he was when I had to quit playing football. I thought if I could make it big as a sportswriter, it would make it up to him a little.”

“Your dad just wanted you to be happy,” she said, wondering why she’d never guessed before the reason he was so driven to succeed. “He was upset over your injury because he knew you loved playing, not because he cared if you ever became rich or famous.”

“No, he told me when I was in high school that he didn’t want me to have to work myself to death just to provide for my family the way he did.”

“That’s right, Lee. He didn’t want you working in a factory doing manual labor, and you accomplished that by going to college and getting a degree. He was proud of you for that, but I think he was even more proud of you for being such a devoted son and brother.”

He looked up at her. “You sound like my mom. I know you’re both just trying to make me feel better.”

She pushed his shoulder. “That’s ridiculous. Neither one of us even likes you.”

He smiled and gave her a look that made her heart beat erratically. “I’m trying to understand what you want me to do so I can come home, Jess. I swear I am.”

She sighed. “I believe you, Lee. To tell the truth, I’m not even sure I know what I want you to do. I just know I want things to be different.”

“Today was a good start, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was.”

He squeezed her hand. “I want to do something special for you like you did for me today. Whatever you want. Just tell me.”

“You don’t need to repay me for anything, Lee. I was glad to go with you.”

“No, there’s gotta be something I can do. Think about it and let me know, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll think about it.”

“Jess . . .” He twisted his wedding ring on his finger. “Please don’t go out with that guy if he starts calling you again. I know you wouldn’t sleep with him, but I can’t stand the idea of him even touching you.”

She sighed. “I don’t think that’s an issue anymore. I’m sure he wants to stay as far away from me as possible now that he knows I have a violent lunatic for a husband.” She could see his face flood with relief, but she couldn’t quite seem to get mad at him for it.

“Guess he got a look at these pythons.” He flexed his biceps for her. “Must’ve decided he’d better find his own woman and leave mine alone.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been watching wrestling with Trent, haven’t you?”

He gave her one of his heart-stopping smiles and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. She was thankful it was only a chaste kiss, because she wasn’t sure she could have resisted him if he’d tried to kiss her for real. Just the brush of his lips on her face was an exquisite agony she knew all too well.

Sensing that she needed to put some space between them, she opened the car door and said, “I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Lee. Don’t forget to ask your mom about letting me come over to see Lexie.”

“Okay. Bye, baby.”

Once she was safely inside the house, Jess fell onto the couch as she listened to the sound of his car pulling away, near panic at the realization that she was always going to love a man who hurt her on a regular basis and would likely keep doing so, because he did it unintentionally. And the thing that scared her the most was knowing she was probably going to sacrifice everything else that was important to her and let him go on hurting her, because the times in between the pain were the moments she lived for.

Buy Your Copy of SYMMETRY Here

~Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true.

Amorous Excerpt #2

2011-02-14T07:18:00.000-08:00

This one features Jaycee and Bud from DIFFERENT ROADS, so be prepared for some steam!

The middle-aged secretary who worked for Bud, Mack, and Luke told Jaycee that Bud was on the phone with one of the mill managers, but she could wait on the couch in his office for him to finish the call.

Jaycee had worn a short denim skirt with a sleeveless blouse, and Bud leaned over in his chair in an exaggerated effort to look at her legs while he listened to the man on the phone. The door was open, but no one could see Jaycee from outside the office, so she slid her skirt a little higher on her thigh and gave him a suggestive look.

“No problem, Phil,” Bud said into the phone. “I’ll be there in the morning with two more terminals and have them up and running by noon. See you then.” He hung up and started around the desk toward Jaycee just as a young blonde woman in a short red dress came through the doorway.

“I brought you some coffee, Mr. Stanton,” she said. “Extra cream and sugar, just the way you like it.”

Bud stopped and glanced at Jaycee. “Uh . . . thank you, Bridget. My wife’s here right now. Want some coffee, Jaycee?”

Bridget froze when she saw Jaycee on the couch, and a little coffee sloshed out of the cup.

Jaycee folded her arms across her chest. “No, and since when do you drink it, Bud?”

“I drink it now and then,” he said. “Just put it on the desk, Bridget. Thanks.”

She set it on a coaster. “I’ll come back for the cup when you’re finished, Mr. Stanton.”

“Don’t bother,” Jaycee said. “And close the door on your way out.”
Bridget left without another word.

“That’s not my fault, Jaycee,” Bud said when she was gone. “I’ve never asked her to bring me anything.”

“Uh-huh, and you obviously haven’t spread the word that your wife won’t hesitate to kick somebody’s over-ambitious little ass either, so maybe that’s what I need to do.”

He walked over to the couch and sat beside her. “Come on, Jaycee. All she does is bring me coffee sometimes. I’m sure she does the same thing for Dad and Luke.”

She pushed away his hand when he tried to hold hers. “I don’t give a shit what she brings them. You’d better tell her that I’ll make her spill more than coffee if I catch her offering you anything else. I’ll fix you a frigging thermos if you like coffee so damn much, and what the hell are you smiling about?”

He answered in a singsong voice: “Jay-cee is jeal-ous. You’re afraid somebody’s gonna steal your Sugar Daddy, huh?”

She threw a punch at his arm, but he caught her hand and pushed her back on the couch to lie on top of her. “Get off me, shithead! I’m sure as hell not jealous of a little twit like her, but if you think you want somebody else then you can just—”

He covered her mouth with his and forced his tongue inside. Jaycee was a stronger-than-average girl, but there was really no comparison of her strength to Bud’s. She gave up struggling after a minute or so.

“I hate you,” she said when he let her speak. “Your little office fan club can have you. All I care about is Junior anyway.”

He laughed and kissed her neck with her hands still pinned to the couch. “Don’t worry, Firecracker. Junior doesn’t like anybody but you.”

She gave him a sly look. “Let go of my hands and I’ll say hello to him.”

“Uh-uh, I don’t trust you. You’ll punch me.”

“No I won’t, Bud. I promise.” She pressed her hips upward and moved against him. “I like it when you act all tough like this. You caveman, me woman. It’s making me so hot.”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “For real?”

She smiled and nodded. He hesitated a couple of seconds more and slowly released her right hand, still holding her left above her head and watching her closely. She put her hand on his cheek and slid it down his neck. Just as it reached his chest and he shifted his weight so she could get her hand between them, she pinched his nipple between her thumb and forefinger and twisted.

“Ow, shit.” He grabbed her hand and pinned it again. “You lied to me, Jaycee!”

“No, I promised I wouldn’t punch you. Now get off me.”

He kissed her again until she returned it.

“Still hate me?”

“More than ever.”

“If I make love to you right here and shock the employees by making you moan with ecstasy, will you like me again?”

“Maybe.”

He got up and went to his desk to press the intercom button on his phone. “Mrs. Patterson, hold all my calls until further notice. I’ll be in conference with my wife until she likes me again.”

Jaycee laughed. “But your coffee will get cold, Mr. Stanton.”

He came back to the couch and started to unbutton her blouse. “I just thought of a new game for us to play, and I want you to call me Mr. Stanton while we play it.”

When Jaycee left, she stopped by Bridget’s desk in the clerical office next door and set the empty coffee cup in front of her.

“I’m afraid Mr. Stanton’s coffee got spilled while we were . . . working on his desk, so I brought you the cup to get him some more. But, if I were you”—she leaned toward her conspiratorially but didn’t lower her voice—“I’d focus my efforts on one of the single Stanton men. Not only is Bud a waste of your time because he’s not interested, he’s got a wife who’s been known to cold-cock women over a lot less than your pathetic attempts at getting him to look at your ass. You might want to write that on a sticky note and keep it on your monitor so you won’t forget.”

Jaycee waved congenially to all the open-mouthed women in the room as she left.

Buy Your Own Copy Of DIFFERENT ROADS here

~Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true!

Valentine's Day Love Fest!

2011-02-14T07:01:00.000-08:00

In celebration of love and romance, three amorous excerpts from my books. Up first, TRUE BLUE FOREVER:

“My Jeana,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful.”

She stiffened involuntarily in his arms. “Don’t say that, Mickey. I believe that you love me, but don’t lie to me. You promised you wouldn’t.”

Mickey looked at her in confusion. “I’ve never lied in my life, Jeana. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

She tried to shake her head, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Don’t you know how incredible you are?” Mickey’s eyes searched her face and slowly widened. “You don’t, do you? God, you’re like a perfect work of art, and you don’t even know it.”

Jeana had never thought of herself as even close to beautiful, but now—looking into Mickey’s amazing eyes so full of his love for her—she had no choice but to believe him. Even if no one else ever thought she was beautiful, she knew Mickey did. And that was all that mattered to her.

“Then you’re the artist, Mickey, because I didn’t exist until you kissed me.”

They lay beside each other on the couch, and Jeana sensed immediately that they’d moved to a deeper level in their relationship. Their kisses were more intense, and when Mickey’s lips moved to her neck, a warmth started in the pit of her stomach that spread over her entire body. She felt that odd pulse between her legs again, and it was as if every nerve and synapse were electrified. She’d never felt so inflamed, and her only thought was of more.

Every brush of his lips on her skin was like a tiny shock that elicited little whimpers from her, meant to tell him how much she liked it and that she wanted him to go further. She knew he got the message because his hands began to explore, and when he touched her breasts through her thin T-shirt, she felt as if he had ignited a fuse that ran to the most sensitive parts of her body. Her chest rose and fell with her rapid breathing, and Mickey misread her reaction.

“Do you want me to stop, Jeana?”

“No, Mickey.” She put his hand back on her breast. “Please don’t stop.”

He smiled as he lowered his lips to her neck again. He was lying with one of his knees between her thighs, and Jeana discovered that it felt wonderful when she moved her lower body against his leg. She knew he shared her arousal because of the hardness she felt against her thigh, and also from the way he moaned when she pressed her body against him.

“You gotta stop that, baby,” he said breathlessly. “I like it, but you gotta stop.”

Instead of stopping, Jeana’s hands slid to his hips and pulled him against her.

“No, Mickey. I want you to make love to me.”

He tensed and tried to pull away. “We can’t, Jeana. I want to, but—”

“I love you, Mickey.” Her hands clutched him tighter. “It’s not wrong if we love each other.”

“I love you too.” He buried his face in her hair. “But, we have to wait.”

“I don’t want to wait, I want you.” Jeana knew she was being reckless and irresponsible, but the pounding of her heart drowned out the voice in her head telling her to listen to Mickey because he was right.

“You know I want you, baby. So much...” He closed his eyes and gasped when her hands found their way inside his jersey and touched his chest. “Jeana, stop. You’re driving me crazy.”

He took her hands from his shirt and sat up. She pulled herself up beside him and put her head on his shoulder.

“Why do we have to wait if we love each other, Mickey?”

He told her the story about his parents, how his birth had changed the course of their lives. When he finished, he said, “I don’t want us to make the same mistake, Jeana.”

“Don’t say it like that, Mickey. You’re not a mistake.”

He smiled. “You’re so sweet. But, do you understand what I’m talking about, baby? You’re gonna be the valedictorian, with the sky as your limit after that. I promised my dad I’d play baseball. If you got pregnant—”

“We can be careful, Mickey. We can wait until we have protection.”

“Nothing is a hundred percent safe, and that’s not the only problem, because I know once we made love I’d want you all the time. We’d be tempted every time we were together, and pretty soon we’d start to take chances.” He covered his face in frustration. “Please try to understand.”

Her laughter surprised him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but don’t we have our roles reversed here?”

Mickey smiled wryly. “Let’s face it, Jeana. There’s nothing typical about you or me.”

Buy Your Copy Here

~Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true!

One Stop on Jaycee's Journey

2010-12-22T18:47:00.001-08:00

And this is what came of all the hoping Jaycee did as a child.

Excerpt from DIFFERENT ROADS:

Later, while they unpacked, Jaycee said, “Hey, you never gave me that hint about my Christmas present. Spill it, you welsher.”

Bud took a wrapped package a little larger than a shoe box from his bag and held it in front of her. “It’s something you’ll like.”

“That’s not a hint, Bud. Let me hold it.” She reached for it, but he shook his head.

“Not unless you let me see mine.”

“Okay, then forget it. When are we gonna open them anyway?”

“Christmas Eve I guess. Hey, you wanna get a tree?”

She shrugged. “You should probably save your money now that your dad disowned you and you’re poor.”

“We can wait until Christmas Eve when they cut the prices. Would you care if we had to settle for a Charlie Brown tree?”

“No,” she said with a scornful laugh. “It’s not like I’m used to having one at all.” When she saw the expression on his face, she wished she hadn’t said it. “Don’t look at me like that, Bud. It’s not a big deal.”

“C’mere, Firecracker.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you always have to be such a sap, Bud?”

“We’ll get the tree today so we can get a nice one,” he said as he hugged her. “Then we’ll go buy some decorations—-lights and everything.”

She looked up at him. “Okay, if it means that much to you. I’ve even got some stuff we can use, but I’m not gonna tell you about it unless you promise not to get all weepy on me.”

“I can be tough.”

“Yeah, right,” she said as they sat on the bed. “You know how kids always make decorations at school to take home and put on their tree? Well, I’d hang mine in my bedroom window and make up stupid stories in my head about how I was a prisoner of war or I’d been kidnapped or some shit like that, and I’d pretend I made the decorations from stuff I sneaked from my captors.” She paused and shook her head with an embarrassed laugh. “I know it was dumb, but I kept them for some reason. They’re in a shoe box in my closet at the dorm.” She looked up at Bud. “Oh, Jesus. Is that what you call tough?”

“Shut up and let me hug you. And don’t give me any lip.” He pulled her roughly into his arms. “How’s that?”

They bought a six-foot Frasier fir and put it up Sunday night. When they went shopping for decorations, Jaycee couldn’t help getting caught up in the excitement of the Christmas rush she’d never been a part of before. Since Bud was so hell-bent on making up for all the Christmases she’d missed, the least she could do was enjoy this one. They bought lights and tinsel and a star for the top, and when Jaycee hung the childish decorations made from construction paper and glitter alongside the beautiful glass ornaments they’d bought, she decided they went together as perfectly as she went with Bud.

When they were done decorating the tree, they made love on the floor in the glow of the lights. Afterward, Jaycee lay watching them twinkle as Bud slept beside her, his arms around her and his breath warm on her neck. She tried to remember ever feeling so happy, and that’s when the first rumblings of terror struck, because the last time she’d felt that way had been the day she’d lost Cole.

She turned and clung to Bud in a panic, and his arms tightened around her.

“Where you going?” he murmured.

“Nowhere, Bud. I’m staying right here with you.”

He smiled without opening his eyes. “Good. Don’t ever leave me, Jaycee.”

She pressed her face against his neck and inhaled the scent she’d come to associate with him, a combination of soap and sex. She told herself her happiness didn’t have to end this time, because Bud needed her as much as she needed him. They would hold on to each other and keep the bad things away.

Buy Your Own Copy Of DIFFERENT ROADS here

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true.

A Child's Spirit

2010-12-17T12:10:00.000-08:00

This is my favorite short story. It features Jaycee, the heroine in my book DIFFERENT ROADS, when she was a child. It also explains why she grew up to be the hellion she is.

“Hope Chest”

Jaycee pulled the covers over her head and wondered if she could make herself throw up so her daddy would let her stay home from school. If he hadn’t just been put back on the graveyard shift, he would either be asleep or at work when she woke up and wouldn’t know if she went to school or not, but she could hear him down there in the kitchen fixing himself something to eat. No way would he let her stay home unless he thought she was so sick the school would send her back if she went.

The thought of going to school today definitely made Jaycee feel like throwing up. She hated the last day before the Christmas holidays because of the stupid parties and their stupid gift exchange. Stupid bunch of spoiled kids who already got more presents than they needed, and some of them even still believed in Santa Claus too. Stupid third grade babies.

She heard her daddy open her bedroom door and say, “Get outta that bed and get dressed, girl. And if you’re gonna sleep with the damn covers over your head, don’t be whining to me no more about wanting a light left on. I ain’t working myself to death just to pay for your foolishness.”

Jaycee peered over the edge of the blanket at him. “I don’t feel good, Daddy. I think I’m gonna barf.”

“Probably because you had your damn fool head covered up,” he said around a mouthful of egg sandwich. “Go on and get dressed. I don’t want you around here bothering me while I’m trying to sleep. The school can keep you in the sick room if need be. That’s what they’re paid to do.”

He turned and went back to the kitchen. Jaycee sighed as she got out of bed and hurried to get dressed, hopping from one foot to the other on the cold floor. Her daddy had said he might be able to get the heat turned back on in a few days, and she sure hoped so. Good thing they lived in Alabama and not somewhere up north where it was really cold, like Tennessee.

“Or the stupid North Pole,” she said and added a rueful, “Ho, ho, ho.”

After putting on her shoes, she went to the bathroom and did her best to subdue the uneven cap of short blonde curls on her head. She ended up sticking out her tongue at the reflection in the cracked mirror over the sink. What a brilliant idea it had been to cut off all her hair with the garden shears last year. She’d hoped maybe her daddy would like her better if she looked more like a boy, since he’d cried so much over the baby boy who’d died with her mama when he was being born the year before. But all it had gotten her was a whipping and her daddy telling her she had to keep it that short from then on for doing such a damn fool thing in the first place.

She went back to her room and sighed again as she took a crudely wrapped gift from under her bed. If she had to go to school, at least she would be able to give Mrs. Russell her present. Having Mrs. Russell for a teacher was the only good thing about going to that stupid school, so Jaycee had used the wrapping paper they’d made in class to wrap the poem she’d written and framed in construction paper.

Jaycee had thought she was going to hate Mrs. Russell at first because she’d told Jaycee from the start that she wouldn’t tolerate any of the behavior she’d heard about from Jaycee’s previous teachers. Jaycee remembered how serious Mrs. Russell had looked as she’d told her she would handle any problems Jaycee might have with her classmates but would absolutely not put up with any fighting, swearing, or name calling from Jaycee, no matter what had prompted it.

Maybe it was the way Mrs. Russell’s blonde hair and blue eyes reminded Jaycee of her mama’s, but something had made her believe this teacher would be tough but fair, and she’d been right. Mrs. Russell definitely didn’t let Jaycee get away with anything, but she also didn’t let the other kids get away with their stupid jokes about her hair or her clothes, so Jaycee hadn’t needed to kick anybody’s butt all year.

