tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21302439389833811822024-03-17T23:02:27.937-04:00Window Over the SinkLiz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.comBlogger534125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-72273919764245181292024-03-16T02:00:00.004-04:002024-03-16T15:12:51.479-04:00The Art of Being Thrilled by Liz Flaherty<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGNx9gV_e7LDUf8GaWfZKnPGlv4gWpwHoyS9dGwL87A4lD9F1DYYnUnlEFQfG7YNEJzYUWj8aLak2CumBdC7fhGjMG8ie_m_atHBTcQdmJsAUZzvkvX1GXxRu-S9vNnO9sitaTf-f9SGUwzsHVwUOVhRRF25edUxgF84nrAWIMCnVp04HCNN4sSfQrUn8" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1763" data-original-width="1175" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGNx9gV_e7LDUf8GaWfZKnPGlv4gWpwHoyS9dGwL87A4lD9F1DYYnUnlEFQfG7YNEJzYUWj8aLak2CumBdC7fhGjMG8ie_m_atHBTcQdmJsAUZzvkvX1GXxRu-S9vNnO9sitaTf-f9SGUwzsHVwUOVhRRF25edUxgF84nrAWIMCnVp04HCNN4sSfQrUn8" width="160" /></a></div>Okay, it's probably not an art. Being thrilled, I mean. It's something I've never given much thought. I don't read thrillers, don't watch thrillers, am categorically scared of anything described as a thriller. I'm not afraid they'll hurt me--they're mostly fiction--but they <i>will </i>keep me awake, reappear in my dreams when I do get to sleep, and make me say after watching one that "there go two hours I can never get back."<p></p><p>But there's a real difference between dramatic thrillers, which really are art, and just being thrilled. Which is just fun.</p><p>Yesterday, a bunch of us had lunch together. We met at noon and at 2:30, we finally vacated the table. We've been friends for over 40 years, that bunch that met. We share memories, we care for each other, and we laugh a lot. We don't meet often, nor do we have to, but I am thrilled with the days that we do.</p><p>Also yesterday, I had two notes from publishers. Neither of them involved money, contracts, promises, or bestsellerdom, but they were personal and friendly. In the constantly changing publishing industry, I am totally thrilled with personal and friendly.</p><p>Peru High School's basketball team is at the semi-state today. What a thrilling ride the past few weeks have been for the players and their supporters. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5FuDOdPxt3_2CpLiHQH5wF4Z4RmHxJcrx76Kai7TvoSgoUennFI2a5BijDPaPr6RdNzWZNH5FTMzfsAQWKqYTJBSAr_e82H5bIvKJfbMUIxAHvDK8iR5abfFNt_xX09vXVb0-Kr3_EMH4nGTJhsPA7i1O9bx1qrZfXX0ARlWCu6bbhtaJN7eP5NZmJQw/s500/1617323167007978735.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="500" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5FuDOdPxt3_2CpLiHQH5wF4Z4RmHxJcrx76Kai7TvoSgoUennFI2a5BijDPaPr6RdNzWZNH5FTMzfsAQWKqYTJBSAr_e82H5bIvKJfbMUIxAHvDK8iR5abfFNt_xX09vXVb0-Kr3_EMH4nGTJhsPA7i1O9bx1qrZfXX0ARlWCu6bbhtaJN7eP5NZmJQw/w400-h209/1617323167007978735.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture borrowed from https://www.facebook.com/groups/868515521440675<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Just this week, I was thrilled to have cleaned off the dining room table, the kitchen island, and the table next to my chair. Like most thrills, those won't last long. <p>I've been thrilled to have coffee every morning in the silence of the office, to save 10 cents a gallon on gas, to have dinner at Beef O'Brady's, another dinner from Ebenezer Church pizza, and one last night at Farmhouse Cafe. I'm also thrilled that I don't have to cook if I don't feel like it. </p><p>Wishing you a Happy St. Patrick's Day and a great week. I hope you find a thrill here and there. Be nice to somebody.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWe84-NlwL07mMyWsMkbhGuqPJWyDmv0kPaD_eE6OBwqu4CaZiGWFG6_GxgG3cvPiRcB_GBeG7wslr4LpwFigDIC8T62u_kp8Muiub6bjaXkorF3NwhfF5F7UOZxF_j72rJqG689Uk9K3PNbCcPL1M6gIX3VJJU8R1eCJM99ccRRAaYphMeffoD9-asC4/s1600/Untitled%20design%20(22).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWe84-NlwL07mMyWsMkbhGuqPJWyDmv0kPaD_eE6OBwqu4CaZiGWFG6_GxgG3cvPiRcB_GBeG7wslr4LpwFigDIC8T62u_kp8Muiub6bjaXkorF3NwhfF5F7UOZxF_j72rJqG689Uk9K3PNbCcPL1M6gIX3VJJU8R1eCJM99ccRRAaYphMeffoD9-asC4/s320/Untitled%20design%20(22).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-25964061988424906242024-03-13T02:00:00.029-04:002024-03-13T02:00:00.191-04:00Being Stuck by Sinclair Jayne March 13<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b></b></i></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjF3LRZZ-RzAQwKll9_-4RSlJP_lqRyBWJRTzfrkC4CMNVdEzN-VMhA-WidSLSJgsqfw5NLM3_JfuObQAE2VK6K3r1CQOJSo5Zx5iR54CL0ex4R1Pwtg02UrWn8QoqAx9rhHI7MJKSfLH2aG29AGizqHOrlScqGZlkihArARDNbwAKa_qiuVbQVW7yle4/s485/1332539.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="485" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjF3LRZZ-RzAQwKll9_-4RSlJP_lqRyBWJRTzfrkC4CMNVdEzN-VMhA-WidSLSJgsqfw5NLM3_JfuObQAE2VK6K3r1CQOJSo5Zx5iR54CL0ex4R1Pwtg02UrWn8QoqAx9rhHI7MJKSfLH2aG29AGizqHOrlScqGZlkihArARDNbwAKa_qiuVbQVW7yle4/s320/1332539.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The Window welcomes the charming and talented Sinclair Jayne today, talking about a subject every writer knows and dreads. </b></i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Shout out to the fun and clever Liz for letting me crash her blog this week.</b></span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-3f53dbb6-7fff-1216-79e6-5cd08c86dbd1"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Have you ever been stuck?</b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I believe it’s more common than any of us want to admit as many women fall into the trap of thinking we need to be some sort of version of Ed Sheeran singing </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Perfect</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> as we juggle all the spinning elements of our lives-work, and yet sometimes something drops. Or everything does. Maybe even us.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I was emailing with Liz about the feeling of being creatively stuck a couple of years ago on the last book or my Misguided Masala Matchmaker series—</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Stealing Mr. Perfect</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">. Completely unexpected. I used to be a teacher and taught creativity workshops. I’d researched creativity in writing. I knew the tricks, and then I hit this wall I’d heard about, but had imagined I would never hit it hard. And if I did bump my head or toe on the wall. I would take in a deep breath and walk around or awkwardly clamber over. </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At first, I was more curious than worried. Why this book? Why these characters? I knew my hero and heroine. My heroine had been a main supporting character in the previous three books in the series. She was the driver, the matchmaker and yes, she was loving, enthusiastic and always misguided. She found or stumbled into the perfect match for her family through judgment errors, luck and stubborn misreading of a situation or person. She was lovable and funny. Rani Kapoor’s HEA was supposed to be a slam dunk, and yet I stumbled and missed the basket three times until I was starting to freeze up and fantasizing about throwing my computer out of a window and applying for a job at Starbucks. </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wrote and revised. Reworked. Started over and over and over again. I Conferenced with my editor and consulted friends. But what I really wanted to do, and what I started practicing was the email to my editor and publisher saying that I didn’t want to write the book. It wasn’t working. The series would work better as a trio. Totally unprofessional and since I’d argued that Rani needed her story to wrap up the series when we were discussing a three or four book contract, my fantasizing about backing out felt like a limp white flag.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was stuck. And as a developmental editor who has held the hands of many authors who have a crisis of faith and become stuck, I was ashamed of even thinking about not writing the book. It was something I’d never imagined not doing. Writing a book is a journey, a thrilling honor, an adventure, a joy and yeah, sometimes a teeth-grinding frustration in gorging on humble pie. But not doing it? Inconceivable. </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">My mind spun round and round. What to do? What was my next step and how did I take it? What finally shoved me back on my feet and out of the ditch was when I imagined telling my daughter—then a college freshman who is absurdly talented and driven and who’d not whined once when she lost several months of her senior year performances, rituals and activities and who was starting college on Zoom--I was giving up. I had flown my resiliency flag my whole life, and it was definitely a theme when I raised my children. When Angela Duckworth’s book </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Grit</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">: </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The Power of Passion and Perseverance</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> came out, I read it, gifted it and wouldn’t shut up about it.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I used to teach with someone who often intoned ‘suck it up butter cup.’ And I knew that I had to take a new approach—the fourth attempt to write </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Stealing Mr. Right</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">. During another Zoom with my fabulously brilliant and creative editor and author Kelly Hunter, I finally realized why I was stuck, when she was trying to guide me in a different direction that felt wrong all the way to my fingertips. She argued passionately that the theme of the book was “What is love.” And that’s when I realized that the book—yes, a romance about a matchmaker who falls in love, wasn’t really about love. It was about identity. Rani’s and my hero’s. </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That’s why I couldn’t write it. I was writing the wrong book. Rani had been defined by others her whole life, and her growth arc was about finally coming into herself. Gaining confidence. Defining herself and taking full agency of her life. Jasminder has been so alienated from his culture and family that he is disconnected from himself and life and only has his career. By setting off separately to learn about themselves, they can love themselves and then fall in love. It was so sudden and so clear that I abruptly ended the meeting, opened the new file and began to write starting on page one. One month later I hit save and send. Happy. Relieved and proud because the book sang. </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Grinding it out might not seem inspirational, but it is effective and gritty. Being emotionally stuck requires, I’ve discovered, a bit more finesse, and self-kindness along with support. When my mother passed last year after several years of decline and illness, I felt totally spent. I was scheduled to attend a writer’s retreat a couple of weeks after she died and vacillated about going. But my husband strongly encouraged me to go as did the three other authors I was meeting. And spending time talking story, talking lives, family and goals while walking in the gorgeous nature that surrounds and imbues Canmore, Canada, soothed and inspired me. And when I was brainstorming the plot for the fourth book in a new series The Coyote Cowboys of Montana, I felt devoid of ideas. I admitted how empty my brain and heartfelt—how I was again stuck. It felt scary admitting that, and yet they bounced ideas with me for </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The Cowboy Charm</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">, which released last month. “Use your feelings,” Author, Publisher and bestie Jane Porter advised. “Let them drive the story.” </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Usually when I write, I’m in my imagination. Sure, I’ll grab a snippet from something I read or hear about on occasion, but mostly it’s me and the wild animals rampaging through my head. Harnessing the grief, the exhaustion, the frustration and the disquieting giddiness of relief that the worst had finally happened life, sounded scary. What would happen? Doom and gloom. And yet, <i>The Cowboy Charm</i> was one of the easiest books I’d ever written. It flowed and my hero and heroine, both of whom were at uncomfortable turning points in their lives danced. Even when there was heaviness, The dialog, the visuals, the secondary characters shone with light. I was having fun. My hero was having fun, and my heroine, who was as stuck as I had been, found her groove and fun again.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBQE0H2TiYPr1HALQ_atyK-L2rOKa7UlOvxJeUwwqCYpNDKtOzf3PZNxGeu942otgO7XwevVpH8vOP0PuGemYjcdQewSkI8XwVQdJOhkeoXyeVEGo2OjRQc5QX_yqPcnRfQL_IOq0o3wewYFOtQLEfHImCD71WmSl2hkd1HkAs3U0Pqy2eZXIvzNFP4QM/s320/IMG_3708.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBQE0H2TiYPr1HALQ_atyK-L2rOKa7UlOvxJeUwwqCYpNDKtOzf3PZNxGeu942otgO7XwevVpH8vOP0PuGemYjcdQewSkI8XwVQdJOhkeoXyeVEGo2OjRQc5QX_yqPcnRfQL_IOq0o3wewYFOtQLEfHImCD71WmSl2hkd1HkAs3U0Pqy2eZXIvzNFP4QM/s1600/IMG_3708.jpeg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">It was freeing to face something hard head on, not in a stoic way, but in a ‘let’s play’ way. I hope I can seize the chance again. But I do know that after navigating two deeply different but equally challenging moments of being stuck creatively and emotionally, I have more confidence that future me will grab the challenge rather than duck it or pretend it will go away. </span></span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Have you had a moment where you really felt stuck? How did you rise to the challenge? A response will be chosen randomly to win a signed and print copy of the two books that illustrate my most recent moments of becoming unstuck. You can DM or email me at </span><a href="mailto:authorsinclairjayne@gmail.com" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #467886; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">authorsinclairjayne@gmail.com</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">.</span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPe37NBGRu7SVnlCGcvjatLpNcGPLyUFBHvfIjsGDwA9DL-G4VHy8u7Hp67ntOe8P7N_DIK4_XN1r4S5UG_YD3Q6aF1VpPgbJ9TMxdZh9v0MFukh_9LGvp2mvOTeN240iltklZyyW0RmEe46kR6rLWXHDg5Ljx3UesKkPyte_D8kjvX-7dssnzETRTjk/s1050/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="1050" height="46" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPe37NBGRu7SVnlCGcvjatLpNcGPLyUFBHvfIjsGDwA9DL-G4VHy8u7Hp67ntOe8P7N_DIK4_XN1r4S5UG_YD3Q6aF1VpPgbJ9TMxdZh9v0MFukh_9LGvp2mvOTeN240iltklZyyW0RmEe46kR6rLWXHDg5Ljx3UesKkPyte_D8kjvX-7dssnzETRTjk/s320/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" width="320" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQoyk8rEMmjvDuziYE0b-Z_vu__755lfv6F3fiYD1CItMnrn01f69cwzqV7Fud0d5bR_IdBpzQsOWwJjmhXxrKWuAliFNCHBakArfS1al-NhZEjW8WvNWayFyPPPNx8fvPD6jzAWfOJWULMugTOHzjZEzYt54k8_S7yw85ovuOq0Ru11yaX1yqV8NWMw/s320/IMG_3597.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="147" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQoyk8rEMmjvDuziYE0b-Z_vu__755lfv6F3fiYD1CItMnrn01f69cwzqV7Fud0d5bR_IdBpzQsOWwJjmhXxrKWuAliFNCHBakArfS1al-NhZEjW8WvNWayFyPPPNx8fvPD6jzAWfOJWULMugTOHzjZEzYt54k8_S7yw85ovuOq0Ru11yaX1yqV8NWMw/s1600/IMG_3597.PNG" width="147" /></a></div><br />A former journalist and middle school teacher, Sinclair Sawhney lucked into a job as a developmental editor with Tule Publishing nearly ten years ago and continues to enjoy working with authors. As Sinclair Jayne, she’s published over twenty-five romance novels and counting. She loves her cowboys, small towns and HEAs. When she’s not writing or editing, she’s often hosting wine tastings with her husband of over twenty-seven years in the tasting room of their small vineyard Roshni, which means light filled, in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Cheers.</span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-65037108157068421162024-03-09T02:00:00.001-05:002024-03-09T02:00:00.141-05:00Happy Saturday<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm taking the day off today. I hope you're having a good weekend. Spring is on its way. Don't forget to change your clocks!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If you're looking for something to do this afternoon, stop in at Gallery 15 from 2-4 PM for music from Sarah & Ron Luginbill & Friends Monroe Alfrey and Ron Youngblood. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLURQL8U_SUPR_VOuGIgKjXvoSKX731vAitnRm-D49VfDlOp1UCK3Wa9F27m5zMqACmLIKdW9MHh-IEjfQBWvOsDG9rgV80jYKVvxk1c-hmZn_etH0OLZZEf6t3Q8CwGJrY3R1FGims0GemNMwI-6-143mfwexuHmP41-VDUtA4BDzq2K4NTzKB-Erj4/s2048/430477495_815000997332262_8131906947682459143_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1462" data-original-width="2048" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLURQL8U_SUPR_VOuGIgKjXvoSKX731vAitnRm-D49VfDlOp1UCK3Wa9F27m5zMqACmLIKdW9MHh-IEjfQBWvOsDG9rgV80jYKVvxk1c-hmZn_etH0OLZZEf6t3Q8CwGJrY3R1FGims0GemNMwI-6-143mfwexuHmP41-VDUtA4BDzq2K4NTzKB-Erj4/w400-h285/430477495_815000997332262_8131906947682459143_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Coming soon! <i>Gal's Guide Anthology: Nourish</i>, a collection from Hoosier authors (including me.) It's available for pre-order now at <a href="https://tinyurl.com/3kh5383v">https://tinyurl.com/3kh5383v</a> Reserve your copy now!</span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5e4GrE5t7mVWD8-oL-nmOzkJ2Ih-BVWEWExCGUf5-9TnaxDK1aIDgs5RnSWRkmk4q4UqY-SR0UCxG8w7u91ZAH7T1Hrw7pA6A522tGWhg0ns5_VAufJA-To9HI9exIyREvNkMv1Yzb54-smVxnGFnFLvk8VW4T3f0aFWG8lQ1dVsBj4tPqelr6qGjSbA/s1471/anthology-cover-wip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1471" data-original-width="941" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5e4GrE5t7mVWD8-oL-nmOzkJ2Ih-BVWEWExCGUf5-9TnaxDK1aIDgs5RnSWRkmk4q4UqY-SR0UCxG8w7u91ZAH7T1Hrw7pA6A522tGWhg0ns5_VAufJA-To9HI9exIyREvNkMv1Yzb54-smVxnGFnFLvk8VW4T3f0aFWG8lQ1dVsBj4tPqelr6qGjSbA/s320/anthology-cover-wip.jpg" width="205" /></a></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">This anthology is sponsored and published by the <a href="https://galsguide.org/" target="_blank">Gal's Guide to the Galaxy Library</a> in Noblesville. </span><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">See you next week. Have great days. Be nice to somebody.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxiTIOo1d9Kmt93OUov_58ILmMYGuFR-tFIFbtFOhEGnQM5QEVwZrP15UDbIe9hWk0mV0fcpbgz4oQxVSyG1UDp3CeNwiIS1WLmJGV1VvcAllSN5n3nbXc69N6bfqAmpAqmgqLgQ9Xtv5Btn14WV4dK-8R9P57FudWLJOYRtrotmCvHPNlE22ko1iIUPo/s300/Liz%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxiTIOo1d9Kmt93OUov_58ILmMYGuFR-tFIFbtFOhEGnQM5QEVwZrP15UDbIe9hWk0mV0fcpbgz4oQxVSyG1UDp3CeNwiIS1WLmJGV1VvcAllSN5n3nbXc69N6bfqAmpAqmgqLgQ9Xtv5Btn14WV4dK-8R9P57FudWLJOYRtrotmCvHPNlE22ko1iIUPo/s1600/Liz%20(1).png" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-39276379007437587522024-03-06T02:00:00.000-05:002024-03-06T02:00:00.149-05:00Phooey Kerflooey, Perfect Peace, and the Chaos of Camp Ministry by Kristen Joy Wilks <p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_sADnt5unBAHSu1OEEzh2pZLM_uFY9upukMvw5bnWzbgLehPHT8wQVebCzRqOKAvDhSQlnBHU1IzTmK0psQUoUOESJEoHg4uYIE5OUqP1EtrnCPFC3-HWMWxwXIXiPoMuNCELfSiQ6OVaSs3fpl8bEz6YQUbKDDlmKphzOqIn6KJw5b3V82RbCuC2po/s1080/3.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_sADnt5unBAHSu1OEEzh2pZLM_uFY9upukMvw5bnWzbgLehPHT8wQVebCzRqOKAvDhSQlnBHU1IzTmK0psQUoUOESJEoHg4uYIE5OUqP1EtrnCPFC3-HWMWxwXIXiPoMuNCELfSiQ6OVaSs3fpl8bEz6YQUbKDDlmKphzOqIn6KJw5b3V82RbCuC2po/w200-h200/3.png" width="200" /></a></div><span style="color: #073763;">When my three sons were young, they asked me to write
about our Newfoundland dog, Princess Leia Freyja. Now, I knew that a story for
kids had to have adventure and chaos and fun. So, the method of producing chaos
that I chose was a rampaging squirrel.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;">Our family lives and works at an off-grid Bible camp
and we have had a number of rampaging squirrels over the years. We’ve had
squirrels that broke into the house, the camp buildings, the pantry. We’ve had
squirrels eat food, tear things up, and drag stuff all over the place. We’ve
even had a squirrel that started a fire!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;">What started out as just fun and games became much
more serious and close to home as my story grew. You see, any character must
face a dark moment and grow into a new person because of it.</span></span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;">I didn’t just pull my theme of finding God’s peace in
the middle of squirrel and puppy chaos out of a hat. My husband and I have
worked in full-time camp ministry for almost twenty-five years. Camp life is a
life of chaos and not just the good kind, either.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt_1OdhWpNKVOjgqQnZN-R0ngFC3if6Hy8zn-gqO_45wauxTucB5cwxhFpVt54bjG48W_bDRng_q6q2z2EoKkz4S80bAkytLVu9fsvffHgBQzvare4zohA3vmWf5t2uhHilnViBpXBrR8LGVi7OhzFuKTOdVdWTtfqF-1DpZYEeG3DksSNzul6w7ebSS4/s6000/DSC_2206.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt_1OdhWpNKVOjgqQnZN-R0ngFC3if6Hy8zn-gqO_45wauxTucB5cwxhFpVt54bjG48W_bDRng_q6q2z2EoKkz4S80bAkytLVu9fsvffHgBQzvare4zohA3vmWf5t2uhHilnViBpXBrR8LGVi7OhzFuKTOdVdWTtfqF-1DpZYEeG3DksSNzul6w7ebSS4/s320/DSC_2206.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #073763;"><br />Yes, you have the delightful fun of watching the
campers think up and perform crazy skits. But you also have the clean-up when
they inexplicably decide to dump pudding on someone’s head or dealing with the
necessary 911 call when they include a light-hearted joke and rub hot sauce on
the camp director’s (my husband Scruffy’s) back and the sauce turns out to be a
lot more potent than anyone imagined. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;">Yes, you have the charming chaos of water fights,
night games, and sand castle competitions. But you also have the responsibility
of protecting campers from injury, sunburn, and exhaustion after a week full of
activities.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieBB4hLWpx9piQLusPYx3Q0vsSqGZtFjyBUN45uldfwplPbNmHyf-aQqxOp2DmHLmqfF5ovRID5uaN2gXW7wDXCpQbUfOonKmAs-_8L2mEwrZ2YOkvN0xZOTw_egRlSz7T5I6w4u45kkQ2fwbAwDk8KcpXCQzq8MWIftFhJxUxOJd4Rdj_gYcSOBM3tZc/s6000/DSC_9055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieBB4hLWpx9piQLusPYx3Q0vsSqGZtFjyBUN45uldfwplPbNmHyf-aQqxOp2DmHLmqfF5ovRID5uaN2gXW7wDXCpQbUfOonKmAs-_8L2mEwrZ2YOkvN0xZOTw_egRlSz7T5I6w4u45kkQ2fwbAwDk8KcpXCQzq8MWIftFhJxUxOJd4Rdj_gYcSOBM3tZc/s320/DSC_9055.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #073763;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;">Yes, you have the joy of telling children of God’s
love for the very first time. Amazing moments like when the great great
grandchildren of the camp founders’ pastor ask to be baptized in the horse
trough in the camp meadow. But you also have the grief of seeing people decide
that they don’t need God, growing older and walking away from their faith,
their friendships, and their relationship with you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;">Yes, you have the victory of watching children who
were campers grow to be camp counselors, camp interns, leaders in their own
churches, and even the parents of campers. But there are those you can’t save.
