It’s not my fault! Not completely…

   Okay, I know I’m waaaay late getting my blog up, but I have a good reason…sort of.  With the deadline of the contest yesterday, I’ve spent my last couple of days off trying to input all the judged entries.  Last night, I knew I had this blog due today, but I kept telling myself I’d finish the entries first and then blog.  Alas, the best laid plans…

Everytime I thought I’d finished, another few would show up in my mailbox.  I told myself that I should just ignore them, blog, and go to bed since I was to work today.  Not only work, but dress in a costume (a witch, true type-casting) and making chocolate chip pancakes for our weekly pot luck lunch.  But I kept thinking of those writers.  The ones who trusted their baby to our hands.

See, I still remember when I first entered contest.  Such a scary prospect.  I wondered if they would take care of my baby.  Or would it come back to me with coffee stains all over it.  Would they see the brilliance of the story?  Or would I get back all covered with red ink and a short note to keep my day job.  At first, it astounded me that when I did get back my entry, some very nice people not only had good things to say about my writing, but also helped me fix the sections were I needed help.  Eventually, I got that first “win”…an honorable mention at OWFI.

I guess that’s why I felt that I owed it to those people who helped to “pay it forward” so to speak.  I needed to go over those entries to make sure they were getting the strokes and lessons that I got.  To see that they go all the points they deserved.  And maybe, just maybe on of “my authors” will get a get a chance to have an editor read and buy them.  So I have to admit…I’m not that sorry I’m late.  Besides, I made it, didn’t I?

Come On Over

Since there’s not a  blog up yet today, come to Twisted Sisters and meet MARLEY, a real psychic!

And just for fun . . .

and

 

Ps:

Question: Why can’t witches get pregnant?

Answer: Hollow weenie!

(have a happy one)

Know a Halloween joke? Share it here!

 

 

From Bad Comes Good

I’m writing this ahead of time because I will be in Cozumel–barring any unforseen occurrence. This trip has been postponed for over two years, so no hating or whining because I’m gone. And that’s part of why I titled it this way.

It’s raining here at Twisted Creek, and the DH has called periodically to make sure that our road hasn’t flooded yet. Our pasture turned into a lake, which is all right–up to a point. This weekend our neighbor’s pond overflowed and flooded our shop. Fortunately all the engines and major car parts are off the cement. And our offices flooded, but only minor. No carpet to ruin. The good to come out of this is that DH will finally hire someone to come out to dig a drainage ditch on the neighbor’s side to divert the water, AND get the drain cut in our driveway.

From the book signing, I learned how important finding the right audience to show case my work. This means that I will forgo other signings unless there is a strong romance presence. I fully understand that I might not sell a book there either, but what I write won’t be called trash either. I will be excited to attend regional conferences where book signings are offered. If books don’t sell, I will have a chance to learn more about my craft, plus network with others who enjoy what I write.

What good lessons have you learned recently? (You will have to give me a few days to send replies–I will be thinking of y’all while I’m sunning on the beach!)

Spooky?

Are you superstitious? If you spill salt, do you throw a pinch over your shoulder? Will you walk under a ladder or be the first to cross the path of a black cat? What about Friday the 13^th? Does the thought of facing one of those days tempt you to stay home?

I’m sure there are other things that a lot of us won’t readily admit to. Each of us has something we have tucked in our closet that most people would never suspect of you.

Me? Heck, didn’t you know that I’m bass-ackards? One of the reason’s you all love me so much. Right? {snort}

I remember my senior year in high school when we were playing the coaches hometown team for our basketball Homecoming. It was Friday the 13^th. On the way to the game, a black cat ran out of the cemetery and ran directly across my path. (I did tell you I used to play in the cemetery just down the road from my house when I was a kid, didn’t I?)

The coaches team had already beaten us —badly — that year and Coach threatened us with serious death the following Monday if we played “like girls” in order to not muss our hair. (The Queen and her court were all on the team.)

We went into double overtime. They kept fouling me because I was the worst shot, hoping to get the ball back. The girl that was to be crowned queen won the game by scoring the highest game ever for her. We won by 5 points. But it was MY five points.

So yeah, I believe in Friday the 13^th and black cats coming out of cemeteries and even walking under ladders. (As long as I don’t tip them over.)

With Halloween only a couple days away, tell me, what are you superstitious about? i.e. what spooks you?

What’s in YOUR closet?

Half-empty or Half-full?

I’ve always been an optimistic person. Even at the worst of times, I always saw the good side. I still am and still do. But I’ve found that some people–okay, most–don’t like to hear it.

If someone is venting about things that are wrong in their life, I usually realize it’s something that can’t be fixed, so I try to point out the good side of it. Typically, it gets me nothing but grief. Why is that? I don’t understand this. Maybe it’s my naivety that my DH and even others say I have. But even at the worst, things can always be worse. But no one wants to hear that, and no one seems to understand that. So I’ve learned to not say anything.