She put the package in her book bag and felt her stomach do a little flip at the thought of Mrs. Russell reading the poem. Not that it was sappy or anything, but Jaycee was happy with the way it had turned out, and she wanted Mrs. Russell to think it was good. When they’d done their first writing assignment in class, Mrs. Russell had told her she had a true gift for words—even though Jaycee had written about how much she hated school—and she’d liked the way it made her feel.

When she went in the kitchen, her daddy was sitting at the table with his head in his hands, still wearing the green coveralls he wore to work at Surplus Textiles. He didn’t look up at her when she opened the refrigerator to see if there was any milk.

“Eat that egg in the skillet,” he said. “I don’t want it wasted. And hurry up so you don’t miss the bus.”

Jaycee put the egg between the last two pieces of bread—the yucky end pieces—so she could eat it while she walked the quarter mile to the bus stop. “You want me to wake you up when I get home from school, Daddy?”

He still didn’t look at her. “I’ll be gone by then. Make sure you got your key so you can get in.”

Hoping he might be going to pay the gas bill so they’d have heat and hot water again, she said, “Are you going somewhere before you go to work?”

One of his calloused hands struck the table and made her jump. “Ain’t none of your concern where I'm going! You just get your ass in the house and stay here! You hear me, girl?”

Jaycee nodded and had to force herself to swallow the bite she’d just taken, her appetite fleeing now that she saw the crumpled piece of paper on the table in front of her daddy. Whenever he did that to his paycheck stub on a Friday, it meant he would be going to the Crossroads Club instead of going to work, and she might not see him again until Sunday night. She wrapped up the rest of her sandwich in a paper towel and put it in the refrigerator. It might be the only thing she’d have to eat when she got home.

“Bye, Daddy,” she said as she left, but the only reply she got was the sound of his chair scraping the floor as he got up from the table and went down the hall to his bedroom. She ran to the bus stop so it would warm her up, but she slowed to a walk when she saw that stupid Curtis Manning and his sister Nelda were there already. Mrs. Russell had kept the kids in her class from agitating her, but Curtis was a year older than Jaycee, and Nelda was a stupid kindergartner.

“Hey, Ugly,” Curtis said when he saw her. “Didn’t I see a hobo throwing that shirt in the trash yesterday?”

Curtis and Nelda got free lunch the same as Jaycee and everyone else who lived in their crappy neighborhood, but their house looked like a mansion compared to hers, and their clothes came from their older brothers and sisters instead of the Salvation Army store. Jaycee supposed it made Curtis feel like a big shot or something to point out that they had more than she did, but that didn’t mean she had to take it from him.

“Hey, Curtis, didn’t I see your face on something coming out of a dog’s butt yesterday? Sure smelled like you.”

Nelda giggled and got a shove from Curtis. “You must’ve been smelling yourself. What, can’t buy any soap ‘cause your old man spent all his money on booze again?”

Jaycee took a step toward him, her hands clenched into fists. “Kiss my ass, barf face!”

Nelda covered her mouth with her hand. “Ooh, you said a cuss word! Santa's gonna bring you a bag of switches.”

Jaycee opened her mouth to tell her there was no such thing as Santa Claus, but something about the little girl’s enormous brown eyes made her change her mind. Stupid baby would probably just cry anyway. Jaycee hated it when people cried.

“Good, then I’ll use them on your stupid brother,” she said, relieved to see the school bus turning the corner.

Curtis snickered and shouldered both the girls aside to get on the bus in front of them. Jaycee sat behind the driver—the assigned seat for troublemakers that had been hers for as long as she could remember—and wondered why she had wimped out instead of telling Nelda the truth. It wasn’t like it was a big deal or anything. Jaycee had actually been happy when she’d found out there was no Santa Claus, because it was a lot better than wondering why he just never brought her anything.

Not that she cared, of course. She didn’t want any of the stupid toys all the other kids asked for anyway. She had something a lot better than toys. She could make up stories that let her do things none of them could even dream about doing, and her stories were even better than some of the books she got from the school library. For sure a lot better than the stupid stories about Santa Claus.

Trying to shut out all the talk around her about what the other kids were hoping to get for Christmas, Jaycee looked out the bus window and decided to finish the story she’d started making up the night before about the princess who was kidnapped as a baby and given to peasants to punish her father for being such a heartless king. All the way to school, she stared out the window and forgot about stupid Curtis Manning, the stupid Christmas party, and stupid Santa Claus that didn’t even exist.

Jaycee went inside the building as soon as the bell rang so she could get in the room before her classmates. Despite her rush, she couldn’t help noticing the school’s usual smell of chalk dust and eraser shavings was masked by the aroma of Christmas party goodies wafting down the halls.

When she reached her classroom, she hurried up to the aluminum Christmas tree in the front corner so she could find the red package with her name on it that she’d seen Ginny Tucker putting under the tree the day before. Using a piece of tape from the dispenser on Mrs. Russell’s desk, Jaycee replaced the nametag on the red gift with a scrap of construction paper and wrote Pam Kriegler’s name on it.

Her classmates were arriving with a party-day clamor, but Jaycee didn’t think any of them noticed what she’d been doing. She congratulated herself on thinking of a way to fix her gift exchange problem and wondered again why Mrs. Russell had made her put her name in the basket and draw one out after she’d said she didn’t want to do it. At least this way nobody would be missing a gift except Jaycee, and she didn’t want one anyway.

When she saw the other kids putting their teacher gifts on Mrs. Russell’s desk, Jaycee took the package from her book bag and put it with the others. As she walked back down the aisle to her desk, Scott Simmons—Mr. Little League MVP—stuck out his leg and tried to trip her, but she saw him and stepped on his foot as hard as she could.

“What’s wrong, Scott? Still mad because I got you out at second in P.E. yesterday?”

“Better watch it when you’re batting today,” he said, brushing off his Converse All Stars. “You might get hit by a wild pitch.”

Jaycee snickered. “If you’re the pitcher, it won’t even leave a bruise.”

He stood up and pushed her. “Why do you wanna be a boy so much? Because you’re too ugly to be a girl?”

Jaycee shoved him back, letting her anger hide the hurt the way she always did. “I don’t want to be a boy, I just don’t want to be a stupid sissy like you who can’t take getting beaten by a girl! And I can whip your scrawny—”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Mrs. Russell pushed Scott back into his seat and led Jaycee away by the arm. “It’s always better to show than to tell, Jaycee. Whether you’re writing or playing baseball. Prove yourself on the field, and they’ll all see how good you are.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Russell,” Jaycee said as she took her seat. “I’ll try, but he’d better leave me alone if he knows what’s good for him.”

She ignored the looks she was getting from everyone around her and took out her library book. She’d read Heidi two times already, but she’d checked it out again because it was her favorite. She loved pretending she had a grandfather like Heidi’s somewhere that she would be sent to live with someday. Sometimes she could hardly wait to go to bed at night so she could invent new adventures for herself in the worlds she created in her head. Worlds where she didn’t always have to prove herself and act so tough.

When it was time for the party at the end of the day, the room mothers and other parents who were there to help got everything set up. A few fathers had even come for the party, and Jaycee tried not to watch enviously as Pam Kriegler’s daddy picked her up and gave her a hug when he arrived. Anybody with a daddy who came to her school parties and called her “Princess” shouldn’t be as mean and selfish as Pam, but she was the worst one about making fun of Jaycee’s chopped-off hair and shabby clothes. Jaycee hated letting her have the gift that was supposed to be hers, but she knew Pam would have a hissy fit if all she got was a homemade gift from Jaycee.

One of the mothers handed Jaycee a plate filled with party food, and she wrapped up most of it to take home for later. But since Newley Butler gave her his cupcake and fudge because he was allergic to chocolate, she even got to eat some treats there. Ever since Jaycee had taken up for Newley when Scott and the other cul-de-sac creeps teased him for using an inhaler and sometimes wearing a bowtie, Newley never looked at her without hero worship lighting up his asthmatic little face. It was kinda embarrassing sometimes, but Jaycee didn’t really mind. Newley read a lot too, and she liked talking about books with him.

When everyone finished eating, Mrs. Russell called all the kids up to sit on the floor around the Christmas tree so they could pass out the presents. Jaycee held her breath to see if Ginny said anything when Mrs. Russell read Pam’s name off the red gift, but Ginny was too busy opening her own gift to notice. Jaycee tried not to look at what Pam got so she wouldn’t know what she’d given up, but curiosity got the best of her. She was glad she’d looked when she saw it was only a musical jewelry box with a stupid ballerina inside, and Pam even seemed to like it. She showed it to her daddy, and he told her he’d buy her some new earrings to go in it.

Jaycee was still smiling about her successful switcheroo when Sandy Stewart handed her a blue package with her name on it.

“Where did that come from?” Jaycee asked.

Sandy rolled her eyes. “Duh. From whoever had your name.”

Jaycee looked around at her classmates, but no one was paying any attention to her, and there was nothing written on the gift tag about who it was from. She almost didn’t want to open it because it was wrapped in beautiful blue foil paper decorated with glittering snowflakes. Careful not to tear the paper any more than she had to, her surprise changed to wonder as she unwrapped the book inside and turned it over to read the title: The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking. Inside the cover was a library card with her name on it—from the public library, not the sissy school library—and there was a typed note along with it.

Dear Jaycee,

I thought you’d like meeting Pippi since the two of you have so
much in common. And you can use the library card to take you down
many wonderfully different roads on your journey to becoming the
strong, independent woman I know you’ll be someday.

Love, Santa

Jaycee looked around again but still didn’t see anyone watching her. Mrs. Russell met her gaze briefly before going back to making a fuss over the gifts all the kids were showing her, and Jaycee thought she detected a slight shake of her head, as if she were telling Jaycee not to say anything in front of everyone else.

“Open your presents now, Mrs. Russell!” Cathy Overton said, punctuated by yeahs and mine firsts from the rest of the class.

Everyone crowded around the desk to watch as Mrs. Russell opened her gifts and gushed appropriately over a wide array of apple-themed stationery items, Christmas ornaments, and scented candles. Jaycee didn’t know if Mrs. Russell had saved her gift for last on purpose or not, but she found herself holding her breath again while Mrs. Russell opened it, Jaycee's bottom lip caught between her teeth as she watched for her teacher’s reaction.

“Oh, Jaycee.” Mrs. Russell’s face reflected her delight. “You wrote a poem for me, and I love the frame you made for it. Thank you so much.”

“It’s an acrostic poem,” Jaycee said. “Like we learned about in English.”

“Yes, and you did a wonderful job on it. This is one of the most special gifts I’ve ever received.” She reached for Jaycee’s hand and squeezed it.

Jaycee could feel her classmates watching her and looked around a bit uncomfortably. Most of them appeared only curiously surprised, but Sandy and Cathy were clearly envious of Mrs. Russell’s praise, and Pam Kriegler was giving Jaycee a look that was downright resentful.

“Read it to us, Mrs. Russell,” Pam said. “So we can see if it’s any good or not.”

“That’s up to Jaycee,” Mrs. Russell said. “Do you mind if I read it aloud?”

Jaycee shrugged and tried to sound nonchalant, although her insides were doing calisthenics. “I don’t care. You can read it if you want to.”

Mrs. Russell stood and cleared her throat.

“M – is for mistakes you hardly ever make
R – is for rules you don’t let us break
S – is for stories we love to hear you tell
R – is for rarely do you ever have to yell
U – is for understanding you have for everyone
S – is for showing us even math can be fun
S – is for smiles, you always have plenty
E – is for education you give to so many
L – is for laughter that follows you like a pet
L – is for lessons we’ll never forget.”

Enthusiastic applause filled the room when Mrs. Russell finished reading, and Jaycee knew her face had to be a flustered shade of pink. She felt several pats on her back accompanied by complimentary remarks, and even Pam appeared grudgingly impressed. Jaycee knew it probably wouldn’t last any longer than the end of the day, but for once she didn’t feel like the broken cookie left on the party tray, and she liked it.

Mrs. Russell sent everyone back to their seats before she passed out their gifts from her: little treat bags containing sparkly Christmas pencils, erasers shaped like snowmen and Santa faces, a sheet of stickers, and a small notebook. Everyone had to help clean up after the party, and Mrs. Russell reminded them all to take the ornaments they’d made in class off the Christmas tree so they could hang them on their trees at home. Jaycee got hers so they wouldn’t be the only ones left on the tree.

When they were all packed up to go home and in line at the door, Mrs. Russell asked one of the room mothers to lead everyone out to the grassy area in front of the school where the bus riders were separated from the car riders and walkers.

“I’ll be out in just a minute,” Mrs. Russell told the lady. “I have one little thing to do and need Jaycee to help me do it.”

When the other kids had filed out of the room, Jaycee said, “Thank you for the book and the library card, Mrs. Russell. I know they were from you.”

The teacher's blue eyes blinked beneath raised brows. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Jaycee. What did you get?”

Jaycee showed her the book and the note. “I know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus.”

“Are you sure?” she asked with a trace of a smile. “This gift seems to have come from him.”

Jaycee’s chin lifted resolutely. “I stopped believing in Santa Claus and God too when I was in first grade. Right after my mama died.”

Mrs. Russell’s expression lost all hint of teasing. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Jaycee. I suppose I can understand why you’d feel that way, but I hope this gift will help you believe in something else that will let you believe in both of them again someday.”

“What do you mean?” Jaycee asked.

Mrs. Russell put an arm across her shoulder. “Believe in yourself, Jaycee. You possess one of the most incredible spirits I’ve ever seen—a fighter’s spirit, and it doesn’t have anything to do with using your fists. Your spirit will carry you through anything you encounter and will let you do whatever you want to do if you just believe in it, and a spirit like that only comes from divine places.”

Jaycee wasn’t sure what she meant by it all, but she liked knowing that Mrs. Russell believed in her. If someone as smart and beautiful as Mrs. Russell believed it, Jaycee had to think it might be true.

“Okay, Mrs. Russell,” she said. “I’ll try to remember that the next time I get mad and want to punch somebody. And the library card is the best present ever.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Jaycee. Use it to keep your brain as strong as the rest of you, and you won’t have anything to worry about.”

Jaycee’s euphoria lasted even after she got home to her cold, empty house. Her daddy must have gone to the store before he went to the Crossroads Club, because there was milk, bologna, cheese, and bread in the kitchen. He’d even left a box of Twinkies on the table—-food of the gods in Jaycee’s opinion. She made herself a sandwich and snuggled under the covers in her bed to read her new book, the box of Twinkies waiting not-so-patiently on the bed beside her.

She couldn’t help glancing at the Twinkies while she ate and read, a little surge of happiness tumbling her stomach at the proof that her daddy still must still love her no matter how unhappy he’d been since her mama died. She hated it when people talked bad about him—-like that nosy Mrs. Griffin down the street and Curtis Manning’s gossipy mother. They hadn’t seen her daddy crying in his bedroom all those nights, calling out her mama’s name sometimes. Jaycee didn’t like it when he drank whiskey, but she knew why he did it. It helped him forget how much he missed her mama.

Her gaze fell on her open book bag on the floor and the ornaments she’d made at school—-a snowflake made from popsicle sticks and glitter, and a pipe cleaner candy cane. On a whim, she decided to hang them in her bedroom window, and she had to smile at the way the glitter sparkled in the light from her lamp and reflected onto her walls, almost like Christmas lights.

She opened one of the Twinkies and lay watching the ornaments twist and turn on their strings while she savored the heavenly combination of golden sponge cake and creamy filling. She made up another story about a kidnapped princess, but this princess knew she was a captive and was always trying to escape. The princess had made ornaments from things she’d stolen from her captors, then she’d hung them in the window of her locked room, hoping the light from the North Star would reflect off them and lead her rescuers to where she was imprisoned.

Happy with the way her new story turned out, Jaycee got an idea as she licked the last bit of cream from her fingers. She got the little notebook Mrs. Russell had put in their treat bags, and she decided she would write her favorite stories in it so she wouldn’t forget them. Maybe someday she could even get them made into a real book. She thought most kids would like her stories, but especially the ones like her who wanted to escape into other worlds sometimes. How cool would it be if she could write a book for them someday?

Jaycee fell asleep making up more stories and writing in her notebook. She dreamed she was in Heaven, eating Twinkies with her mama, God, and Santa Claus.

In the morning when she woke up, she went to look in her daddy’s room in case he’d come home after all, but his bed was empty. She spent the day reading her book and trying to resist eating more than two Twinkies so they would last longer. When she finished her book around three o’clock, she found herself holding the library card, trying to talk herself out of what her traitorous mind was prompting her to do.

The public library was only about a mile and a half away, so she could easily walk to it, select a couple of books, and still get back home before dark. She wasn’t supposed to leave the house when her daddy was gone and knew he’d tan her hide good if he found out she had left, but he probably wouldn’t be home until late that night or the next morning, so how would he know? And all she wanted to do was get some books to read. It’s wasn’t like she’d be doing anything wrong.

And since the next day was Christmas Eve, getting the library books would be like a Christmas present to herself. She could even wait until Christmas morning to read them so she’d have something to look forward to. She decided it was worth the risk and made up her mind to go.

When Jaycee rounded the corner at the end of her street on her way back from the library and saw her daddy’s truck parked in front of their house, she almost dropped the armful of books she was carrying. After all the times she had lain in her bed at night, listening hopefully for the sound of his ratty old truck over the terrifying creaks and groans of an empty house, wishing with all her might for her daddy to come home, he had picked this time to come back sooner than expected. And despite her fear of the punishment she knew was coming, she was still glad he was home.

Her legs felt full of cement as she walked the last block, and the windows of the neighboring houses seemed like scornful eyes mocking her because she couldn’t stay out of trouble for longer than a day or so at the most. When she went inside the house, she heard her daddy in his bedroom at the end of the hall, and it sounded like he was rummaging in the closet where all her mama’s clothes still hung.

Jaycee stopped off in her room to leave the library books, then she walked cautiously to her daddy’s bedroom and looked in. The empty Jack Daniels bottle lying just inside the doorway made her stomach try to climb up her ribs, but she took a deep breath and stepped over the bottle.

“Daddy? Are you in here?”

She heard a grunt amidst the thumping sounds coming from her mama’s side of the open closet, but she wasn’t sure if it was in response to her question or was frustration over whatever he was doing in there. She took a step closer and could see him on his hands and knees underneath her mama’s dresses. Suddenly, he backed out and fell into a crooked sitting position against the side of the bed, a pink shoebox cradled in his arms. His bloodshot eyes told Jaycee it hadn’t been long since he’d emptied the whiskey bottle.