We have loved with all the strength we had within us and then found out that
the one we loved so deeply still chose to take their own life in the end. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;">Joy and pain and chaos and grace, all smashed together
into this thing we call camp ministry.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;">It is no wonder that I ended up writing about a boy
who wants God’s perfect peace but all he seems to get is a whole lot of chaos.
This is a journey I have lived and it is one that you will live too, dear
reader. So, don’t wait for the world to stop spinning to reach out. God is
love. Even when everything around you is not. He gives the kind of peace that
can handle a little bit of chaos . . . or even a whole lot.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b>Isaiah 26:3</b><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i><span style="color: #073763;">You will keep in
perfect peace<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i><span style="color: #073763;">all who trust in
you,<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>all whose thoughts
are fixed on you! NLT</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: x-large;"><b>Kristen Joy Wilks</b></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: x-large;"><b>Author of </b></span><i><span style="font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: x-large;"><b>Phooey Kerflooey</b></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="color: #073763;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"></span></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Ffg2tABqNx8-LCKk7U-uccMU0gua5eWQGuBeJTU5QsRyJTHXbDm-LDNFYPoVa8PTJ6f-SYbb_2Np6ALktQSMO1v0gwHhN3aI4spyaGXfv_Hh4BcYJtnfB7j1oSQyavxnEblfxVIgE5ikG8MxEp2GGQ_8aOKw7RYzRoNRAvobcUErC2c7qvgCjHmiMVE/s2400/PhooeyKerflooey_FrontFinal%20(2)%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Ffg2tABqNx8-LCKk7U-uccMU0gua5eWQGuBeJTU5QsRyJTHXbDm-LDNFYPoVa8PTJ6f-SYbb_2Np6ALktQSMO1v0gwHhN3aI4spyaGXfv_Hh4BcYJtnfB7j1oSQyavxnEblfxVIgE5ikG8MxEp2GGQ_8aOKw7RYzRoNRAvobcUErC2c7qvgCjHmiMVE/s320/PhooeyKerflooey_FrontFinal%20(2)%20(1).jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #073763;">A puppy will fix everything.<br /><br />A boring new house?<br />Boring house + puppy = adventure!<br /><br />An attacking squirrel?<br />Evil squirrel + puppy = a squirrel-battle extraordinaire!<br /><br />A daredevil brother who zooms into constant peril?<br />Rowdy sibling + puppy = calm days snuggling their furry friend!<br /><br />What could possibly go wrong?<br /><br />Amazon: <a href="https://a.co/d/hZDj2Ea">https://a.co/d/hZDj2Ea</a></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirn-9XTyE0px732eMAHW9Zs8_omlbXjWroDIKioKhyphenhyphenoLtnavPYAFFeaLjT4R6J6VbbzogWDdFjUj1KKN53vtTWi9ZN6HCR7PQ-Uz5EE_punyk-wPZrQEHKVME9yy3WYGLTwoAcR3mh0a1trAtRwFwd_qcueEgntpSTmJpGysBmCuNqYcwnrWB2XSnq2oA/s3330/IMG_5940%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #073763;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3330" data-original-width="2966" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirn-9XTyE0px732eMAHW9Zs8_omlbXjWroDIKioKhyphenhyphenoLtnavPYAFFeaLjT4R6J6VbbzogWDdFjUj1KKN53vtTWi9ZN6HCR7PQ-Uz5EE_punyk-wPZrQEHKVME9yy3WYGLTwoAcR3mh0a1trAtRwFwd_qcueEgntpSTmJpGysBmCuNqYcwnrWB2XSnq2oA/w178-h200/IMG_5940%20(2).JPG" width="178" /></span></a><span style="color: #073763;"><b></b></span></div><span style="color: #073763;"><b>Kristen Joy Wilks </b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">writes
from a remote mountain meadow that alternates between quiet and chaos. The mom
of three sons, an orange cat, and a giant Newfoundland dog, she lives with her
camp director husband at Camas Meadows Bible Camp where she is photographer and
camp storyteller. Kristen once climbed a tree and snuck into a church through
the balcony to return a library book (and check out another) and has been
pursuing stories ever since.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her writing
highlights the humor and grace God gives amidst the detritus of life.<b> </b>She
can be found tucked under a tattered quilt at 4:00 a.m. writing a wide variety
of implausible tales or at </span><a href="http://www.kristenjoywilks.com/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">www.kristenjoywilks.com</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #073763;">Try
one of her stories for free with her newsletter!</span><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-61538400085491646322024-03-02T02:00:00.014-05:002024-03-03T05:56:51.271-05:00An Open Letter by Liz Flaherty<div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU7FLxd4HeDBflp-aDrTKM7Plt7TFGaQHt635U0MeCpEJieND6c2ut2-uI-OAcG7L-8DvV2YQGTCYXubwf57o6DibpggvFFBBRscoRIwBsrtfn8zCjIz6jiZoan7MruEZl4Z9wISKQnIa3QRIjt1YRY6RJPgFt_5fENZzDIxt-QUKFzuBqIuWpQIP96hY/s1600/Teacj.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU7FLxd4HeDBflp-aDrTKM7Plt7TFGaQHt635U0MeCpEJieND6c2ut2-uI-OAcG7L-8DvV2YQGTCYXubwf57o6DibpggvFFBBRscoRIwBsrtfn8zCjIz6jiZoan7MruEZl4Z9wISKQnIa3QRIjt1YRY6RJPgFt_5fENZzDIxt-QUKFzuBqIuWpQIP96hY/s320/Teacj.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It's no surprise to anyone that I have a soft spot for teachers. I've written about it and about them before. I've been angry about teachers' pay ever since I learned how much it was. I am reminded daily of how teachers have affected nearly every aspect of my life. So here is my letter to some of the teachers who've changed my life. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Mrs. Sullivan:</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I was scared to death of you. But you taught me to read and to read well. It is a gift that has gone on giving ever since I was six.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Mrs. Cripe:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">You were so kind. I hope I would have already known about kindness from my mom, from Sunday School, from living day-to-day, but I remember yours from ever since I was seven.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Mrs. Kotterman:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">You made third and fourth grades a soft place to fall. I remember that from when I was eight and nine.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear All My Elementary Teachers:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">You read aloud to us Every Single Day. You introduced us to <i>Heidi, Little Britches</i>, Laura Ingalls Wilder, <i>Lazy Liza Lizard, Caddie Woodlawn</i>, and more others than I can begin to remember. In case I didn't thank you then, is it too late? Oh, good. Thank you for every day.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Miss Boswell--or more lately, Mrs. Small:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">You taught me to type in my sophomore and junior years. You didn't make me fast or particularly good, although you tried. I've written 20-some books, using what you taught me in each of them. Wow.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Every-English-Teacher-I-Had:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Those 20-some books I mentioned up there? You taught me spelling and grammar and to pay attention to both. Goodness knows, editors make writers' jobs immeasurably easier, but I wouldn't know how to write without the basis you gave me. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Mr. Wildermuth:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Algebra didn't take, but the cherishing of humanity did. Still does. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Miss Name-Omitted:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">In high school, you taught me the hard way that not all teachers are fair. Not all of them are good. Not all of them care about students. Not all of them should be in a classroom. Ever.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Mrs. Mungle:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">When I couldn't find you one day, it was because you were playing Christmas songs on the piano in the cafeteria while the kids were eating lunch. That was so much more important than whatever the reason was I was looking for you. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Coach Bridge:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">You still remember their names.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Mrs. See:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">You still call my grandboy "one of mine."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Mrs. Wilson, Mr. Wilson, and Dr. Flaherty: </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I am so proud of you.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Public Education:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Thank you. A thousand times over, thank you.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Have a good week. Thank a teacher if you were able to read this, count up my mistakes, and remind me of everyone I left out. Be nice to somebody.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-73466796553404650732024-02-24T07:40:00.002-05:002024-02-24T08:27:01.216-05:00A Good Week by Liz Flaherty<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicvWwiNLC03D45tvONQPYXwQ9AT0SllbZ5bgxEpovza9_PtBEoxOY7D9ydz_GvOENWBaJTjNtASnNLWZR_ErnZvQkKDGucrJffaDeRokxok6mOM3xTKzffWnHblvY8QTHZANiVDFURrfrtpV2dvGHCiY2irFZiapnlnzozjLXtrpC_sIJ9PsbwaMQW2O8/s206/snow.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicvWwiNLC03D45tvONQPYXwQ9AT0SllbZ5bgxEpovza9_PtBEoxOY7D9ydz_GvOENWBaJTjNtASnNLWZR_ErnZvQkKDGucrJffaDeRokxok6mOM3xTKzffWnHblvY8QTHZANiVDFURrfrtpV2dvGHCiY2irFZiapnlnzozjLXtrpC_sIJ9PsbwaMQW2O8/s1600/snow.jpg" width="155" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The weather is weird, isn't it? Sometimes, especially as I'm walking through the snow to get to the office, I wonder if it's the universe's way of telling us to pay attention. Is God muttering about how to wake us up, so he sends things to slow us down and make us think. Maybe even before we fall and break a hip.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I don't know. Makes sense to me, though. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I hope you've had a good week. I have, although not a productive one. That's one of the things you have to adapt to when you reach a certain age. Well, that I've had to adapt to. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A good week involves the people you see and talk to, the things you laugh at, if you get some good sleep instead of lying there worrying about where you put the paper you know you got and saved. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">In a good week, you talk to one of your kids almost every day. They make you laugh. You may get to see one, along with a sleepy grandboy. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Sometimes you get to talk to a kid about the word <i>cacophony, </i>which you can't even spell, but you love the pictures it draws in your mind. Cacophony refers to noise, but not always sound. It's a big, full word. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A good week means time with friends, laughing at the selective hearing of husbands (It's a real thing--you know it is. Just like a man cold, only incurable.) </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mX7-K8WPJ8dw-NWb3WRGG8dpoNJ6BzWf3l9fzlAKOi0HSU3YZoQLT2oDmtetoejveUpM5fdXZYGc4pWbk-S85dZt2YASdE4wEilh5tbQy7E167il_Q3nN4efLU5smtLNyKOL6q4XfdD4-hd0V61THF3xUeMUm3HO4NmvpaRQkQJRJM3iT12Mlu0WPHE/s428/408963250_905527871577565_5802012812545726930_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="428" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mX7-K8WPJ8dw-NWb3WRGG8dpoNJ6BzWf3l9fzlAKOi0HSU3YZoQLT2oDmtetoejveUpM5fdXZYGc4pWbk-S85dZt2YASdE4wEilh5tbQy7E167il_Q3nN4efLU5smtLNyKOL6q4XfdD4-hd0V61THF3xUeMUm3HO4NmvpaRQkQJRJM3iT12Mlu0WPHE/w200-h191/408963250_905527871577565_5802012812545726930_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A good week is laughing hard at a play at Ole Olsen right after you've eaten a really good meal catered by Made by Jade.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">And there are others.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Talking to a rural mail carrier who loves her job.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Listening to Peter and Company at Legend's and eating more really good food.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Friday night supper at Farmhouse Cafe. Sharing the table with friends and good conversation. Beef and noodles and a decadent dessert.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS7hbIvvJwCTlLcWokvg000ECUfiqpPEpXCHNj2GS354T6cga6lcvTFi7UU5bbSLUnn66JGr0bbtCInkZh-hdVua5pkTI8BvxLbwf1wtamv4yvLVhvuuVHbNhsTW-UZHLMlyn5okacSdfgJotd3JhLq87RcIcTKFB4bPx4eIwaH6rIZefUkeXZx-scFJY/s315/image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="315" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS7hbIvvJwCTlLcWokvg000ECUfiqpPEpXCHNj2GS354T6cga6lcvTFi7UU5bbSLUnn66JGr0bbtCInkZh-hdVua5pkTI8BvxLbwf1wtamv4yvLVhvuuVHbNhsTW-UZHLMlyn5okacSdfgJotd3JhLq87RcIcTKFB4bPx4eIwaH6rIZefUkeXZx-scFJY/w200-h200/image.png" width="200" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A few warm, sunny days. An inch of white landscape out there this morning. A 19-year-old cat insisting he hasn't eaten in <i>days! </i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A writer / teacher friend on FB often ends her posts with <i>And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.</i> Kathie Giorgio's had a time of it lately, and I'm happy to see the hope at the end of what she writes. I'm always glad to see hope. <br /><br />As you can tell, I didn't have much going on today. But having a good week was enough. I hope you've had one, too, and that the one coming up is even better. Be nice to somebody. </span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJUeIYkF-48UaYDS0iXbEjOu0autXev_B_8X2JnXpXzNyZ03mrR3Rex-yq6mRGEsTdqGU4oe_pFpn_GfSi0KFh2B3xCchjiydg_u1QhFEWXYNifj6LmTkU_DdP92mOgd7ujXi3AaaGMuiVcmF3CiO8zhv79tY4QJp9OXr0NGsP1ivDUCPQwpckD-s9fB4/s1050/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="1050" height="46" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJUeIYkF-48UaYDS0iXbEjOu0autXev_B_8X2JnXpXzNyZ03mrR3Rex-yq6mRGEsTdqGU4oe_pFpn_GfSi0KFh2B3xCchjiydg_u1QhFEWXYNifj6LmTkU_DdP92mOgd7ujXi3AaaGMuiVcmF3CiO8zhv79tY4QJp9OXr0NGsP1ivDUCPQwpckD-s9fB4/s320/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In case you're looking for something to read...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbbU4nBYQtSKhL5mZ19axJjCROQCzrwYsCbEPdK0qTVwchqa93n8LXJl6uKp-MPBouZAOnxLQ_g_QYZp1VbwGKny2nrfQONMJ6Fo9ciTZKhDEMsFR1P9GrxVsd-wqX0pKpRf1mDWMMw-N9hslHr2B8IdJoqX2qmDQUfb0x1dBre_iH3-YL8D-pIWAsrw/s1600/summer%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbbU4nBYQtSKhL5mZ19axJjCROQCzrwYsCbEPdK0qTVwchqa93n8LXJl6uKp-MPBouZAOnxLQ_g_QYZp1VbwGKny2nrfQONMJ6Fo9ciTZKhDEMsFR1P9GrxVsd-wqX0pKpRf1mDWMMw-N9hslHr2B8IdJoqX2qmDQUfb0x1dBre_iH3-YL8D-pIWAsrw/w400-h225/summer%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand; font-size: medium;">Dinah is a mom, a giver, and a doer, so she’s used to change, but this summer is kind of overdoing that. The diner where she’s worked for half her life is closing, her college-age kids aren’t coming home for the summer, and a property on nearby Cooper Lake is calling her name, bringing long-held dreams of owning a B & B to the fore. Newcomer Zach Applegate is entering into her dreams, too.<br /><br />Divorced dad, contractor, and recovering alcoholic Zach is in Fallen Soldier, Pennsylvania, to visit his brother and to decide what’s coming next in his life. He doesn’t like change much, yet it seems to be everywhere. But he finds an affinity for remodeling and restoration, is overjoyed when his teenage sons join him for the summer, and he likes Dinah Tyler, too. A lot.<br /><br />Dinah and Zach each experience sorrow and tumult, but go on to dance in the kitchen. Together, they have something, but is it enough?<span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand; font-size: medium;">Amazon: <a href="https://a.co/d/2h0BF9k">https://a.co/d/2h0BF9k</a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand; font-size: medium;">Everywhere else: <a href="https://books2read.com/u/bOjRvN">https://books2read.com/u/bOjRvN</a></span></div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-11527844519014130172024-02-17T07:14:00.003-05:002024-02-17T07:14:19.919-05:00The Uncomfortable Zone by Liz Flaherty<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4XmiMU5Qm9Y0Bh3KNSNbveqaYrfgX5zh5FQICqwaw1rXkymZDApJSgM25SRZxRlYBkUejKF1-5GKE8jY9S3V2Zheo12GFkqQDB9c0kFIlPpaqTONFqo1AnF1TYzDSNxJk10iRmSAN8pwuKtUDKkrk8R1wK1CG39kEYhAVFCr-I60w84TPiCQESLhv9w/s1364/Photo%20by%20Sarah%20Luginbill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1364" data-original-width="859" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4XmiMU5Qm9Y0Bh3KNSNbveqaYrfgX5zh5FQICqwaw1rXkymZDApJSgM25SRZxRlYBkUejKF1-5GKE8jY9S3V2Zheo12GFkqQDB9c0kFIlPpaqTONFqo1AnF1TYzDSNxJk10iRmSAN8pwuKtUDKkrk8R1wK1CG39kEYhAVFCr-I60w84TPiCQESLhv9w/s320/Photo%20by%20Sarah%20Luginbill.jpg" width="202" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Sarah Luginbill</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">On Thursday night, I read three essays at Open Mic at Gallery 15, something I've done a few times before. I made it through all three essays without falling off the stage, bursting into tears, or otherwise embarrassing myself or Duane, who said <i>You can do this</i> at least 10 times before Ron Luginbill introduced me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The people in the chairs in front of the stage were unfailingly kind, making me almost certain I hadn't subjected them to the longest 12 minutes in their lives. Applause, to anyone who likes positive attention, is addictive. I'm not going to say it's like a drug, because I don't understand that particular addiction, but as an ex-smoker, I can say it's as good as the first cigarette of the day. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm paralyzingly scared to talk in front of an audience, and it's as far out of my comfort zone as anything I can think of, but it's also fun. As a writer, being able to share what I love doing and have people say nice things to me about it is one of the best things ever. Unlike a book review, when you don't interact with the reader, you <i>do </i>interact with a live audience. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">One that is receptive, that listens, that does not want you to fail. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I can't imagine what it would be like to step out in front of everyone knowing I was likely to be booed or ignored, to be unheard because no one was listening. To be jeered at because of my size, what I'm wearing, or the sound of my voice. To be heckled by people who relish the idea of doing harm. (I need to add in here that the musicians I know are almost universally supportive of each other, but they are also skilled hecklers. However, they would be horrified if anyone thought they meant it.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Part of what I read was <i>about</i> music, where I said my only skill in music was the one of listening. This is a fact. Being a good listener also allows me to claim the skill of being a good audience. Sometimes. As long as I remember to <i>not </i>scroll on my phone after I take a picture of who's performing. As long as I don't sigh and look at the time. As long as I applaud and say <i>great job </i>because it matters. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The stage is not a comfortable place for me, even when it's fun. I'm grateful to performers who step out to sing and play music, to act in theater, and to give of themselves even when the audience <i>isn't </i>kind. It's important, I think, to share talents and skills we're given, whether as artists--both performance and not, athletes, being skilled in sharing information, or anything else. It's also important to appreciate the sharing of others. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Thanks for reading the Window. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhHR4VP0J4rvy7xWA3-2mR5hiYTkYz6e8Syl0eMyKULhgzXe7sD8fZ_tXnu19SdplzkorENIdGdbWP0AGDg0ad_jQryYnOC1CeFYcD4VM9VB6gFFFMD1BbDlBqXaUeqs6GOLIEHdrmZY4uySHmAXpvkgbf5gkSoSvHdQ0m0MCYwLrCoC9qLU_CPTXtn8/s300/Liz%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhHR4VP0J4rvy7xWA3-2mR5hiYTkYz6e8Syl0eMyKULhgzXe7sD8fZ_tXnu19SdplzkorENIdGdbWP0AGDg0ad_jQryYnOC1CeFYcD4VM9VB6gFFFMD1BbDlBqXaUeqs6GOLIEHdrmZY4uySHmAXpvkgbf5gkSoSvHdQ0m0MCYwLrCoC9qLU_CPTXtn8/s1600/Liz%20(1).png" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-14783893721671759162024-02-14T02:00:00.002-05:002024-02-14T02:00:00.225-05:00Rock With the Rhythm by M.J. Schiller<p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjnc8wgmN3gKOTHUXpce5lR6StoLZzNgvGQvwlaqJngRAYxe1icHtLaHLhwp5NtuGJOh9naRTcOqpJmv1c-gg8gdLlUaAeSKcew-o4HidMiTU5VFb8osZcLdmpDFjfORNIap_YOlDXjmI_6ZLxe2KtxvQ-7Gc9U3JdNw75V4QYaVx9Dtyhd8WTYLcItxM/s2000/RockWithTheRythm.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjnc8wgmN3gKOTHUXpce5lR6StoLZzNgvGQvwlaqJngRAYxe1icHtLaHLhwp5NtuGJOh9naRTcOqpJmv1c-gg8gdLlUaAeSKcew-o4HidMiTU5VFb8osZcLdmpDFjfORNIap_YOlDXjmI_6ZLxe2KtxvQ-7Gc9U3JdNw75V4QYaVx9Dtyhd8WTYLcItxM/s320/RockWithTheRythm.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span>Hi, Liz! Thank you
for having me today and entertaining the boys in the band. I think the rock
stars that haunt my writing are born from my husband’s and my love for
music, particularly live music. I enjoyed writing my first rock romance
series—the LOVE AND CHAOS SERIES, centered around the band Just Short of
Chaos—so much that I followed it up with my latest series about the band
Insatiable Fire.<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">This is my third Last Chance Beach Romance. The
first two were about the drummer, Levi Cannon,</span> (<i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">BEATING IN TIME</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">) and the lead guitarist, Caleb Winthrop, (</span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">LEAD ME ON</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">). The final two are about the</span> Blackstone
brothers. My newest release, <i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">ROCK WITH THE RHYTHM</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">, is about the lead singer and rhythm</span> guitarist
Phoenix Blackstone. It will be followed by Dakota Blackstone’s story, <i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">BASSIST’S INSTINCT</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">, (he</span> plays bass guitar for Insatiable
Fire).<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Phoenix and Dakota are about as physically
different as you can get. Dakota is barrel-chested, with long,</span> dirty
blond hair and the glaring lack of a filter. He takes after his Swedish mom.
