Looking for a unique Christmas present or something for the woman (and occasional man) who has it all? Check out this red hot collection of shorts fresh off Mozark Press! http://www.mozarkpress.com/publicationsHotFlashMommas
What's it all about? Women going through the adventure of midlife. Twenty-five captivating stories from authors across the U.S. are included in Hot Flash Mommas. Midlife is a turning point for women and whether the pivotal moment involves crisis, romance, intrigue, or sameness, strong women overcome the randomness of fate and move forward toward a new reality. Browsing the titles is the first indication these stories are crafted to share with girlfriends, sisters, mothers, daughters, and the occasional male who just wants to know what’s going on inside that mysterious female brain. Check out the link for more information.
Why am I promoting it? There's a story called House of Wreckers that I wrote (many moons ago) in it. PLUS--After reading some of the shorts (I'm not through reading all of them cause my daughter swiped it from me), I have to say it's captivating, especially for women (even young girls). And it's not sleazy pornography, just good clean fun.
A little background...Mozark Press had a free short story contest that I entered twice: once with my own name and once with one of my pen names. Of course, as luck would have it, my alter ego's story got selected for inclusion in this fresh anthology. So...check it out. It may turn out to be the next Chicken Soup series.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
THE ADVENTURES OF UNEMPLOYED MAN
Unemployed Man by Erich Origen is climbing up the sales ladder, as is expected. Do yourself a favor and check it out: http://www.unemployedman.com/
Turns out the little brother of a jr. high school girlfriend of mine is not only a writer, but his first book, Goodnight Bush, was a New York Times best-selling book! Having read Goodnight Moon to my children, I immediately connected with it, as did many others. Now, Unemployed Man hits the stores. All I can say is wow. It's a dose of what everyone needs...laughter, and lots of it. This is truly a keeper. Being a California native, the narrative rings pretty close to home base. Way to go Erich!
Turns out the little brother of a jr. high school girlfriend of mine is not only a writer, but his first book, Goodnight Bush, was a New York Times best-selling book! Having read Goodnight Moon to my children, I immediately connected with it, as did many others. Now, Unemployed Man hits the stores. All I can say is wow. It's a dose of what everyone needs...laughter, and lots of it. This is truly a keeper. Being a California native, the narrative rings pretty close to home base. Way to go Erich!
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Tom Cruise Demands Gold Toilet Seat!
I read that in some muck-raking magazine. The thought occurred to me this am while driving in to work in the dark (don't ask me why). Just think about the absudity of such a request--demanding a gold (is that solid gold?) toilet seat for your ass to sit on while you do--well, you get the point. OMG, as my daughter would write. I don't know if this story is true or made up for the sensationalistic nature of such a claim. Sometimes I get the feeling that they're after Mr. Cruise. However, I don't feel sorry for him or any other people who trade their anonymity for fame. But...had to write that today and say...how fucking ridiculous can you get? Excuse my sailor language for those of delicate natures.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Update on the devil-drug prednisone.
Amazingly, I’m down to 2 milligrams prednisone a day, plus 20 milligrams hydrocortisone split 1/2 am/pm. I’ve never been this low in 10 years being on this s @ # t ! By the end of the day I feel like a zombie crawling back into her crypt. In the morning, my whole body aches as if I’d been hit by a semi the night before. But, I’m so close…maybe this time….I’ll be lucky.
At work I keep a note taped to the desk where I hide it with my keyboad: “If I can make it to December.”
I also push on, trudge forward (I like that phrase), with the Whitcher saga. A writing cohort advised to write something each day, even if it’s just a sentence. Good advice for me.
The story remains with me, consuming nearly every thought. I am of the type who has to immerge myself into the story. Since this one takes place in the mid-1800s, that is a difficult task to accomplish.
At work I keep a note taped to the desk where I hide it with my keyboad: “If I can make it to December.”
I also push on, trudge forward (I like that phrase), with the Whitcher saga. A writing cohort advised to write something each day, even if it’s just a sentence. Good advice for me.
The story remains with me, consuming nearly every thought. I am of the type who has to immerge myself into the story. Since this one takes place in the mid-1800s, that is a difficult task to accomplish.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
News Flash!
Jack Erslager, aka Robert R. Weger, has officially put his rare digest on my website for sale! If you loved Jack, can't get enough of him, or are just curious to learn more about the origins of an ancient symbol that continues to be misunderstood, go to www.gmweger.com and look for a red-colored "New" button to click for more information. Check towards the bottom of the screen, right before the credit links. Enjoy!