“You sit down over there, girl,” he said. “I’ll deal with your disobeying little ass in a minute.”

She did as she was told, briefly considering an attempt at convincing him she’d only been in the back yard and hadn’t heard him come home, but she hated people who lied. And if her daddy found out she’d lied to him on top everything else, it would only make her whipping that much worse. Besides, she had deliberately disobeyed him and deserved her punishment, so she would take it like a big girl.

He stroked the box in his lap as though it were a kitten. “I knew it was here with her things. My Nicole’s things . . .” His voice broke, and he hugged the box to his chest.

Jaycee wanted to comfort him, but she knew from experience that it would only make him mad if she tried. She should just be quiet and let his grief run its course the way it usually did, but her curiosity was stronger than her fear of his anger.

“What’s in that box, Daddy?”

His head jerked up, and he grabbed her by the arm before she had time to flinch.

“Don’t you pay no nevermind about what’s in it, girl! I don’t know why the hell I dragged myself home to find it for you in the first place! I shoulda knowed you couldn’t do like you was told less’n somebody beat you into doing it!” He threw her across his lap and pulled down her pants to hit her across her bare buttocks. “Can’t keep your little ass outta trouble to save your life, can you?”

“Daddy, I’m sorry!” Jaycee could barely get the words out because of the way the box in his lap was cutting into her stomach every time he struck her. “I won’t ever do it again! I swear!”

He hit her a few more times before pushing her roughly off his lap onto the floor beside him. Still struggling to breathe normally, Jaycee pulled up her clothes as she rolled over to see if he was taking off his belt, but he was looking inside the box and crying again.

“I seen you carrying that book around with you all the time,” he said, “and I thought maybe you was gonna be like your mama—-gonna have book smarts and all. But you can’t even mind me and stay in the damn house! You ain’t nothing like your mama, you’re worthless just like me.” He took a stack of books out of the box and tossed it aside. “I’ll burn these before I let you have ‘em! You don’t deserve nothing that was my Nicole’s!”

He rose awkwardly and started to stagger from the room. But the prospect of being so close to having something of her mama’s—-of having books that had been her mama’s—gave Jaycee the courage to get up and try to stop him.

“No, Daddy! I only went to the library so I could get some more books. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I swear. Please let me have Mama’s books.” She pulled on his arm that held them.

He turned and grabbed her with his free hand, dragging her out into the hall and shoving her into her room. “Get yourself in there and stay! And the next time you decide to disobey me, you think about your mama’s books burning with the trash because you couldn’t mind!”

“No!” Jaycee tried to grab one of the books but only tore off the cover. “You can’t burn—”

The back of his hand struck her across the mouth, and she fell to the floor.

“Don’t you ever tell me what I can and can’t do, girl! Get your ass in that bed before I take off my belt and teach you not to talk back to me!”

Jaycee crawled to her bed and got in, curling up into a ball and sobbing as she heard him throwing the books into the big metal barrel where he burned the trash in the back yard. She could hear the sounds the fire made as her mama’s books burned along with the leaves and the garbage in the can, and her heart broke a little more with each crackle and pop.

She didn’t know how long she lay there like that before she finally heard her daddy’s truck sputter and cough its way into life then drive away. She could tell her lip was bleeding, so she got up to go to the bathroom and wash her face. The torn cover of her mama’s book lay in the middle of her floor, so she picked it up and took it over to the lamp where she could look at it. She’d torn it diagonally from the top, but she could tell it had been a copy of Little Women by Louisa May Alcott—-one of the books she had just checked out from the library.

Jaycee sat on the bed and stared at the torn cover in her hands, and she felt her heart begin to mend itself. Her mama had loved to read too, and she must have liked the same kind of books as Jaycee, because they’d picked the same one.

Her daddy was wrong—-she was like her mama. And she thought he knew it too, no matter what he'd said. He was just mad at her because she hadn’t minded him, and the whiskey always made him do things he wouldn’t usually do. And if her daddy thought she was like her mama, it meant he must love Jaycee too, no matter how many times he got mad at her. Because the one thing she knew for sure about her daddy was that he had loved her mama more than anything in the world.

She went to her daddy’s room to find the pink shoebox and lid. He probably wouldn’t remember most of what had happened, but if he did he’d think he must’ve burned the box too and wouldn’t know she had it if she kept it hidden. She took it back to her room and put the torn cover in it along with the book and the note Mrs. Russell had given her and the notebook with her stories in it. Then she reached under her pillow and took out a creased photo of herself with her mama and daddy when she was three years old, a happy family posing in front of their azalea bushes. She held the picture to her heart briefly before putting it in the box.

She’d heard Pam Kriegler telling the other girls one day about the hope chest her mama had started for her when she was born and all the things she had in it already, like quilts and doilies and other stupid stuff like that. Jaycee remembered thinking how stupid it was to hope for things like that when there were so many more wonderful things to hope for.

She ran her hand over the cover of the pink shoebox and decided it would be her hope chest from her mama. She would keep things in it to remind her that she could do anything she wanted to do if she didn’t give up, just like Mrs. Russell had told her. And when she grew up to be a smart, successful writer with her mama’s blonde hair and blue eyes, her daddy would see how much she really was like her mama. Then he could be happy again and stop drinking.

When Christmas was over, Jaycee would put the ornaments from her window inside the box to save them, and she would make more the next year and the next and would save them too. And someday, when she was all grown up and had a beautiful Christmas tree of her very own, she would hang the ornaments she’d made on it to remind herself of how far she’d come, and of all the obstacles in the road she'd beaten along the way.

~~~

For the rest of Jaycee's journey, read DIFFERENT ROADS. And stay tuned in the next few days for a glimpse of another Christmas with Jaycee.

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

Tis the Season!

2010-12-17T11:35:00.000-08:00

For the next week leading up to Christmas, I'm going to post some of my short stories set at Christmastime, along with a Christmas excerpt from one of my books. Enjoy!

“Journey of a Thousand Miles”

Curtis had hit JoElla in the past more times than she could count, yet she had never considered leaving him until that day the week before Christmas.

Nothing he’d done before had seemed so terribly bad to her, at least not compared to everything JoElla’s mama had put up with from her daddy before he ran off and left them when JoElla was twelve. Besides, Curt had to put up with a lot too. God knew she wasn’t much to look at, and she was so dumb that she probably wouldn’t have finished high school even if she hadn’t gotten pregnant and had to drop out her senior year. Curt also worked really hard at the shipyard to take care of her and the baby, and that was a lot of pressure on him. So what if he drank too much sometimes and came home in a bad mood? JoElla had learned when to leave him alone so she wouldn’t provoke him.

But this time was different.

The Thursday before Christmas, Curt promised they could go get their tree when he got home from work. Most of the lots would have them reduced by then, so JoElla was hoping they could get a fir instead of the usual pine. After she finished her housework, she spent the day stringing popcorn, making garland out of construction paper, and singing carols that delighted eighteen-month-old Cassie.

JoElla loved the way her little girl clapped her chubby hands and bounced whenever she sang. And she thought it was pretty smart for a child that young to recognize music and know what to do when she heard it. Maybe with the right encouragement, Cassie could grow up to play in the school band and maybe even get a music scholarship. JoElla had wanted to be in the band herself once, but it hadn’t worked out.

The first sign of trouble with Curt was when he was an hour late getting home from work. JoElla tried to convince herself that it must be the holiday traffic holding him up. That had to be it. He wouldn’t go to the Crossroads Club on a weeknight, especially when he had promised her they could get the tree when he got home. But when he finally arrived at seven thirty, JoElla smelled the whiskey on him as soon as he came in the front door. Since getting mad wasn’t an option, she questioned him under the pretense of concern.

“I was worried sick about you, Curt,” she said, taking his lunch pail and hanging up his jacket. “You said we were gonna go get the tree tonight as soon as you got off, so I was scared to death that you’d had a wreck in all that Christmas traffic. Where’ve you been?”

He walked past her without so much as a glance and fell heavily into his chair in front of the television. JoElla hurried over to help him take off his heavy work boots.

“Don’t worry ’bout where I been,” he said, his words noticeably slurred. “I’m here now, ain’t I? What’s for supper?”

“I’ll heat you up some of that stew I made yesterday,” she said. “I got some biscuits left over from this morning too.”

He grabbed her arm before she could walk away. “Why ain’t it already heated up?”

“I thought maybe we could... oh, never mind. I’ll go get it heated up for you now, Curt. It won’t take but a minute.”

He didn’t release her arm. “You thought maybe we could what?”

She didn’t want to make him mad, but she knew she couldn’t get away with not answering. “I just thought maybe we could get a hamburger or something at the Burger Hut after we got the tree. You know, make a special night of it.” She looked at him with a querulous smile that died when he shoved her toward the kitchen.

“We can’t afford no damn hamburgers! The shipyard cut our bonuses in half this year without so much as a word of warning. Blamed it on the damn economy!” He kicked one of his work boots viciously across the room then sat with his head in his hands.

JoElla put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Curt, but try not to worry. We’ll make it all right. We’ll just get a little pine tree and forget about the fir. I already got some decorations made that we can—”

“Didn’t you hear me, Jo?” He stood and grabbed her by the shoulders, his red-rimmed eyes boring into her along with his fingers. “They cut my bonus in half! We can’t afford no damn tree either.”

“But, Curt, even if you only got half your bonus, it should be enough for a little tree.”

He shook her roughly. “Don’t you get it, you half-wit? I already had that money spent!”

Ordinarily, she would never dare to question him when he was mad, but she was too distraught to check herself. And the possibility that he might have spent it on her or the baby never entered her mind.

“Spent on what, Curt? It was supposed to be for our Christmas!”

Her head struck the edge of the coffee table when she fell after he hit her, so at least she didn’t have to feel the pain of the other blows until later when she came to.

Curt was gone when she opened her eyes again. He’d put Cassie in her high chair in front of the TV before he left. JoElla was glad that at least be hadn’t left her free to roam around the apartment without anybody watching her. She told herself that meant he was trying to be a good daddy.

She got up slowly—-the only way she was able to get up. Curt must have kicked her a couple of times in the thighs before he was done, but she reckoned that was better than getting kicked in the ribs like he’d done the time that he’d forgotten he bet on a football game and thought she had taken money out of his wallet.

Cassie had what looked like a soggy Ritz cracker clutched in one of her hands and was mesmerized by Sponge Bob on the television, so she didn’t cry to be held when JoElla finally managed to stand up. Good thing, because she would have been afraid to carry her while her legs were so shaky. She went into the bathroom and reluctantly looked in the mirror to see how bad she looked this time.

There was a gash on her forehead at her hairline where her head had struck the table, but it didn’t look like it had bled much. Her top lip was cut and starting to swell, but it didn’t look too bad either. It seemed her legs had gotten the worst of it, and that would be easy to hide, so she actually felt relieved. She washed her face and went back to check on Cassie.

“C’mere, baby girl,” she said as she removed the high chair tray and lifted Cassie into her arms. “Sponge Bob went bye-bye, and we need to get you some real food for supper.”

Cassie put a chubby index finger on her mama’s lip and said, “Boo-boo.”

JoElla’s eyes had been dry until then. She never cried anymore when Curt hit her. She’d learned a long time ago that it only made him angrier and made her feel worse later from having swollen eyes along with any other injuries. But when her little girl leaned over to kiss her busted lip, JoElla’s eyes filled with tears. She tried to wipe them away before Cassie saw them.

“Yep, Mama got a boo-boo. Silly Mama.” She tickled her daughter and got a giggle as usual, but she wondered how much longer she would be able to distract her so easily. Cassie would soon be old enough to understand how her mama got hurt.

JoElla pushed the thought from her mind the way she always did. She busied herself fixing Cassie a grilled cheese sandwich and some tomato soup, trying also not to think about where Curt might have gone and what kind of mood he’d be in when he came back.

After Cassie finished her supper, JoElla carried her into the bathroom to put her in the tub. She heard Curt’s key in the front door just before she turned on the water.

“Get in here, Jo!” He yelled. “I got something to show you!”

She hurried into the living room with Cassie in her arms. In one hand, Curt held a scrawny Christmas tree nailed onto two crossed boards. In the other he held a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey.

“Look what I bought for you,” he said, his speech so slurred now that JoElla had trouble understanding him. “Spent good money we don’t have on it too, so you damn well better ’preciate it!” He thrust the pathetic-looking thing at JoElla, and she hurried to take it.

“Thanks, Curt. It’ll be real pretty after I get it decorated.” She set it down in front of the window and turned to take Cassie back down the hall.

“Well, what’re you waiting for?” Curt demanded, falling into his chair. “Go on and get it decorated. You was so hell-bent on getting it.”

JoElla stopped but didn’t turn around. “I need to get the baby bathed and put to bed first.”

“Fine,” he said, and she could hear him taking a swig from the bottle. “Just hurry up and get back in here.”

“I will, Curt.”

She cringed as she walked down the hall, because she could tell from his tone what was coming. While he finished the bottle of whiskey, he’d start thinking about what he’d done earlier and get mad at himself. He’d start crying and telling her he was sorry, then he’d want to put his hands on her. She sure didn’t want him to, but if she didn’t let him, he’d hit her some more.

She tried to take extra long getting Cassie into bed, hoping Curt would pass out before she finished, but he was still working on the bottle when she went back to the living room. He was staring at the Christmas tree and turned to look at JoElla, and she could see the tears in his heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes.

“You think I like not being able to provide for my family, Jo? You think I wanna spend my whole life crawling around in ship hulls?”

“I know you work hard, Curt,” she said.

“I was gonna use that bonus money to go in with Dougie on buying an oyster boat we saw for sale over in Moss Point. Guy who owns it says he’s too old to work it anymore, but two able-bodied men like us could make a killing on oystering.” He paused to take another drink from the bottle. “I used the rent money last month to give Dougie part of my half. That bonus money was gonna catch us up.”

“Oh, Curt…” JoElla caught herself before she said anything critical, even though she was terrified at the trouble they were in now. “Maybe it’ll be okay. I can look for a job as soon as Christmas is over.”

He ran a hand through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m so damn stupid. What made me think I could ever be anything different than my old man—just a grunt living from paycheck to paycheck?”

Despite everything, it broke JoElla’s heart to see him like that. She walked over and put a hand on his arm. “Don’t say that, Curt. You done real good by me and Cassie.”
“You’re even stupider than me if you think that.” He looked up at her, and she could see the change in his expression. Too late, she realized that he’d suckered her again. Before she could move away, he pulled her down onto his lap.

She knew better than to try to get up, but she said, “I need to get the tree decorated.”

“You can do that later.” He took a drink from the bottle then put it to her lips, but she shook her head and turned away.

“You know I can’t drink that, Curt. It makes me sick.”

He laughed and took another drink before setting the bottle on the floor. “Makes me sick sometimes too, but I don’t let that stop me.”

He turned her face back around and kissed her. When she winced, he touched the cut on her lip with his finger.

“Why do you make me hit you, Jo? You know I never mean to hurt you. Don’t you?”
She didn’t know it by any means, but she said, “Yeah, Curt. I know.”

He started to unbutton her blouse. JoElla closed her eyes and bit her lip, despite how badly it hurt.

Later, while Curt snored beside her in the bed, JoElla lay awake trying to get up the courage to ask him for the only thing she really wanted for Christmas—an electronic music maker for toddlers that she’d seen at the toy store. She knew Cassie would love it, and she truly believed her little girl had musical talent that just needed to be encouraged.

Curt would say they couldn’t afford it of course, but JoElla hoped that if she told him she could go door-to-door in their apartment complex to see if anyone would hire her to clean for them, she could make enough money to buy the toy for Cassie and help them pay the rent too.

He stirred in his sleep, so JoElla took advantage of it and said, “Curt, you hungry? I can go fix you some of that stew now if you want.” She never understood how he could eat after drinking, but he always did.

He stretched and yawned. “Yeah, gimme a couple of biscuits too, and put some apple butter on ’em.”

“Okay, sure thing.” She threw on her robe and hurried to the kitchen, thanking her lucky stars that they weren’t out of apple butter. She’d wait until he was eating before she asked him about getting the toy so that he’d be in the best mood possible.

He came in the kitchen a few minutes later and shielded his eyes from the overhead light. “Can’t you turn on something that ain’t so blinding, Jo?”

“Sorry, Curt. I’ll turn on the light over the stove. Here’s your plate all ready for you. You want milk with it?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” He sat on one of the stools at the small bar next to the stove. After taking a couple of bites, he said, “This ain’t bad at all, Jo. Thanks.”

Her hopes soared at his good humor. “I’m glad you like it. I got a piece of apple pie saved for you too if you want dessert.”

He nodded without looking up from his food. “You ever know me not to want dessert? ’Specially pie.”

She smiled and went to get it for him. When she set the pie on the bar, she said, “Curt, I wanted to tell you that it’s okay about the money. I already got you something for Christmas that I been saving for since August, and I didn’t want nothing for me anyway. But there is something I wanted to get for Cassie.”

He looked up and started to shake his head, but she hurried to go on before he could say anything.

“Just hear me out, Curt. I think I figured out a way we can do it.”
He sighed and went back to eating. “How?”

JoElla took a courage-boosting breath. “Well, I was thinking that I could go around to the other apartments in the complex and ask if they want any cleaning done. You know, to get ready for Christmas.”

He looked up at her again. “People ain’t gonna have money to spend on nothing like that.”

“Some of them will, Curt. The ones having parties and stuff. And they’re gonna want their apartments cleaned before people come over.”

He thought about it and looked interested. “How much you think you could make?”

“I figure I could clean two a day and still be able to get my housework done, so I think I could make at least a couple of hundred dollars. It’d be plenty enough to buy Cassie’s toy and help make up the money for the rent too.”

He shrugged and continued eating. “I guess it’d be okay. We gotta get the rent money somehow.”

“And I can buy Cassie’s toy?” JoElla held her breath after the question.

“What kinda toy is it?”

“It’s a music maker for toddlers. The box said it would help with their fine motor skills and…” She paused to think. “Oh, and their hand-eye coordination.”

He scoffed as he sopped up the last of the stew with his biscuit. “What the hell does she need any of that for? Just get her a toy broom and a mop so she can start learning to be like her mama.”

His words hit JoElla in the gut harder than if he had kicked her. And the funny thing was that all the times he really had kicked her, it hadn’t made her mad nor opened her eyes the way it did for him to talk about their daughter with such disregard, as if she were nothing special at all instead of the precious treasure she was.

And the worst thing was that he was right about Cassie, but not about what kind of work she was destined to do. If she grew up in this house with him for a father and saw her mama getting hit over and over and taking it, Cassie had no chance of ever being anything different. The image of the way Cassie already cowered whenever Curt was yelling about something, even though it wasn’t directed at her—-not yet anyway—-made JoElla finally see just what she was teaching her daughter to become, the same way JoElla had learned it from watching her own mother.

And that was when she knew she had to leave.

She muttered something to Curt that maybe he was right and busied herself cleaning up the kitchen, but her mind was busy with something a lot more important. She had to figure out the best way to get both of them away from Curt’s abuse, and JoElla finally saw it as exactly that. She couldn’t go on making excuses for him just because he worked hard. She had to break the cycle of abuse and get Cassie away from him.

Because if she never did anything else for the rest of her life, she was determined to make sure that Cassie learned not to ever let a man hit her. It was the best Christmas gift JoElla could give to herself or her little girl.

The following night, JoElla and Cassie sat with a group of women and children around a huge Christmas tree at Penelope House in Mobile, a shelter for victims of domestic violence. Like JoElla, many of the women had bruises, black eyes, or busted lips, but there was something else they all shared as well.

In this season of light, a glimmer of hope shone in all their eyes.

Penelope House 24-Hour Crisis Line: 1-251-342-8994
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

My Life As A Writer

2010-07-02T10:48:00.000-07:00

I’ve always loved books and reading, but I began making up stories to entertain myself even before I could read or write. Sometimes I couldn’t wait for it to be my bedtime so I could lie in bed and envision exciting adventures in which I was the sidekick/girlfriend of my favorite Superhero, and together we had to defend the world against the forces of evil. I won't tell you which Superhero was my heartthrob, but he wore green and said "Holy" a lot!

By the time I made it to the ripe old age of six and entered elementary school, I loved to make up tragically romantic tales of misunderstood lovers kept apart by their families or society. As you can see, I’ve always had a fascination for love stories and was quite romantically precocious. One of my favorite scenarios was the one in which we lived next door to Starfleet Academy and I got to watch a young James T. Kirk through the fence. Years later, we would meet again when I was a young-but-brilliant yeoman on the Starship Enterprise. ;-)

I also loved playing with Barbie dolls when I was little. And although I did like styling their hair and dressing them up, my favorite thing to do was make up stories for them to act out. Each doll had her own background about how she grew up, and they all had different names and personalities. This is why I hate to hear some women say they’d never let their daughters play with Barbies because they don’t like the image she represents. My Barbies were sassy, independent girls who stood up for themselves, so don’t discount Barbie automatically. If you encourage your little girls to use their imaginations, Barbie can be anyone you want her to be!

I’ve made up stories all my life to entertain myself, but it wasn’t until I began plotting the story for my first book that I realized I had been inventing storylines all those years. And that’s still the way I write my books—I write the stories that entertain ME, the kind that touch my heart, excite me, outrage me, and make me laugh and cry.

That’s why I’m always a bit amazed when I hear some writers say that by the time their book is published, they’re so sick of it that they never want to read it again. I read my books again every other month or so, and even though I know almost every word by heart, they still make me laugh out loud and cry my heart out. And since my characters are real people to me, when I read my books again, it’s like visiting with old friends.

My goal as a writer is to never write a book that doesn’t affect me that way.

You can find all my books here:

True Blue Forever http://tinyurl.com/yfuwh2y

Different Roads http://tinyurl.com/ygt5yzs

Symmetry http://tinyurl.com/ydrp7x3

You can also read sample chapters of them on my pages at Authors Den: http://tinyurl.com/yb8q2sw

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

Meet Chrishawn Simpson

2010-05-03T19:00:00.000-07:00

I met Chrishawn through a Facebook group called D.I.V.A., which stands for Daring Intelligent Victorious All-Stars. (I'm known there as Blue Diva--big surprise, huh?--and Chrishawn is Darling Diva.) I'm thrilled to host her here as part of her current blog tour for her book, TRANSFORM YOUR PATH.

Please tell us a little about yourself.
Chrishawn Simpson: Let’s see, professionally, I am an author. I write literary fiction, young adult fiction, and inspirational/self-help books. I also dabble in writing poetry. I own two businesses, TransformYourPath.com and SimplyWitty.com. I am a Transformation Specialist. I help people, basically, to get off their butt and transform their path to make their life something great. Personally, I am a mom to a beautiful little boy who keeps me extremely busy and constantly on the go. I have a simple life in Kentucky, and that is fine with me. My main passion in life is to spread the word of God through my Transform Your Path program and through my books.

When did you know you wanted to become a writer and when did you begin to write?
Chrishawn Simpson: Actually, I was in my thirties when I got the urge to write. I had always written in journals, and when I was younger, a couple of friends and I would write ongoing stories based on our biggest star singer crushes at the time--Chico and El DeBarge. LOL. So 80s, I know. After going through many jobs and owning many businesses and not being fulfilled, I ventured out into writing. Writing was the one thing I always thought about and envisioned myself doing. I actually began to write in about 2003, when I started the now-retired magazine, Mom’s Big Little Helper. I stopped after that and picked it back up a couple of years ago.

What motivated you to write Transform Your Path?
Chrishawn Simpson: I wrote Transform Your Path because I really wanted to share my testimony with people and share what God has brought me through. I wanted to show people that no matter the circumstances and no matter what may happen in your life, you can overcome, you can succeed, you can be happy, and you can live the life you want to live. I wanted to show people that, although it sounds so cliché, you really can do whatever you put your mind too. If you have the correct mind-set, you can make things happen. This is a fact: transformation all starts with a change of mind-set. Most people, unfortunately, won’t put forth the necessary energies to transform and make their life better. They would rather sit around and complain about how life isn’t fair. That’s a shame because once you peel away the layers, the self-sabotaging beliefs, the shadows, and the damaging core beliefs, you are free to be strengthened, alive and whole! That’s why I wrote the book--to encourage people to accomplish their destinies and feed their souls with the help of God. It’s a choice and we all have a choice whether to lead a positive life or a negative life no matter what circumstances may be thrown at you.

Is there a specific message in your book that you want readers to grasp?
Chrishawn Simpson: Yes, yes, yes! The simple answer is that transforming your life from the negative to the positive will lead you to a much more joyous, empowering life of purpose and passion. Once you are transformed, you are free to be strengthened, alive and whole!

How long did it take you to complete Transform Your Path?
Chrishawn Simpson: About 8 weeks. I was on a roll! I actually thought it took longer, but when I looked at the calendar from when I started to when I finished, my total was 2 months. I was amazed. I would just write like I was in a trance. I talked to God the whole way through and just wrote what He told me to.

What genre(s) do you write?
Chrishawn Simpson: I write in the inspirational/self help, literary fiction, and young adult fiction genres. I have so many stories playing around in my head to write. I can’t wait.

How do you balance your family, writing, business, and other obligations that you have?
Chrishawn Simpson: Very carefully. I love to write and work on my businesses, so I always want to do it, but my son comes first. I try to work while he is at school so that when he comes home, my time is devoted to him. If I am not wiped out by the time I put him to bed, then I get more work down while he is sleeping. There are times when I really have to get something done or get a story out of my head but it’s “his” time. If this happens, he is really good about keeping himself occupied until I am done.

How have your loved ones supported you in your writing ventures? What are their feelings?
Chrishawn Simpson: I have the best family and friends. They are always there for me--giving me love, support, and guidance. They are my biggest advertisers! They are always telling their friends that I am an author and about my latest book that's out. They love what I do and, as long as I am happy, they are happy.

So tell us about your road to publication.
Chrishawn Simpson: Well, mine wasn’t a difficult one really. Currently, I self-publish my books through my publishing company, Prixy Publishing. I have an online printer that prints copies of my books. Since I use them, they also list me in their online bookstore. I purchased my own ISBN and I purchased a distribution package through my online print company. With the distribution package, I will be listed in the national book database and also on book sites such as Amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. Book stores will also be able to order my books online. I also approach local bookstores and see if I can sell my books in their stores.

What advice would you give to an aspiring writer?
Read all you can. Don’t stop reading just because you are a writer. When you read others’ works, it inspires you to write more. Plus you can learn different things from different authors. Write even when you don’t want to write. Write every day. You don’t always have to have the whole story laid out in your head in perfect order--write out different parts as they come to you then piece it together. You’ll eventually develop your own writing style and habits. If you want to start with the end of the story, start with it and work from there. There isn’t a right or wrong way, there’s your way. Find a writing partner or group. Use them for ideas, inspiration, and for critiques. They can help you grow as a writer. Network as much as possible! You can never know too many people, and you never know who might be of assistance to you.

What’s next for Chrishawn, the author? What are you currently working on?
I am working on a couple of things right now. My upcoming novel, Broken Spirit, is the first book in a three-book series that sheds light on childhood abuse--sexual, emotional, and physical--and the ramifications of said abuse: drug use, eating disorders, mental issues and suicide attempts. My prayers are that, with this series, the people suffering from abuse or those that have suffered from abuse in the past will understand that they are not alone and there is help out there. I am also working on another literary novel for young adults titled Can You Keep a Secret? I would tell you what it’s about, but I can’t. LOL. I had the plot laid out and another idea popped into my head while I was writing. Now I am juggling between the two and trying to see which one will win.

Where can readers find you and your books or how can they contact you?
Chrishawn Simpson: I love hearing from my readers! I can be found on my Web sites www.TransformYourPath.com and www.ChrishawnTheWriter.com. I am also very social on Facebook and Twitter.

Check me out at:
http://www.facebook.com/chrishawn.simpson
http://www.twitter.com/Ms_Chrishawn
http://www.ChrissyConfidential.com

Currently, my books can be purchased from TransformYourPath.com and ChrishawnTheWriter.com. In the next few weeks, they will be available on Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com and any bookstore can order them.
Locally in Kentucky, my books can be purchased at: Little Annie’s Books N More, 842 N. Bardstown Rd., Mt. Washington, KY 40047.

I can be reached by email at cesimpson1@yahoo.com.

Thanks for visiting, Chrishawn. Good luck with your books!

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

Valentine's Day Kisses

2010-02-14T09:14:00.000-08:00

First kisses. Is there anything more romantic than the first time you kissed the one you love? In celebration of those momentous first kisses, I'm posting excerpts from my three published novels that feature my main characters' first liplocks.

The first two are sweet, but the last one will possibly melt your Valentine's candy!

Enjoy!

From TRUE BLUE FOREVER:
Buy Your Copy Here

Mickey stood and pulled Jeana to her feet beside him. Even in the dark, she could see the deep blue of his eyes when she looked up at him, and she felt his fingers brush her cheek as he pushed the hair away from her face.

“I want to kiss you more than I’ve ever wanted anything,” he said.

“You should always go for what you want, Mickey.”

He clasped his hands at the small of her back and pulled her closer, and she realized his heart was beating as fast as her own. He leaned slowly toward her, and she watched the blue brilliance of his eyes gradually disappear under his eyelids. When his lips touched hers and she tasted the sublime sweetness of his mouth, she wondered how she had ever lived without his kiss and how she would survive when he let her go.

She had never felt so aware of every cell in her body as she did while in Mickey’s arms, and she marveled at how right it felt to be there, as if she had just come home from a long journey. She was where she belonged, and she never wanted to leave. The hero from her fantasies had a face at last, and she knew she would see it in her dreams for the rest of her life.

When their lips parted, he held her face in his hands. “Tell me you’re mine, Jeana.”

“I’ve always been yours, Mickey. I just didn’t know it until now.”