Phoenix, on the other hand, is more long and lean. He generally is a
pretty smooth talker, with long, black hair, and the dark coloring of
his father’s Apalachee ancestors. It’s only when he’s around Savanah Drew that
he becomes a bit tongue-tied.</span><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="Style2"><b><span>Rock star Phoenix Blackstone never dreamed he’d </span><span>fall in love with the designated driver.</span></b></p><p class="Style2"><span>Rock star Phoenix Blackstone never thought he’d fall in love with the designated driver.</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>Sure, she’s strait-laced and uptight, maybe even a little prickly at times. Not the best fit for a “rock star”, </span><span>right? But that’s part of the appeal. There was always something about Savanah.</span></p><p class="Style2"><span> In high school I </span><span>worshiped her from afar. But while I was the boy from Last Chance Beach’s version of a ghetto, she was </span><span>born into a 24-carat crib. She was the beautiful princess in the castle; I wasn’t fit to live in her gatehouse.</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>Although Savanah had never seemed like the rest of the glamor girls, she was still untouchable. But now </span><span>I’m coming back to the island having garnered fame and fortune. Maybe my platinum records will tip the </span><span>scales in my favor.</span></p><p class="Style2"><span><b>Savanah Drew never wanted the silver spoon stuck in her mouth.</b></span></p><p class="Style2"><span>But it’s not like I could do anything about it. And Phoenix’s dad may have worked on the docks, but </span><span>Phoenix was the one who was unapproachable. His good looks, charm, and charisma, made him popular </span><span>beyond my reach—I always knew he would go far. But when we were growing up, some people looked </span><span>down on him because his dad wore a slicker and not a three-piece suit. One thing I can tell you, the </span><span>Blackstones would be the first to come to the aid of someone in need. The people on my side of the </span><span>island? If they can’t throw money at it to fix it, they don’t want anything to do with it.</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>But no amount of money or charisma can keep you safe when someone is out to get you, and </span><span>someone on the island is gunning for the band members of Insatiable Fire, and anyone they’re close </span><span>to.</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>Is Savanah the next target?</span></p><p class="Style2"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx1riD4_t-Ma1045sffj3ElaOjA7-ifxwx90s_KbLj8ueYJwwGs3nN702OMnrX46vN56ZSJ2G_pZz7wGuOAP5_k7nWQijkMrFw7n1RojI5CxvfyKna0PnqQ33wUK1wfOBUWf6i4OZruBqMrW7FEmfHsLip9AQmF3Scv_VI8WzP4rcDHzcmNmkFOi_Sg-Y/s1024/ROCK%20WITH%20THE%20RHYTHM%20scuba%20couple%20teaser.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx1riD4_t-Ma1045sffj3ElaOjA7-ifxwx90s_KbLj8ueYJwwGs3nN702OMnrX46vN56ZSJ2G_pZz7wGuOAP5_k7nWQijkMrFw7n1RojI5CxvfyKna0PnqQ33wUK1wfOBUWf6i4OZruBqMrW7FEmfHsLip9AQmF3Scv_VI8WzP4rcDHzcmNmkFOi_Sg-Y/s320/ROCK%20WITH%20THE%20RHYTHM%20scuba%20couple%20teaser.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><b>Excerpt</b><span> </span><p></p><p class="Style2"><span><b>Phoenix</b></span></p><p class="Style2"><span>Women gulping down drinks in fish bowls could work to a guy’s advantage, as it might </span><span>put his woman in the mood. Or, it could work to his disadvantage, if she drank too much and </span><span>ended up lying on the tile at the foot of the porcelain deity all night long. I liked to watch couples </span><span>from the high platform of the stage while I sang and try to determine which scenario would play </span><span>out for them.</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>But tonight I was focused on a couple in particular. A couple of girls. One was screaming </span><span>“Insatiable Desires” —the song that had catapulted my band, Insatiable Fire, into the </span><span>limelight—over and over again at the top of her lungs. The other was Savanah Drew.</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>“Insatiable Desires” was actually on our setlist, a few songs away from what we were </span><span>currently singing. But the girl was annoying me. I’ll take requests. In fact, I love requests. I had </span><span>even taken one earlier from this same girl. But this wasn’t a request; it was a demand, and I was </span><span>starting to feel like an organ grinder’s monkey.</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>I turned to my boys. “So, we’re going to play her song, because we don’t want to be total </span><span>pricks, and it was on the setlist…but it’s going to be at the end of the night.”</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>They nodded and grinned, agreeing with me that not giving in was the best course of </span><span>action. But I had my doubts. Mostly because the party in question was still screaming as Savanah </span><span>shushed her. </span></p><p class="Style2"><span>I wasn’t really paying attention to the loud mouth though. I was eyeing Savanah.</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>Even </span><span>though we’d been in the same class at school, she was a complete mystery to me. I was intrigued </span><span>because she seemed different than the people she ran around with in high school. </span></p><p class="Style2"><span>Does she still see them?</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>I knew nothing about her life now. We’d come back to Last Chance Beach a couple </span><span>dozen times since we’d first left to try to make it to the big time eight years ago. But whenever I </span><span>came home, I was pretty monopolized with family stuff. And even had I not been, I would have </span><span>never asked Savanah out. </span></p><p class="Style2"><span>The island had its own little caste system when I was growing up, and </span><span>Savanah and I had been from different strata. Her dad was the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. </span><span>Mine was a supervisor down on the docks. Hers wore $500 an ounce aftershave. Mine smelled of </span><span>fish. My family wouldn’t have even been able to afford the golf cart that took the Drews from </span><span>one end of their property to the other. She was the princess in the castle. I wasn’t fit to tend her </span><span>gate.</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>But I was returning a very wealthy man. </span><span>I wonder if a pile of platinum records evens the scales some…</span></p><p class="Style2"><span>I knew to some people it wouldn’t matter what my net worth was; I would still always be </span><span>the son of a dockworker and therefore unworthy. The question remained, was Savanah one of </span><span>those people?</span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Links ~</b></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>For MJ</b></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Website: <a href="https://mjschillerauthor.blogspot.com/">https://mjschillerauthor.blogspot.com/</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: large;">BookBub: <a href="https://www.bookbub.com/authors/m-j-schiller">https://www.bookbub.com/authors/m-j-schiller</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Facebook: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/MJ-Schiller-Romance-Author/286382241460365">https://www.facebook.com/pages/MJ-Schiller-Romance-Author/286382241460365</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Pinterest: <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/mjschiller/">https://www.pinterest.com/mjschiller/</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/mjschiller">https://twitter.com/mjschiller</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tumblr: <a href="http://mjschilz.tumblr.com/">http://mjschilz.tumblr.com/</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Instagram: <a href="https://instagram.com/mjschiller">https://instagram.com/mjschiller</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Goodreads: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6479377.M_J_Schiller">https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6479377.M_J_Schiller</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Amazon: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/M-J-Schiller/e/B009JOQFQQ">https://www.amazon.com/M-J-Schiller/e/B009JOQFQQ</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>For <i>ROCK WITH THE RHYTHM</i></b> </span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Books2Read: <a href="https://books2read.com/RockWithTheRhythm">https://books2read.com/RockWithTheRhythm</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Amazon: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0CCYMNPTB">https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0CCYMNPTB</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nook: <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/rock-with-the-rhythm-m-j-schiller/1143836177">https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/rock-with-the-rhythm-m-j-schiller/1143836177</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kobo: <a href="https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/rock-with-the-rhythm">https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/rock-with-the-rhythm</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;">iTunes: <a href="https://books.apple.com/us/book/rock-with-the-rhythm/id6453885394">https://books.apple.com/us/book/rock-with-the-rhythm/id6453885394</a></span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Bio</b> </span></p><p class="Style2"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihbmpw6y3Yg7Gy0tbNFnwVAKHA3LGTAWgXy5lTF4DAYertbBc-oYdy8z_YcT69FAKQ-8Yh94ro1Mdu0ONybOJS2Y2XIWRwSvdMNhn8DUhGWIWLeUVwWc5E6-hVuxZTT86_BYqi9NOS51HZNUEaEd6w5mXUhAVjCerYvThrXuyEjxnGqP7cRSreDRCX53E/s679/M.J.%20Schiller,%20Romance%20Author%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="482" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihbmpw6y3Yg7Gy0tbNFnwVAKHA3LGTAWgXy5lTF4DAYertbBc-oYdy8z_YcT69FAKQ-8Yh94ro1Mdu0ONybOJS2Y2XIWRwSvdMNhn8DUhGWIWLeUVwWc5E6-hVuxZTT86_BYqi9NOS51HZNUEaEd6w5mXUhAVjCerYvThrXuyEjxnGqP7cRSreDRCX53E/s320/M.J.%20Schiller,%20Romance%20Author%20(1).jpg" width="227" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">M.J. Schiller is a retired lunch lady/romance-romantic suspense writer. She enjoys writing novels </span><span style="font-size: large;">whose characters include rock stars, desert princes, teachers, futuristic Knights, construction </span><span style="font-size: large;">workers, cops, and a wide variety of others. In her mind everybody has a romance. She is the </span><span style="font-size: large;">mother of a twenty-eight-year-old and three twenty-six-year-olds. That's right, triplets! So having </span><span style="font-size: large;">recently taught four children to drive, she likes to escape from life on occasion by pretending to </span><span style="font-size: large;">be a rock star at karaoke. However…you won’t be seeing her name on any record labels soon.</span><p></p>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-52009988912895985112024-02-10T02:00:00.002-05:002024-02-10T12:31:57.046-05:00Just Sayin' by Liz Flaherty<p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4mUAQVI_ofbLgrjuc4UVvTibbnDNp9_FaGbe2oEoS6tAnSXlJX0gB0oAX0BI5B2-g6gA36-cfHfjGsJgmdL3APMx6G0BPJQ52USWNniCrQwabbqqMpyL8hfgswO8QBryO2j7WPQO3R4IrsmG7Y7v-gLR54ZKh4auXrh3ROPhvEzK-I-DKmHc5bzvC1D8/s450/Untitled%20design%20(19).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4mUAQVI_ofbLgrjuc4UVvTibbnDNp9_FaGbe2oEoS6tAnSXlJX0gB0oAX0BI5B2-g6gA36-cfHfjGsJgmdL3APMx6G0BPJQ52USWNniCrQwabbqqMpyL8hfgswO8QBryO2j7WPQO3R4IrsmG7Y7v-gLR54ZKh4auXrh3ROPhvEzK-I-DKmHc5bzvC1D8/s320/Untitled%20design%20(19).jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">Thanks to Shannon Conley for giving me the prompt for today's post! </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">She shared something from Stephanie Schmick on Facebook about hair stylists that was really good, and there was a line in there that caught my attention. <br /><br />"what’s the big deal, you are just a hair stylist..."<br /><br />Seriously.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">When I was young, <i>just a housewife </i>wasn't a pejorative term. It was actually kind of...you know...nice. A housewife took care of her family, her home, whatever got in her way that needed doing. It was a multifaceted job that had no beginning and no end. If she'd gotten paid for everything she did, no one could have afforded her, but many housewives loved what they did and were proud to do it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">Somewhere along the line, the <i>just </i>in her job got ugly. She somehow wasn't as important as women who worked "real jobs." Jokes about lying on couches eating bonbons followed them around. As time went on, women who worked outside the home became "just part-time moms who used school for a babysitter."<br /><br />Even when I watched that happen, I didn't give it much thought. I was "just a postal worker" for 30 years. I write "just romance" instead of "real books." I've known and worked with many, many "just factory workers." Some of my kids are "just teachers." I've heard the term "just a bunch of farmers" used when talking about anyone rural.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">And these. All of these.<br /><br /><i>Just dumb jocks.<br /><br />Just flips burgers.<br /><br />Just a bartender.<br /><br />Just the maid at the hotel.<br /><br />Just a server.<br /><br />Just a girl. <br /><br />Just a bunch of kids.<br /><br />Just the trash guy.<br /><br />Just a cashier.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;"><i>Just a nurse.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;"><i>Just an employee.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;"><i>Just a mom.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">I call B. S.<br /><br />No one is <i>just</i> anything. No one. Every one of the people I listed here--and a bunch of others I didn't think of--have something in common. They make a difference in other people's lives. Many of them do what others either can't or don't want to. <br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHF-bYC9FAd8FHsFTHTsYKVOVPuuKuxIZcSrEsKx1xOnU6aqKZvn6y_TjYSmn227YM-9JyycQ_tYChc2AdC8h3BXan2Tvcd6HKKDHbRHt_GRGyWULi71120inZbA2gLR4ny5CwOrP998Uk592DBE8gURTMtuYZYRyYN4xYVqu9nmJxHY7L84RPt0RE3U/s450/Untitled%20design%20(21).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHF-bYC9FAd8FHsFTHTsYKVOVPuuKuxIZcSrEsKx1xOnU6aqKZvn6y_TjYSmn227YM-9JyycQ_tYChc2AdC8h3BXan2Tvcd6HKKDHbRHt_GRGyWULi71120inZbA2gLR4ny5CwOrP998Uk592DBE8gURTMtuYZYRyYN4xYVqu9nmJxHY7L84RPt0RE3U/s320/Untitled%20design%20(21).jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">A Logansport Community Schools bus driver named Crystal Miller handed out pencils to the students on her bus engraved with the message, "I am unique and valuable” and the number 9-8-8, which is the suicide crisis hotline. The driver was worried about "her kids" because a nearby student had taken his own life.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">At some point, I wonder if someone has referred to her as <i>just a bus driver</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWrkYhDg5chSwA0sC8vgY9dira5r2T-105Pzn_5ZA27Mj8vW76kurrZyBoJNQ4JQqzLmkSs_I-Rtel2b5g9-29B0ULvELXzMZZEDxQClzpPOruOzrvW8fQUbcQle-Qj119RXmuM3znco22I2IOiec5Y7n48SNbOi94VUg1xBnpUZvhcrgOszzgB25CQGc/s450/Untitled%20design%20(20).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWrkYhDg5chSwA0sC8vgY9dira5r2T-105Pzn_5ZA27Mj8vW76kurrZyBoJNQ4JQqzLmkSs_I-Rtel2b5g9-29B0ULvELXzMZZEDxQClzpPOruOzrvW8fQUbcQle-Qj119RXmuM3znco22I2IOiec5Y7n48SNbOi94VUg1xBnpUZvhcrgOszzgB25CQGc/s320/Untitled%20design%20(20).jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">I remember when I was in school how the custodians cleaned up after us. They knew us by name, cleaned up when someone was sick, and put up with things we never would have gotten by with at home. During memorable Senior Weeks in days gone by, they followed us and our squirt guns through the hall with mops. Shaking their heads and laughing and wishing us their best as we went forward.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">I wonder if any of us ever called them <i>just janitors. </i>I so hope not.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">I don't remember when I first heard the term <i>just a nurse, </i>but I'm certain it was made by no one who ever knew one, loved one, needed one, or saw one at work. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">This morning I'm just a columnist hoping you have a good week. Be nice to somebody. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICKVeJ4qCBiquuPleY9uh07oTJrgxBu42FubwJEc8XIC_GNRKBuE-qZFXaFvxXRaNtzCGo68VVbQ80qB8taYRcs1jcO0biux77CoZ7Buy_LVojnKtTEbxOFH1ZB-NUUsht2e5Bn3K3ep8J8XRCnokxBwgUQrky9owqNQf6xJz03TmqUiZ-AMI28VwfQ8/s300/Liz%20in%20REd.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICKVeJ4qCBiquuPleY9uh07oTJrgxBu42FubwJEc8XIC_GNRKBuE-qZFXaFvxXRaNtzCGo68VVbQ80qB8taYRcs1jcO0biux77CoZ7Buy_LVojnKtTEbxOFH1ZB-NUUsht2e5Bn3K3ep8J8XRCnokxBwgUQrky9owqNQf6xJz03TmqUiZ-AMI28VwfQ8/s1600/Liz%20in%20REd.png" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "PT Serif", serif; font-size: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "PT Serif", serif; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #050505; font-family: Merriweather;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-79605806545321149972024-02-03T02:00:00.003-05:002024-02-03T07:35:34.649-05:00Into the Darkness by Liz Flaherty<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2e-RxIfMlWi7JLC_4Np1aeZsa262Av3VOpAY2Y8Kk-mLl7FDD04HHQGiAHzhG67Qqg6LcxMamR_ZIE06PZ6kuABDOSxUZQXTbAGT0mk0f8gPe6FdcyuBoFgMHGUiEdkDildLraPW3MXOnMVJKdSGk35gVQb0-MhN_qNVL-O4_oOEDp_nogXR7aPcE3Sc/s750/Untitled%20design.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2e-RxIfMlWi7JLC_4Np1aeZsa262Av3VOpAY2Y8Kk-mLl7FDD04HHQGiAHzhG67Qqg6LcxMamR_ZIE06PZ6kuABDOSxUZQXTbAGT0mk0f8gPe6FdcyuBoFgMHGUiEdkDildLraPW3MXOnMVJKdSGk35gVQb0-MhN_qNVL-O4_oOEDp_nogXR7aPcE3Sc/s320/Untitled%20design.jpg" width="192" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my tree...</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">It's still dark this Saturday morning. The lights on the office Christmas tree are brightening the room. I think I should take the tree down, and maybe I will, but not yet. For now it makes me mind less that there has been so much grayness in the days, that the news is so dreadful, and that treating people badly is not only expected, it's often met with approval. Even though the days are lengthening, the first hours I spend in the office are with darkness hanging tough outside. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So, the Christmas tree. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Solutions are often easy, but we don't realize it. We complicate things way beyond what is necessary. Is it human nature that makes us do this? We will hold back from doing what is likely the right thing for everyone because we're afraid it will help someone we don't like. We will destroy or throw away something we couldn't make money from rather than give it away. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Joe DeRozier doesn't do that, by the way. If he has leftover donuts for whatever reason, he makes sure someone gets to enjoy them. Just saying.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Do you have too many good, usable clothes, but you still like new ones? Simple. For every item you buy, donate two.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Did you replace your towels because they weren't fluffy anymore but you don't need the garage rags you used to make from old ones? Donate the old ones. (Unless they look disgusting. Donating things that are nasty is just...nasty.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Do you have things you don't really want anymore but they belonged to your mother so you can't just give them away? Sure you can. Your mother didn't want them saved for posterity. She wanted them to be loved and used, and it doesn't have to be done by you. Want to make sure your kids remember them? Take pictures. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's easy to buy an extra box of cereal or some extra canned goods at the grocery store and drop them off in a bounty box or at a food pantry. It's easy, once you've read a book, to put it in a Little Free Library. It's easy to give away an old comforter when you buy a new one. It's easy to share, especially if you're sharing things you don't even want. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's easy, I guess, to be a Christmas tree in the darkness. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjElrZ1gua9VlFa3di75sQn1wUvZsxSquXjdXBPT6Qo47YmimVeGWcx9Xm3UyidF-N9bvHa6vc2lTP5I2dZlCoTc8AphjZHhMUPG-daNS-kdOIFhUwgnt4kHjyxsvbwsbI_hgqG28vND2wKoNhKgk9HtUrb-0LqdjD5kc_TEi4zBC8PpDHQWjGyZrDoFnA/s300/Liz%20in%20REd.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjElrZ1gua9VlFa3di75sQn1wUvZsxSquXjdXBPT6Qo47YmimVeGWcx9Xm3UyidF-N9bvHa6vc2lTP5I2dZlCoTc8AphjZHhMUPG-daNS-kdOIFhUwgnt4kHjyxsvbwsbI_hgqG28vND2wKoNhKgk9HtUrb-0LqdjD5kc_TEi4zBC8PpDHQWjGyZrDoFnA/s1600/Liz%20in%20REd.png" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-42470904838445852082024-01-27T02:00:00.001-05:002024-01-27T02:00:00.140-05:00A Little of This... by Liz Flaherty<span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbLiPaR9Hzak78NWjzooVxVjaY3sFVl_nkhKwt9rPvfLgS4ZTgw9anbAPKPSD2VrFGBsloLz6cm03ar1nFnM9-OPB6tWHxmedRoSQGU_HLionlRYGqicm319v8zd4TeNge0lcXLQpVQ5h10GUnLMylJO2WZkwEn9vOZph5yAnlEmjkakJkJW2MFtXc7Zg/s600/Hippie%20Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="600" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbLiPaR9Hzak78NWjzooVxVjaY3sFVl_nkhKwt9rPvfLgS4ZTgw9anbAPKPSD2VrFGBsloLz6cm03ar1nFnM9-OPB6tWHxmedRoSQGU_HLionlRYGqicm319v8zd4TeNge0lcXLQpVQ5h10GUnLMylJO2WZkwEn9vOZph5yAnlEmjkakJkJW2MFtXc7Zg/s320/Hippie%20Me.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Happy Saturday! I hope you're staying dry and safe. No regular post today. I have writing-type stuff going on, so I'm not writing. How does that work? Not always very well. </span><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The picture is a Facebook game that shows what I look like as a hippie. Although I'm not sure it looks like me--even me 40 years ago--but I just like it. It's too different from how I look to use it as an author photo, but since you know better anyway...