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Truth versus Fiction
Almost three weeks ago I gave a talk and PowerPoint slideshow at the National Steinbeck Center about my novel East Garrison. I'd spent a lot of time preparing the slides and thinking about the "motivation" for writing the book, trying to make the talk interesting for the audience. Amazingly, the evening went very well, and I actually enjoyed myself. I'd decided after that talk that I'd put East Garrison to rest and get back to what I really love—writing. But this second book isn't at all like the first. This book is based on a true story, and it takes place in the mid-1800s. I find this so much harder to write. The desire to get the story correct is getting in the way of my writing. Seems like it'd be easier knowing the plot ahead of time, yet to me it's like trying to draw a picture with my left hand. (And I can't draw a stick figure with my right hand!) I'm a believer in nothing worthwhile being easy. If what you're writing is not what you want to write, and you find it difficult and want to quit, its gotta be gold, and you must stick with it until it's done. It'll be a miracle if I ever type "the end" to this story!
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The Rat
With a small Russian tortoise in one hand and an overflowing bag of trash in the other arm, I flew through the gate without even glancing down. After depositing the garbage and "Crunchy," the tortoise, I greeted my big black dog, Boomer, and let out a blood-curdling scream. At Boomer's feet lay a slightly damp, foot-long rat. And it wasn't dead. Yet.
Boomer panted happily; his fat pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. I stood glued to the pavement, feeling kind of silly for over reacting to this obvious non-threat. My daughter yelled from the front door, "Mom? Are you okay?" I had to explain the situation and then, of course, the entire neighborhood ran over to get a look at "the rat."
I kind of didn't know what to do. The children immediately suggested feeding it. That seems to be their first course of action for a sick anything. One of the girls wanted to stab it. That scared me. I rushed into the house to get Boomer out of there and collect my senses.
I wanted to put the rat out of its misery because it surely must be dying, but that isn't something a multigenerational humane person does. I've seen my husband crush a gopher with his boot as easily as if he were stepping on winter leaves.
The kids were making a lot of noise, so I peeked through the window. Now my son and his best friend had joined the group huddled around the rat.
Suddenly, I reached to unclasp the window, already in directorial mode, "I know what to do."
"Mom! He needs food!"
"Let's put him in a box until daddy gets home. I'll be right out."
So we did. One girl ran and got a Nike shoe box and a Styrofoam cup that she'd cut down and filled with water. Perfect. Careful not to touch the rat, I gently nudged it onto a flat-nosed shovel and set it into the box, near the water, and closed the lid. Hours later I looked in the box and the rat had died with its nose in the water.
While driving to work this morning, I ruminated on the former exciting afternoon and lamented the rat's demise. I actually said it out loud to myself alone in the car, "poor thing."
I just read a book about a man (Timothy Treadwell or Tim Dexter was his real name) and woman (Amie Huguenard) who were killed and eaten by a bear in Alaska and didn't have the same reaction. Why?
Then the answer came to me.
Because the rat didn't want to die, and there are much crueler ways to die in the wild. My son pointed out that he could have been eaten by "Riley," our wild caught king snake who we recently let loose in the back hill. That's not a pretty way to go.
Yes, that and a million other ways, I thought.
So, what's the meaning of this rumination into the jaws of death? I dunno, but it sure has me thinking about being a vegetarian.
Boomer panted happily; his fat pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. I stood glued to the pavement, feeling kind of silly for over reacting to this obvious non-threat. My daughter yelled from the front door, "Mom? Are you okay?" I had to explain the situation and then, of course, the entire neighborhood ran over to get a look at "the rat."
I kind of didn't know what to do. The children immediately suggested feeding it. That seems to be their first course of action for a sick anything. One of the girls wanted to stab it. That scared me. I rushed into the house to get Boomer out of there and collect my senses.
I wanted to put the rat out of its misery because it surely must be dying, but that isn't something a multigenerational humane person does. I've seen my husband crush a gopher with his boot as easily as if he were stepping on winter leaves.
The kids were making a lot of noise, so I peeked through the window. Now my son and his best friend had joined the group huddled around the rat.
Suddenly, I reached to unclasp the window, already in directorial mode, "I know what to do."
"Mom! He needs food!"
"Let's put him in a box until daddy gets home. I'll be right out."
So we did. One girl ran and got a Nike shoe box and a Styrofoam cup that she'd cut down and filled with water. Perfect. Careful not to touch the rat, I gently nudged it onto a flat-nosed shovel and set it into the box, near the water, and closed the lid. Hours later I looked in the box and the rat had died with its nose in the water.
While driving to work this morning, I ruminated on the former exciting afternoon and lamented the rat's demise. I actually said it out loud to myself alone in the car, "poor thing."
I just read a book about a man (Timothy Treadwell or Tim Dexter was his real name) and woman (Amie Huguenard) who were killed and eaten by a bear in Alaska and didn't have the same reaction. Why?
Then the answer came to me.
Because the rat didn't want to die, and there are much crueler ways to die in the wild. My son pointed out that he could have been eaten by "Riley," our wild caught king snake who we recently let loose in the back hill. That's not a pretty way to go.
Yes, that and a million other ways, I thought.
So, what's the meaning of this rumination into the jaws of death? I dunno, but it sure has me thinking about being a vegetarian.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