~~~

From SYMMETRY:
Buy Your Copy Here

Jess had noticed Lee immediately, of course, but she hadn’t met him until he came back to class after his knee injury and she offered to help him catch up on the work he’d missed. The first time they met at the library, she had commented on a letter to his parents and sister that she noticed on the first page of his notebook.

“I write to them every week,” he said without a trace of self-consciousness. “And I call home every Sunday when the rates go down.”

“You must be really close to them,” Jess said. “I think that’s great. I wish I were closer to my family.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty tight. My dad’s the greatest guy I’ve ever known, and my mom and my little sister think I came here from the planet Krypton.”

Jess laughed. “Were they at the game when you hurt your knee?”

His face sobered. “No, my dad had to work that weekend, thank God. They know I got hurt, but I told them it was just a minor sprain. I don’t know how I’m gonna tell them the truth—that I can’t play anymore. Football’s the only thing I can do.”

Jess didn’t know him well enough to disagree, but her intuition told her there was more to him than just muscles. “Then what are you doing in a journalism class? Have you done any writing before?”

He shrugged. “I wrote a few sports articles for the school newspaper. My friends liked them, and my English teacher said they were decent. Since I had to choose a major for college, I picked journalism, but I never really expected to do anything but play football. I should probably just go back home and get a job at the power plant where my dad works.” He slapped the notebook shut and looked at his bandaged knee in disgust.

“You should at least get an unbiased opinion of your writing before you give up,” she said. “Do you have any samples I can read?”

He looked at her intently. “Yeah, but you don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind, really. But I should probably warn you that I’m extremely critical and brutally honest when it comes to writing.”

He pretended to chew his fingernails. “I’m not sure I’ve got the guts for something like that. You’re pretty scary.”

She nodded with a wry smile. “Yeah, I always heard baseball players are a lot tougher than football players. I guess it’s true.”

“Baseball players can kiss my ass.” He reached into his bag and took out another notebook. “Here’s a story I wrote about the state championship game we played my senior year. Do your worst, scary lady.”

She read it with her eyes gradually widening at how good it was. His mechanics were weak, but he had an unpretentious style and an engaging voice filled with genuine emotion that came through in his words, and Jess was truly impressed. When she looked up at him and saw how anxiously he awaited her appraisal, she knew the story she held in her hands was much more than just words on paper that he’d produced on a whimsy. She was holding the key to this particular pretty boy’s heart, and she decided to open it and see what was inside.

“Lee, I don’t even like football, but this story made me feel all the excitement you must have felt after winning the championship game. You’re a natural writer in the rawest of states, and if I ever hear you say anything again about quitting and going home, I’ll kick you in your other knee.”

His face was transformed by the most dazzling smile she had ever seen. Before she realized what he meant to do, he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her. By that time in her life, Jess had kissed plenty of boys—a few of them had even been somewhat of a local legend because of their aptitude in the lip-lock department—but never had she felt anything like the sensory tsunami that came with Lee’s kiss.