<br /></span><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I'm part of an all-day Facebook celebration today, with lots of authors and giveaways. Fun conversations and interesting posts. I hope you come by! The event takes place here: </span></div><div><a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/474828320320678"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">https://www.facebook.com/groups/474828320320678</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvK7FknwdwJ8pCW1_ibc9F7YYmiF9fpPNF4ywa1qP7bkBFitB-acs8oIyHZSXUmIfUzkuWHTi3FgtTnfqIOhbO7-jIubGBkRL2jloZxpc7X42OE9Gz87TUmqA-5QmzGxjua4xcoXipRlyOs6-GM2u2r5c3Foy28hlZb2_p9mIrkUF_figrpc9cSpZJrNY/s1080/Snow%20Day%2024%20graphic%203.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvK7FknwdwJ8pCW1_ibc9F7YYmiF9fpPNF4ywa1qP7bkBFitB-acs8oIyHZSXUmIfUzkuWHTi3FgtTnfqIOhbO7-jIubGBkRL2jloZxpc7X42OE9Gz87TUmqA-5QmzGxjua4xcoXipRlyOs6-GM2u2r5c3Foy28hlZb2_p9mIrkUF_figrpc9cSpZJrNY/s320/Snow%20Day%2024%20graphic%203.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I got a lovely message today from Leah Leach, </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Executive Director of Gal’s Guide to the Galaxy in Noblesville letting me know my essay, The Rickrack Chronicles, will be include in the Gal's Guide's annual anthology. It is both a pleasure and an honor to be included with some very good company. You can pre-order and find more out about the Gal's Guide here: <a href="https://galsguide.org/2024/01/19/gals-guide-anthology-nourish/">https://galsguide.org/2024/01/19/gals-guide-anthology-nourish/</a></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbcti0mCqsbZiWulmqDUN25DeYhYwPsz5MKje9lGfpqvWHpas8JbeOUZCXGo3W2mRqXMhcXa8c9LCLWFMV3-6hvmQ_SXsEiIPGhzFXw4BvX7RnOsS99bbtqxdE2M_384otcNWRbeAp7172m1HQLuCgm85FD2Gc7hcEo5KRAQ8sy7ycxPbriqwr31u_vr4/s1080/Anthology%20Release%20Squares.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbcti0mCqsbZiWulmqDUN25DeYhYwPsz5MKje9lGfpqvWHpas8JbeOUZCXGo3W2mRqXMhcXa8c9LCLWFMV3-6hvmQ_SXsEiIPGhzFXw4BvX7RnOsS99bbtqxdE2M_384otcNWRbeAp7172m1HQLuCgm85FD2Gc7hcEo5KRAQ8sy7ycxPbriqwr31u_vr4/s320/Anthology%20Release%20Squares.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmK9iVOTzW_7e-DzBQMbYpYy5yh2xt2Wt7D2Uh7n1_qF9zH0oO3tnbamWO6Bh-ImoTpdUzOE7ft_nVgMXKKAylKmugydCrHPci72rXbbk4CEqa2n7YMErVsQuukC56KQ6Ju1y5xwKXa18gu2Dr1cVSRts3Z8wiJUNreZqviiufIWhyphenhyphenmWhnQNxxcBSddZE/s2048/uke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1154" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmK9iVOTzW_7e-DzBQMbYpYy5yh2xt2Wt7D2Uh7n1_qF9zH0oO3tnbamWO6Bh-ImoTpdUzOE7ft_nVgMXKKAylKmugydCrHPci72rXbbk4CEqa2n7YMErVsQuukC56KQ6Ju1y5xwKXa18gu2Dr1cVSRts3Z8wiJUNreZqviiufIWhyphenhyphenmWhnQNxxcBSddZE/w113-h200/uke.jpg" width="113" /></a></div>My friend Nan and I are taking off for a few days to do some writing in Nashville, Indiana. It's one of our favorite places. We may stop in while we're down there and take a look at Ron Luginbill's ukuleles at </span><a href="https://www.weedpatchmusicshop.com/" style="font-family: times; font-size: large;" target="_blank">Weed Patch Music</a><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Speaking of music, if you're looking to hear some, Lew Little and Mike Almon release weekly reports on who's playing what kind of music at which location. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/lew.little">https://www.facebook.com/lew.little</a></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I'll try to have more to say next week. I hope you have a great one. Be nice to somebody. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81jrFW6pSppCtpnUzs3mX8EQOvX7tiKNBeQi-Zj-94v_iixmC8i3SGEIktM0sKSgAPZp5XUiYTaUB0Hp__SYdsZE5IXSusnGfe_yzI4AL-7vr3coAnKuoDOvnZ0JvLIjgRDgZh1m9QrXMWWnkeRhIIN0NKYR13vqHIwIBIDMowU5W7SrfH4ZDsX_ExWs/s300/Liz%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81jrFW6pSppCtpnUzs3mX8EQOvX7tiKNBeQi-Zj-94v_iixmC8i3SGEIktM0sKSgAPZp5XUiYTaUB0Hp__SYdsZE5IXSusnGfe_yzI4AL-7vr3coAnKuoDOvnZ0JvLIjgRDgZh1m9QrXMWWnkeRhIIN0NKYR13vqHIwIBIDMowU5W7SrfH4ZDsX_ExWs/w320-h240/Liz%20(1).png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.6667px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.6667px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.6667px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></div></div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-86621263263698805062024-01-24T02:00:00.068-05:002024-01-24T06:11:20.801-05:00The Gardner's Secret with Sheila Hansberger<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4228ijODpUA0scEBJMlbvdhpLV9IiiRHVb_mjtsYpVQ-VY2RR4nTl0PHatM3bbj5dDWHgWlKizyRSTxgcYCGrQ7BeIk8hNz-Ot3IJSmXl_PdBc8Lf3TGpGGRZFiMgclCXuKBNEKJr8SXdE4MYT20ctvVicyGxBAkHUVBD-P3OOaw4PgOcFvm2bjXNqOg/s2944/1st%20choice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2944" data-original-width="2208" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4228ijODpUA0scEBJMlbvdhpLV9IiiRHVb_mjtsYpVQ-VY2RR4nTl0PHatM3bbj5dDWHgWlKizyRSTxgcYCGrQ7BeIk8hNz-Ot3IJSmXl_PdBc8Lf3TGpGGRZFiMgclCXuKBNEKJr8SXdE4MYT20ctvVicyGxBAkHUVBD-P3OOaw4PgOcFvm2bjXNqOg/s320/1st%20choice.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Please welcome Sheila Hansberger, an award-winning author and artist, to the Window today. Sheila resides in California. Her paintings can be found in permanent collections across the USA. Full-color illustrations of her apple-themed artwork are included in the five-star rated paperback, <span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The Better Than Average Apple Cookbook</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>The Gardener’s Secret</b></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> is her debut novel. Visit her website at: </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a href="http://www.s-hansberger.com">www.s-hansberger.com</a></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Thanks for coming today, Sheila! I'm so happy you're here. I love your interview!</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-f5b9e288-7fff-1412-4b89-cde9edd208df"><ol style="margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 0; padding-inline-start: 48px;"></ol><p style="display: inline !important; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">What is your favorite thing about yourself? And your least favorite? </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">My favorite thing about myself is that I’m determined, and I never quit on a project, no matter how long it takes to get it done right. That is also my least favorite thing, because I’m too much of a perfectionist. More could be accomplished if I didn’t expect everything to be perfect. A case in point: I wrote a romance…in fact I’ve rewritten it more times than I care to admit. Although one of the rewrites won 2</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 0.6em; vertical-align: super;">nd</span></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;"> place in a writing competition, I’m still not happy with the finished product…or should I say “unfinished” product? I’ve set the manuscript aside in favor of completing work in which I have more faith. Yet, it still lurks on my computer, trying to woo me back. I plan to finish it someday, but for now, I shove it to the back of my mind and work on other more pressing projects.</span></p></span><div><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">Is there a particular line you won’t cross in writing, even to satisfy a trend or—possibly—to make a story more compelling? </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">I won’t write erotica. I’m not a prude, but I’m a mom and grandma first.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">Is there someone you’d like to make proud of you with your writing, and do you think you’ve done it? </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">Making</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">my late husband proud would top the list. I’ve been a professional artist most of my life, and he was always my greatest fan and supported all of my creative endeavors. He’d come home from his office and greet me in my studio where I had hovered over a painting for hours. He’d sniff the air and say, “I don’t smell dinner cooking. What would you like me to fix?” I hope he’d do the same now if he found my fingers attached to a keyboard.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">What do you do on those days when you’re pretty sure the muse has died and you’ll never again write a publishable word? </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">I rarely have moments like that, but if I did, I would read books, blogs, and articles about writing. Or, I would update my mailing list or tidy my studio. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">What would you want to be if you weren’t a writer? </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">I’ve been a successful artist for over 30 years and would go back to that profession full-time. Currently, I write more than I paint, but if the balancing act ever ceased, I’d be happy to be creative in any way possible.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">Do you have any particular fan-girl moments you’d like to share? We’d love to hear about them, especially if they were embarrassing and good for a laugh! </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">As a newbie writer at my first conference, I perused the hotel’s buffet, then settled my breakfast tray on the only empty table. A young woman approached and asked if she might sit opposite. As we ate, I admitted indecision about which classes to attend. She suggested looking for topics that interested me, but not to worry, because even if the subject matter didn’t meet my criteria, I’d come away with valuable information. That afternoon, I rushed into a class already in session. Lo and behold, she was at the microphone! Good thing I didn’t know she represented a publisher, or I might have pitched my not-yet-ready-for-consumption manuscript way too early. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">Looking back, what do know now that you wish you’d known the first time you opened a file and typed “Chapter One”? </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">OMG, it’s so true what people say about ignorance being bliss! If I knew then what I know now, I probably wouldn’t have had the courage to begin, because I didn’t realize how unschooled I was. I mean, anyone can write a romance…right? I’m not a plotter, I’m a pantser, so writing…er a, rewriting…slows me down. But in three months, I wrote a 60K-word story and thought it was salable. I even sought advice from a published author about what to do next. She was so patient, listening to me babble on and on about my manuscript. She even offered a sample query letter. I cringe now, remembering how I called myself an author that day. Years later, after joining two national writing organizations, finding critique partners, taking classes, and reading everything possible about the art of writing, I can say I possess the skills to claim the title of author.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">What was a best day of your life? A worst? (Feel free to skip this one—I know it crosses the line into nosiness, but I’ve been fascinated by it ever since the first time I saw </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">City Slickers</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">.) </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">Choosing one “best” day</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">in my entire life is impossible; I’ve been blessed with dozens. But Death lingers on what you’d call my worst days. So many family members and friends have left this earth far too soon. My husband fought Multiple Myeloma cancer for fourteen months. Shock and grief soften with time, but you lose a piece of your heart along the way.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">Do you have a favorite quote? Feel like sharing it? </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">A quote by Paul Sweeney reminds me to write the very best story I have inside me, because this is what readers expect: </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">“</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">You know you’ve read a good book when you turn the last page and feel a little like you’ve lost a friend.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">Who are your heroes / heroines? Have they made a difference in your writing? </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">Rather than lean toward one particular hero or heroine, I admire certain human qualities any of us can possess. Individuals who exhibit unselfishness, generosity, and loyalty to loved ones get my vote. And, yes, I write those attributes into my characters.</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRd4Ve86YQnfnppTdMWizXNYT7ZgQ4uyWIrRU5OgaLvq1CtJB-7D8-3fAx0n0gD8sU1frPIbuquUZLFq04eHABanjRmB3itHMEeE0JYBZ3qmoIFjT9jg0e67N77VrNjJ4sD0JDgxb9E0K8UJvK0CNIFEerSWub2RHMYuPifsC3_bgaknRUpS-jdLXR3cU/s1050/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="1050" height="46" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRd4Ve86YQnfnppTdMWizXNYT7ZgQ4uyWIrRU5OgaLvq1CtJB-7D8-3fAx0n0gD8sU1frPIbuquUZLFq04eHABanjRmB3itHMEeE0JYBZ3qmoIFjT9jg0e67N77VrNjJ4sD0JDgxb9E0K8UJvK0CNIFEerSWub2RHMYuPifsC3_bgaknRUpS-jdLXR3cU/s320/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" width="320" /></a></div><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnd_t2drxMwZMtf6X04OZo8n6Nqlgwi0smMQimNLC2W0Jf0PnycSo029gZBbHhnvhtoNDhPsRf_1F7EOKHhTfmmi-Io4KHUE2kqcrsScRo27mbFwB9d01A4_ktZnVLTpPomiajAkbL6GCjVMWmfd3U7ZicEKGC9BHlKOogwAH0_whttfrAkMvff05YGPg/s2244/TheGardenersSecret%20largest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2244" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnd_t2drxMwZMtf6X04OZo8n6Nqlgwi0smMQimNLC2W0Jf0PnycSo029gZBbHhnvhtoNDhPsRf_1F7EOKHhTfmmi-Io4KHUE2kqcrsScRo27mbFwB9d01A4_ktZnVLTpPomiajAkbL6GCjVMWmfd3U7ZicEKGC9BHlKOogwAH0_whttfrAkMvff05YGPg/s320/TheGardenersSecret%20largest.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">THE GARDENER’S SECRET</span></b></i></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br />Believing she’ll get to report gritty news, Callie accepts a job at her hometown newspaper. Instead, she’s assigned the gardening column—a subject she knows nothing about. She begs advice from a tight-lipped neighbor when he admits he’s a retired gardener, even though his mannerisms and speech suggest he’s anything but. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Not knowing the full truth doesn’t matter—she needs his help. The townsfolk think him strange and warn Callie to keep her distance, but she regards him and his family as friends. Learning their horrifying secret doesn’t deter her, even though loyalty will draw her into danger.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Buy links: </b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">E-book link: <a href="https://a.co/d/3rXC7Vr">https://a.co/d/3rXC7Vr</a><br />Paperback link: <a href="https://a.co/d/g6M9zcJ">https://a.co/d/g6M9zcJ</a></span><div><br /></div></span></div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-38770139147279797862024-01-20T02:00:00.003-05:002024-01-20T05:46:43.872-05:00Songs of Winter by Liz Flaherty<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguoQbq0xkzwnF-vpVhXWTpJO_Dkse4tHl5BYO1C9_NSw1Kvka54KZCj4RTXku1_LlRyzpdsvRL-tWQ0rFvA-2DipnsmIu-K4S9MCjgpt_Xy3JUq7ShdzB9VuV66tQZwnkrpd5cbNluZrgNpZD5fA6zWa1-seS0mJiBywzD6XGgaSlKgW27Rd95vX7kucc/s206/snow.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguoQbq0xkzwnF-vpVhXWTpJO_Dkse4tHl5BYO1C9_NSw1Kvka54KZCj4RTXku1_LlRyzpdsvRL-tWQ0rFvA-2DipnsmIu-K4S9MCjgpt_Xy3JUq7ShdzB9VuV66tQZwnkrpd5cbNluZrgNpZD5fA6zWa1-seS0mJiBywzD6XGgaSlKgW27Rd95vX7kucc/s1600/snow.jpg" width="155" /></a></b></div><b>Friday morning early:</b> It's snowing. My cottonwood is wearing white on her broad and aging shoulders. There is a stillness that only snowfall brings--and then only when the wind isn't buffeting things around. <p></p><p>I remember snow days when I was in school. My dad was never home, because he worked on the highway department, which lent a different kind of freedom to the days. If the snow was deep, which it often was, my brothers built tunnels. We slid down the hill behind the barn. On wood-cutting days, we slid down the bigger hills where my uncle lived, coming to a crashing stop in a gully at the bottom of the hill. I learned to use a two-person saw with my brother. I didn't get good at it, but I could do it. (Same thing happened with cooking--go figure.)</p><p>I read a lot in the mornings, especially when my own writing voice is still croaky and stubborn, and this morning I read Amy Abbott's <a href="https://amyabbott.substack.com/p/what-old-musicals-can-teach-our-children" target="_blank">essay about musical theater</a>. It made me think of songs I've heard sung on stages, plays and concerts I've been privileged to see. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZq-WCdULWpqx8J-Nq5MOKcDAIF5kh-fmGcXSdyvZtSwdT91yMJvMNoNr5Ds1whVE95nYieY17iyaag-A8-xVYqtK4eEw_tX2lrhdydnQziQfGB6TFExw799BJmXp515EjZK9VE_mO6QwUKKcv1MRWg9rJYwQjZKjnsvdEU9M304c8KREZ1xRF5F3tTBo/s550/tog.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="501" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZq-WCdULWpqx8J-Nq5MOKcDAIF5kh-fmGcXSdyvZtSwdT91yMJvMNoNr5Ds1whVE95nYieY17iyaag-A8-xVYqtK4eEw_tX2lrhdydnQziQfGB6TFExw799BJmXp515EjZK9VE_mO6QwUKKcv1MRWg9rJYwQjZKjnsvdEU9M304c8KREZ1xRF5F3tTBo/w182-h200/tog.jpg" width="182" /></a></div>Music's always been part of our lives, from when I first saw my husband in a band while I was still in high school (he didn't see me --that came later) to watching the Three Old Guys at Legend's on Wednesday night. The kids were in choir and swing choir--our daughter still sings on her church's praise team. The grandkids were in band--the youngest one still is.<p></p><p>It's basketball season, complete with snow and school being called off late this morning. I thought of all the games I'd been to. When our school played in the semi-state my senior year, when we watched our oldest play, and later a grandboy or two. It's funny how your own gym always feels the same, regardless of the changes that have been wrought there, the adulthoods reached for. The tassels turned on mortarboards. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndh_8VUiKu0JpxjAnXkJksQg7ewlRj8UDQ1lKc0YTdvDQuXWKSGIHdYz-ayUVc9QZTT87cv1S7fY_jj2Q10wROpBX7w-GEF3QI1zBsbW9N9opzBQuCMj5L0kWBg9NKR_gyPxWVS2Oj9n0Nnza_U_i56xMtT6xORg5qByyeWVFhn9lKPM1JmexMa8cfNU/s206/419719857_749995086638073_8185848237481275274_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="151" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndh_8VUiKu0JpxjAnXkJksQg7ewlRj8UDQ1lKc0YTdvDQuXWKSGIHdYz-ayUVc9QZTT87cv1S7fY_jj2Q10wROpBX7w-GEF3QI1zBsbW9N9opzBQuCMj5L0kWBg9NKR_gyPxWVS2Oj9n0Nnza_U_i56xMtT6xORg5qByyeWVFhn9lKPM1JmexMa8cfNU/s1600/419719857_749995086638073_8185848237481275274_n.jpg" width="151" /></a></div><br />On my phone this morning was a picture of our youngest standing behind Eamon, his and Laura's youngest, helping him with his tie. <i>That's been a while</i>, Jock texted when I sent him the picture, and I thought of how long ago it was Duane helping him and Chris with double Windsor knots. <p></p><p>Oh, the memories. </p><p>I titled this <i>Songs of Winter, </i>because the snowy stillness of morning is one of the times so many things seem clear. Even though one of the worst parts of aging is what happens to your memory, when even the reason you went into the kitchen totally escapes you, you still recall how things made you feel. </p><p>Wishing you a week of feeling good things, making memories, and being nice to somebody.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8Lel-iT4mu_krv88eRuAyJyhDWA7Nff5hp98KH95klL7CHrIim6ccRZVB7ZwUw-YZ-ulPzwrMvr0SiDJUHIh8gPLI4ZF3t2RFpbOZGR4zc4BnExdH-YnEKexcEwkhFLwxTDCd3SZ8MLrz7g9FeSc2aYS8jCfzZ1AC77jooTx5QsGg5hnKNZTl088W90/s1050/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="1050" height="46" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8Lel-iT4mu_krv88eRuAyJyhDWA7Nff5hp98KH95klL7CHrIim6ccRZVB7ZwUw-YZ-ulPzwrMvr0SiDJUHIh8gPLI4ZF3t2RFpbOZGR4zc4BnExdH-YnEKexcEwkhFLwxTDCd3SZ8MLrz7g9FeSc2aYS8jCfzZ1AC77jooTx5QsGg5hnKNZTl088W90/s320/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">For the time being, Window Over the Sink and Window Over the Desk are both 99 cents for ebooks. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BGJS174L">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BGJS174L</a> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiURIiOHJNv4PRQTkr-rclKugceGK8JyRx3jLf68pzdn8FsiazLj8EcXt5lAkYc_mqpCt-d0ViwYak2bZpgu5qSAH1jIpkTktid5zHZyQl0p1GjAytzbza3UWxCjX31Kv0DcZmCVgGp9SJiULQLTPNcQk_vfu5W0AMZ4hlZqBCaWm0xUgLpbNpTGjSs5U/s1080/WOTD%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiURIiOHJNv4PRQTkr-rclKugceGK8JyRx3jLf68pzdn8FsiazLj8EcXt5lAkYc_mqpCt-d0ViwYak2bZpgu5qSAH1jIpkTktid5zHZyQl0p1GjAytzbza3UWxCjX31Kv0DcZmCVgGp9SJiULQLTPNcQk_vfu5W0AMZ4hlZqBCaWm0xUgLpbNpTGjSs5U/s320/WOTD%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-1806193590670858852024-01-13T02:00:00.008-05:002024-01-13T06:37:14.899-05:00Baby Jesus, Respect, and Never All by Liz Flaherty<span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gca6ka0fSgRegzbzPVrdDHC-Vwmrrvuf6wd152_zSWsblAWioZW9JgA-yTem6JoQNOkRXR92nHxUNy_Ynv9VCE0pNUnQ0UXDhn7WOPH78jxejpsOp1m7fsVsdS53xj9gqYamM7FdEWF7KQY1Ibbw1Brm6VuzBQ9kAtfHDKq9u4sz-EoIwbDj-EtJ8CU/s2048/Baby%20Jesus.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="947" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gca6ka0fSgRegzbzPVrdDHC-Vwmrrvuf6wd152_zSWsblAWioZW9JgA-yTem6JoQNOkRXR92nHxUNy_Ynv9VCE0pNUnQ0UXDhn7WOPH78jxejpsOp1m7fsVsdS53xj9gqYamM7FdEWF7KQY1Ibbw1Brm6VuzBQ9kAtfHDKq9u4sz-EoIwbDj-EtJ8CU/s320/Baby%20Jesus.jpg" width="148" /></a></div>Baby Jesus was found. I saw it on Facebook, and an ache I didn't even realize I had was relieved. </span><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">It wasn't a real baby, of course, but a statue taken from the downtown nativity scene. There've been TV shows about lost and stolen Baby Jesus figures. They're usually found, as the one in Peru was. Sometimes they're damaged. They're always treated disrespectfully. The pain of that disrespect is very real. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Even if I were not a Christian, even if the nativity scene wasn't something so important to me, I wouldn't understand why someone would want to defile it. The same with a menorah. The same with a crescent and star. They are symbols of belief systems that are important to the ones whose faiths they represent. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I am not in anyway trying to say all Christians, Jewish people, or Muslims (or any other religions) are good people. I'm not trying to say some of their "rule books" don't have parts that make me cringe. I'm not comfortable with some of the modes of dress, with any culture that considers any of its members lesser, with men wearing hats in church. (You already knew how old I am--now you <i>really </i>know.)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">But then, I don't like a ton of tattoos, a ton of piercings, or personal body parts being uncovered in public. I don't like the f-word used just to use it--especially by people who can't differentiate between they're, their, and there. I don't like when people straddle two parking spots, take up residence in the left lane, or don't use turn signals. I have no respect for any one who puts their trash into the recycle receptacles or litters. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I hate ear gauges. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Wow, that is a <i>bunch </i>of dislike, isn't it? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">But you know what? It's okay to dislike things others do, to not agree with or even respect their beliefs. It's just fine to be uncomfortable with cultural things that make you flinch or usage of the language that makes your ears curl inward so you can't hear it. It's okay to not know where to look when there's more ink on a person's skin than it takes to print a book or if they have huge holes where you have ear lobes. It's definitely not a mark against you to get mad at drivers who give idiocy a bad name. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">But it's not okay to act on it, to in any way damage or even talk about <i>all </i>purveyors, wearers, or drivers as bad people. You don't know that. You don't even come close to knowing it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><span>As a Democrat in Indiana, I understand more than I want to about disdain. But I don't know what it's like to be black where most people aren't, what it's like to be part of the</span> LGBTQ+ community where most people aren't. However, I know the word <i>all</i> gets used way too often. While I'm fairly certain all of those people, Democrats included, aren't good ones, I can guarantee they're not all bad, either. <br /><br />Something else I know is that much of the criteria we use for judging others is flawed. Seriously flawed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br />So, there you go. My time on the soapbox has expired. I wrote this from a perspective of sour grapes, of having my feelings hurt by someone I've known my entire life. It's something that happens more and more these days, isn't it? <br /><br />Maybe we can try to do it less often. Maybe we can remember before we say or do something hurtful that what means nothing to us means the world to them. In a lesser way, from pure thoughtlessness and often misplaced righteousness, we might be stealing their Baby Jesus. All we have to do to give Him back is say Hello. Have a great day. Smile. And go on.<br /><br />Have a good week. Be nice to somebody. </span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNHfFfhoR7sU0JrfBj7bBi_feu2gDtuVzynd2KHGX3EHZ7aHoxj2zNEGNTN-l0LYP8-VuNR8eicz_MSJbWZ8RdOBP8P3FY-HQXhNwlAvMMM1XxBZsrughX-hmLikSPCzQeTfMqfCHYJku4qePzbr_ekTVvwZf2CjICK6UiiJkQUoflHK5KApbKnm2N80/s300/Liz%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNHfFfhoR7sU0JrfBj7bBi_feu2gDtuVzynd2KHGX3EHZ7aHoxj2zNEGNTN-l0LYP8-VuNR8eicz_MSJbWZ8RdOBP8P3FY-HQXhNwlAvMMM1XxBZsrughX-hmLikSPCzQeTfMqfCHYJku4qePzbr_ekTVvwZf2CjICK6UiiJkQUoflHK5KApbKnm2N80/s1600/Liz%20(1).png" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-84859585780605692012024-01-06T02:00:00.003-05:002024-01-06T08:12:42.432-05:00I Liked 2023 by Liz Flaherty<div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQWXHpkZJD4nshVbll5eTmsWPWjvtWZHveb0RGR4_P0-RCMVdfmU6P-_B2NxtAph0YZlw-CdD2sa9rNlu1BFgIDw4O4aWgNAhe0tDwzOSCEdGouwb87_GX5tnrZJA-2Yl2g2j1qBilbYkTacVaENkDJv5Q2ZjnxKXcFCh-NQsYcQ_5UNFNR-q7FKC_5w/s352/quote.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQWXHpkZJD4nshVbll5eTmsWPWjvtWZHveb0RGR4_P0-RCMVdfmU6P-_B2NxtAph0YZlw-CdD2sa9rNlu1BFgIDw4O4aWgNAhe0tDwzOSCEdGouwb87_GX5tnrZJA-2Yl2g2j1qBilbYkTacVaENkDJv5Q2ZjnxKXcFCh-NQsYcQ_5UNFNR-q7FKC_5w/s320/quote.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>I liked 2023. Well, maybe not that much. Not enough to be sorry to see it go. Like many others, I'm exhausted by its shenanigans. By politics as a whole. By the state of health care if you choose not to live in a metropolitan area. By J-turns and traffic circles for the aid and comfort of certain areas being more important than well kept roads for the rest of us. </div><div class="separator"><br /></div><div>But wait. Those things aren't the fault of the year that just passed. Although they are the fault of the times, and I guess that's really where the exhaustion comes in. The older you get, the more times you can remember and the faultier the memory becomes.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's the thing about memory, isn't it? While it lends pleasure and knowledge and lots of <i>oh, yeah </i>moments, it also makes you revisit places you never wanted to go again. Things that hurt years ago still hurt. Things you thought you forgave...well, maybe you did, but forgetting's an entirely different thing, isn't it? </div><div><br /></div><div>I've been writing this column all week and this is as far as I've gotten. We've had sickness in the house through the holidays and even though I've seen or talked to nearly everyone in the family, I feel a sense of disconnect, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>I miss the house being full. I can't explain why it was harder this holiday season than ones in the past. Not only have our children flown the nest, most of <i>their </i>children have, too. Life is still fun and full (regardless of those empty spaces I'm whining about) of writing and music and living in a place we love to live.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>So, fine, Liz, what is your problem?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>There isn't one. </div><div><br /></div><div>Life is good. </div><div><br /></div><div>Although time goes so fast, the sun still rises and sets at the beginning and end of each day. I know I've said that before, but sometimes I need to be reminded.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just as I need to be reminded that even when those times are exhausting and hope seems like a distant pinpoint of light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel, there will be good times that usually outweigh the bad. For all the people who feel as if they owe nothing to humankind, there are more who know that we do. For all the people who spread hate, there are more who spread love. For all those who are greedy, there are more who are generous. For those who suggest that we "get over" the shooting of children, there are more who will never get over it. Those deaths have left behind houses that will never be full again.</div><div><br /></div><div>I liked 2023 okay. So far, I'm not impressed by 2024, but I'm willing and wanting to be wrong about that. I leave you with an apology for my inability to dredge up happy thoughts tonight. </div><div><br /></div><div>But this won't post until Saturday morning, when the sun will come up again. When we can start again and remind ourselves that life is good. </div><div><br /></div><div>Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIe3ydF_CuCkSZ1839i5yvQlGXJmo-uPTSJv9c-8zKon0BLBCUFD90zWZ9yNnZNtMwvtEfYkV_LPGBRYc9Iq6LVSgSlkzMNvGG8jSy9KbCTfKreJ7RfNgOEM75xsO0TIeFR70IkJD_tAZpT_Y43UQIYeS4mbb3jx1ES7Zoc5-eU2LHPgDKrQ71Q5UvJwk/s300/Liz%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIe3ydF_CuCkSZ1839i5yvQlGXJmo-uPTSJv9c-8zKon0BLBCUFD90zWZ9yNnZNtMwvtEfYkV_LPGBRYc9Iq6LVSgSlkzMNvGG8jSy9KbCTfKreJ7RfNgOEM75xsO0TIeFR70IkJD_tAZpT_Y43UQIYeS4mbb3jx1ES7Zoc5-eU2LHPgDKrQ71Q5UvJwk/s1600/Liz%20(1).png" width="300" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-55398062777612016902024-01-01T02:00:00.005-05:002024-01-01T02:00:00.140-05:00The Christmas Bears by Sherri Easley<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7afTu_EUO81GTk8lWf8xD8shOu6UeCb7IzAXRMOZJuhvfOzLlZR4D4XSTKgXmxTYqlLIDEcxwJxyLWyCng3I_63kJhdbt9l-9mAuADJhkhzuXYZ9UfKcCEHuaTaTZr75XnCiwtjog9Ke66RaKbk3lPScyR9aXX2ND2UVKgTfpX7DJaNagIDEwOA3S7so/s320/bears%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7afTu_EUO81GTk8lWf8xD8shOu6UeCb7IzAXRMOZJuhvfOzLlZR4D4XSTKgXmxTYqlLIDEcxwJxyLWyCng3I_63kJhdbt9l-9mAuADJhkhzuXYZ9UfKcCEHuaTaTZr75XnCiwtjog9Ke66RaKbk3lPScyR9aXX2ND2UVKgTfpX7DJaNagIDEwOA3S7so/s1600/bears%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">It was the first Christmas after losing my son, and I was struggling to find joy in anything, much less Christmas. I had not put up my tree and there was no trace of any holiday cheer.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">My daughter saw a post on a social media Mom’s page, asking if anyone had experience in repairing memory bears. Not for the first time, my daughter volunteered me. I am beyond blessed and sometimes frustrated that she seems to believe I can fix or make anything when it comes to sewing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I got the woman’s information, and we chatted a bit by text. Her grown son was off to college and was struggling with being away in his new environment. The only thing he asked for that Christmas was for his childhood bears, “Bear” and “Other Bear” be repaired.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsf7s5IQ4Izy4UOmTXvGgOxJCeaeIVz79o5jMckk4EMHbNS364Fxq0ol-sDgr_gsRdMd6njKQhZdZOcu71ar589uMDHpaRWBIbWIN8WjEg7vpcC8BOgFbF3umNSg9fYDdFKRaa3EF4oIer6HoCfQxWzSU0V9GLC3isOAAzj7MmowrG6Sfx9XfmB7EGRg/s400/bear%206.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsf7s5IQ4Izy4UOmTXvGgOxJCeaeIVz79o5jMckk4EMHbNS364Fxq0ol-sDgr_gsRdMd6njKQhZdZOcu71ar589uMDHpaRWBIbWIN8WjEg7vpcC8BOgFbF3umNSg9fYDdFKRaa3EF4oIer6HoCfQxWzSU0V9GLC3isOAAzj7MmowrG6Sfx9XfmB7EGRg/s320/bear%206.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br />When the woman delivered the bears and all I could do was bite my lip and think to myself, this would require a miracle. She handed me two ragged brown, near faceless bundles and explained to me how she held one of them while she was in labor with her now grown son and that her son loved the bear so much; they had to find another one because the first one was showing wear.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">She asked how much I would charge, and I told her I wasn’t sure if I could do anything and that there would be no cost. I have always felt like when you are blessed with a skill or gift, you should pay it forward as much as possible and this was the perfect opportunity.</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> I looked up the well-loved bears to see how they looked like in their less loved days and found, to my shock, that they were originally white. Picking one up, I inspected it closer, wondering what I had gotten myself into and how I would return them to their actual youth. Doing what I always do when in doubt- I jumped in and started working.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I made a bath of warm soapy water with a little oxy clean and let them swim for a while. That did little, so I sprayed them with an oxygen based cleaner and a miracle occurred. I rinsed them well and put them between a towel and squeezed out the water and let them dry.</span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIxYI80xx1d4XBA7CGgiRTGeFXhiMdEaTE42REDS3DV9ocstb4g0cIL6KucmmIAIRey6K0uY91c5MSYDfwlqr5tE4GBH6GXe4oePevUsM0F_D9trjZe-m8078NZ_zUVY1OBY9P-gMFSRaeVzyLHOP68aDoTfTVgahWayh_oAazD-6vKGI3pcUkVagJzlg/s320/bear%204.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIxYI80xx1d4XBA7CGgiRTGeFXhiMdEaTE42REDS3DV9ocstb4g0cIL6KucmmIAIRey6K0uY91c5MSYDfwlqr5tE4GBH6GXe4oePevUsM0F_D9trjZe-m8078NZ_zUVY1OBY9P-gMFSRaeVzyLHOP68aDoTfTVgahWayh_oAazD-6vKGI3pcUkVagJzlg/s1600/bear%204.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I used a wire dog brush and gently brushed them out. They really had fur, after all, at least a little. I had to be careful, because they were pretty fragile. Then, I fattened them up with fluff and restitched the many holes and sewed their heads back on.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I used oil-based paint pens to paint the eyes and even add that special white dot for the gleam. It was the nose, though, that brought the bears to life and gave them back their personalities. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">As a side note, I sent a photo to my daughter as I was repairing them, and she asked if I had changed out the fabric on them.</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ylO0JkedWjot9QMTm1HyRDdm4hd_GU6MFVz29-PGdeJU7lfAEWwXDfHDm5mxzuTI_1Jp-2_JnYJX_VNxKsJMv-q62VpI_CxDY-QtHiejT4w0R9lvdAS0Vo9kkA_3dqHzwW3efRraxwNnXMs72LSY5Eo6DwbvSdlI4Id28uUI-9Wpt9uHY_TKYmjTNOQ/s400/bears.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ylO0JkedWjot9QMTm1HyRDdm4hd_GU6MFVz29-PGdeJU7lfAEWwXDfHDm5mxzuTI_1Jp-2_JnYJX_VNxKsJMv-q62VpI_CxDY-QtHiejT4w0R9lvdAS0Vo9kkA_3dqHzwW3efRraxwNnXMs72LSY5Eo6DwbvSdlI4Id28uUI-9Wpt9uHY_TKYmjTNOQ/s320/bears.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The last time I saw the bears, they were neatly tucked in a box awaiting pickup. I thought nothing more about them until Christmas eve when I got an emotional video of the young man opening his gift and his sweet and sentimental reaction at the realization it was Bear and Other Bear.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">… and just like that – the joy and spirit of Christmas found me once more.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIvwYFFpzCRVc0JlxOhOKHdkQFXXvFCXoW-JvWFMprPbNHzmdgOhPYiMIMOGMtceqHijO31Lqvgrw-9kri6_4mmwHgG1Nz64sTgk2rbxt34mNtm9PGWfAC16E659udBtnP2v8BB5CUujwecgEpP_1o1LroWqjO9-fk3hlrDc4KvXHGJk3ealldWp7WDs8/s1200/Untitled%20design%20(23).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="1200" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIvwYFFpzCRVc0JlxOhOKHdkQFXXvFCXoW-JvWFMprPbNHzmdgOhPYiMIMOGMtceqHijO31Lqvgrw-9kri6_4mmwHgG1Nz64sTgk2rbxt34mNtm9PGWfAC16E659udBtnP2v8BB5CUujwecgEpP_1o1LroWqjO9-fk3hlrDc4KvXHGJk3ealldWp7WDs8/s320/Untitled%20design%20(23).png" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSu6aijw79H762QyldBpx-DYejBSvpUzxSH5ZTlf7xcpPrPolTtloeTup5z7Xr0rYM_Hq-JGskDd9jo0_m49a8B4LkYCXPfrbXLg7mXqLKyyKvdCd5EEQWJo7g2Pmlm-tRcXbOea4vRQnDOp06hDGKftD-eafheAvn1vdiKpPSASFvwOGi1QFCro2clgg/s590/SherriEasley.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="579" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSu6aijw79H762QyldBpx-DYejBSvpUzxSH5ZTlf7xcpPrPolTtloeTup5z7Xr0rYM_Hq-JGskDd9jo0_m49a8B4LkYCXPfrbXLg7mXqLKyyKvdCd5EEQWJo7g2Pmlm-tRcXbOea4vRQnDOp06hDGKftD-eafheAvn1vdiKpPSASFvwOGi1QFCro2clgg/w196-h200/SherriEasley.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Sherri Easley was born and raised on a farm in
rural east Texas, surrounded by good country folks and lots of great cooking.
Growing up with an idyllic childhood in a small community provided her with
lots of tales and characters for the stories she writes. When she is not
creating Strategy at her corporate day job, you will find her snuggled up with
her three dogs and two cats, writing stories from the heart. You can reach Sherri at </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="mailto:sherrieasleyauthor@gmail.com">sherrieasleyauthor@gmail.com</a></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">Amazon: </span><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://tinyurl.com/3sk8a2rs">https://tinyurl.com/3sk8a2rs</a></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Goodreads: <a href="https://tinyurl.com/5n7vb2mf">https://tinyurl.com/5n7vb2mf</a></span></p>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-8741592638356280462023-12-31T02:00:00.084-05:002023-12-31T06:07:56.302-05:00More to Come... by Lee Ann Murphy <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4JGQhTE2ZukybKF0O426ZCMeG1v7325PTd80Fa-Mm-8SGJ8m7T0qo8U09HRzDo746Xxrf6tRKPQAHkDsr8tXid0-5ylnm-mFpSVjgDWFQZGf5G4JHyn4B5qldEN2h8RC10JxjO8CuZDexAZwrChAgO9albiFej3SGjZA4AjaiyNUmpgjI3HtLG8VrC0/s1600/Happy%20New%20Year%E2%80%99s%20Eve.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4JGQhTE2ZukybKF0O426ZCMeG1v7325PTd80Fa-Mm-8SGJ8m7T0qo8U09HRzDo746Xxrf6tRKPQAHkDsr8tXid0-5ylnm-mFpSVjgDWFQZGf5G4JHyn4B5qldEN2h8RC10JxjO8CuZDexAZwrChAgO9albiFej3SGjZA4AjaiyNUmpgjI3HtLG8VrC0/s320/Happy%20New%20Year%E2%80%99s%20Eve.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><br />As the winter dusk creeps across the sky and shadows begin to fill the </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">yard, I see the reflections of the
Christmas tree lights in the window and so I </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">find myself pondering on the year just
past. Like all years, it was, as </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Charles Dickens once wrote, the best
of times and the worst of times. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">2023 was a time of transition and
change. Although I resist change, I </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">have learned that life is an ongoing
process and that whether or not I like it, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">change is a part of that.</span><div><div style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Just as the seasons change around us
or as the weather </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">shifts from sunny skies to storm
clouds, nothing remains unchanged. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Once the holiday decorations get
packed away and life moves back toward</span></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">normalcy, I think of the New Year as a
clean page and uncharted territory. A </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">new year offers opportunities and many
people often make resolutions for change.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I seldom make New Years resolutions
but I sometimes set goals and make plans </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">although I have learned that even the
best-laid plans can go awry. Another thing that I have learned is that I never
know what an incoming year might bring or what may happen.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tomorrow,
my children, all grown, will gather with me to enjoy pork, a traditional dish
for prosperity, black-eyed peas seasoned Southern style with bacon and onions,
other side dishes, and cake. Some years I bake a confection from scratch, an
old-fashioned cherry layer cake. It’s often used as a Christmas cake but since
my later mother celebrated her birthday each December 25<sup>th</sup>, we often
had a birthday cake with red and green decorations. Her grandparents started
the tradition when she was a child, to make sure her birthday wasn’t lost in
the holiday magic. I’ve often baked the cake for New Year’s Day and plan to
again this year.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbdnQZE4E2dMt_7UpZLBgia3rTNucm8GQlsohSfC8RkPdLQbgFI-M66B7SdvPSS4rn9KaDQvUrWAgAT-OgV64IJE5YLQS1DtCL2fFnseQjaKRSUCddeBF1kTn5XIohuLl6a4n06hZc7xSRs5pUUimucHHpTfoTnB6TgHm-snl7Ds5y8URtN228OMs4Io/s960/cherry%20cake.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbdnQZE4E2dMt_7UpZLBgia3rTNucm8GQlsohSfC8RkPdLQbgFI-M66B7SdvPSS4rn9KaDQvUrWAgAT-OgV64IJE5YLQS1DtCL2fFnseQjaKRSUCddeBF1kTn5XIohuLl6a4n06hZc7xSRs5pUUimucHHpTfoTnB6TgHm-snl7Ds5y8URtN228OMs4Io/w150-h200/cherry%20cake.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
those who might want to try a vintage dessert, here’s the recipe:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><br /></span></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><b>Cake:</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">2 cups white sugar</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">½ cup vegetable shortening</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">2 eggs</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">3 ½ cups flour</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">1 teaspoon nutmeg or cinnamon</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">2 teaspoons baking powder</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">1 cup milk</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">1 can dark sweet, pitted cherries (not pie filling)</span> </p></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><b>Instructions:</b></span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Cream sugar with shortening, then add eggs and blend
well.</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Sift together flour, spice, and baking powder, add into
creamed mixture alternately with milk.</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Fold in the dark, sweet, pitted cherries but reserve the
juice for the icing.</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Blend well and spread in two prepared 8-inch cake pans
and bake at 350 for 45 minutes.</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">While
cake is baking, prepare icing with 1 cup shortening, two cups powdered sugar, a
dash of salt, a teaspoon of vanilla and the reserved cherry juice.</span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Frost
when cool, stacking layers on top of each other.</span></p></blockquote></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">January, named for the two-faced Roman
god of transitions, gates, and doors, often represented the life versus death
struggle as well. It’s joined the ranks of my least favorite months because my
father left this world in January in 2009 and my husband departed ten years and
a few days later. Widowhood was never something I aspired to gain but as I will
soon mark the five-year milestone, I’ve adapted as much as anyone ever does. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">At the time my husband passed, I was
editor for two regional newspapers in southwest Missouri. As the staff dwindled
due to ongoing budget cuts, changes in ownership, and the decline of
newspapers, I became a one-woman machine. I wrote most of the paper, including
sports, which is not my forte. I laid out each edition and sent it to press.