So I ask you. Is your glass half-empty or half-full?

There is no wrong or right answer. But when things go bad, as life often will, do you see all the wrong things in your life, or do you take time to notice the right things in your life?

 Even if the only thing right is a beautiful sunset, it’s still a good thing.

Spooky Movies

Each morning I try to check this blog to make sure it’s actually there. You never know when someone will forget to post. Happens to the best of us. Today that best was me!

I have an excuse. I missed CASTLE last night because I was watching Tivoed Dancing with the Stars. (I missed Dancing because I watched Tivoed Gran Torino. LOVED IT!)

So when Jaci Burton said last night’s was the best Castle ever, I had to go to ABC.com and watch it. (Found out I could do that on FACEBOOK. TG for FB!)

Castle was a spooky show with a Halloween theme. Natch. So I got to wondering what other people’s favorite spooky movies are.

Personally, I like the classics. The Wolf Man, Frankenstein, 13 Ghosts (the original!), and The Mummy.

I don’t know if they’re really that good or if I love them because I discovered them when I was a kid, going to the movies on Saturday afternoon with my sister and whatever cousins and/or friends happened along.  

So what are your favorite Halloween movies? And have you seen the original 13 Ghosts? It’s wonderful!

They Both Start with D!

This weekend I headed out for the Chisholm Trail Book Festival in Durant, Oklahoma. There was a reception for the participating authors scheduled for Friday evening, then the day-long event on Sunday. Meg and I were planning to spend Saturday night kicked back and catching up, then we’d each head home on Sunday.

Because I’ve been really pooped from hospital duty with Mom and insomnia, DH decided to drive me down and pick me up on Sunday. We had a lovely drive down Highway 75 to the Indian Nations Turnpike, passing ranches, cattle, wildflowers and beautifully colored trees every mile — oh, and let’s not forget the tribal casinos, too. It seemed like there was one for every hundred head of cattle.

We were mere miles from Durant when Susan called. She was supposed to do the book festival with us, but couldn’t go. In the conversation, she said something about Duncan. “Oh, no,” I replied. “It’s in Durant.”

“Uh, I thought it was Duncan.”

“Nope. Durant.”

After the call, DH began checking the GPS for directions to the Hampton Inn in Durant. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. And I began calling Information for the event center with a sick feeling in my stomach.

Yes, kids, the great traveler, I who can find my way anywhere without a map, who have traveled cross country to new locations and back again without even opening the atlas, I went to the wrong dang town. How could I have made such a bonehead mistake? I dunno. And to make it even worse, DH had to work that night, so there was no way we could make it to Duncan from Durant (I’m not sure that’s even possible) and he could get home in time for work.

So we turned around and headed home. Bright and early the next morning, when he got off, we took off again. In the right direction this time. To the right town!

The signing was an experience. Spending time with Meg was a hoot. But now I’m home again, and I’m back on nursing duty. Mom’s at my sister’s now, so at least the surroundings are better. But she’s got to be given meds by IV twice a day. I’ve never done that before, and after my driving debacle, I just wonder if they REALLY want me giving IV meds when I can’t tell the difference between one town and another.

Less Than Perfect Day

I was here yesterday, and I’m not trying to take over this blog (I might if I could sneak in subliminal messages, but I haven’t figured out how.) Trouble is, our interview with Jenna Petersen, which was scheduled for today, fell through. Keep your fingers crossed. We’re hoping to post it SOON!

So I thought I’d let everyone who reads this blog (subliminal message-buy Susan’s book) write it.

We have a bunch of people who read this blog every day, but very few make a comment. I know, it’s a lot of trouble. You might make a gramatical (or spelling) error and everyone would know you’re less than perfect.

Well, good news! This is Less Than Perfect Day.

Here’s all you have to do–

Make a comment telling what you do, and what you do when you aren’t doing what you have to do. When you aren’t at work, during your off time, what do you do artistically? (sm-bsb) Knit? Paint? Make jewelry? Quilt? Create dolls out of corn husks?

And when you make that comment, make a mistake on purpose. Celebrate being less than perfect!

If you play, we’ll draw a name and send a lucky winner one of Marilyn’s new books, “Passion to Die For.”

Is there a reason I’m giving away one of Marilyn’s books without asking her to donate it? Yes! And I’m talking about it over at The Twisted Sisters blog.

Come on over and learn all about it.

 But first, make a not quite perfect comment here so you can win that book.

Pioneer Day Pet Parade

I opened a new account at my bank this week. Had to go to a veep’s office to do it, which I didn’t mind at all, because our bank is decorated with pictures from the early days in our town.

Cleveland is a small town with a friendly spirit.