And before it ended, Jess had decided that she didn’t want to simply look inside this pretty boy’s heart. She wanted it to be her home for the rest of her life.

~~~

From DIFFERENT ROADS:
Buy Your Copy Here

Jaycee saw a police car pull up to the curb on the far side of the park and watched two cops get out and scan the crowd, clearly looking for someone. They’d spot Bud any second if she didn’t do something, and she’d be damned if she was gonna let this self-centered asshole screw up her life.

“Listen, Bud.” She put her arms around his neck and smiled up at him. “I’ll help you find your car if you come over here in the grass with me for a little while, okay? We’ll have some fun while we listen to the music. What do you say?”

He looked down at her and grinned. “Okay, Jaycee Stevens. Bet you thought I’d forget your name, but I didn’t.”

She led him over to the shadows where the other couples were making out and got him to sit on the ground beside her. The cops were crossing the park toward the fountain, so she put her arms around Bud’s neck again and pulled him down with her as she lay back on the grass.

“I knew you wanted me,” he said. “I could see it in your eyes at the party.”

“Shut up and kiss me, Bud.”

He didn’t have to be told that twice. His mouth covered hers, and his tongue filled her mouth with the taste of whiskey. His fingers tangled painfully in her hair, and she found it difficult to breathe with him lying on top of her. She was disgusted by his arrogance and his obvious lack of self-control, and she couldn’t believe how low she’d had to sink. And despite all those things, kissing him was still the most exciting thing she’d ever done.

She forgot about the cops and the baseball team and the crowd, lost in the ecstasy of his mouth. She’d thought she’d been aroused when he’d watched her dance at the party, but that was nothing compared to the way her body was reacting to him now. She despised the hateful clothes keeping them apart and wanted to tear at them until they were both naked and his skin was next to hers. Her hands longed to explore that magnificent body of his while he discovered her own most sensitive places.

God help her, she wanted Bud Stanton more than she’d ever wanted anything.

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

Merry Christmas

2009-12-24T10:04:00.000-08:00

“Hope Chest”
By Joyce Sterling Scarbrough

Jaycee pulled the covers over her head and wondered if she could make herself throw up so her daddy would let her stay home from school. If he hadn’t just been put back on the graveyard shift, he would either be asleep or at work when she woke up and wouldn’t know if she went to school or not, but she could hear him down there in the kitchen fixing himself something to eat. No way would he let her stay home unless he thought she was so sick the school would send her back if she went.

The thought of going to school today definitely made Jaycee feel like throwing up. She hated the last day before the Christmas holidays because of the stupid parties and their stupid gift exchange. Stupid bunch of spoiled kids who already got more presents than they needed, and some of them even still believed in Santa Claus too. Stupid third grade babies.

She heard her daddy open her bedroom door and say, “Get outta that bed and get dressed, girl. And if you’re gonna sleep with the damn covers over your head, don’t be whining to me no more about wanting a light left on. I ain’t working myself to death just to pay for your foolishness.”

Jaycee peered over the edge of the blanket at him. “I don’t feel good, Daddy. I think I’m gonna barf.”

“Probably because you had your damn fool head covered up,” he said around a mouthful of egg sandwich. “Go on and get dressed. I don’t want you around here bothering me while I’m trying to sleep. The school can keep you in the sick room if need be. That’s what they’re paid to do.”

He turned and went back to the kitchen. Jaycee sighed as she got out of bed and hurried to get dressed, hopping from one foot to the other on the cold floor. Her daddy had said he might be able to get the heat turned back on in a few days, and she sure hoped so. Good thing they lived in Alabama and not somewhere up north where it was really cold, like Tennessee.

“Or the stupid North Pole,” she said and added a rueful, “Ho, ho, ho.”

After putting on her shoes, she went to the bathroom and did her best to subdue the uneven cap of short blonde curls on her head. She ended up sticking out her tongue at the reflection in the cracked mirror over the sink. What a brilliant idea it had been to cut off all her hair with the garden shears last year. She’d hoped maybe her daddy would like her better if she looked more like a boy, since he’d cried so much over the baby boy who’d died with her mama when he was being born the year before. But all it had gotten her was a whipping and her daddy telling her she had to keep it that short from then on for doing such a damn fool thing in the first place.

She went back to her room and sighed again as she took a crudely wrapped gift from under her bed. If she had to go to school, at least she would be able to give Mrs. Russell her present. Having Mrs. Russell for a teacher was the only good thing about going to that stupid school, so Jaycee had used the wrapping paper they’d made in class to wrap the poem she’d written and framed in construction paper.

Jaycee had thought she was going to hate Mrs. Russell at first because she’d told Jaycee from the start that she wouldn’t tolerate any of the behavior she’d heard about from Jaycee’s previous teachers. Jaycee remembered how serious Mrs. Russell had looked as she’d told her she would handle any problems Jaycee might have with her classmates but would absolutely not put up with any fighting, swearing, or name calling from Jaycee, no matter what had prompted it.

Maybe it was the way Mrs. Russell’s blonde hair and blue eyes reminded Jaycee of her mama’s, but something had made her believe this teacher would be tough but fair, and she’d been right. Mrs. Russell definitely didn’t let Jaycee get away with anything, but she also didn’t let the other kids get away with their stupid jokes about her hair or her clothes, so Jaycee hadn’t needed to kick anybody’s butt all year.

She put the package in her book bag and felt her stomach do a little flip at the thought of Mrs. Russell reading the poem. Not that it was sappy or anything, but Jaycee was happy with the way it had turned out, and she wanted Mrs. Russell to think it was good. When they’d done their first writing assignment in class, Mrs. Russell had told her she had a true gift for words—even though Jaycee had written about how much she hated school—and she’d liked the way it made her feel.

When she went in the kitchen, her daddy was sitting at the table with his head in his hands, still wearing the green coveralls he wore to work at Surplus Textiles. He didn’t look up at her when she opened the refrigerator to see if there was any milk.

“Eat that egg in the skillet,” he said. “I don’t want it wasted. And hurry up so you don’t miss the bus.”

Jaycee put the egg between the last two pieces of bread—the yucky end pieces—so she could eat it while she walked the quarter mile to the bus stop. “You want me to wake you up when I get home from school, Daddy?”

He still didn’t look at her. “I’ll be gone by then. Make sure you got your key so you can get in.”

Hoping he might be going to pay the gas bill so they’d have heat and hot water again, she said, “Are you going somewhere before you go to work?”

One of his calloused hands struck the table and made her jump. “Ain’t none of your concern where I'm going! You just get your ass in the house and stay here! You hear me, girl?”

Jaycee nodded and had to force herself to swallow the bite she’d just taken, her appetite fleeing now that she saw the crumpled piece of paper on the table in front of her daddy. Whenever he did that to his paycheck stub on a Friday, it meant he would be going to the Crossroads Club instead of going to work, and she might not see him again until Sunday night. She wrapped up the rest of her sandwich in a paper towel and put it in the refrigerator. It might be the only thing she’d have to eat when she got home.

“Bye, Daddy,” she said as she left, but the only reply she got was the sound of his chair scraping the floor as he got up from the table and went down the hall to his bedroom. She ran to the bus stop so it would warm her up, but she slowed to a walk when she saw that stupid Curtis Manning and his sister Nelda were there already. Mrs. Russell had kept the kids in her class from agitating her, but Curtis was a year older than Jaycee, and Nelda was a stupid kindergartner.

“Hey, Ugly,” Curtis said when he saw her. “Didn’t I see a hobo throwing that shirt in the trash yesterday?”

Curtis and Nelda got free lunch the same as Jaycee and everyone else who lived in their crappy neighborhood, but their house looked like a mansion compared to hers, and their clothes came from their older brothers and sisters instead of the Salvation Army store. Jaycee supposed it made Curtis feel like a big shot or something to point out that they had more than she did, but that didn’t mean she had to take it from him.

“Hey, Curtis, didn’t I see your face on something coming out of a dog’s butt yesterday? Sure smelled like you.”

Nelda giggled and got a shove from Curtis. “You must’ve been smelling yourself. What, can’t buy any soap ‘cause your old man spent all his money on booze again?”

Jaycee took a step toward him, her hands clenched into fists. “Kiss my ass, barf face!”

Nelda covered her mouth with her hand. “Ooh, you said a cuss word! Santa's gonna bring you a bag of switches.”

Jaycee opened her mouth to tell her there was no such thing as Santa Claus, but something about the little girl’s enormous brown eyes made her change her mind. Stupid baby would probably just cry anyway. Jaycee hated it when people cried.

“Good, then I’ll use them on your stupid brother,” she said, relieved to see the school bus turning the corner.

Curtis snickered and shouldered both the girls aside to get on the bus in front of them. Jaycee sat behind the driver—the assigned seat for troublemakers that had been hers for as long as she could remember—and wondered why she had wimped out instead of telling Nelda the truth. It wasn’t like it was a big deal or anything. Jaycee had actually been happy when she’d found out there was no Santa Claus, because it was a lot better than wondering why he just never brought her anything.

Not that she cared, of course. She didn’t want any of the stupid toys all the other kids asked for anyway. She had something a lot better than toys. She could make up stories that let her do things none of them could even dream about doing, and her stories were even better than some of the books she got from the school library. For sure a lot better than the stupid stories about Santa Claus.

Trying to shut out all the talk around her about what the other kids were hoping to get for Christmas, Jaycee looked out the bus window and decided to finish the story she’d started making up the night before about the princess who was kidnapped as a baby and given to peasants to punish her father for being such a heartless king. All the way to school, she stared out the window and forgot about stupid Curtis Manning, the stupid Christmas party, and stupid Santa Claus that didn’t even exist.

***

Jaycee went inside the building as soon as the bell rang so she could get in the room before her classmates. Despite her rush, she couldn’t help noticing the school’s usual smell of chalk dust and eraser shavings was masked by the aroma of Christmas party goodies wafting down the halls.

When she reached her classroom, she hurried up to the aluminum Christmas tree in the front corner so she could find the red package with her name on it that she’d seen Ginny Tucker putting under the tree the day before. Using a piece of tape from the dispenser on Mrs. Russell’s desk, Jaycee replaced the nametag on the red gift with a scrap of construction paper and wrote Pam Kriegler’s name on it.

Her classmates were arriving with a party-day clamor, but Jaycee didn’t think any of them noticed what she’d been doing. She congratulated herself on thinking of a way to fix her gift exchange problem and wondered again why Mrs. Russell had made her put her name in the basket and draw one out after she’d said she didn’t want to do it. At least this way nobody would be missing a gift except Jaycee, and she didn’t want one anyway.

When she saw the other kids putting their teacher gifts on Mrs. Russell’s desk, Jaycee took the package from her book bag and put it with the others. As she walked back down the aisle to her desk, Scott Simmons—Mr. Little League MVP—stuck out his leg and tried to trip her, but she saw him and stepped on his foot as hard as she could.

“What’s wrong, Scott? Still mad because I got you out at second in P.E. yesterday?”

“Better watch it when you’re batting today,” he said, brushing off his Converse All Stars. “You might get hit by a wild pitch.”

Jaycee snickered. “If you’re the pitcher, it won’t even leave a bruise.”

He stood up and pushed her. “Why do you wanna be a boy so much? Because you’re too ugly to be a girl?”

Jaycee shoved him back, letting her anger hide the hurt the way she always did. “I don’t want to be a boy, I just don’t want to be a stupid sissy like you who can’t take getting beaten by a girl! And I can whip your scrawny—”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Mrs. Russell pushed Scott back into his seat and led Jaycee away by the arm. “It’s always better to show than to tell, Jaycee. Whether you’re writing or playing baseball. Prove yourself on the field, and they’ll all see how good you are.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Russell,” Jaycee said as she took her seat. “I’ll try, but he’d better leave me alone if he knows what’s good for him.”

She ignored the looks she was getting from everyone around her and took out her library book. She’d read Heidi two times already, but she’d checked it out again because it was her favorite. She loved pretending she had a grandfather like Heidi’s somewhere that she would be sent to live with someday. Sometimes she could hardly wait to go to bed at night so she could invent new adventures for herself in the worlds she created in her head. Worlds where she didn’t always have to prove herself and act so tough.

***

When it was time for the party at the end of the day, the room mothers and other parents who were there to help got everything set up. A few fathers had even come for the party, and Jaycee tried not to watch enviously as Pam Kriegler’s daddy picked her up and gave her a hug when he arrived. Anybody with a daddy who came to her school parties and called her “Princess” shouldn’t be as mean and selfish as Pam, but she was the worst one about making fun of Jaycee’s chopped-off hair and shabby clothes. Jaycee hated letting her have the gift that was supposed to be hers, but she knew Pam would have a hissy fit if all she got was a homemade gift from Jaycee.

One of the mothers handed Jaycee a plate filled with party food, and she wrapped up most of it to take home for later. But since Newley Butler gave her his cupcake and fudge because he was allergic to chocolate, she even got to eat some treats there. Ever since Jaycee had taken up for Newley when Scott and the other cul-de-sac creeps teased him for using an inhaler and sometimes wearing a bowtie, Newley never looked at her without hero worship lighting up his asthmatic little face. It was kinda embarrassing sometimes, but Jaycee didn’t really mind. Newley read a lot too, and she liked talking about books with him.

When everyone finished eating, Mrs. Russell called all the kids up to sit on the floor around the Christmas tree so they could pass out the presents. Jaycee held her breath to see if Ginny said anything when Mrs. Russell read Pam’s name off the red gift, but Ginny was too busy opening her own gift to notice. Jaycee tried not to look at what Pam got so she wouldn’t know what she’d given up, but curiosity got the best of her. She was glad she’d looked when she saw it was only a musical jewelry box with a stupid ballerina inside, and Pam even seemed to like it. She showed it to her daddy, and he told her he’d buy her some new earrings to go in it.

Jaycee was still smiling about her successful switcheroo when Sandy Stewart handed her a blue package with her name on it.

“Where did that come from?” Jaycee asked.

Sandy rolled her eyes. “Duh. From whoever had your name.”

Jaycee looked around at her classmates, but no one was paying any attention to her, and there was nothing written on the gift tag about who it was from. She almost didn’t want to open it because it was wrapped in beautiful blue foil paper decorated with glittering snowflakes. Careful not to tear the paper any more than she had to, her surprise changed to wonder as she unwrapped the book inside and turned it over to read the title: The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking. Inside the cover was a library card with her name on it—from the public library, not the sissy school library—and there was a typed note along with it.

Dear Jaycee,

I thought you’d like meeting Pippi since the two of you have so
much in common. And you can use the library card to take you down
many wonderfully different roads on your journey to becoming the
strong, independent woman I know you’ll be someday.

Love, Santa

Jaycee looked around again but still didn’t see anyone watching her. Mrs. Russell met her gaze briefly before going back to making a fuss over the gifts all the kids were showing her, and Jaycee thought she detected a slight shake of her head, as if she were telling Jaycee not to say anything in front of everyone else.

“Open your presents now, Mrs. Russell!” Cathy Overton said, punctuated by yeahs and mine firsts from the rest of the class.

Everyone crowded around the desk to watch as Mrs. Russell opened her gifts and gushed appropriately over a wide array of apple-themed stationery items, Christmas ornaments, and scented candles. Jaycee didn’t know if Mrs. Russell had saved her gift for last on purpose or not, but she found herself holding her breath again while Mrs. Russell opened it, Jaycee's bottom lip caught between her teeth as she watched for her teacher’s reaction.

“Oh, Jaycee.” Mrs. Russell’s face reflected her delight. “You wrote a poem for me, and I love the frame you made for it. Thank you so much.”

“It’s an acrostic poem,” Jaycee said. “Like we learned about in English.”

“Yes, and you did a wonderful job on it. This is one of the most special gifts I’ve ever received.” She reached for Jaycee’s hand and squeezed it.

Jaycee could feel her classmates watching her and looked around a bit uncomfortably. Most of them appeared only curiously surprised, but Sandy and Cathy were clearly envious of Mrs. Russell’s praise, and Pam Kriegler was giving Jaycee a look that was downright resentful.

“Read it to us, Mrs. Russell,” Pam said. “So we can see if it’s any good or not.”

“That’s up to Jaycee,” Mrs. Russell said. “Do you mind if I read it aloud?”

Jaycee shrugged and tried to sound nonchalant, although her insides were doing calisthenics. “I don’t care. You can read it if you want to.”

Mrs. Russell stood and cleared her throat.

“M – is for mistakes you hardly ever make
R – is for rules you don’t let us break
S – is for stories we love to hear you tell
R – is for rarely do you ever have to yell
U – is for understanding you have for everyone
S – is for showing us even math can be fun
S – is for smiles, you always have plenty
E – is for education you give to so many
L – is for laughter that follows you like a pet
L – is for lessons we’ll never forget.”

Enthusiastic applause filled the room when Mrs. Russell finished reading, and Jaycee knew her face had to be a flustered shade of pink. She felt several pats on her back accompanied by complimentary remarks, and even Pam appeared grudgingly impressed. Jaycee knew it probably wouldn’t last any longer than the end of the day, but for once she didn’t feel like the broken cookie left on the party tray, and she liked it.

Mrs. Russell sent everyone back to their seats before she passed out their gifts from her: little treat bags containing sparkly Christmas pencils, erasers shaped like snowmen and Santa faces, a sheet of stickers, and a small notebook. Everyone had to help clean up after the party, and Mrs. Russell reminded them all to take the ornaments they’d made in class off the Christmas tree so they could hang them on their trees at home. Jaycee got hers so they wouldn’t be the only ones left on the tree.

When they were all packed up to go home and in line at the door, Mrs. Russell asked one of the room mothers to lead everyone out to the grassy area in front of the school where the bus riders were separated from the car riders and walkers.

“I’ll be out in just a minute,” Mrs. Russell told the lady. “I have one little thing to do and need Jaycee to help me do it.”

When the other kids had filed out of the room, Jaycee said, “Thank you for the book and the library card, Mrs. Russell. I know they were from you.”

The teacher's blue eyes blinked beneath raised brows. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Jaycee. What did you get?”

Jaycee showed her the book and the note. “I know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus.”

“Are you sure?” she asked with a trace of a smile. “This gift seems to have come from him.”

Jaycee’s chin lifted resolutely. “I stopped believing in Santa Claus and God too when I was in first grade. Right after my mama died.”

Mrs. Russell’s expression lost all hint of teasing. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Jaycee. I suppose I can understand why you’d feel that way, but I hope this gift will help you believe in something else that will let you believe in both of them again someday.”

“What do you mean?” Jaycee asked.

Mrs. Russell put an arm across her shoulder. “Believe in yourself, Jaycee. You possess one of the most incredible spirits I’ve ever seen—a fighter’s spirit, and it doesn’t have anything to do with using your fists. Your spirit will carry you through anything you encounter and will let you do whatever you want to do if you just believe in it, and a spirit like that only comes from divine places.”
Jaycee wasn’t sure what she meant by it all, but she liked knowing that Mrs. Russell believed in her. If someone as smart and beautiful as Mrs. Russell believed it, Jaycee had to think it might be true.

“Okay, Mrs. Russell,” she said. “I’ll try to remember that the next time I get mad and want to punch somebody. And the library card is the best present ever.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Jaycee. Use it to keep your brain as strong as the rest of you, and you won’t have anything to worry about.”

***

Jaycee’s euphoria lasted even after she got home to her cold, empty house. Her daddy must have gone to the store before he went to the Crossroads Club, because there was milk, bologna, cheese, and bread in the kitchen. He’d even left a box of Twinkies on the table—food of the gods in Jaycee’s opinion. She made herself a sandwich and snuggled under the covers in her bed to read her new book, the box of Twinkies waiting not-so-patiently on the bed beside her.

She couldn’t help glancing at the Twinkies while she ate and read, a little surge of happiness tumbling her stomach at the proof that her daddy still must still love her no matter how unhappy he’d been since her mama died. She hated it when people talked bad about him—like that nosy Mrs. Griffin down the street and Curtis Manning’s gossipy mother. They hadn’t seen her daddy crying in his bedroom all those nights, calling out her mama’s name sometimes. Jaycee didn’t like it when he drank whiskey, but she knew why he did it. It helped him forget how much he missed her mama.

Her gaze fell on her open book bag on the floor and the ornaments she’d made at school—a snowflake made from popsicle sticks and glitter, and a pipe cleaner candy cane. On a whim, she decided to hang them in her bedroom window, and she had to smile at the way the glitter sparkled in the light from her lamp and reflected onto her walls, almost like Christmas lights.

She opened one of the Twinkies and lay watching the ornaments twist and turn on their strings while she savored the heavenly combination of golden sponge cake and creamy filling. She made up another story about a kidnapped princess, but this princess knew she was a captive and was always trying to escape. The princess had made ornaments from things she’d stolen from her captors, then she’d hung them in the window of her locked room, hoping the light from the North Star would reflect off them and lead her rescuers to where she was imprisoned.

Happy with the way her new story turned out, Jaycee got an idea as she licked the last bit of cream from her fingers. She got the little notebook Mrs. Russell had put in their treat bags, and she decided she would write her favorite stories in it so she wouldn’t forget them. Maybe someday she could even get them made into a real book. She thought most kids would like her stories, but especially the ones like her who wanted to escape into other worlds sometimes. How cool would it be if she could write a book for them someday?

Jaycee fell asleep making up more stories and writing in her notebook. She dreamed she was in Heaven, eating Twinkies with her mama, God, and Santa Claus.

In the morning when she woke up, she went to look in her daddy’s room in case he’d come home after all, but his bed was empty. She spent the day reading her book and trying to resist eating more than two Twinkies so they would last longer. When she finished her book around three o’clock, she found herself holding the library card, trying to talk herself out of what her traitorous mind was prompting her to do.

The public library was only about a mile and a half away, so she could easily walk to it, select a couple of books, and still get back home before dark. She wasn’t supposed to leave the house when her daddy was gone and knew he’d tan her hide good if he found out she had left, but he probably wouldn’t be home until late that night or the next morning, so how would he know? And all she wanted to do was get some books to read. It’s wasn’t like she’d be doing anything wrong.

And since the next day was Christmas Eve, getting the library books would be like a Christmas present to herself. She could even wait until Christmas morning to read them so she’d have something to look forward to. She decided it was worth the risk and made up her mind to go.

***

When Jaycee rounded the corner at the end of her street on her way back from the library and saw her daddy’s truck parked in front of their house, she almost dropped the armful of books she was carrying. After all the times she had lain in her bed at night, listening hopefully for the sound of his ratty old truck over the terrifying creaks and groans of an empty house, wishing with all her might for her daddy to come home, he had picked this time to come back sooner than expected. And despite her fear of the punishment she knew was coming, she was still glad he was home.

Her legs felt full of cement as she walked the last block, and the windows of the neighboring houses seemed like scornful eyes mocking her because she couldn’t stay out of trouble for longer than a day or so at the most. When she went inside the house, she heard her daddy in his bedroom at the end of the hall, and it sounded like he was rummaging in the closet where all her mama’s clothes still hung.

Jaycee stopped off in her room to leave the library books, then she walked cautiously to her daddy’s bedroom and looked in. The empty Jack Daniels bottle lying just inside the doorway made her stomach try to climb up her ribs, but she took a deep breath and stepped over the bottle.

“Daddy? Are you in here?”

She heard a grunt amidst the thumping sounds coming from her mama’s side of the open closet, but she wasn’t sure if it was in response to her question or was frustration over whatever he was doing in there. She took a step closer and could see him on his hands and knees underneath her mama’s dresses. Suddenly, he backed out and fell into a crooked sitting position against the side of the bed, a pink shoebox cradled in his arms. His bloodshot eyes told Jaycee it hadn’t been long since he’d emptied the whiskey bottle.

“You sit down over there, girl,” he said. “I’ll deal with your disobeying little ass in a minute.”

She did as she was told, briefly considering an attempt at convincing him she’d only been in the back yard and hadn’t heard him come home, but she hated people who lied. And if her daddy found out she’d lied to him on top everything else, it would only make her whipping that much worse. Besides, she had deliberately disobeyed him and deserved her punishment, so she would take it like a big girl.

He stroked the box in his lap as though it were a kitten. “I knew it was here with her things. My Nicole’s things . . .” His voice broke, and he hugged the box to his chest.

Jaycee wanted to comfort him, but she knew from experience that it would only make him mad if she tried. She should just be quiet and let his grief run its course the way it usually did, but her curiosity was stronger than her fear of his anger.

“What’s in that box, Daddy?”

His head jerked up, and he grabbed her by the arm before she had time to flinch.

“Don’t you pay no nevermind about what’s in it, girl! I don’t know why the hell I dragged myself home to find it for you in the first place! I shoulda knowed you couldn’t do like you was told less’n somebody beat you into doing it!” He threw her across his lap and pulled down her pants to hit her across her bare buttocks. “Can’t keep your little ass outta trouble to save your life, can you?”

“Daddy, I’m sorry!” Jaycee could barely get the words out because of the way the box in his lap was cutting into her stomach every time he struck her. “I won’t ever do it again! I swear!”

He hit her a few more times before pushing her roughly off his lap onto the floor beside him. Still struggling to breathe normally, Jaycee pulled up her clothes as she rolled over to see if he was taking off his belt, but he was looking inside the box and crying again.

“I seen you carrying that book around with you all the time,” he said, “and I thought maybe you was gonna be like your mama—gonna have book smarts and all. But you can’t even mind me and stay in the damn house! You ain’t nothing like your mama, you’re worthless just like me.” He took a stack of books out of the box and tossed it aside. “I’ll burn these before I let you have ‘em! You don’t deserve nothing that was my Nicole’s!”

He rose awkwardly and started to stagger from the room. But the prospect of being so close to having something of her mama’s—of having books that had been her mama’s—gave Jaycee the courage to get up and try to stop him.

“No, Daddy! I only went to the library so I could get some more books. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I swear. Please let me have Mama’s books.” She pulled on his arm that held them.

He turned and grabbed her with his free hand, dragging her out into the hall and shoving her into her room. “Get yourself in there and stay! And the next time you decide to disobey me, you think about your mama’s books burning with the trash because you couldn’t mind!”

“No!” Jaycee tried to grab one of the books but only tore off the cover. “You can’t burn—”

The back of his hand struck her across the mouth, and she fell to the floor.

“Don’t you ever tell me what I can and can’t do, girl! Get your ass in that bed before I take off my belt and teach you not to talk back to me!”

Jaycee crawled to her bed and got in, curling up into a ball and sobbing as she heard him throwing the books into the big metal barrel where he burned the trash in the back yard. She could hear the sounds the fire made as her mama’s books burned along with the leaves and the garbage in the can, and her heart broke a little more with each crackle and pop.

She didn’t know how long she lay there like that before she finally heard her daddy’s truck sputter and cough its way into life then drive away. She could tell her lip was bleeding, so she got up to go to the bathroom and wash her face. The torn cover of her mama’s book lay in the middle of her floor, so she picked it up and took it over to the lamp where she could look at it. She’d torn it diagonally from the top, but she could tell it had been a copy of Little Women by Louisa May Alcott—one of the books she had just checked out from the library.

Jaycee sat on the bed and stared at the torn cover in her hands, and she felt her heart begin to mend itself. Her mama had loved to read too, and she must have liked the same kind of books as Jaycee, because they’d picked the same one.

Her daddy was wrong—she was like her mama. And she thought he knew it too, no matter what he'd said. He was just mad at her because she hadn’t minded him, and the whiskey always made him do things he wouldn’t usually do.

And if her daddy thought she was like her mama, it meant he must love Jaycee too, no matter how many times he got mad at her. Because the one thing she knew for sure about her daddy was that he had loved her mama more than anything in the world.

She went to her daddy’s room to find the pink shoebox and lid. He probably wouldn’t remember most of what had happened, but if he did he’d think he must’ve burned the box too and wouldn’t know she had it if she kept it hidden. She took it back to her room and put the torn cover in it along with the book and the note Mrs. Russell had given her and the notebook with her stories in it. Then she reached under her pillow and took out a creased photo of herself with her mama and daddy when she was three years old, a happy family posing in front of their azalea bushes. She held the picture to her heart briefly before putting it in the box.

She’d heard Pam Kriegler telling the other girls one day about the hope chest her mama had started for her when she was born and all the things she had in it already, like quilts and doilies and other stupid stuff like that. Jaycee remembered thinking how stupid it was to hope for things like that when there were so many more wonderful things to hope for.

She ran her hand over the cover of the pink shoebox and decided it would be her hope chest from her mama. She would keep things in it to remind her that she could do anything she wanted to do if she didn’t give up, just like Mrs. Russell had told her. And when she grew up to be a smart, successful writer with her mama’s blonde hair and blue eyes, her daddy would see how much she really was like her mama. Then he could be happy again and stop drinking.

When Christmas was over, Jaycee would put the ornaments from her window inside the box to save them, and she would make more the next year and the next and would save them too. And someday, when she was all grown up and had a beautiful Christmas tree of her very own, she would hang the ornaments she’d made on it to remind herself of how far she’d come, and of all the obstacles in the road she'd beaten along the way.