When the opportunity arrived from Gannett, the parent company, for a severance
package, I accepted it willingly to focus on my writing career.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">My long-term dream of becoming an
author hit pay dirt in 2010 with my first novel, <i>Wolfe’s Lady</i>, (Evernight
Publishing) which debuted in the last days of December.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As my media job demanded increasing hours and
my husband’s health declined, my output slowed and I had a hiatus in my author
career. I returned with fresh publications in 2021. I ended the year with my
two most recent titles in October, <i>Huck’s Legacy</i> and in November, <i>The
Scarred Santa</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I have four titles under contract so
far in 2024 and more to come.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1AyAB-YuJnUYdieHTBc-u3VNYdujmfcN8hFYw4Oq1UfGciJf1s-e-fAhnvZ2c_7CiJZYx02jnq9k5bqzXL9bkGf5WWt5ZnXJUmzMM5SevQwh-OO-AEXpowAjx4tPZ7TgDOZbKIWhL5N3WHDqbzy67PBS2G3cIfSKUBraYAOZWDveXyjrU-gbuK9PFMU/s2048/last%20chance%20cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1278" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1AyAB-YuJnUYdieHTBc-u3VNYdujmfcN8hFYw4Oq1UfGciJf1s-e-fAhnvZ2c_7CiJZYx02jnq9k5bqzXL9bkGf5WWt5ZnXJUmzMM5SevQwh-OO-AEXpowAjx4tPZ7TgDOZbKIWhL5N3WHDqbzy67PBS2G3cIfSKUBraYAOZWDveXyjrU-gbuK9PFMU/s320/last%20chance%20cover.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />One of those upcoming releases is in
edits now, <i>The Cowboy’s Last Chance</i>. The tag line is “Eight seconds is the
span of time for a bull rider to win or lose, live or sometimes die.”<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I’ll share the gorgeous cover now – I
love the use of color, the theme, and overall presentation. Kudos go to the
cover artist, Tina Lynn Stout.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">On this last day of the outgoing year,
though, my focus is on 2024. I may reflect on <i>auld lange syne</i>, like the
traditional song heard so often at this time, but I look forward to the new, to
the blank slate, and the unknown that awaits. As I remember those who left this
world in January, I offer a shout out to my dad, Jerry Sontheimer, who
introduced me to life and taught me there is no such word as can’t. Because of
him, I can and will continue. I also offer a word to my late husband, Roy
Murphy, who said "I do" and did.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">In closing, I wish all the happiest in
the coming year. May your heart’s desires come to pass. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">To keep up with what’s new (and old)
with me, follow my Amazon author page here:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Lee-Ann-Sontheimer-Murphy/author/B004JPBM6I">https://www.amazon.com/stores/Lee-Ann-Sontheimer-Murphy/author/B004JPBM6I</a></span><span class="MsoHyperlink"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span class="MsoHyperlink"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span class="MsoHyperlink"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZBNpFcmKIdsBki4XNeEwL-Lm6wfnr5HwKhCsmXMyNWmLKB3xa1K_VvnIp6oqdI81QBuFKp6wuJZo1DNU5O7WpJITrAVWC0lb46PnJG9LsLnziEhE3qsobKSaPM_NaJHxtEm6S3wNZCDoOXEA2FzFfy5R_kzaZJSYAKGwtjUyVy3eaJ8EwNA9Pg1NnJY/s900/Divider%202.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="900" height="53" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZBNpFcmKIdsBki4XNeEwL-Lm6wfnr5HwKhCsmXMyNWmLKB3xa1K_VvnIp6oqdI81QBuFKp6wuJZo1DNU5O7WpJITrAVWC0lb46PnJG9LsLnziEhE3qsobKSaPM_NaJHxtEm6S3wNZCDoOXEA2FzFfy5R_kzaZJSYAKGwtjUyVy3eaJ8EwNA9Pg1NnJY/s320/Divider%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnhtXFoyepVxSkyt4H6mlRYH0WrYjhB4DSTwkz0j8_yjUuq4S9ofjnQrX4lWSqkGH6i9BN4o-HXtOU2_ztoN2U9B31-affm7eUTFb7M_bcllHaSWNKnh3ctx-CKJShzvTiljsnGrO6RByLXkFl0CvAoEwE4WkRIJLNZU_bd7vxMwbqEfncE0qLAw0WnI0/s206/Lee%20Ann.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="206" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnhtXFoyepVxSkyt4H6mlRYH0WrYjhB4DSTwkz0j8_yjUuq4S9ofjnQrX4lWSqkGH6i9BN4o-HXtOU2_ztoN2U9B31-affm7eUTFb7M_bcllHaSWNKnh3ctx-CKJShzvTiljsnGrO6RByLXkFl0CvAoEwE4WkRIJLNZU_bd7vxMwbqEfncE0qLAw0WnI0/w200-h200/Lee%20Ann.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />From
an early age, Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy scribbled stories, inspired by the
books she read, the family tales she heard, and even the conversations she
overheard at the beauty shop where her grandmother had a weekly standing
appointment. She was the little girl who sat at the feet of the elders and
listened.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span class="MsoHyperlink">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">As an
author, she has published more than sixty novels and novellas written as both
Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy and as Patrice Wayne for historical fiction. She is
also the author of a new Faery Folk series from Evernight Publishing writing as
Liathán O'Murchadha.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her current
publishers include The Wild Rose Press, World Castle Publishing, and Evernight
Publishing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">She
spent her early career in broadcast radio, interviewing everyone from
politicians to major league baseball players and writing ad copy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those radio years she began to write short
stories and articles, some of which found publication. In 1994 she married Roy
Murphy and they had three children, all now grown-up. Lee Ann spent years in
the newspaper field as both a journalist and editor and was widowed in 2019. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">In
late 2020, she hung up her editor’s hat to return to writing fiction. A native
of St. Joseph, Missouri, she lives and works in the rugged, mysterious, and
beautiful Missouri Ozarks<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: x-large; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><b><i>Lee Ann Murphy</i></b></span></p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span><p></p></div></div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-3498678420435183792023-12-30T02:00:00.043-05:002023-12-30T05:57:46.769-05:00How A Festival of Mini-Trees Revived Christmas For Me by Anna Taylor Sweringen<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Anniversaries, birthdays, even seasonal holidays are just days on the calendar for me and my husband. Often, it’s well wishes from friends in ecards, texts and on Facebook notifying us that a reason to celebrate has arrived. The only exception I’m happy to say is Christmas. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-b753a70e-7fff-b113-fb50-c26e01e75902"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Let us return to 2014…</i></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I sat on the board of directors of an ecumenical center in Long Island called the Parish Resource Center. It helps church lay people do tasks assigned to them. Lead a bible study, teach a Sunday school class, run a vacation bible school. Whatever help they needed, they could come to PRC for help. Anyway, many of Long Island’s tree farms host huge tree lighting displays which draw hundreds of people. As a fundraiser in 2014 the PRC decided to do a mini-tree display. Staff and center subscribers created inventive trees to raffle off as gifts and home decor. Some were quite seasonal with angels, stars, bows and berries. Some were thematically fun with Santas and a moose. One was practical making a baby-items tree to celebrate the birth of the Christ child. I took pictures back to my church in Paterson, NJ so my members could buy tickets for the trees they wished to win. Lugging the winning trees in shopping bags on the Long Island Railroad and New Jersey Transit trains is a fond Christmas memory. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="border: none; display: inline-block; height: 217px; overflow: hidden; width: 434px;"><img alt="A christmas tree with lights
Description automatically generated with medium confidence" height="217" src="https://lh7-us.googleusercontent.com/qGkucIredbAn1_BYed6J43tZ7n5jxhyR6VmBI2CCckrnnSAGiek_UGCDIKO518bRKyWTM_Qq0QdVR8c1AHNiUuFF5SrN0Pjru_VqNAhNWDyPQ0EgcdH5a28NHXsnyYMVE0BcQuIijs22c3gCHGGOrQ" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="434" /></span></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Fast forward to 2017…</i></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In 2017 I retired and moved to Albuquerque. My first Christmas was warm and wonderful. On my side of town, the sun melts any snow away by noon just like Camelot. My neighbors decorated their yards with large blow-up figures and inventive light displays. I thought about how I might decorate for the holiday. I went to a Christian bookstore in search of gifts for family and came across a series of handmade angels made by a shut in from one of the local churches. She was selling them on consignment. What lovely decorations for a tree. I thought. But as I shared earlier my husband and I aren’t big holiday celebraters. We’ve never even had a tree. In the past I’d hang garland decorated with instruments and bows. Maybe I could do the same with these angels. But then I remembered the PRC’s mini-tree festival and thought, “Why not?” I can buy a mini-tree and put these lovely angels on them. I bought them all. The bookstore also had glass angels. My spirit soared. I’d buy them too and make a mini-angel tree.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Not only did I create the tree, but I joined my neighbors in decorating the whole house and my yard as well. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="border: none; display: inline-block; height: 312px; overflow: hidden; width: 624px;"><img alt="A collage of christmas decorations
Description automatically generated" height="312" src="https://lh7-us.googleusercontent.com/qTqCTAvjcP-9x1o5hI9abutysYHqMbSE971IjGOA9u5amSQKRu7k5XmnntPWUu-ls5hSzV9VVnc4DpZf0sl2R6-KWeqV0K57BQpq38J33vGgUm58db7p_NGcXk2CVixhrVMJpqMMG_rFgldvnEl9Uw" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="624" /></span></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">When Christmas comes around, I can’t wait to pull out my decorations and get creative. I create wreaths and Christmas villages and put nativity displays all over my house. I now have five mini trees that take over our dining room table every year: a mini tree displaying the tiny ornaments from a Metropolitan Museum of Art advent calendar, two more dedicated to our pets and famous pets from the White House. I also created a Kwanzaa mini tree with ornaments I’d bought way back when I was in seminary but never displayed. And a Christmas village that occupies half our living room floor. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="border: none; display: inline-block; height: 225px; overflow: hidden; width: 450px;"><img alt="A collage of christmas decorations
Description automatically generated" height="225" src="https://lh7-us.googleusercontent.com/1ajfOKle46hU2xp5cl89fXHBlpQPmvsfIt46YpjVkl9jKj9kmhpSlae6iMtR_KuQHi6B-IlXIpKmGX88Q9DNkTaiAn3YEkwk2rVhuiaAFhP-tUSIVG3uc86Hqv4htr6vtbaeILrTk1NorYN5ihTzfA" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="450" /></span></span></p><br /><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As I look back on this decorating tradition, I realize how being creative has revived the spirit of Christmas for me. As a minister my focus during Advent and Christmas was to make sure everyone else enjoyed the season. Thus, developing services and activities for others often meant I never stopped to take time for myself. Now my decorating allows me to get into the spirit of the season and rediscover its joys for myself.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Whatever holiday you celebrate - Diwali, Hannukah, Yule, Christmas or Kwanzaa - I hope some tradition enables you to be filled with the meaning of that celebration and to carry that spirit with you into the new year. </span></p><div> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKRzuonZBSbMVA1nZy6G73lhhhPKvXkssPIpJ1yVnlFSLumid3q8Zqan4SlBmAkqd6pqBLyZERA-Ed9QB866Y0B9IjVYgmaQs2HuPlfl9LDnoE2rWwCYnuBuME7buy8zgUXfO3Rh-AaHH7pU_XeHWNRAz8r3zKwub0kMJSUn1pjn_KDQNuHRQMJRaOKg/s900/dsit.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="900" height="53" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKRzuonZBSbMVA1nZy6G73lhhhPKvXkssPIpJ1yVnlFSLumid3q8Zqan4SlBmAkqd6pqBLyZERA-Ed9QB866Y0B9IjVYgmaQs2HuPlfl9LDnoE2rWwCYnuBuME7buy8zgUXfO3Rh-AaHH7pU_XeHWNRAz8r3zKwub0kMJSUn1pjn_KDQNuHRQMJRaOKg/s320/dsit.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><img alt="A person smiling at camera
Description automatically generated" height="313" src="https://lh7-us.googleusercontent.com/oWJQRQJH2Xs6v0-krG0HnDSrGPlktGZOk-289bhjYAme5XusDUz1pciEI6cIc1_SJfKDRGo8wGXxCtjgWGZsXYfd-yLgko-j1AD5cctwDTqmGDAeRGbfYcTMy9OYqx7zMMPe0nKDiZhZToDt_k8QJQ" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; white-space-collapse: preserve;" width="417" /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Michal Scott is the steamy historical romance pen name of Anna Taylor Sweringen, a retired United Church of Christ and Presbyterian Church USA minister. Inspired by the love mystics of Begijn, Audre Lourde and bell hooks, Anna seeks to write romance that can be simultaneously spiritual and steamy. She loves writing historical romance to give insight into black love and resilience in the African American experience in the US. Besides steamy historical romance, she writes inspirational and sweet romance as Anna Taylor and second chance ghost mystery romances as Anna M. Taylor. Sign up for Michal's newsletter so she can keep in touch with you: </span><a href="https://mailchi.mp/106e6b05cdfe/michal-scotts-newsletter" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">https://mailchi.mp/106e6b05cdfe/michal-scotts-newsletter</span></a></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 11.5pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Michal has Christmas-setting short stories in two of Delilah Devlin’s Boys Behaving Badly anthologies. The latest, "Take Me To The Water," is available in <i>Silver Soldiers</i> which came out in 2023. The first, "The $5.00 Kiss of Life," came out in <i>First Response</i> back in 2019.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="border: none; display: inline-block; height: 312px; overflow: hidden; width: 624px;"><img alt="A person with no shirt
Description automatically generated" height="312" src="https://lh7-us.googleusercontent.com/V_nwf4niwCe1BbTjoNevinvrDUrqz7MwA5LMmWPjf9Zv1JouvQcEI1SFCuS2whHs_Dtogry-Qz08DtsqhtFylCvxbXqjgdeNKhlAD63pVM4hancwBGdXXs_PPtzpFVq_Ioyi_HOtFLgV1ZcKt2flKQ" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="624" /></span></span></p><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="border: none; display: inline-block; height: 312px; overflow: hidden; width: 624px;"><br /></span></span></div></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-26992177028934879272023-12-29T02:00:00.038-05:002023-12-29T06:53:55.049-05:00"...a more meaningful level..." by Alana Lorens<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOusyF9mgwDCk6hD3t0In4PoEhtH9Wrf8Jx8KTevyBj9wK7R8EpJtsQuDEvGpixlh9DvXbSLsTn-NzJAiVNx5RsG71DfJOe81j4wJP1eh-mIgvJ6Xufg1rxwYBaCW6A6gawY3kjgtQLlsUC1Slz_EQeTT-LKOZbVxEF8awUeHeItf4omGIhTs_N3ipOjs/s353/momwithcovers.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="353" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOusyF9mgwDCk6hD3t0In4PoEhtH9Wrf8Jx8KTevyBj9wK7R8EpJtsQuDEvGpixlh9DvXbSLsTn-NzJAiVNx5RsG71DfJOe81j4wJP1eh-mIgvJ6Xufg1rxwYBaCW6A6gawY3kjgtQLlsUC1Slz_EQeTT-LKOZbVxEF8awUeHeItf4omGIhTs_N3ipOjs/s320/momwithcovers.jpg" width="305" /></a></div>This gift doesn’t cost a penny—but can pay off for years to come<p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-114dec21-7fff-4191-31be-b9b9f57eceb0"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Before I was lucky enough to retire and become a full-time writer, I was a divorce attorney A phenomenon many divorce attorneys like me encountered each year between mid-November and January 2 is the sudden drop-off of clients and client activity. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s the holiday lull, the last-ditch effort to grasp the fast-fading warm feeling of family or at least the rational attempt to try to preserve the illusion that "everything is all right" for the children.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Often, the holidays are a happy, blurred memory batch from childhood, with ham dinners with families gathered at grandparents’ house, favorite (and not so favorite) presents we’ve received over the years, candlelit church services, carols and much more.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Overlay this with the commercial media blitz of glitter, bling (every kiss begins with k? Who knew? Awesome!) and price cuts, and the secular Holidays take on an almost sacred tone of their own.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">We want our children to experience this, to feel whole, to be glad and warm and loved. Often we are able to swallow our own pain–or drown it with well-doctored eggnog– long enough to let the little ones experience Santa and the magic.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But what I saw as the years passed is the carving up of these happy days with a broad knife, dividing the time the children “must” spend with father, mother, siblings, grandparents and others. When parents cannot look beyond their own needs to compromise with their children’s lives, the court will do it for them, with lack of emotion or feeling to guide it.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Four hours for mom. Two hours for grandma. Twelve hours for dad. Splitting the day so you have to be hauling kids on the road for two hours of the holiday you’d all rather spend at home. Weather? Schmeather. The court order says… Alternating years, so every other Christmas your hearth is empty and dark with no children to celebrate. Christmas Eve. Christmas Day. Thanksgiving Thursday. Friday? Maybe, if you’re lucky, a few extra days of the vacation when the children can have a parent all to themselves without other obligations.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">There’s no good way to do it, so this yields the sucking-up and effort to maintain through the holidays “for the kids.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In my generation, divorce was not as prevalent as today, and we visited summers only, so our holidays, though father was absent, were not disrupted. My children, however, were subject to visitation orders, and spent most holidays with their fathers, which was fine with me. Holiday is a state of mind, as far as I’m concerned. You can have a special day on the 23rd, 25th, or even 31st, if you put your mind to it.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Many more children of my kids’ generation grew up in split parenting situations, so maybe for them, it’s not as traumatic for their own children to be visiting other households during these magic periods. And often, no matter how hard you’re trying to hold things together, the children are well aware of the tensions underlying the surface. If those tensions become toxic, then perhaps separation, even this time of year, could be the right choice, for everyone’s peace of mind. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But even if the magic fails on one front, don’t give up. There are many more. Author Suzy Brown says, “Holidays are about peace and sharing and gratitude and love. During tragedy, or divorce, or heartache we have to reach down and find those core things at a deeper level, a more meaningful level.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">It’s a tough time. If you feel that you can’t hold on, for any reason, please seek professional help, whether in the form of legal counsel, psychological counsel, or just a heartfelt cup of cocoa with a good friend or close relative. Take time out for yourself. Most decisions can be put off for a week or two. Give yourself and the children time to de-stress. This will pay off as they learn coping skills they will use all their lives. The holiday break is short enough without trying to squeeze every last second out of it. There will be plenty of germs to share after the kids are back in school again.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Happy new year!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Author Bio</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNRChb-hjgxE2FFFa0QuTadClyg9ofTqnBMa8SbgsAaME6ZxOFAgdDO6JpEuWXPiynuJROAvF9RGIRD3gt0rDFbUkqAJE-xROhvhqg24qKk-Z1Rpm1-gOiNwWmDarf9o0NaXkwxue9-O3N_JWphC15NZsTIvfCJQ4UIKIpdq8ex0ZMOvTmPU9l-ZUYjM/s1500/71ewbe3IKJL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNRChb-hjgxE2FFFa0QuTadClyg9ofTqnBMa8SbgsAaME6ZxOFAgdDO6JpEuWXPiynuJROAvF9RGIRD3gt0rDFbUkqAJE-xROhvhqg24qKk-Z1Rpm1-gOiNwWmDarf9o0NaXkwxue9-O3N_JWphC15NZsTIvfCJQ4UIKIpdq8ex0ZMOvTmPU9l-ZUYjM/s320/71ewbe3IKJL._SL1500_.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Alana Lorens has been a published writer for more than forty years, after working as a pizza maker, a floral designer, a journalist and a family law attorney. Currently a resident of Asheville, North Carolina, the aging hippie loves her time in the smoky blue mountains. She writes romance and suspense as Alana Lorens, and sci-fi, fantasy and paranormal mystery as Lyndi Alexander. Her recent supernatural thriller </span><a href="https://www.nnlightsbookheaven.com/post/remnants-of-fire-br" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">REMNANTS OF FIRE</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> recently took the Best Fiction of 2023 award from N.N. Lights Heaven.</span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">She is the author of the </span><a href="https://alana-lorens.com/the-pittsburgh-lady-lawyers/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Pittsburgh Lady Lawyers series</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">, which draws on her years as a family law attorney in the state of Pennsylvania. One of the causes close to her heart came from those years as well–the fight against domestic violence. She volunteered for many years at women’s shelters and provided free legal services to women and children in need. Alana lives with her daughter on the autism spectrum, who is the youngest of her seven children, five crotchety old cats and four kittens.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Author Links</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Website</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="text-wrap: nowrap;"> </span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span><a href="http://alana-lorens.com" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: blue; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">http://Alana-lorens.com</span></a></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Facebook </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/AlanaLorens/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: blue; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">https://www.facebook.com/AlanaLorens/</span></a></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Goodreads </span><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4829967.Alana_Lorens" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: blue; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4829967.Alana_Lorens</span></a></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Amazon Author Page </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Alana-Lorens/e/B005GE0WBC/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: blue; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">https://www.amazon.com/Alana-Lorens/e/B005GE0WBC/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1</span></a></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Bookbub: </span><a href="https://www.bookbub.com/profile/alana-lorens" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: blue; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">https://www.bookbub.com/profile/alana-lorens</span></a></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Twitter: @AlexanderLyndi</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Instagram: </span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/alexander_lyndi/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: blue; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">https://www.instagram.com/alexander_lyndi/</span></a></p><div><br /></div></span>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-2488078666644022742023-12-28T02:00:00.058-05:002023-12-28T02:00:00.357-05:00A Very Silly New Year’s Eve by Marla White <span id="docs-internal-guid-36331940-7fff-b99c-74ed-13019770ca94"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAPzgjXkUUipY3TUClGyNggEhf_LXgfZ5s-waMxYaTQFpIt8iBkJ82KcZyuLypzYoAocWlU5QI4bJ4cLqPsxYFR1N1qota2b39mJ1PmnksfVfLiG9ovI8wcB6a2PbaRolhHLvXwd0ak7CC8cnianxaB-2rJQYnZxuJmXYwsz7j6R2awW7SWV-kyxTGkUM/s1080/Untitled%20design%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAPzgjXkUUipY3TUClGyNggEhf_LXgfZ5s-waMxYaTQFpIt8iBkJ82KcZyuLypzYoAocWlU5QI4bJ4cLqPsxYFR1N1qota2b39mJ1PmnksfVfLiG9ovI8wcB6a2PbaRolhHLvXwd0ak7CC8cnianxaB-2rJQYnZxuJmXYwsz7j6R2awW7SWV-kyxTGkUM/s320/Untitled%20design%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I’ve always loved the holiday season. Christmas music in October? Bring it! My roommate forbade me from putting the lights on the house until after Thanksgiving, but Friday morning at 8:30 I was up on the roof with my multi-colored icicle lights. But my favorite part of the holiday season as an adult is New Year’s Eve. Because of the partying? Well, a little of that, but not the way you might think. </span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>A little backstory… </i> </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">At fourteen, New Year’s Eve meant babysitting jobs were plentiful. Of course, I also felt like a loser, not doing all the cool things my older siblings got to do. One year, I was alone in a neighbor’s house, the kids fast asleep. The noises the strange house made freaked me out a little. Just when I was certain there was a killer in the house (have you not seen that movie? yikes!), when Dick Clark’s "Rockin’ New Year’s Eve" came on. After the ball fell, Barry Manilow sang </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">It’s Just Another New Year’s Eve </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">and suddenly the night had an anthem for me. If you’ve never heard it, the song is best summed up in one line, “It’s just another night, that’s all it is”. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Listening to those reassuring words, that your whole future isn’t caught up in one night, every year was my New Year’s Eve tradition until I went to college. Then I found better things to do on the night in question. Were they more fun than going to Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour (remember those?) with my sister and ending the night with Barry? Not always, but it’s New Year’s so you have to celebrate, right? You’re young and stupid. It’s imperative that you glam it up and find a cool bar or party to go to or you might as well paint a big “L” on your forehead. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKUb0P_27faaNwqONIAaJISVw2bbEt5RxNZjHr8nJbmKNHpNFrXjSuBC-3li_xwZGn0pxZpVC2QUixB3hZG6Ire62iZ3g-KiRcB1-ocpSokZNIaApw9God2SRkB1pbOwhAw_IuRrs2-c7_CfbRswJqo9vIo4CVbBXTmvD844afrIWvHW4L-C_bE3-xdE/s640/NYE.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKUb0P_27faaNwqONIAaJISVw2bbEt5RxNZjHr8nJbmKNHpNFrXjSuBC-3li_xwZGn0pxZpVC2QUixB3hZG6Ire62iZ3g-KiRcB1-ocpSokZNIaApw9God2SRkB1pbOwhAw_IuRrs2-c7_CfbRswJqo9vIo4CVbBXTmvD844afrIWvHW4L-C_bE3-xdE/s320/NYE.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Cut to an unstated number of years and a lot of comically dreadful New Year’s gatherings later. One year, my roommate and I decided the pressure to be cool wasn’t worth it. We stayed home and invited other friends who were also over the notion that you <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">had</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> to do something spectacular that one night a year. I’m not even sure whose idea it was or how it started, but when midnight came around, we went out in our front yard and had a Silly String fight.</span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Fight” is a bit too strong of a word. We ran around like maniacs, squealing like toddlers as we sprayed each other with Silly String to see who we could cover the most. It lasted about two minutes, but it was a lot of breathless fun. It took all the weight off the night that MUST be the biggest, bestest, shiniest of the year</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The party became a tradition and grew in size every year. With more friends coming from farther away, it became a slumber party of sorts for anyone who wanted to stay, with a special New Year’s Day breakfast. Of course, the Rose Parade on TV was a must! One year, a friend who is British and had somehow never seen <i>Monty Python and the Holy Grail</i> was over. The entire party felt duty-bound to introduce her to the comedy masterpiece, staying up until three in the morning laughing. The clean up the next day wasn’t all that fun, but so worth it. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">We’ve downsized to an apartment, but still have a gathering, just no more Silly String. And even though we’re in LA, we celebrate midnight New York time because…why not? I love being at a point in life where I’m no longer a servant to the clock or when other people tell me when and how I should have fun. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">And every New Year’s Eve, even if I don’t make a point of listening to the song, Barry’s words make me smile. Because it really is just another night, and like the man says, “we’ve made good friends…remember all the nights we spent with them?”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDASTJS6PYmdSK_be1a_UmhsuoBDMWYiQS5elok4WyjYzFnLy7xWMle990XumW8CugiuWHfEcK2Z1Lbz4-D8SMZEGEHTw4t_60uT1t1MUwEd_yzehUmOySwkkU5zgTJitvE2Dq7McPyh-2KDW7c8MomhH7zHlOXrwjrRT4dj2aV7V1LRvi3LTG1lLIU_4/s640/67891D14-0E8B-47BD-A4F3-745D93CE214F_1_105_c.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="640" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDASTJS6PYmdSK_be1a_UmhsuoBDMWYiQS5elok4WyjYzFnLy7xWMle990XumW8CugiuWHfEcK2Z1Lbz4-D8SMZEGEHTw4t_60uT1t1MUwEd_yzehUmOySwkkU5zgTJitvE2Dq7McPyh-2KDW7c8MomhH7zHlOXrwjrRT4dj2aV7V1LRvi3LTG1lLIU_4/s320/67891D14-0E8B-47BD-A4F3-745D93CE214F_1_105_c.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Here’s a picture with one of the friends and…you guessed it, Barry Manilow! She arranged for tickets to his show in Las Vegas that included meeting him before the show. Talk about full circle!<p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>Want to win a $5 gift certificate? Go to my website, <a href="http://www.marlaawhite.com">www.marlaawhite.com</a> , sign up for my mailing list, and your name will be entered to win! Winner will be chosen from random, contest ends on - you knew it was coming – Midnight on New Year’s Eve!</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9VET3FjG_jOAaRRhCj9_VwCccCv2jFcwZ8ie9ufz1V40gmaXVNUdR8EfwZ3RpfQ-KfsvqmJGDiUzYuxzlCqxtLb8qUzCCsGIR9GtJaPT6MRXBylhBP8E3E7XGUoO_FgeI28-SiEfYYAlbYdgp2w-PlGTKOZhB0hzBZyxuHzNWtTZcMQbccG9N-wZK290/s350/goldenbell-bar-350x19.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="19" data-original-width="350" height="17" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9VET3FjG_jOAaRRhCj9_VwCccCv2jFcwZ8ie9ufz1V40gmaXVNUdR8EfwZ3RpfQ-KfsvqmJGDiUzYuxzlCqxtLb8qUzCCsGIR9GtJaPT6MRXBylhBP8E3E7XGUoO_FgeI28-SiEfYYAlbYdgp2w-PlGTKOZhB0hzBZyxuHzNWtTZcMQbccG9N-wZK290/s320/goldenbell-bar-350x19.gif" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSCiMpKbk9DWcmU8SG4Ar0XfK9cVtGIJmk6hJUyXR9MNaJKPvpvv5Ha-K7xot6H8MGQYV1S0zW3aR33Hm6rVuGolR-q-c49SxIFlJ1-w1KOElQpcmWbLUvjW49fFqNQZPYhGhfqnRQreLcAp59dOJMXwNS0qhaaOjOi4C_M9XxNksSAQ0AVYCNbFA81cA/s640/63D9BF4B-BBE3-40D6-8650-7310B41068E4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSCiMpKbk9DWcmU8SG4Ar0XfK9cVtGIJmk6hJUyXR9MNaJKPvpvv5Ha-K7xot6H8MGQYV1S0zW3aR33Hm6rVuGolR-q-c49SxIFlJ1-w1KOElQpcmWbLUvjW49fFqNQZPYhGhfqnRQreLcAp59dOJMXwNS0qhaaOjOi4C_M9XxNksSAQ0AVYCNbFA81cA/w150-h200/63D9BF4B-BBE3-40D6-8650-7310B41068E4.jpeg" width="150" /></a></div><br />Marla White is an award-winning novelist, story instructor at UCLA, and writing coach. She began her illustrious career as a storyteller at the age of four by drawing on the TV screen. Today she gives writers the tools they need to tell great stories, crayons not included. <p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk6HWzDr0VCVcCZ27u56sNP4gJFd1g8fFhsfMYfoyyNoRhdSgTJcqZ2FsUl9RvArLeFMHuCIfktnTzutgsPAiR9BoTNQF0zQx5_gDPDqW4j-UZfPn2Yhi4ISETqRLmWU1KUXY3aKSUfGGYwfp3ctkmKd35lg8LzP7IdlpKOvmqibU-PZeWrA7wM1C7pyM/s425/719edpwTdrL._SY425_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk6HWzDr0VCVcCZ27u56sNP4gJFd1g8fFhsfMYfoyyNoRhdSgTJcqZ2FsUl9RvArLeFMHuCIfktnTzutgsPAiR9BoTNQF0zQx5_gDPDqW4j-UZfPn2Yhi4ISETqRLmWU1KUXY3aKSUfGGYwfp3ctkmKd35lg8LzP7IdlpKOvmqibU-PZeWrA7wM1C7pyM/w125-h200/719edpwTdrL._SY425_.jpg" width="125" /></a></div><br />Her first novel, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Starlight-Surprise-Murder-Christmas-Cookies-ebook/dp/B09FYXBBMP#:~:text=Excited%20for%20her%20new%20life,her%20cop%20sense%20kicks%20in." target="_blank">The Starlight Mint Surprise Murder</a>,</i> was published in 2021. Look for the sequel, <i>Framed for Murder,</i> coming out this spring. When she’s not writing, she’s out in the garden, hiking, or putting together impossibly difficult puzzles. <p></p><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span><b><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Bigelow Rules; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span><b><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Bigelow Rules; font-size: x-large;">Marla White</span></b></span></div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-79981022882118755682023-12-27T02:00:00.081-05:002023-12-27T05:29:52.654-05:00The Year Santa Brought A Doll by Patricia Bradley <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQrThSZhTc8y8XVxz6vqSNJzpLAa9SoHoiRajYjG08p9jn2Bb2RAcD2MaxMKJJkZoaMDGM8LFuhDIzfm1hBa6Qk23K7kVYDg-JMKQbcQitqi3R_tOxp6pEDqvhXjhZrFd1U3XWTXq6nDDKVqyxQxRGgT2OxKbeI4w9mvpu6NCcHm-O0xq7eLHRu8oqT9U/s2049/IMG_2265.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2049" data-original-width="1537" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQrThSZhTc8y8XVxz6vqSNJzpLAa9SoHoiRajYjG08p9jn2Bb2RAcD2MaxMKJJkZoaMDGM8LFuhDIzfm1hBa6Qk23K7kVYDg-JMKQbcQitqi3R_tOxp6pEDqvhXjhZrFd1U3XWTXq6nDDKVqyxQxRGgT2OxKbeI4w9mvpu6NCcHm-O0xq7eLHRu8oqT9U/s320/IMG_2265.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pat, her sister, and the redhaired dolls.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>When I was a kid, every year about the middle of October, a wonderful item arrived in our mailbox. The <i>Sears and Roebuck Toy Catalog</i>. The first day or so, my parents made my sister and me draw straws to see who got to look through it first.</div><br />I think my sister had an inside track since she almost always got the short straw. And sometimes, because I was the older sister, I was supposed to let her go first. I still don’t know who made up that rule.<br /><br />Sometimes, I would offer to do her chores if she’d let me get the first look at it. Not sometimes. Every time if she drew the short straw. She’s the one who sometimes agreed to our deal. But oh, was it worth it.<br /><br />Do you know how many pages of cap pistols there were in the catalog? I do. Eight. Eight wonderful pages of Roy Roger or Gene Autry toy pistols that I could image strapped to my side. I read every word of every page and dreamed of riding my stick horse, ready to catch the bad guys with my toy guns. I may have spent a few hours dreaming of practicing my fast draw, as well. <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXHOxUEFdkPQcUzpZUKY4OfOwmzHkfo1kAHy0af77sxseznMcT8DNty7kxiozSrluqYL5UgiArNql7Ai0GcTdrD9jBxgA7zv9AejY6SPgvhyiqUkEpzUaz7i9oN6kH_f41A0tSEYsPzIKKFfF_nWy8BJyXTY119peFJjFIOzdORHRgTPHH_6OQSDhyphenhypheniJQ/s2400/Roy_Rogers_and_Trigger.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1640" data-original-width="2400" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXHOxUEFdkPQcUzpZUKY4OfOwmzHkfo1kAHy0af77sxseznMcT8DNty7kxiozSrluqYL5UgiArNql7Ai0GcTdrD9jBxgA7zv9AejY6SPgvhyiqUkEpzUaz7i9oN6kH_f41A0tSEYsPzIKKFfF_nWy8BJyXTY119peFJjFIOzdORHRgTPHH_6OQSDhyphenhypheniJQ/s320/Roy_Rogers_and_Trigger.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roy Rogers and Trigger</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Of course, this was during an innocent age where toy pistols were just that—toys. The age of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, Gene Autry, the Lone Ranger...The time of Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone. I think it was a much simpler time, but I digress. <br /><br />My sister, on the other hand, went straight for the dolls and dollhouses. And tea sets. Girly things. She wasn’t the tomboy I was. One year, somehow my mother got it in her head that I was missing out on something. I was eight years old and had never asked for nor received a doll for Christmas.<br /><br />“Wouldn’t you like a doll, like this one?” She pointed to a dainty, red-haired little doll in a cute little dress. <br /><br />“Sure, but did you see the Roy Rogers cap guns with the leather holster?” I could already feel them strapped around my waist. Did I mention it came with a shiny star badge? I could see it in my mind’s eye—I would be the sheriff, and my sister and the other kids in the neighborhood would be the train robbers that I would track down and bring to justice.<br /><br />I marked every day off the calendar with a red crayon. Christmas Eve I barely slept, and at 4:30 Christmas morning, I woke my sister, knowing we wouldn’t get in trouble if the favored child was the one who woke our parents up at that time of the morning. <br /><br />Minutes later we crept down the hall. “What if Santa hasn’t come?” she asked.<br /><br />“He’s been here,” I assured her. I’d already been up an hour earlier and peeped in the living room and had seen my sister’s tricycle. Our parents must have heard us because they met us before we made it to the living room. <br /><br />“What are you two doing up so early?” Our dad asked with a wink. “Never mind, go see what Santa brought you.”<br /><br />We tore into the room and I frantically searched for the flat box I knew my cap guns would be in. No flat box. But there was a rather large rectangular box with my name on it. Maybe Santa brought me a double set! Or maybe there was a pair of cowboy boots in the box! I tore into it and…lifted out the doll with curly red hair.<br /><br />“Do you like it?” My mom seemed to hold her breath.<br /><br />I looked up into her face. Even at eight years old I knew I couldn’t say anything other than I loved it. Somehow I manage to make my mama think it was what I’d always wanted. <br /><br />It would be a few years before I realized the real meaning of Christmas…celebrating the birth of our Lord and Savior. But even at eight, God was working on me. Otherwise, there is no way I could’ve understood how much it meant to my mother for me to be happy with the doll.<br /><br />Oh, and later that afternoon, God blessed me with a present from my godparents. Yep, a deluxe set of Roy Rogers cap pistols with real leather holsters. <br /><br /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgOI0ledY6Q2PtO0TkT4h5OKBj1otFdkjIX-fk32wlAG0mqhv0iQPpEEY7JH3UM5gTblNip3VGwA10xZ1THkkPjyeI4AukAe2aHfyqoSYhzbXCTlKAwDzIBkH_qN8dLbjWfwl6VCtOPFIaZZyh9rzQTCsKEByXAhKW-WVYj4OeXYl0AQBdP2Vny5TRq4/s1200/Untitled%20design%20(23).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="1200" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgOI0ledY6Q2PtO0TkT4h5OKBj1otFdkjIX-fk32wlAG0mqhv0iQPpEEY7JH3UM5gTblNip3VGwA10xZ1THkkPjyeI4AukAe2aHfyqoSYhzbXCTlKAwDzIBkH_qN8dLbjWfwl6VCtOPFIaZZyh9rzQTCsKEByXAhKW-WVYj4OeXYl0AQBdP2Vny5TRq4/w320-h40/Untitled%20design%20(23).png" width="320" /></a><br /><br /><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig0aFTFG4Y-GT8J5LxCEYSbP3OUnDSiUsEhyphenhyphenjTwf4unPXOSF7GGAPCGo_-3nygW2v38FaZ0-MGnSuY_kgVtuklKQ7F5x6YCHOfs2oNHfUQzuS_r-vlDAq-DT4wwCRg8zAMV4T7pwRbTYsV0un8hYAyS-GIQdaZcG4Hws9DTv3odsZNOek2xJ1ZXgERT04/s2275/Patricia%20Bradley%20photo%20.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2275" data-original-width="1977" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig0aFTFG4Y-GT8J5LxCEYSbP3OUnDSiUsEhyphenhyphenjTwf4unPXOSF7GGAPCGo_-3nygW2v38FaZ0-MGnSuY_kgVtuklKQ7F5x6YCHOfs2oNHfUQzuS_r-vlDAq-DT4wwCRg8zAMV4T7pwRbTYsV0un8hYAyS-GIQdaZcG4Hws9DTv3odsZNOek2xJ1ZXgERT04/w174-h200/Patricia%20Bradley%20photo%20.jpeg" width="174" /></a></div>USA Today</i> Best Selling author Patricia Bradley is a Selah and Reader’s Choice Award winner, and a Carol and Daphne du Maurier award finalist. <br /><br />She and her two cats call Northeast Mississippi home--the South is also where she sets most of her books. Her seventeen novels include Heartwarming’s <i>Matthew’s Choice</i> and <i>The Christmas Campaign</i>, and four romantic suspense series: The Logan Point series, the Memphis Cold Case Novels, the Natchez Trace Park Rangers, and the Pearl River Series. <i>Fatal Witness</i>, the second book in the Pearl River series set in the Cumberland Plateau area above Chattanooga releases February 6, 2024. <br /><br />Bradley is a popular teacher at writing conference and has been the keynote speaker at several. When she has time, she likes to throw mud on a wheel and see what happens.<br /><br />You can connect with her at:<br /><br />Website <a href="https://ptbradley.com/">https://ptbradley.com/</a><br /><br />Blog - <a href="https://ptbradley.com/blog/">https://ptbradley.com/blog/</a> <a href="https://patriciabradleybooks.com">https://patriciabradleybooks.com</a><br /><br />Facebook – <a href="http://www.facebook.com/patriciabradleyauthor">www.facebook.com/patriciabradleyauthor</a><br /><br />Twitter – <a href="https://twitter.com/PTBradley1">https://twitter.com/PTBradley1</a><br /><br />Amazon – <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Patricia-Bradley/author/B00FFR8T1U?">https://www.amazon.com/stores/Patricia-Bradley/author/B00FFR8T1U?</a><br /><br />Bookbub- <a href="https://www.bookbub.com/profile/patricia-bradley">https://www.bookbub.com/profile/patricia-bradley</a><br /><br />Goodreads- <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7789445.Patricia_Bradley">https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7789445.Patricia_Bradley</a><br /><br />Instagram – <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ptbradley1/">https://www.instagram.com/ptbradley1/</a><br /><br />Pinterest - <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/ptbradley/">https://www.pinterest.com/ptbradley/</a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-65367280117266158052023-12-26T02:00:00.085-05:002023-12-26T02:00:00.141-05:00Feeling Nostalgic for Christmases Past by Maria Imbalzano <div class="separator"><br /></div>When I was a child, the anticipation of Christmas was overwhelming. Do you remember those feelings of hope, eagerness, and belief in the fantasy that only a child could have? I would write my list to Santa and ask for a few things that I wanted after seeing commercials on TV. My list always included a doll or a baby carriage and maybe a board game. <br /><br />I grew up in Trenton, NJ and back then, Trenton was a beautiful city. The main stores were Arnold Constable, Sears, Lit Brothers, Yards, and Dunhams, but there were smaller stores in between as well as McCrory’s Five and Dime. My parents would take my sister and I to Arnold Constable’s to meet with the “real” Santa so we could tell him what we wanted. The streets as well as the stores were decorated with colorful lights and ornaments and it was such a beautiful sight to see. <br /><br />Coming down to the living room on Christmas morning was the most exciting day ever—complete with those buzzing butterflies of euphoria. And there under the tree were the things I asked Santa for. It was magic. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetAiovBAOFAiiA0PVMgbnJZJAFA3gY7RkAHstxACN7GSCsroHFjMrdxo-Rq6eKY0sy8jNvGbbOrxNecSOxkrOTky3PhX8B8GnmYwGzVBReGcLydagiJe_Gt2MKjxXKcq4RjfpAT4WBmC11Sp_jfmSDiUuGMFPxIxE6BTm0HZA_pp0-lGq-UE_M3ftF5M/s194/Picture1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="145" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetAiovBAOFAiiA0PVMgbnJZJAFA3gY7RkAHstxACN7GSCsroHFjMrdxo-Rq6eKY0sy8jNvGbbOrxNecSOxkrOTky3PhX8B8GnmYwGzVBReGcLydagiJe_Gt2MKjxXKcq4RjfpAT4WBmC11Sp_jfmSDiUuGMFPxIxE6BTm0HZA_pp0-lGq-UE_M3ftF5M/s1600/Picture1.jpg" width="145" /></a></div>One year, when I was four, I got a Patty Play Pal doll. The doll was my size and dressed in a pink and white dress with a white pinafore over it. She currently resides at my mom’s house—the house Patty and I grew up in—much worse for the wear. Her neck is broken (poor thing), her dress and pinafore fell apart and her underwear was falling off. Thankfully, my granddaughters gave her one of their dresses and a pair of new underwear so she looks somewhat presentable. I have no idea what happened to her socks and shoes, but she seems okay being barefoot. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqdadmZpA1L1LdlRu-C3QPoVKjRZM7MZlnhYUi3bDxg4Aj4fLnykM6uT-2-S_slFwb9c89KkN4MfzkYJuzwcAMi_EE3hurBVLNoF2ucQX6LlG5VCaUJDV_9B2WuAvVvAfVkqNJZSnLdkPeW0A1GafW_wQ8n1K6PcG7lkdLbTeM0q3PYHUElGsBmTtblgw/s531/Picture2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="531" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqdadmZpA1L1LdlRu-C3QPoVKjRZM7MZlnhYUi3bDxg4Aj4fLnykM6uT-2-S_slFwb9c89KkN4MfzkYJuzwcAMi_EE3hurBVLNoF2ucQX6LlG5VCaUJDV_9B2WuAvVvAfVkqNJZSnLdkPeW0A1GafW_wQ8n1K6PcG7lkdLbTeM0q3PYHUElGsBmTtblgw/w200-h154/Picture2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>One of my other favorite dolls and a gift from Santa another year was Tiny Tears. Much, much smaller than Patty, she was the baby that I rocked, and changed and fed as if she were real. She now lives at my sister’s house with her dolls Thumbelina and Snuggle Bunny, because none of them should be lonely. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEo2hdavX7sCal-Cd_qXM6Rk3yYi1BEIxyICPkPzoU16_e4GLJyb_y-xULGmcLUsL1-zeTSUKZ7oYAHC0CutX3LlEja0hEt2AePGCPPiIsMmRfsRMQQGOgw_YunUxowYq1Nd7FTcHexHtNVkwIAQHq5hkQY1dleM4DPik7-4_YNny2sC4zi-AyENrhb3o/s150/Picture3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="112" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEo2hdavX7sCal-Cd_qXM6Rk3yYi1BEIxyICPkPzoU16_e4GLJyb_y-xULGmcLUsL1-zeTSUKZ7oYAHC0CutX3LlEja0hEt2AePGCPPiIsMmRfsRMQQGOgw_YunUxowYq1Nd7FTcHexHtNVkwIAQHq5hkQY1dleM4DPik7-4_YNny2sC4zi-AyENrhb3o/s1600/Picture3.jpg" width="112" /></a></div>I also still have my Barbie doll—the one with the blondish bob. When I say I have it, it’s still at mom’s. (I’m sure she would love for my sister and I to take all of our memories with us instead of cluttering up our old bedroom, but we don’t.) Many of Barbie’s clothes were made by one of my aunts or my grandmother back then because her clothes were too expensive at the store. I can’t imagine sewing by hand those tiny sleeves or putting buttons or a hook on the back—but they did. And I loved them for it.<br /><br />Why did I save these dolls? Because I only had a few over the years and they were special. I had contemplated giving my Barbie to my daughters when they were into Barbie, but they ended up having about fifty of them and my Barbie would never have been special to them. I showed her to my granddaughters recently, but their reaction wasn’t good enough to turn her over to them. Enthusiasm is a must for that type of bequest. <br /><br />The bedroom that belonged to me and my sister at my mom’s house was set up as a playroom, initially for my kids and now for my grandkids. There are two single beds, a table to color on, a doll house with furniture and a family, a few games that we got at Christmas when we were young— Cha-Cha Checkers, Chinese Checkers, Spirograph—and a train set with easy to put together tracks. And of course, Patty Play Pal.<br /><br />But I digress. Back to Christmases past. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_a9utbabsSJ_cpBHG7vZKy4eq-6wQCpjwYmJUjngg9fWkpBEsKCW9o7TmCXDOttQ-b7ZtEyAM8wiWSxRJac17Xni8ofucyYlfxdtFsG5h5CcrdpRAShvMzUDpCV_Nz5vearUdWyFxCIkGuU5bfIMoFQfya-vJ1LnDK2BLXkrop37mYHCmo-RFDD_MKM/s171/Picture4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="171" data-original-width="128" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_a9utbabsSJ_cpBHG7vZKy4eq-6wQCpjwYmJUjngg9fWkpBEsKCW9o7TmCXDOttQ-b7ZtEyAM8wiWSxRJac17Xni8ofucyYlfxdtFsG5h5CcrdpRAShvMzUDpCV_Nz5vearUdWyFxCIkGuU5bfIMoFQfya-vJ1LnDK2BLXkrop37mYHCmo-RFDD_MKM/s1600/Picture4.jpg" width="128" /></a></div>Every Christmas, my sister and I pulled out from the box of lights, ornaments, and stockings, two Humpty Dumpty Santa Clauses that we hugged and played with and slept with during the holidays. But once the tree came down, we had to put them back in their box until the next year. They are still around and come out every Christmas to sit on the steps leading up to our old room. They too look a little ratty, but will never be thrown away. <br /><br />Back in the day, during the entire week after Christmas, different relatives would drop by our house after dinner to see our tree as well as what we got for Christmas. We would also visit our aunts, uncles and cousins to do the same. Coffee for the grownups, and cake or Christmas cookies for everyone was offered and enjoyed. No telephone call was necessary to say anyone was dropping by. It was just done and expected.