I’ve read in history books that originally, our town was filled with some pretty wild folks. We had bars and saloons that numbered in the teens and almost as many cat houses. (That’s a lot for a town this small.)  But we’re just across the river from the Osage Reservation (now Osage County) where the Federal Government made sure there was no alcohol or sluts. Things weren’t so strict in Pawnee County.

So Reservation residents swam the river to Cleveland so they could get what they wanted. And, most likely, those old Cleveland “business” people swam the river the other direction to make deliveries. (Yes, I think there’s a historical romance in there somewhere. Too bad I don’t write historicals . . . yet.)

Anyway, every time I see the pictures in the bank, I start remembering MY early days in town.

I was five when we moved here. We went to a grocery store called Crady’s and a bank called First National. Neither one exist today.

The best thing I remember is every year, Cleveland had a Pioneer Day celebration to remember the opening of the Cherokee Strip. One part was the a beard growing contest. (For men only. Women need not apply.)  

The men were on their honor to start the growth on a certain day, and the one with the most impressive beard (Thickest? Longest? Curliest? I’m not sure what criteria is used to judge a beard) at the celebration won. Much to my chagrin, my dad never considered entering the competition.

Another part of the celebration was free barbeque sandwiches. I remember them as being the best barbecue I’ve ever tasted! Once in a great while today, when I make barbeque sandwiches, there’s something, either the taste or the fragrance, takes me right back to that day, standing in line for my sandwich on Main Street.

That street used to be made of brick. It’s been covered over now, but we still have several brick streets.

Pioneer Day parades were a little hard to navigate across those bricks, but they usually included pet and bicycle sections for the kids. While I don’t remember decorating my bike (we didn’t have crepe paper for weaving through the spokes) we did have several pets. The year I decided to march in the pet parade, I wanted to take one of our Toy Manchester Terriers (they look EXACTLY like a Min Pin.)

I set my heart on taking Tiny, who was the runt of the litter when she was born. Small and shy, prone to ducking her head and tucking her tail around humans,  she regularly chased the neighborhood Goliath, a Great Dane, out of our yard. (Not if there were strangers around, though.)

Problem was, being in the parade meant being around people. When I hooked a leash on her collar, she hunkered, curling into a little black ball. My heart broke as I realized the only way to get her from one end of Broadway to the other was going to be to drag her across the bricks on the end of that leash.

No pet parade for me. *Sigh*

Never one to give up for long, I decided I’d carry Tiny in the parade.

No, I thought.That’d look dumb and the other kids would laugh.

But I wanted to be in that parade so bad.

Glancing around the garage where our puppers lived (and cars rarely did) I saw a blue baby’s bathtub and it hit me like a fist. I’d carry Tiny in the tub. While I could expect the kids to tease if I carried her in my arms, how could anyone laugh if I carried her in a tub?

So I set her in the tub and picked it up. Something was still wrong. Tiny looked . . . naked. That’s when I noticed the box of baby clothes someone had given Mom and she’d stored out there. Digging deep, I found a pink, lacy knitted infant jacket and matching bonnet that just fit Tiny. Perfect! in my mind, at least.  

I walked in the parade with other kids, who had dogs that obediently followed (or pulled them along) on a leash. 

The criteria planned for the pet awards have escaped me after all these years. It should have had something to do with the most obedient or best trained pets, but it was probably largest and smallest critters.

The only thing I remember is the committee added a new category to the competition that year. Best Dressed Pet.

Tiny (and I) won.

It’s All About the Words

The legendary Jim Morrison once said, “It’s all about the words, man. It’s all about the words.” He was right. An artist understands color can stir up emotions. A decorator knows texture is sensual. A writer appreciates the power and punch of a word. Sometimes when we strive to present a story, describe a scene, or create a character in a new, fresh, or interesting way, we lose sight of one simple fact – the craft is all about words. It’s all about how we use them, when we use them, where we use them, what words we use, and who they’re about that tell our story.

To avoid a cliché there is a temptation to over think and over reach. It’s helpful to remember that sometimes blue is blue, eyes are piercing, hearts beat, and lovers sigh. There are times when it’s better to keep it simple than drag out the thesaurus.

Words carry meaning. That sounds obvious, and elementary, yet a single poorly chosen word will yank a reader right out of a story, while a well-placed word will breathe life into a plot or flesh out a character. Just adding or changing a noun, a verb, or an adjective can create a whole new perspective or dramatically change a sentence. For example: “What a beautiful day for a parade.” vs. “What a beautiful day for a funeral.”  That’s a little extreme, but you get the point.

Some words are passive, some active, some tell, some show. George Carlin said, “There are no bad words. Just bad intent.” I would add there are no bad words, just poorly used ones. The ancients believed certain words could cast a spell. They knew what writers know – words are magic.