~~~

For the rest of Jaycee's journey, read Different Roads.

Buy Your Copy Here

Gratitude

2009-07-28T20:44:00.000-07:00

Last week, my fifteen-year-old daughter Treasure wanted to have a tea party with her sister Tia and me. We had tea biscuits with creamed honey, got out the dainty cups, saucers and fancy dessert bowls, and used a tea kettle that looks like a black cat. While we drank our tea on the patio in our back yard, (green tea with honey and lemon for me, black chai for the girls) we talked about lots of things—some serious but mostly silly—while our two little dogs lay in the extra patio chairs and waited patiently for us to finish so they could have the leftover biscuits.

Here are the pictures we took:

I don’t know what made Treasure want to do it, but I’m so glad we did.

Yesterday, a fifteen-year-old girl was accidentally shot in the head by one of her best friends—another fifteen-year-old girl. One is now dead, and the other was taken to the juvenile detention center and charged with manslaughter. Both girls have gone to school with my daughter Treasure since elementary school.

All day long, I kept thinking about these two families and how devastated they must be. Other times when I’ve heard about tragedies like this on the news, although I certainly feel sorrow for the families, it doesn’t hit home quite as much as this time. Every time I looked at my precious daughter today, I had to stop and thank God that this horrific accident didn’t happen to her, and I had to hug her and tell her how much I love her.

We shouldn’t wait for something terrible like this to make us appreciate the priceless gifts that our children are.

Hug your kids every single day. And if they want you to have a tea party with them or go play in the sprinkler with them or watch funny videos on YouTube or make cookies or go shopping for purple toenail polish or whatever, no matter how trivial it may seem or how busy you are, take the time to do it.

Because you can’t go back and do it after it’s too late.

~Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true.

Sex Education Manual?

2009-05-29T10:44:00.000-07:00

In a recent interview with PEOPLE magazine, Bristol Palin said, "If girls realized the consequences of sex, nobody would be having sex. Trust me. Nobody."

Bristol, honey, even my son knew what had caused his mommy to have his little sister when he was four years old. He even explained it succinctly to the little girl next door by saying, "Mommies have eggs, daddies have berm" while they were watching an episode of "Lassie" in which she had puppies. (Okay, he may not have been able to pronounce "sperm," but he knew what it meant!)

My point is that I don't think ignorance of the consequences is the underlying problem with teenage pregnancy. And while I would agree that abstinence is the only 100% safe method of birth control (unless your name is Mary), it simply isn't realistic to expect all teenagers to be strong enough to resist the hormonal bombardment their bodies are going through. Sure, it's best not to put yourself in situations that make the temptation too easy to give in to, but even teens with the best intentions sometimes get caught off guard. And it doesn't make them bad nor stupid.

As for a realistic look at the consequences of pre-marital sex, my novel TRUE BLUE FOREVER offers a good one without being preachy, condescending, or judgmental. And you'll get a darn good love story to boot, along with a lot of laughs and more than a few tears.

Buy Your Copy Here

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true.

Meet my buddy Lynn!

2009-05-24T23:06:00.000-07:00

How appropriate that I would have a guest who wrote a book titled SUMMERTIME on Memorial Day, which is, as far as I'm concerned, the official kickoff of summer! Everyone grab a burger or a hotdog or a rib and a glass of iced tea and enjoy this interview with author Lynn McMonigal!

Where did you get the idea for this book?

Oh, now that’s an easy one! I’ve been a fan of New Kids on the Block for years! In 2008, they released a new album with a new song called “Summertime”. It’s about a summer romance. I used that song and one by Joey McIntyre (“I Cried”, about a man missing the one woman he loved) as inspiration. The first draft of this novel was just a joke. I wrote it for my best friend Lori, who was a huge New Kids on the Block fan. She was always crazy about Joey McIntyre. (I keep saying he is the reason she married a man named Joe, but Lori denies that!) Lori liked the story so well that she convinced me to rework it, to take New Kids out of it and make it all completely fictional. The end result? This novel!

Do you have a favorite part of the book or a favorite character?

Hmm . . . That is almost like asking me which of my kids I like the best! Honestly, I think that Crystal was probably the most fun to write. She is not at ALL like me. It’s a lot of fun to pretend to be someone else for a while.

Are there some specific lessons or messages you hope readers will take away with them after reading your book?

I don’t think I really had a message in mind with this one. I was just having a lot of fun with it! My hope is that those who read SUMMERTIME enjoy a brief escape from reality.

What's your writing schedule like, and do you outline or wing it?

Well, I have three sons, ages 8, 5, and 2. Most of my writing is during the day, while the older two are at school and the youngest is napping. I also go out to the local library one or two evenings a week to write while the boys and my husband have some GUY TIME.

As far as outlining, sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. SUMMERTIME was done without an outline. Normally, though, I use an outline. I find that I am more likely to stay on track and actually finish something if I have some sort of outline of where I want the story to end and an idea of how to get there.

Who was the first person who encouraged you to write?

Mrs. Sue Niedzielski. She was my teacher in 5th and 6th grade. I always liked to tell stories, and she was the first one who suggested that I write them down. She was one of the first people to get a copy of my first novel.

When you are not writing, what do you like to do? Do you have any hobbies?

I LOVE scrapbooking! I’ve got tons of pictures of my boys, more than they want me to have I am sure. Lots of fun shots to show my daughters-in-law and grandkids someday! I also read a lot. My favorite author is Karen Kingsbury. I read mostly novels, though I do pick up non-fiction every now and again.

When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

From the time I was 12, I wanted to be a mommy and a writer. In high school, I thought I’d be a teacher. That is what I actually studied for when I first went to college. Later, I changed schools and switched my major to marketing. I never felt right about either career choice. Now, with my husband, three sons, writing career, and faith in God, I feel like my life is complete.

What do you like to read for pleasure?

Karen Kingsbury is my favorite author to read. Her books touch me in a way no others have. But I will pretty much read anything. I may not like it, but the only way to grow is by trying new things.

What was your favorite book in grade school? In high school? Now?

My favorite book since I was about 11 has been ANNE OF GREEN GABLES. I would love to write one character that is remembered as fondly and loved as deeply as Anne Shirley! I also really like the book PROPHET by Frank Peretti. That is one that really made me think. I love it! My favorite author, though, is Karen Kingsbury (did I mention that?) I can’t choose a favorite of her books, though. The 9-11 Series and the Lost Love Series are the ones I like the best.

Do you have a website where our readers can go to find more information about your work?

I have two websites. One is www.lynnmcmo.webs.com. I am working on changing that over, though. The other is www.lynnscorner.wordpress.com. This one has my blog and website information on it. Every day, it seems, I add a little more to that one.

Note from Author:

On Tuesday, May 26, I will be having a day-long launch party on Facebook to celebrate the release of SUMMERTIME. You can join us here: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#/pages/Summertime-a-romance-novel/79267269805. I will be giving away a lot of prizes, from scrapbooking supplies to chocolates to makeup. It is going to be so much fun!

Preorders of SUMMERTIME placed before May 26 are eligible for free shipping! Check it out at www.lynnmcmo.webs.com

Thanks for stopping by, Lynn!

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

Meet Jo Linsdell

2009-05-04T04:30:00.000-07:00

Today, I'm excited to be hosting my friend and fellow author Jo Linsdell as part of her blog tour promoting the release of her new book.

Italian For Tourists: Pocket Edition
By Jo Linsdell
ISBN: 978-1-4092-7826-9
Available at: http://stores.lulu.com/jolinsdell

Jo, tell us why you wrote this book.
I came to Italy with the plan of staying for 3 days and figured I could get by for such a short stay using English. With this in mind, I hadn’t prepared for the fact that Italians might not speak English. In fact, a lot of them don’t, or if they do, it’s very limited. I felt rude not being able to thank or greet people in Italian, after all I was in Italy. If an Italian came to England not being able to speak English, how far would he get? I got myself a phrasebook to help me, but a lot of the information was irrelevant, and it took ages to find what I needed. I wrote this book bearing all this in mind. A tourist doesn’t need to know everything about Italian grammar and the ins and outs of renting an apartment. They want to have an easy-to-use reference book of the language they will need to use and understand during their stay.

Who is your intended readership?
I created this book for tourists. There are a lot of phrasebooks out there, but they all seem to want to give as much information as possible—a lot of it irrelevant to a tourist who just wants to get by for the couple of days or weeks that he's in Italy. This book is designed to be a basic guide to the Italian language, covering phrases and words most needed by tourists.

How did you research your book?
I’ve been living here for 7 years now and, from my own experience, I know the sorts of things that are useful to know when you first come here. I also worked in hostels and as a tour guide and know what information people used to ask me for.

What’s your personal background?
I came to Rome, Italy from the UK in June 2001. I originally came for 3 days but fell in love with the city and decided to stay. After all these years, I’m still here, married to an Italian (with whom I have a son) and have no plans to leave anytime soon.

Who was the first person who encouraged you to write?
Probably an English teacher I had at school, called Mrs Stevens. She always liked my creative writing and would often tell me that I should write out of class too.

Tell us about the first time you believed you could be published.
When I sent off my first article and they published it straight away as it was. It was the first draft and I sent it off as a query to The Florentine (an English language newspaper in Florence). It was the first time I'd ever done anything like it before and was surprised by the results. It made me realise I could do it.

Do you have a cure for writer’s block?
Taking a short break and doing something non-writing related. Life inspires :)

Do you complete a work before editing? What takes longer – writing the first draft or editing?
This is probably the biggest problem I have when writing. I always have the urge to edit even as I'm writing. I need to stop. This is number one on my list of reasons why it takes me so long to write. I really need to get better at getting a first draft completed before I start editing.

What do you like to read for pleasure?
I love Dean Koontz books. The guy is a genius! I like Sophie Kinsella but also enjoy reading classics like Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde. I'll give pretty much anything a go.

What was your favorite book in grade school? In high school? Now?
In school we studied Anne Frank's Diary and it had me hooked. So tragic yet so inspiring. When I was in college, I read Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt and it's been one of my favourites ever since. I even bought a copy of the film afterward, but the book is far better.

Do you have a website where our readers can go to find more information about your work?
http://jolinsdell.tripod.com

Give us some details on your upcoming author appearances.
I'll be featured at the following sites this month:
5th http://writersandauthors.blogspot.com/ (interview)
6th www.lynnmcmo.blogspot.com
7th http://writersandauthors.blogspot.com/ (review by Karen Cioffi)
8th http://karenandrobyn.blogspot.com/ and http://www.margretfieland.com/
9th http://jolinsdell.tripod.com/promoday and http://unwriter1.wordpress.com/

I will also be featured at http://timewithtannia.tripod.com/ all month.

Saturday, 9th May, is PROMO DAY, an online event I organise dedicated to promoting, networking and learning. It takes place at http://jolinsdell.tripod.com/promoday and is FREE to attend. I'll be in the PROMO chatroom through out the day answering questions and giving information about my books and other services. I'm also going to be moderating some of the workshops.

Note from Author:
Thank you very much for having me. I'd just like to take this opportunity to let people know that everyone who buys a copy of Italian for Tourists Pocket Edition on Saturday, 9th May can get a free copy of an ebook of their choice, from my collection. All they have to do is e-mail proof of purchase to jo_bins@yahoo.com and let me know which ebook they would like.