<br /><br />I definitely miss those days of celebrating the holiday for the entire week between Christmas and New Year’s— seeing all of my cousins and experiencing the joy of the season. Now no one visits unless specifically invited. <br /><br />Reminiscing about Christmases past makes me long for those simpler days when the few toys we got were special, when family and relatives were a huge part of the extended holiday and when we believed in the fantasy. But as readers, we can slip into a fantasy world of our choosing whenever we have the time to enjoy a good book. We can pick the year to go back to (or stay in the present), we can slide into a different country, an island, the mountains, the plains—and we can experience a new or old world through the characters that come to life on those pages and in our mind.<br /><br />Our life experiences, from childhood through adulthood, make those fantasy worlds that much richer because of our memories. <span> </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsPlKaoNqZfcv4747diQ9jgSrdN9w2XVbWvY21f8PkG_u6SXPCvmqyUr0fFK_jNyCGLXR3eNMEkpZqFWijZkoisiUfP8r9y-JqeI-WN8xaa4dOmlTBr5q6UpnXuVleY6kPWHy4R7GOHHk4mZbw3uCfNRf3Z_i3heq0lItWHk3rQtp9rbekfjfumTHF8KY/s900/dsit.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="900" height="53" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsPlKaoNqZfcv4747diQ9jgSrdN9w2XVbWvY21f8PkG_u6SXPCvmqyUr0fFK_jNyCGLXR3eNMEkpZqFWijZkoisiUfP8r9y-JqeI-WN8xaa4dOmlTBr5q6UpnXuVleY6kPWHy4R7GOHHk4mZbw3uCfNRf3Z_i3heq0lItWHk3rQtp9rbekfjfumTHF8KY/s320/dsit.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR9uD_Jq6IxS_bPV6yPEKmFUeoJRGESlf0v_uOoenfuhYNm8SpMQh-pceNbQBBBNM8LfxZ_UoV6MqEivBMzEE84WgieqI33yd8GaO79hsvLgCxgVTwXhTt8iUUszDDStxyeb5DXlW3k-XfatRaiDnaCwL5FupQteRCtk4gwUODY1Q0Xvtm-KjP1dhyphenhyphenkjc/s235/Picture5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="156" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR9uD_Jq6IxS_bPV6yPEKmFUeoJRGESlf0v_uOoenfuhYNm8SpMQh-pceNbQBBBNM8LfxZ_UoV6MqEivBMzEE84WgieqI33yd8GaO79hsvLgCxgVTwXhTt8iUUszDDStxyeb5DXlW3k-XfatRaiDnaCwL5FupQteRCtk4gwUODY1Q0Xvtm-KjP1dhyphenhyphenkjc/s1600/Picture5.jpg" width="156" /></a></div>To continue with the spirit of the holiday, I invite you to read my Christmas romance <i><b>Red Velvet Crinkles and Christmas Sprinkles</b>.</i> This contemporary enemies to lovers, small town holiday romance is available at all your favorite venues. (amazon, b&n, Apple, Google Play, Kobo). <a href="https://books2read.com/u/38d09r">https://books2read.com/u/38d09r</a><br /><br />Winner of the Still Moments Magazine Readers’ Choice Award, the Carolyn Award, and the NEST (National Excellence in Story Telling) Award, this book is the perfect book to curl up with when you want to escape into Bella’s and Dean’s world.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmdjW8RuENYU59-NIqApRJFqt6REMeSq3Jae33DZUK25ogut5Oi9nCBNXXeNogvuuFDS50-z546NGvnu2sbemA2CoximpO-9n0d3__DmvjudAm6_QhMMNSbngX2QulV3l53nUYvnnv-7h84be-IQo6-Jma3emK3IU4XlS_q_tlRn842hyphenhyphenqqgKsMOEK9Q/s1221/MariaImbalzano-CroppedFINALORDER-03473-Edit%20(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1053" data-original-width="1221" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmdjW8RuENYU59-NIqApRJFqt6REMeSq3Jae33DZUK25ogut5Oi9nCBNXXeNogvuuFDS50-z546NGvnu2sbemA2CoximpO-9n0d3__DmvjudAm6_QhMMNSbngX2QulV3l53nUYvnnv-7h84be-IQo6-Jma3emK3IU4XlS_q_tlRn842hyphenhyphenqqgKsMOEK9Q/s320/MariaImbalzano-CroppedFINALORDER-03473-Edit%20(3).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Maria Imbalzano is an award-winning contemporary author who writes about strong, independent women and the men who fall in love with them. She recently retired from the practice of law, but legal issues have a way of showing up in many of her novels. When not writing, she loves to travel both abroad and in the states. Maria lives in central New Jersey with her husband--not far from her two daughters and granddaughters. For more information about her books, please visit her website at <a href="http://mariaimbalzano.com">http://mariaimbalzano.com</a> where you can also sign up for her newsletter.<br /><br /><b>Social Media Links </b><br /><br />Facebook –<br /><br /><a href="https://www.facebook.com/mariaimbalzanoauthor">https://www.facebook.com/mariaimbalzanoauthor</a><br /><br />X - Twitter<br /><br /><a href="http://www.twitter.com/mariaimbalzano">http://www.twitter.com/mariaimbalzano</a><br /><br />@mariaimbalzano<br /><br />Amazon Author Page<br /><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00FG9RI5K">https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00FG9RI5K</a><br /><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-29506184222465240082023-12-25T02:00:00.001-05:002023-12-25T02:00:00.359-05:00Merry Christmas by Liz Flaherty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqVSkwbCccuSceOGlU52Gc-SZkLjFPCvVA-RhCFfW_vBKn8QL3pwL5ei1z6v3FyFnDNVO73XrYTozz6Z4Dx1x9v8I4pk7vrNE_EvFdIpgrq565pFrFFRUmLc3piLvGryu2WXrN3cJamLT2mtfMUF4JtzGhkzIEiinr-jUUOALJEczUZkTTD-ETCpYQdU/s1080/Merry%20Christmas!.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqVSkwbCccuSceOGlU52Gc-SZkLjFPCvVA-RhCFfW_vBKn8QL3pwL5ei1z6v3FyFnDNVO73XrYTozz6Z4Dx1x9v8I4pk7vrNE_EvFdIpgrq565pFrFFRUmLc3piLvGryu2WXrN3cJamLT2mtfMUF4JtzGhkzIEiinr-jUUOALJEczUZkTTD-ETCpYQdU/w400-h400/Merry%20Christmas!.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">I want to thank everyone who's been a guest writer on the Window during these holidays, as well as everyone who's visited, commented, or shared the wonderful posts. Window Holidays will continue through the end of the year, and then it'll be back to...whatever 2024's normal is!</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">Here's wishing you a Merry Christmas and a joyous entry into the New Year. Be safe, be happy, and be nice to somebody. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivNRYFATzkxI816JqW8jG33SKU44HxDwBXXmQQaMz75AtPLKF6cDMBv0L7IeaH56J424TUxMKgwv5xmDWeL0tV9bs4n2QaMadjIlEgfaQ4UQVeTmE-4c2vX_xvFAN7sjYqiJDsuj5eSYztfs6RzfmnAKVqkimy_7lq8YluBzXu_d3vHUg70Iybeqe3DnE/s300/Liz%20in%20REd.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivNRYFATzkxI816JqW8jG33SKU44HxDwBXXmQQaMz75AtPLKF6cDMBv0L7IeaH56J424TUxMKgwv5xmDWeL0tV9bs4n2QaMadjIlEgfaQ4UQVeTmE-4c2vX_xvFAN7sjYqiJDsuj5eSYztfs6RzfmnAKVqkimy_7lq8YluBzXu_d3vHUg70Iybeqe3DnE/s1600/Liz%20in%20REd.png" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-30005680501253282632023-12-24T02:00:00.060-05:002023-12-24T02:00:00.184-05:00Why Jews Eat Chinese Food on Christmas by Susie Black <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7E-mA3pF7Fg8T7i9eS3jduIQa-D5oCA5bHkJ8CLTnA_wNQexPysguGV0TwCN9wXTZrITBXQsC0RpTiAq0_az6lTFPOJ159f8S7snJAJe3vliKGpFDD7dhUvhyphenhyphenPio8TbK3mwC9zArUmo7bXJ49_1CKkMrKDdGYvc55ueADI2YDOmP-3V-djZkx9OKyYnk/s768/17321-a-bowl-of-rice-with-chopsticks-pv-57c4d1843df78cc16ef7b601.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="768" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7E-mA3pF7Fg8T7i9eS3jduIQa-D5oCA5bHkJ8CLTnA_wNQexPysguGV0TwCN9wXTZrITBXQsC0RpTiAq0_az6lTFPOJ159f8S7snJAJe3vliKGpFDD7dhUvhyphenhyphenPio8TbK3mwC9zArUmo7bXJ49_1CKkMrKDdGYvc55ueADI2YDOmP-3V-djZkx9OKyYnk/s320/17321-a-bowl-of-rice-with-chopsticks-pv-57c4d1843df78cc16ef7b601.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>What makes the holiday season most special are the
traditions we create and share; and in that way, make them uniquely our own. Even
those of us who do not celebrate Christmas have still found ways to participate
in the joy of the season. For us Jews, eating Chinese food on Christmas day has
become an international tradition that started in New York in the 1930s. They
say that necessity is the mother of invention. Jews looking for a special way
to celebrate a day off on December 25<sup>th</sup> in a friendly place with a
welcoming atmosphere featuring exotic food they didn’t normally eat were
hard-pressed to find any restaurants open except those whose proprietors did
not celebrate Christmas either. In most neighborhoods, Chinese restaurants were
the only ones open on Christmas day. And so, as many things in life come to be,
out of necessity or by process of elimination, a delightful tradition was born.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My maternal grandparents were married on December 25<sup>th</sup>
and every year celebrated their anniversary by following this tradition. They
in turn, passed it down to my mother who continued it when she married and had
children, and passed it down to us. I cannot recall <i>any</i> Jew I knew who
did not go out for Chinese food on Christmas day. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Chinese food was the first foreign food I
was introduced to as a small child. I spent the early years of my childhood in
Linden, New Jersey, a bedroom community southwest of Manhattan. One particularly
cold and snowy Christmas day my father was under the weather, so rather than go
out to eat in a Chinese restaurant like we normally would, my mother brought in
take-out Chinese food instead. We ate Chinese food often throughout the year,
and my mother frequented a neighborhood Chinese take-out. We got to know the
owner, a kind and generous older Chinese man who always paid me special
attention. That evening, I accompanied my mother to pick up dinner. When it was
our turn to order, I told the owner I didn’t want to eat his food any longer because
he put worms in it. He wasn’t offended, but he asked me to show him the worms. I
pointed to some translucent squiggly-looking worms in the chow mein he was
about to put into a container as part of our order. He asked my mother if I
could come back to the kitchen with him. She said yes. We went into the kitchen
and he sat me on a stool next to him in the preparation area. He showed me how
he cut the onions and how he cooked them. When they were done, he explained
they were not worms, but the same thin onion strips he just cut that when
cooked, only looked like worms to me(I was about five years old). When I was still
not completely convinced, he gave me one to taste, and then I was sold. He and
I were BFF’s after that…I always got extra fortune cookies and almond cookies. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Since this holiday tradition was such an important part of
my life, I was interested to learn more. If you are the curious sort like me,
click the link and read a more in-depth history of the love affair we Jews have
with Chinese food. <span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="https://blog.judaicawebstore.com/why-jews-eat-chinese-food-on-christmas/">https://blog.judaicawebstore.com/why-jews-eat-chinese-food-on-christmas/</a></span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
good news is you don’t have to be Jewish to eat Chinese food on Christmas….but
it helps. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">However you celebrate the holiday, may
your traditions bring you and yours the joy that comes with the sense of
belonging that binds us humans together.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9FcsKbH7_2JAbMTdEFCPwUXdOV25_tsoRrVao0HodtlqRJe2tk1HZ50OKrPNVHCjmYO9U5RopoUKwEOqxI7uuO4Ao_paGKd96zrAP5tMiHUZ1T0-JHyt2VbQltHaCmLD9DCy6ArPaU0TzB6ZimQX8SJEBEl2cfham3gb4VrOTIj630ruaZfqpPSFLs4/s600/Untitled%20design.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="600" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9FcsKbH7_2JAbMTdEFCPwUXdOV25_tsoRrVao0HodtlqRJe2tk1HZ50OKrPNVHCjmYO9U5RopoUKwEOqxI7uuO4Ao_paGKd96zrAP5tMiHUZ1T0-JHyt2VbQltHaCmLD9DCy6ArPaU0TzB6ZimQX8SJEBEl2cfham3gb4VrOTIj630ruaZfqpPSFLs4/s320/Untitled%20design.png" width="320" /></a></div><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QL_9QvLepu5vhp7sGdllhPXBfMj8ZaTjGpiD8G5D0gOveVE-j6-guwE3usfBtQrezWyJKVpcRERVf4xj0goYwr7ZFWgpFaTp5h41aXGfHz-4yQCVQN7UeWp0To-h2dY9z7xfN-Ety1qRZSN0DSoiORf54kkqF1o6cBnDXk-mybytUXk8gSNAvjKy60I/s320/8-11-22.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QL_9QvLepu5vhp7sGdllhPXBfMj8ZaTjGpiD8G5D0gOveVE-j6-guwE3usfBtQrezWyJKVpcRERVf4xj0goYwr7ZFWgpFaTp5h41aXGfHz-4yQCVQN7UeWp0To-h2dY9z7xfN-Ety1qRZSN0DSoiORf54kkqF1o6cBnDXk-mybytUXk8gSNAvjKy60I/w150-h200/8-11-22.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Named Best US Author of the Year by N. N. Lights Book
Heaven, award-winning cozy mystery author Susie Black was born in the Big Apple
but now calls sunny Southern California home. Like the protagonist in her Holly
Swimsuit Mystery Series, Susie is a successful apparel sales executive. Susie
began telling stories as soon as she learned to talk. Now she’s telling all the
stories from her garment industry experiences in humorous mysteries. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;">She reads, writes, and speaks Spanish, albeit with an
accent that sounds like Mildred from Michigan went on a Mexican vacation and is
trying to fit in with the locals. Since life without pizza and ice cream as her
core food groups wouldn’t be worth living, she’s a dedicated walker to keep her
girlish figure. A voracious reader, she’s also an avid stamp collector. Susie
lives with a highly intelligent man and has one incredibly brainy but
smart-aleck adult son who inexplicably blames his sarcasm on an inherited
genetic defect. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;">Looking for more? Contact Susie at:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;">Website: <a href="about:blank">www.authorsusieblack.com</a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;">E-mail: <a href="about:blank">mysteries_@authorsusieblack.com</a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQAdLYJp-TGHEu4OBTL48ELqpzmVPLKY5LALJOuQQ8g1sLPoNHQKwqesB0pddUZDHnO_RzDrV2D3Fer7ujspg0h8fsRabe3P1GedJ0DjBAfc61VJPazC3VsLD8p92qOL6aj2fQQ0EgOsY1cSCc1QpnjHfaPbmhkBfAXLitTtQA9rL-XQk3IfMx-D_3QsU/s750/RagLady_w17420_750.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQAdLYJp-TGHEu4OBTL48ELqpzmVPLKY5LALJOuQQ8g1sLPoNHQKwqesB0pddUZDHnO_RzDrV2D3Fer7ujspg0h8fsRabe3P1GedJ0DjBAfc61VJPazC3VsLD8p92qOL6aj2fQQ0EgOsY1cSCc1QpnjHfaPbmhkBfAXLitTtQA9rL-XQk3IfMx-D_3QsU/s320/RagLady_w17420_750.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%; margin-bottom: 8pt;"><b>Rag Lady Blurb</b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Recent college graduate
Holly Schlivnik dreams of being a writer, but fate has other plans. A family
crisis throws her into an improbable situation and her life will never be the
same. Determined to make her own luck when things don’t happen the way she plans,
the irrepressible young woman takes a sledge hammer to the glass ceiling and
shatters it to smithereens</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The wise-cracking, irreverent transplanted Californian takes
you on a raucous, rollicking rollercoaster ride of her hysterical adventures as
a ladies’ apparel sales rep traveling in the deep South as she ends up finding
herself along the way. <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Buy links: <o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Amazon: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Lady-Holly-Swimsuit-Susie-Black/dp/1509249974" target="_blank">Amazon.com: Rag Lady (Holly Swimsuit Series Book 1) eBook : Black, Susie : Kindle Store</a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Barnes & Noble: <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/rag-lady-susie-black/1144031749?ean=2940186024439" target="_blank">Rag Lady by Susie
Black, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)</a><span class="MsoHyperlink"><o:p></o:p></span></p><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: x-large;">Susie Black</span></b></h2><p></p>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2130243938983381182.post-22858102665049510032023-12-23T02:00:00.051-05:002023-12-23T02:00:00.134-05:00Finding Peace Amid the Holiday Craziness Kyra Jacobs <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYi3buH0iErU9Tut5B2f0S0KfEsmfTJh5hQ6H8jmPoJDQ5ZRWqiOMiMZ_gL_AKNFfrOGwPPuG1mmHQKewDH3sS_CUvL1o9qK6YipWVxfvf1JirQXZ3uuqnPx1fQjVk2tlLN9ejxe4_G6mmgI9PG6NWqZgAOAELimcVM2ccDrRmmLokjR_xSCeICt3VCoc/s515/Picture1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="343" data-original-width="515" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYi3buH0iErU9Tut5B2f0S0KfEsmfTJh5hQ6H8jmPoJDQ5ZRWqiOMiMZ_gL_AKNFfrOGwPPuG1mmHQKewDH3sS_CUvL1o9qK6YipWVxfvf1JirQXZ3uuqnPx1fQjVk2tlLN9ejxe4_G6mmgI9PG6NWqZgAOAELimcVM2ccDrRmmLokjR_xSCeICt3VCoc/s320/Picture1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Hello all, and Merry early Christmas! Liz graciously invited me to stop by during her Holiday Window Over the Sink feature and I’m so happy to be with you all today. <br /><br />I actually wrote this post mid-month, while trying to stay ahead of the craziness that comes with the holiday season. Good craziness, of course. Though, there have been years when it certainly felt like I was drowning in activities. <br /><br />Holiday concerts, holiday events. Holiday parties, shopping, baking, decorating, churching, more parties, more shopping…<br /><br />Serenity now.<br /><br />I think that’s why one of my favorite Christmas activities is gift wrapping. I know, I know, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s something I’ve always enjoyed doing. Maybe it’s because I love to give, and this is all in preparation for the big reveal. Maybe it’s because it appeals to my love for fresh stationary, or my love for problem-solving (how DO I pull off wrapping this awkwardly shaped box?) The older I get, however, the more I simply enjoy gift wrapping nights for these quiet moments before the holiday storm.<br /><br />And no matter if it’s for one gift or a dozen, I always look forward to Christmas wrapping nights.<br /><br />Usually, I’ll find a safe place to spread out, away from the watchful eyes of family and pets. Next, I gather all my wrapping supplies—stored in totes and empty gift bags alike—and the gifts needing to be wrapped. Then I drop the Mannheim Steamroller “Christmas” CD (thank you, Mom!) into whatever device I can find in the house that still plays such things, roll up my sleeves, and get to work.<br /><br />Only, it’s not work, not when you’re doing something you love. To me, there’s something almost magical about unwrapping a fresh roll of brightly colored paper, smoothing it out across the table/countertop/bed/floor/random flat surface—hey, I’m a mom; sometimes a good hiding place for wrapping presents requires some creativity—and then deciding on the best angle and approach for wrapping the gift before me. Paper is cut, folds and creases are made, and tape is applied sparingly. Some gifts get bows, which we recycle year after year; others just get name tags. All are wrapped with love.<br /><br />Sadly, gift bags became the easy solution for gift-giving when our kids were little, which meant wrapping gifts in paper fell by the wayside for a time. While our sons are in their teens and twenties now, admittedly, we still do the “gift bag thing” for birthdays. But believe you me, once they were old enough to tear into wrapping paper on their own, I resumed my beloved wrapping tradition each and every Christmas.<br /><br />Ah, wrapping… Sometimes there’s wine involved, sometimes not. Always, there’s music. (If the first CD ends before I’m done, no worries—I have MS’s “A Fresh Aire Christmas” on standby.)<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU28IjLTDj2DVXkn8jQ8dH7sOxAnAOv98U7oKz410wX7RSQzRcHfGOpQ4s_qRW4YGO4-8kqgxaKQ1INMcB5PtpB-J5XDXo-LgLtnmix2rpiDCXgdruOAK7Gl2xz_Olu8UubUMG4uwigbK9jKVGWpCnRTBRyuq-8yb1iDpIRkNFItanDx1H2HJ8lmSLAbU/s362/Picture2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="241" data-original-width="362" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU28IjLTDj2DVXkn8jQ8dH7sOxAnAOv98U7oKz410wX7RSQzRcHfGOpQ4s_qRW4YGO4-8kqgxaKQ1INMcB5PtpB-J5XDXo-LgLtnmix2rpiDCXgdruOAK7Gl2xz_Olu8UubUMG4uwigbK9jKVGWpCnRTBRyuq-8yb1iDpIRkNFItanDx1H2HJ8lmSLAbU/s320/Picture2.jpg" width="320" /></a> <br />And when the actual wrapping has ceased for the night, I go out into the living room, turn off all the lights except those on the Christmas tree, curl up on the couch, and listen to “Stille Nacht” (Silent Night) from the first CD. I love to get lost in this song; to be still and reflect. To reminisce on the year behind me and put my faith and hope into the year ahead.<br /><br />The final strains of the song sound like they’re being played on a toy piano, reminding me of the youthful joy that Christmas can bring. Woven amid those notes is the airy sound of a winter wind blowing, and whether we have snow on the ground or not, I picture snowflakes swirling across an open plain on a starlit night. And in that moment, I feel…<br /><br />Peace.<br /><br />A peace that I try to hold on to throughout the rest of the Christmas season. My calm before the storm.<br /><br />This year, I have a few late deliveries left to wrap and I’m looking forward to one last gift-wrapping night. Because, after all, Christmas only comes once a year. I’ve got to savor these moments while I can. <br /><br />Wishing you and yours much love, joy, and peace of this holiday season.<br /><br />Merry Christmas, everyone.<br /><br />XO,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Gloria Hallelujah; font-size: x-large;">Kyra</span></b></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Q0ujCync3c3FIcBWEYnKY4OluXZSSEBhtiXSzCM1gkeUY43-UG6pare03aiDAfacGFh4yydXpdQESgQ8UEIt70B8BB9nPOonIb0mOrHtn7YE8iLySwJuUuwmhpfAKVVTAMnauNzW2YXzA3_mOsmgGly1W5XVP_01gt241EteV8yhM8yj0jYS9wmNBmg/s530/Picture3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="491" data-original-width="530" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Q0ujCync3c3FIcBWEYnKY4OluXZSSEBhtiXSzCM1gkeUY43-UG6pare03aiDAfacGFh4yydXpdQESgQ8UEIt70B8BB9nPOonIb0mOrHtn7YE8iLySwJuUuwmhpfAKVVTAMnauNzW2YXzA3_mOsmgGly1W5XVP_01gt241EteV8yhM8yj0jYS9wmNBmg/w200-h185/Picture3.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Kyra Jacobs is an extroverted introvert who’s always called Indiana home. Growing up in the Midwest means she’s well-versed in fickle weather, pork tenderloins that don’t fit on a bun, and sarcasm. Putting her Indiana University degrees in Public Management to good use by day means Kyra does the bulk of her writing late into the night. Fueled by caffeine and funny memes, she weaves humor and chaos into her stories, which range from sweet romance to mysteries and even paranormal/fantasy.<br /><br />When this Hoosier native isn’t at a keyboard, daydreaming through her fingertips, she's likely outside, elbow-deep in snapdragons or spending quality time with her sports-loving family. Kyra also loves to bowl, tries to golf, and is an avid college football fan. <br /><br />Be sure to stop by <a href="http://kyrajacobsbooks.com">kyrajacobsbooks.com</a> to see her complete book list, including her latest contemporary romance, <i>ONCE UPON A CHRISTMAS BEAUTY.<br /></i><br /><b> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDm-F8iau0EijkBGZFbx_BY9Rwgd_gEK_9YLVuvxT_SsAA2Wb5u4XmL5WcsLEEQmBdEUyHdyMDOSvA05kOMFwNDsO9KYZA7upjgiEEYq5_oiFtALyljR9A6jZB2c9UdZZdAi8aTDEgoah0DZQUlyVgEVLDfbkXA5TdEFwEmcQdsE-sDTQcqALAu8eCVQ/s450/Picture4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDm-F8iau0EijkBGZFbx_BY9Rwgd_gEK_9YLVuvxT_SsAA2Wb5u4XmL5WcsLEEQmBdEUyHdyMDOSvA05kOMFwNDsO9KYZA7upjgiEEYq5_oiFtALyljR9A6jZB2c9UdZZdAi8aTDEgoah0DZQUlyVgEVLDfbkXA5TdEFwEmcQdsE-sDTQcqALAu8eCVQ/s320/Picture4.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>This Christmas will be one for the books if they can open their eyes to the possibilities…</b><br /><br />Mia Brooks-French threw everything she had into her marriage…until she walked in on her husband and his assistant. Now she’s shifted her focus to being the best mom possible to her sixteen-year-old daughter, her classroom of third graders, and her family’s struggling bookstore. Even Christmas is shaping up to be a challenge this year.<br /><br />Unfortunately, businessman and bestselling author Alex Wellingham didn’t get the memo. This Christmas, he’s decided it’s finally time to go after the girl he’d firmly locked away in his memories. But Mia isn’t ready to let college bygones be bygones or risk her heart a second time.<br /><br />His surprise trip to Brooks Books in flames, Alex accepts help from Mia’s sister, Delaney. The duo concocts a tale guaranteed to buy Alex time with Mia and the bookstore a featured guest for an upcoming charity event. But when snowflakes begin to fly and the fibs snowball, can Alex and Mia wake up and decide if this second-chance romance is the real gift of the season?<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div></div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com3