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

Spoons, Holding Feet, and Moniscuity

2009-02-05T06:51:00.000-08:00

"Write what you know."

This oft-given advice is why my books contain a lot of sappy, head-over-heels-in-love, so-sweet-they-will-make-you-barf kind of romantic scenes. Why wouldn't I write them? My husband and I live such scenes on a daily basis.

My husband and I have been together for 29 years. We rarely go to movies anymore, never go dancing, and when we go out to eat, it's usually with our kids and my mother-in-law. Neither of us can fit into our wedding attire any longer, the majority of our hair is either gray or missing, and we're now both dependent upon our glasses for reading. But, as I lay beside my husband the other night while he slept and I read, I noted a few changes about us that I wouldn't trade for all the candlelight dinners in the world.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, one of us will say "spoons," and we'll turn onto our sides so that we fit together like spoons in a stack. The rule is that the one who says it gets to be the spoon in the front, along with all the benefit that entails.

We also hold feet when we're both reading in bed or when we sit together in our recliner to watch TV or movies. We entwine our toes and hold on the way most people do with their hands, and we've done it for so long that we do it unconsciously now.

We have so many shared stories that a single word will trigger a memory for both of us and we'll trade looks and a smile. We also have a special way of giving each other a stick of gum, but I can't tell you what it is or why we do it that way, other than that it involves body-snatching and one of us having an overactive imagination.

My children are so used to seeing our PDAs (public displays of affection) that they don't even bother to look disgusted anymore, although they do get impatient sometimes. While I was telling my husband goodbye one day, my son told me to stop being so "moniscuous" because he was in a hurry to leave. Normally I would have just ignored him and continued smooching with my hubby through the car window, but his odd terminology piqued my interest, so I asked him about it. He replied that I was promiscuous but only with one man, so I was moniscuous.

My youngest daughter likes to conduct surveys for some reason. When she asks my husband or me about our favorite things, she precedes her questions with an admonition: we're not allowed to give each other as our answers, including such clever variations as giving "anything I can watch with Mama in the dark" as the answer to "what's your favorite movie?"

I'm not sure how we've managed to stay so sickeningly in love. Maybe it's because neither of us wants to grow up completely. Whatever it is, I tell my children not to ever settle for less in their own future relationships, and I guess that's why I want the same things for the characters in my books.

For a prime example, check out my first novel, TRUE BLUE FOREVER.

But if you like your love scenes with a little more teeth to them, you should opt for DIFFERENT ROADS. The characters are every bit as much in love, but their best love scenes usually follow their biggest fights.

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true.

Playing Tag!

2008-09-29T10:25:00.000-07:00

My buddy Ron Berry tagged me in the Meme Game, so here are the rules, my answers, and the next six victims . . . er, players.

The rules:

If you’ve been tagged with the Meme Game from Twitter, you must post 6 things no one knows about you on your BLOG. Then you have to tag 6 more people. (Don’t forget to let them know they’ve been tagged.) Leave me a comment letting me know you’ve accepted the tag.

My answers:

1. I act out many of the scenes in my books. Sometimes in costume.

2. My favorite comedian is Brian Regan. He makes me laugh until my face hurts.

3. I have trichotillomania, and so does the heroine of my next book.

4. When I sing, my cat hides.

5. I miss my husband when he's at work.

6. Sometimes I stay up late at night watching boy band videos on YouTube.

Tag, You're It:

Lee Ann Ward -- CREATIVE KICKIN' -- http://leeannward.com/blog/
Aston West -- THE WEST(ERN) CHRONICLES -- http://astonwest.blogspot.com/
Rebecca Goings -- BECKA'S BABBLE -- http://beckasbabble.blogspot.com/
Jay Hudson -- JAY'S MUSING -- http://jayhudsononwheels.blogspot.com/
Teri B. Clark -- TIME TO JOT THAT DOWN -- http://teribclarkjots.blogspot.com/
Jaycee Stanton -- JAYCEE'S RANTS -- http://jayceestanton.blogspot.com/

~Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true!

My Little Sister

2008-08-14T11:43:00.000-07:00

Forty-three years ago, my mother’s sister found herself pregnant even though she’d had a tubal ligation years before. She already had four daughters and was in the midst of a divorce, so she decided to let my mother and father adopt her baby. I was three years old at the time, and my mother couldn’t have any more children, but she wanted me to have a little sister. Evidently, God wanted me to have one too, because he sent us my sister Michaelé.

I’ve been proud of my little sister for as long as I can remember, but it used to be mainly because she was so darned cute. She has the most beautiful curly hair I’ve ever seen—it looks better when she wakes up in the morning than mine does after I’ve spent an hour working on it. She has hazel eyes with long, thick lashes, and she could have given Shirley Temple a run for her money in the cherubic department when she was little.

When I was in the third grade, we did ceramics. We all got to make an ashtray and a duck, but we were only allowed to paint them one color that transformed into a glossy, dual-colored pattern after they were fired in the kiln. My teacher, however, painted her duck in realistic different colors and didn’t fire it, and every child in the class—-including me—-coveted it for their own. My mother and sister (four at the time) came to our class Christmas party and my teacher gave the duck to Michaelé. That’s how cute she was.

Michaelé went from cute to beautiful as a teenager, and I was proud of her beauty and athletic talent on the softball field. I loved watching her play because she would frequently hit the ball over the heads of the outfielders who were unaware that her small size belied her strength, and she was so fast she could make catches in the outfield that no one even thought she would get to. For someone like me who has no depth perception and tends to fall down when she runs, my sister’s athletic prowess was especially impressive. I also liked looking at her coach’s legs, so when she got too old to play for him any longer, I married him.

Michaelé is still beautiful, but that’s no longer why I’m so proud of her. She is an amazing woman who never ceases to inspire me with her spirit and the goodness of her heart. She has overcome tragedies in her life that would have sent most people into hiding, cowering in fear. She’s walked away from husbands who couldn’t appreciate her and jobs that would have forced her to compromise her ethics, even though she was the sole support for herself and her children. She put herself through nursing school against unbelievable odds and became one of the best nurses ever to wear the uniform.

When she was twenty-seven years old, Michaelé and her husband wanted desperately to have a little girl, but she wasn’t able to get pregnant. For seven years they tried every fertility method they could afford, including two surgeries, all with no luck. Michaelé ultimately decided to be an egg donor to another couple in exchange for in vitro fertilization (a very expensive procedure) and that’s how she found herself pregnant with quadruplets at the age of thirty-four.

On December 31, 1998, my sister and her husband got their little girl with three little boys as a bonus. Abigail, Bridges, Chancey and Dawson were born at 28-weeks’ gestation and weighed around two pounds each. Michaelé tackled being the mother of quads with the same enthusiasm and undying determination that had gotten her through everything else in her life, and she did it with only a small amount of help in the beginning from her sister and two very-true friends. By the time the babies were six months old, Michaelé cared for them completely by herself during the day when her husband was at work and her three teenagers were at school.

The quads (whom I fear will forever be called “the babies” by our family) are happy, healthy, smart, delightful 9-year-olds now, and they are as much a blessing as their mother is. But, as good as they are, there are FOUR of them and they require an enormous amount of attention and energy. Not only does Michaelé take care of her family and home, she works as a nurse at a convalescent center and attends classes to advance her career.

That’s why my sister is the woman I admire most in the world. As a closing tribute to the blessings God has given our family and the kind of amazing woman Michaelé is, I want to share this excerpt from a presentation about her quadruplets she gave last year in her Speech class:

“Once there was this woman who loved the Lord very much. When she worked in her gardens, she would pray and talk with God. The woman and her husband had been trying to have a baby for 7 years, yet she was still barren. The garden that she loved to work in the most was her rose garden. She had planted several wild rose bushes 3 years before, but although the plants were flourishing, they had never had a bloom.

One day while working in her garden, the woman reminded God of what He said in the Scriptures. She said, ‘Lord, you said in your Word that if we had faith as small as a mustard seed, we could say to this mountain move and it would. You said whatsoever we asked in your name, believing that we had already received, we would have whatsoever we asked for. And you said none shall be barren in your land. Lord, I ask you for a child. I also ask that these roses bloom on this vine as a token of your love and promise to me that I will have a child.’

The woman thought nothing more about what she had prayed and asked of God, and one day she went out to her garden to work and it was covered with red roses.”

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true.

Milestones, Heat Waves, and Morning Musings

2007-08-24T06:10:00.000-07:00

Summer really plays Hell with blogging. Thank God the school vacation part of it is finally over, even if the heat is worse than ever. Here in the Heart of Dixie, we're in our fourth week of 100+ heat index days, and I am REALLY looking forward to seeing the mercury drop below 90. It's so hot that our dogs don't even bother pretending that they're monitoring my bird feeders and keeping the squirrels at bay the way they usually do every time I go outside. (ONLY when I go outside. The rest of the time they let the squirrels have the run of the yard until I step out the back door, then they take off chasing them and come back panting proudly, as if to say, "See? We're on duty for you! Can we have a treat now??"

Consequently, I like to sit outside on the patio with my coffee in the morning before the heat gets unbearable and watch the birds. I love watching them (especially the hummingbirds), but I also love the peace I feel sitting out there with just the dogs, the not-really-very-wild life, and my thoughts for company. Lately, I find myself thinking a lot about when my kids were small, and I guess that's because my son TJ just started a new job that frequently takes him out of state, and my oldest daughter Tia started college this week. I really have only one hatchling left in the nest (Treasure), and she's already begun pestering me about getting a job, even though she won't be 14 until October.

My fondest memories are of the times when the kids and I were home alone together and we'd get out the old camcorder (the kind that recorded on full-sized VHS tapes and weighed 15 pounds!) I'd turn on the radio to our favorite oldies station and let the kids dance and have fun: precociously comedic 9-year-old TJ mugging for the camera, 5-year-old Tia dancing in front of him with her stuffed Dalmatians (Penny and Patchy) to steal some camera time, and squatty-body 1-year-old Treasure riding her rocking horse (her "fuh-fuh" as she called it--don't ask me why!) in time to the music when she wasn't toddling between things she wasn't allowed to touch.

My very favorite one is of TJ and Tia at ages 7 and 3 telling their favorite bedtime stories for the camera. TJ told "The Three Little Pigs" (with multiple adlibs of course) and Tia was supposed to tell "Little Red Riding Hood." She says she needs me to help her get started, and it goes like this:

MAMA (my alter ego): "Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Little Red Riding Hood."
TIA: "And where was she going?"
MAMA: "Tia, you know where she was going. You've heard this story a thousand times."
TIA: "I can't remember. Just tell me where was she going."
MAMA(sighing): "Okay. She was going to her grandmother's house."
TIA: "And what did she got in her hand?"
MAMA: "Tia! Are you going to tell this story or not?"
TIA: "WHAT DID SHE GOT IN HER HAND!"
TJ(rolling his eyes impatiently): "Mama, this is just like when Barney says the Preamble to the Constitution on the Andy Griffith Show!"

One of these days, I'm going to write a book of anecdotes about my kids. I'm sure it will be a best seller and send all three of them into therapy.

Oh, well. If the former is true, I can pay for the latter.

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true.

Blogging for Thinkers

2007-05-17T06:04:00.000-07:00

My favorite flyboy, Aston West, graciously nominated Blue Attitude for a Thinking Blogger Award. While this is an honor in any case, it touches my little blue heart even more because this flyboy has so obviously thunk a few thinks himself.

In accordance with the rules, here are my nominations for 5 more cogitators:

Maya Reynolds Maya can always be counted on for lots of info and lots of laughs!

Janet's Jargon Janet Elaine Smith is a savvy lady who still knows how to have fun!

Hellatias Writing Lee Mills will possibly make you either mad or crazy, but you'll have to think in the process!

Jaycee's Rants Another outrageous lady with a brain to go with her brawn!

BookEnds LLC Agent Jessica Faust can always be counted on for great information on the publishing business and generally entertaining posts.

Check out these blogs, folks. You won't be disappointed!

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

Notoriety 101

2007-04-16T05:52:00.000-07:00

I’m sure many of you are just as sick as I am of being bombarded with the endless stream of articles, reports, and hourly updates on whatever “news” story has sent the media into its latest frenzy. Well, it’s even more frustrating to watch for we starving-author types who would simply like a little modest publicity for our books. Since I’ve wisely given up on some of my more impractical and/or illegal promotional ideas (see previous blog entry “Support Groups Needed”) I decided to take lessons from the experts in the publicity game and play by their rules, so here goes. If these are the things that send the media into orgasmia, then I’m about to really rock their worlds!

1) Don Imus’s racist/sexist remark: This one is easy to top. Here’s one of my favorites—not only do I agree that white men can't jump, I also think they really suck on the balance beam and the uneven bars! Yeah, I said it!

2) The furor over who’s the daddy of Anna Nicole’s baby: Paternity debates are a dime a dozen, but I’ve got a real mystery! I’m not 100% sure I’m the real mother of my oldest daughter! My doctor forgot to set up the mirror during the delivery, so I didn’t actually see her birth. She also doesn’t look anything like me, yet she bears an uncanny resemblance to my three step-daughters. Coincidence? I think not.

3) Nude pictures surfacing of American Idol contestants: Not only have I had nude pictures taken of me, I posed for them willingly! My mother took my picture in my grandmother’s shower when I was two years old, and I was wearing nothing but a shower cap and a big smile. And if the Internet had been around back then, I’m absolutely positive my mama would have posted that picture online everywhere she could. She sure showed it to enough relatives!

4) Steroid use in Major League Baseball: Both my Avon lady and my Mary Kay rep can testify that I regularly purchase every single product available that firms and smoothes the skin and reduces the appearance of cellulite. Yes, that’s what I’m saying. My thighs are chemically enhanced!

5) Britney Spears going without underwear: Big deal! Because I have the most beautiful, model-quality feet in the world, I never wear socks once the temperature goes above 50 degrees. And I also have absolutely no qualms about letting the paparazzi photograph my bare tootsies to their heart’s content!

6) Over-hyped authors who write plagiarized books: I can list for you right now at least three dozen words from my second book that I also used in my first book--multiple times! I even italicized them if I felt like it. And if Mr. Webster gets wind of my books, I'm in BIG trouble!

7) Severe drug addiction: Oh, yes. I most assuredly have this. Just ask the Folgers people if I haven’t e-mailed them with bribes, pleas, threats, and propositions, trying to get them to sell me cases of their Straight Up Café Latte, since they—for some unknown, ungodly reason—decided to stop selling it in Florida and Alabama. Consequently, I periodically must drive to Pascagoula, Mississippi, to buy it from my hookup (Jerry Lee’s Grocery Store) and then transport my stash across state lines!

8) High-profile madams on trial: So I had to give up on the idea of staging my son’s kidnapping by a crazed fan, but I want to state unequivocally now that I will gladly rent him out to any young woman aged 18-24 who gets me a reputable agent or a six-figure book deal for my latest book—either one, I’m not picky. Yep, I’m willing to whore out my firstborn to further my writing career. How much more dedicated could a writer be?

Okay, guys. There's plenty of dirt for you. Let the feeding frenzy begin!

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

A Joyce Two-fer!

2007-04-10T22:19:00.000-07:00

Recently, I met another Joyce on a wonderful writers' forum I belong to that's officially named "Jay's Writers World" but we like to call "The Playhouse." Joyce A. Anthony is the author of a very special book entitled STORM, and she graciously agreed to stop by here on her first whirlwind blog tour. I've read STORM myself, and it's truly one of the most uplifting and inspiring books ever written. Here's a blurb about this incredible book.

What do a prostitute, an abused child, a disillusioned minister, a Vietnam vet, and a homosexual have in common? These and many others find their lives changed when they meet Storm and his companion, an amethyst-eyed dog named Maggie. As you follow Storm on his journey to discover his true identity, you will meet many of society’s forgotten people. You will laugh, cry, and get angry—whatever the emotion, you will feel it deeply. When Storm realizes who he is and why he is here, the world is completely changed, and not one soul remains untouched. Upon closing the covers of this book, you will see the world around you in a far different light and find yourself wondering—is it really fiction?

Now let's hear from the author herself!

Joyce S. -- Which did you come up with first--the idea for STORM's plot, or the character of Storm himself?
Joyce A. -- Storm was my first concept. I started this book with him and the general ending in mind--nothing else. He and I literally travelled together through the writing of this.

Joyce S. -- Do you work from an outline, or are you a "pantser"?
Joyce A. -- I don't outline. I have tried, but I never follow it, so it is a waste of time for me. I find my characters have their own minds, so I give them free rein to do as they wish. It makes for some interesting twists and turns!

Joyce S. -- Your writing is very lyrical. Do you also write poetry?
Joyce A. -- I don't write poetry exactly, more of what I call "moments"--brief descriptions of a moment in time. These have been called poetry, however, so I guess it is a matter of how you define the genre.

Joyce S. -- What books or writers influenced you the most in your own writing?
Joyce A. -- Rod Serling and Richard Bach are the two authors I feel influenced me the most. They both challenge their readers to think and grow. I have never closed a piece of work by either of these authors and failed to continue thinking on it--questioning. I hope I have been able to create that same feeling with STORM.

Joyce S. -- What are you working on next?
Joyce A. -- My next book is a non-fiction work entitled SPIRIT OF THE STALLION. It is the account of the trials and eventual triumph of a bipolar child.

Joyce S. -- Thank you so much for stopping by, Joyce. We Joyces definitely must stick together!

NOTE: STORM is available at http://starpublish.com/ and currently discounted at Amazon.com http://www.amazon. com/Storm- Joyce-Anthony/ dp/1932993746/ ref=sr_11_ 1/104-6431922- 6428714?ie= UTF8&qid=1173578116&sr=11-1 A portion of the royalties for STORM go to StopItNow, an organization dedicated to the prevention of child abuse.

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

American Author

2007-02-24T21:58:00.000-08:00

I had never watched “American Idol” until last year when I began watching it with my youngest daughter because it gave us something to talk about. (She’s in middle school. Need I say more?) I didn’t really expect to like it, but I completely fell in love with the show, although I can’t bear to watch it before it progresses to the live broadcasts where all the contestants can actually sing. However, seeing some of the clips from the early audition rounds made me wonder what it would be like if there were a similar show for writers.

Think about it. All the best books on writing (and all the most popular editor and agent blogs) tell writers that their first lines absolutely MUST hook the reader. What better way to test your first line than auditioning it before a panel of judges? Let’s say . . . Anna Genoese, Stephen King, and Miss Snark. You can bet I’d make damn sure I didn’t have any passive voice or clichés or general dullness in my opening line before I read it in front of that trio! (The announcer should be Michael Bublé, for eye candy!)

Then, after making it through the first-line round, the contestants would read their first paragraphs the next week, with the survivors reading their first pages the following week. When there were only two contestants remaining, they would read their entire first chapters for the finale, and viewers would vote to choose the winner of the publishing contract.

Yeah, okay. I know a show like this isn’t likely, but it’s a good exercise for writers to see if their openings need work, and it would be a fun game for critique groups to play.

Here’s mine: Jess always woke a second before she could complete the castration—curses, foiled again.

Well, Steve-O probably wouldn't like it, but maybe the ladies would vote me through.

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

Support Groups Needed

2006-12-23T06:53:00.000-08:00

Whether published by a small independent press or one of the big guns, authors these days simply must help with the promotion of their books. This necessity has brought about the onset of a condition called “Promo Preoccupation” in which authors begin to see publicity opportunities in every situation. I know this condition exists because, unfortunately, I have been stricken with it myself.

I’ve extracted promises from my family that should I—God forbid—die accidentally or become the victim of a horrendous crime, they will capitalize on the subsequent news coverage and get exposure for my books. Hey, if I have to die a tragic death, the least they can do is sell some books from it.

I mean, come on. How hard would it be to slip a copy of my books into my dead hands and make sure the title is clearly visible for when the CSI photographers take their shots? Or, barring the opportunity for this, they could always just hold copies themselves while giving their grief-stricken interviews to the media about how they’ve merely lost a mother or wife, but the world has lost the female equivalent of Shakespeare.

Then there’s the advanced stage of the condition that causes the sufferer to invent ways for staging the kind of news stories that send the media into a feeding frenzy. You know, like hostage situations, kidnappings, children in wells, murder-suicides. Okay, strike that last one. Kinda hard to stage that.

For example, I have this great idea to get publicity for True Blue Forever. Since my 21-year-old son TJ is adorable and—more importantly—is a look-alike for Billy Joe, one of the most popular characters in the book, I could stage his kidnapping by a crazed Billy Joe fan! There would be a nationwide campaign to help me find my baby boy, with plenty of televised, tearful pleas by yours truly.

Picture this:

Joyce on the Today show with Matt Lauer-- "Oh, Matt. I'm just so distraught over the thought of my poor TJ being subjected to the amorous advances of a psychotic teenaged girl! If I'd known something like this would happen, I would never have written this Southern coming-of-age novel, (holds copy aloft for the camera) available from Authors Ink Books, Amazon.com, or through your favorite bookstore. Group discounts available to reading groups and search team volunteers. Matt, I just want my precious son back unharmed. Is that too much for a mother to ask?"

Then, just as the FBI converges on the remote cabin where TJ has been located, thanks to a clever message he manages to send via homing pigeon, the "culprit" escapes through the back door, never to be caught. TJ is found tied to a chair, covered with lipstick kisses and wearing a big smile.

It can't fail! TJ will become the next teen idol, he'll be a shoo-in for the role of Billy Joe in the True Blue Forever movie that Ron Howard directs and Madonna produces, (with "True Blue" as the theme song, of course) and my book will be off the charts in sales!

What? TJ doesn’t have a problem with it. And if I get caught, think of all the publicity opportunities during the arrest and trial!

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true.

Oh, Canada!

2006-12-02T10:10:00.000-08:00

I don't know how I'm going to relate this entry to writing, but it had to be said.

I LOVE MICHAEL BUBLÉ!

No, not in a romantic sense, although he IS as cute as a baby's tushy. I love his showmanship, his sense of humor, his unpretentiousness, his appreciation for and recognition of the gifted musicians in his band, and his genuine love for the kind of music he has brought to a new generation of listeners.

But, most of all, I love his velvety voice that could make aboriginal war chants sound heavenly. The only song cover I've ever heard him do that I didn't like better than any other version is "Mack The Knife," and that's only because Bobby Darin's original is impossible to improve upon.

And the story behind Michael Bublé's (notice how I'm able to produce the properly accented "é" in his name. Not everyone can do that, you know!) musical career just makes him even more lovable. He was introduced to the old standards he came to love by his grandfather, who used to do free plumbing work for Vancouver musicians in exchange for their letting Michael perform a few numbers with them onstage, since Michael was too young to be booked in clubs at the time. In 2004, Michael took his grandfather on tour with him in Italy, and he dedicates "You'll Never Know" to his granddad when he sings it in concert. How can you not love a guy who loves his granddad?

I was fortunate enough to see Michael in concert last July, (I have the BEST sister in the world who treated me!) and it was an incredible show in every aspect. He's funny, self-deprecating, gracious, and he can sing any kind of music imaginable. He does a dead-on impression of Michael Jackson (including some enjoyable crotch grabbing!) and when he mocks Josh Groban (one of his best friends), it's hilarious.

If you've never heard Michael Bublé sing or have only heard his released singles ("Home," "Save the Last Dance For Me" and "Feeling Good"), then do yourself a favor and put his IT'S TIME CD on your Christmas list and put some asterisks and exclamation points beside it so Santa gets the message.

Hey, asterisks and exclamations points have to do with writing. Success!

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true.

P.S. If you go to Michael's website (http://www.michaelbuble.com) you automatically get to hear three of his songs!

Vive la Tabby!

2006-10-28T08:24:00.000-07:00

I just found out Tabitha King has another book out. Yay! She’s one of my favorite writers, although I didn’t realize it at first. Sure, I knew her books were engrossing stories about gritty characters who lived and loved at full tilt, but these same characters sometimes did things so incredibly stupid and screwed up their lives so royally that I found myself yelling at them on the pages of the books and sometimes throwing said books across the room, swearing I wasn’t going to finish reading them.

Of course, I did finish them. All of them. Some of them I’ve even read more than once, because I found myself thinking about those infuriating characters of hers long after I’d finished the books. That’s when I realized what an amazing talent Ms. King has for characterization. I might sometimes want to hit her characters upside the head with a limb and knock some sense into them (especially those bad-assed heroines of hers), but I always care about what happens to them and feel as if they’re real people she’s introduced me to. And they love with a depth that endures even the moronic things she makes them do just to stir things up. At least she doesn’t kill off all of them like some other writers who hail from Maine.

Speaking of Steve-O, (I read somewhere that he hates to be called that!) I’ve been known to read a few of his books as well. Okay, ALL of his books. But I don’t read them for the horror content. I read them because he does a pretty decent job of characterization himself, and the imagery he creates in some of his scenes using the simplest objects in the world tend to stick with me forever. I often find myself seeing colored auras around people, sparrows give me the creeps, and I always give sewer drains a wide berth.

What gets me is when I tell someone that I love Tabitha King’s books, and they say, “I didn’t even know Stephen King’s wife was a writer.” Don’t you know she gives him Holy Hell whenever she reads something like that on an Internet message board? I can just see her whacking him on the back of the head and saying, “See, if you weren’t always hogging the limelight with all those silly monster books of yours, maybe people would hear about MY books!”

I’m doing my best to help you get the word out, Tabby.

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true.

Books for Soldiers

2006-10-06T08:48:00.000-07:00

I recently became an official volunteer at the Books For Soldiers website so that I could donate copies of my own books to deployed soldiers. I encourage all my fellow writers to do the same, but you don't have to be a writer to help. The need among the troops for books and other supplies is so great, and I urge everyone to join this program and send a few care packages of books, magazines, CDs, DVDs, snacks, personal care items, or anything else that will help make a soldier’s tour of duty a little easier.

Please go to http://booksforsoldiers.com and register to become an official volunteer. Once you’re approved, you’ll have access to the list of needs the soldiers post or their families post on their behalf, along with their address overseas. You can also become a soldier’s pen pal and possibly be the only link to home they have. Trust me, the responses you’ll get from the soldiers and their overwhelming gratitude will touch your heart and reward you immeasurably for your efforts.

I also encourage everyone who has bought my books to please send them to a soldier when you’re done with them. If you can't become a volunteer for some reason, send the books to me (contact info on my pages at Authors Den) and I'll ship them to soldiers for you. These brave men and women risk their lives for us every single day, and we all—regardless of our political views or personal feelings about the war—owe these real-life heroes a much larger debt of gratitude than we could ever repay, but this program is a good way to make a worthwhile down payment.

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true!

It's 2006, Y'all

2006-10-01T10:14:00.000-07:00

I write Southern fiction. I know it's Southern fiction because it's set in the South and I've lived in southern Alabama all my life--how much more Southern can you get? But, apparently, some people don't consider a book to be Southern fiction unless it contains at least two characters who either sport beehive hairdos or have names like Lula Mae Ledbetter or Cletis Joe Clampett. And they need to eat lots of cornbread and collards or biscuits and red-eye gravy while they hang out at greasy spoons like MawMaw's Kitchen and talk about the time they faced the wrath of the Klan by inviting Pearlie Lou's grandson Jamarcus to little Clementine's sixth birthday party.

Sorry, but my friends and family have names like Robin and Stephen, I've never seen a Klansman in real life, and neither cornbread nor biscuits are on the Atkins diet, so I only eat them on special occasions. My books have plenty of Southern charm and ambience, but it's not forced the way it seems to be in some (but definitely not all) of those "down-home" Southern books. And I absolutely refuse to throw in racial unrest where there is none just to attract the attention of Yankee--ahem, I mean, Northern editors who have no idea what it's really like in the South.

TRUE BLUE FOREVER is a prime example of this. Its characters attend Vigor High School, the predominantly black school I attended that made the national news because of the race riots that went on there in the early seventies. Of course, all that was over by the time I went there from 76-80, and race was truly a non-issue for my classmates and me, so I refused to play it up in TRUE BLUE FOREVER just so I could claim to publishers that my book was a social statement on desegregation and civil rights. I have both black and white characters in TRUE BLUE FOREVER, but I refused to portray them any way other than the way my classmates and I got along--without race being an issue.

BTW, I had a book signing yesterday at a local independent book store called Black Classics, Books and Gifts. Race wasn't an issue there either. And we didn't sit around eating chicken and dumplings with cat-head biscuits for sopping up the gravy.

Although. . . I think I'll make some chicken and dumplings for supper tonight. Better go make a big pitcher of sweet tea to go with it, so I gotta run.

;-)

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true.

Separation of Church and God

2006-09-13T06:18:00.000-07:00

You know, I’m really starting to resent the negative fallout those of us with God in our lives get because of all the self-righteous hypocrites who give Christians a bad name. More and more every day I see the behavior of churches and their devoted members doing more to turn people away from God than Satan and his followers ever dreamed of doing.

Case in point, my second book, DIFFERENT ROADS, just received an overall positive review from an online book club, and while the reviewer liked my heroine’s hard-edged, gritty realism, he couldn’t stomach her spiritual growth at the book’s end, even though her fledgling relationship with God is completely personal and doesn’t involve any churchgoing or religious rhetoric whatsoever. And this isn’t the first time I’ve heard that my edgy heroine is weakened by her spiritual growth, although the only thing weak about Jaycee is her resistance to a certain dark-eyed rich boy with legs to die for. Clearly, these people are turned off by anything to do with God no matter how inoffensively it’s presented, and I think that’s just as much of a shame as when religious zealots automatically shun certain people without giving them a chance. I hate bigotry no matter how it presents itself.

While I expected this kind of reaction for DIFFERENT ROADS because of the contrast between Jaycee’s behavior in the beginning and later on in the story, I was surprised at the reaction TRUE BLUE FOREVER has gotten on the subject of religion. Although my teenaged characters have exceptional morals, because they abstain from sex to avoid an unplanned pregnancy instead of for religious reasons, a few Christian parents have said they didn’t want their teenaged children given such an “amoral” message. I’m sorry, but shouldn’t we be happy if our kids abstain from sex until they’re out of their teens no matter what the reason?

Oh, well. It’s not as if I have any control over how my characters behave or how the plots in my books unfold. I just write them the way they tell me to.

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true.

My Greatest Influence

2006-09-07T08:08:00.000-07:00

Arnold Randolph Sterling Sr.
Feb. 14, 1923 - Sept. 4, 2006

My daddy was liked by everyone who ever knew him. Born to R.E. and Ida Mae Sterling in Norfield, Mississippi, he graduated from Picayune High School. He was a veteran of World War II and the Korean War. At the termination of his enlistment in 1954, he was chief clerk of the Army Finance Office at White Sands Proving Grounds in New Mexico, and that's where he met my mother, Betty Jean Abernathy. One night he and his army buddies went to my grandfather's bar in Las Cruces where she was waiting tables, and he went back the next day to find out her name, because all he remembered from his first visit was her legs. He bought her wedding dress with silver dollars he won at the racetrack, and they went on their honeymoon in his powder blue '49 Cadillac.

He retired from the Terminal Railway at the Alabama State Docks in 1985, but he kept his love for the railroad and trains all his life. He had several collections of train whistles that he listened to, and he shared many wonderful stories with us of his early years spent on the tracks logging boxcars, gondolas, and hoppers before he moved into the yard office. I know the reason I'm able to write books is that he gave me his gift for storytelling.

Never would you call my daddy that you weren’t greeted by the most cheerful “hello” you’d ever heard, and he had a joke for every situation. He even had the ambulance attendants and ER personnel at the hospital laughing when they took him in two weeks ago. My sister and my brother and I got a call from him every night with a detailed weather forecast for the next day, any new jokes featured in Reader’s Digest, and some bit of trivia or obscure news item we could “tell all the girls on coffee break.”

A lifelong lover of music and talented guitarist whose father taught him to play at the age of six, my daddy filled our house every Sunday with Dixieland jazz, cowboy trail songs, gospel hymns, country songs, folk music, and rock-n-roll. He passed on this appreciation for all types of music to his children and grandchildren, and we all know the words to songs from as far back as the 30s. As recently as last month, he served as the “disc jockey” for the senior citizens at his apartment complex, and he had a vast collection of music that he’d painstakingly recorded onto cassette tapes in different categories to fit whatever occasion they were celebrating.

Although he didn’t attend church, he was a devout Christian who’d read the Bible from cover-to-cover many times, and he taught us about God through Bible stories he retold in his own words, modern parables he made up himself, and family games like Bible drills and memorizing verses, but our best lesson was the example he set for us because of the kind of man he was.

Born with one of the softest hearts in the world, he loved animals of all kinds, all the way down to the smallest of creatures. I remember him telling me when I was little about the colony of sugar ants on one of the piers at the Alabama State Docks that he fed every day on his lunch hour. He’d come home every night and tell me what kind of foods they liked and which ones they hadn’t cared for, and every Sunday afternoon I would sit in his lap and watch “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” and learn about animals right along with him. This love and respect for all God’s creatures and exceptionally soft heart is another legacy he passed on to his children and grandchildren. My brother carries birdseed in his car to feed hungry birds in parking lots, and my 17-year-old daughter is a vegetarian as a personal statement against the cruel treatment of animals.

Generous to a fault, my daddy was always giving things away, and he loved giving gifts and treats. When my sister and I were little, he would come home from work with candy or cookies hidden in his coat pockets, and whichever one we found first was the one we got to eat. Before he stopped driving, he loved going to yard sales and buying knick-knacks and odd items like singing coin banks and fiber optic flower arrangements for everyone in the family, and he’d always say they were practically “brand spanking new.” He gladly spent all his extra money on his grandchildren, and never did they go to see him that he didn’t have them some kind of snack. Never also was there ever a Paw Paw loved more by his grandchildren, no matter how old or how young they are.

My daddy taught my siblings and me many things as we were growing up. He taught me how to tie my shoes, how to count in Japanese, how to draw a boy and a dog out of the letters in the words, how to do string tricks and play clock solitaire, how to be patient, how to tell right from wrong, and how to live by the Golden Rule. But the most important thing he taught me was how to recognize a good man, because he was the finest one I’ve ever known.

~Stay true to yourself, and your dreams will come true.

Memorable Scenes

2006-08-23T06:30:00.000-07:00

If you're a music lover like me, you know how certain songs always make you think of a specific person, place, or time, and you remember it vividly every time you hear the song. Well, I have a literary version of that phenomenon that makes me remember specific scenes from books I've read.

For instance, every time I see one of those subscription cards that are constantly falling out of magazines, I think about the woman in Gerald's Game by Stephen King who used one of those cards as a straw so she could drink water from a glass on the headboard of the bed she's handcuffed to. Another one is whenever I'm washing potatoes for baking, I always think of Amber scrubbing the meager potatoes she and Bruce had to eat in Forever Amber by Kathleen Winsor. Juicy sandwiches always remind me of the ones eaten by Detective Delaney in Lawrence Sanders' Deadly Sin books, sparrows make me think of The Dark Half by Stephen King, and drinking a Dr. Pepper always takes me back to the one Marlene drinks in My Sweet Charlie by David Westheimer.

One of my favorite fantasies is one day having people think of scenes from my books like this. Sigh . . .

~Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true!

Virgin Post

2006-08-21T10:31:00.000-07:00

Okay, fellow bloggers. Be gentle with me!

I'm told by my publisher, my writing buddies, and the authors of all those books I bought on how to promote online that writers must have a blog in order to compete in the self-promotion world. So here I am, blogging away and wondering who (besides my husband who knows best how to suck up with me) will ever read this, but here goes.

My first novel is entitled True Blue Forever and was published twice--once in 2003 by The-Publisher-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and again in 2005 by Authors Ink Books. (In case you're wondering about all the blue references, it's the only color in the world as far as I'm concerned.) My second novel, Different Roads, was also published by AIB this past July. Those so inclined can read samples and find useful buying links at my Authors Den pages. If you have plenty of time to waste (translated: you're at work) you can also read my short stories, sappy poems, and some humorous articles I probably should have saved for blogs posts! Okay, don't read the articles because they may just show up here later on if I run out of material!

My third novel (Symmetry) is completed and currently being shopped around to every agent on the face of the Earth, because this one features a previously ignored health and social issue I feel strongly about and want to talk about in the national media, but more on that later. Much, much more. Probably more than any of you care to hear, but too bad. This is my blog!

Okay, so this is my introductory post. I realize it's lacking in the profound insight department (except for my signoff line that I think is kinda cool) but I'll try to do better in the future. Right now I must go check my sales figures to see if this blog stuff is working.

Stay true to yourself and your dreams will come true!