POWERBALL 33 ON THE LIST.
Just found out from a friend's email that POWERBALL 33 appeared in the Omaha World Herald Booknotes column, Sunday, Dec 16th. My novel was 5th on the list of 10 books by local authors, no reason given for which book was placed where, but it made me happy and it was a surprise.
AND BY THE WAY, OUT THE WINDOW
Yesterday we looked out at the frozen pond and a mink was skating across, then he disappeared into the melted water at the edge. Neighbors told me there were mink on the premises and I wanted to see them, but didn't know enough about their habits to go at the right time to the pond where they were said to hang out.  So this year, I got a mink for Christmas.  

OKAY, MY PROOFREADING IS ABYSMAL
When I posted the authors blog sites on The Next Big
Thing, my fingers went astray.
Here are the corrections
http://marilyncoffey.blogspot.com/
and
http://elenadiazbjorkquist.wordpress.com/

So sorry, Marilyn & Elena

Where do authors get the names for their characters? Here's one example from my cast of characters. Ed Frink is the hero of my novel POWERBALL 33. Years ago, when Bob and I were on our honeymoon in Colorado, in my folks's travel trailer, we prepared breakfast parked out in the wilds. On the table was the cardboard milk carton with the top folded down to pour. When we looked at the carton, it said "Sput Frink", which tickled ...

us no end and we laughed every time we said the words. Actually it said "fold spout to drink and the letters just got folded out of place, but we thought it was a great name. So decades later I almost called my hero Sput Frink, but that seemed over the top, so I chose Ed. Nice and short, easy to type and I could change later with "change all". When I went to change it, all the "ed" verbs also added my new name Victor to the stem. smiled became smilvictor. sped became spvictor. You get the idea. I tried "Ed" and "ed", but it didn't work. I know there's a way to deal with this, but I just settled on good old Ed. Now I love the character and his name. And hope readers do too

THE NEXT BIG THING BLOG HOP

There are the books everyone had heard about: Twilight, Hunger Games, Fifty Shades of Gray. But what about all those books written by people you’ve never heard of? Some of them are treasures, just waiting to be found, and that’s what this blog hop is all about: the books you might not have heard about, but that you might end up loving.

This blog hop is like a game of tag. One author posts and tags other authors who link back to their website the next week and tag other new authors. If you follow the blog hop long enough, you’re bound to find some books you’ll love! Maybe you’ll even discover a book that ends up being the next big thing.

I was tagged by Gina Barlean. You can learn more about her book Recipes For Revenge, A Four Course Novel, on her blog gmbarlean.wordpress.com.

Here’s info on my current project, my just released novel Powerball 33

1: What is the working title of your book? The real thing Powerball 33,  once called So Much Depends 

2: Where did the idea come from for the book? My husband and I listened to an interview with a lottery winner. One of us (which one? We aren’t sure) said, “There’s a story. there.”

3: What genre does your book fall under? Mainstream

4: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition? How about Bradley Cooper for Ed, Jack Black as a buddy, Kristen Stewart for Estelle, Christina Aquilera for Chickie Frickasee, Lucy Liu playing Loo Loo, Roseanne as Pansy, Colin Farrell for some danger. I’ve got a part for Russell Brand too. And I’m considering Thomas Hayden Church for a role. A quirky group of characters that would be a dream to cast. 

5: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book? A young handyman grapples with sudden wealth, surrounded by the quirky characters who show up to take him along on a wild and crazy ride.

6: Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency? Self-published. The Indie market has opened the door to today’s dedicated writers. I’ve gone the traditional route, had agents, but this is more fun, although more work, but who’s complaining. For an author, it’s about telling a story to the readers. 

7: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? On and off, probably a year. And I did stow it away for a while.

8: What other books would you compare this story to within your genre? I can't think of a book that's comparable, but I don't like following formulas. It contains a bit of Steinbeck’s buddy novels, a little borrowing of format from Kurt Vonnegut, a hint of the absurd from Tom Robbins. To me, it's a tangle of adventure, romance, action, comedy, and philosophy that doesn't resemble any novel I've read. Help me out, someone?

9: Who or What inspired you to write this book? My husband, no doubt.

10: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest? Ever dream about what’d you’d do if you won millions of dollars? Ever wonder about the meaning of money?

Here is a list of authors who will be joining the hop for week 22 on November 21^st. I hope you’ll visit their blogs next week and learn more about their books. Maybe one of them will become your new favorite author!

(Be sure to add the other authors you have asked to join along with their links)

1 Marilyn Coffey http://marilyncoffey.blogspot.con/

2 Elena Diaz Bjorkquist. http://eleandiazbjorkquist.wordpress.com/

3 Janet Nitsick    janetsinnerramblings.blogspot.com/

4 Smoky Zeidel  smokyzeidel.wordpress.com/

 

Tagged by Gina Barlean, more explanation to come. Right now, I'm in a flurry, promoting my just released book POWERBALL 33, on Amazon in print and ebook. What a delight to say that the light hearted novel is also available at the Bookworm in Countryside Village, Omaha NE. Today, I'm trying to decide who should play the parts of the hero, his buddies, sweet friend, 2 thugs from Vegas, 2 wild women, the town bomber and oddball relatives. I have a casting story, also to be revealed later. Who was just named the world's sexiest man? Hmmm.

 

 

Finally, my quirky novel POWERBALL 33 has been released on Amazon, 318 pages, both in print and ebook. Playfully serious, POWRBALL is the offbeat story of Ed Frink, a young handyman, who wins the $200,000,000 lottery. A nice guy, he loves the countryside and his work, keeps the poetry he writes in his toolbox, and is totally unprepared for the havoc that erupts in his small town. Odd relatives , thugs from Vegas, a mysterious bomber, and designing women like Estelle Chante and Chickie Frickasee  show up to yank Ed along on a crazy ride through sudden wealth. Money can fix lots of things, but can it help a friend with an abusive husband, or cure the woes of alcohol?  In an off kilter way, POWERBALL 33 tackles the meaning of money, life with it and life without it.

I sighed through the excitement when my box of copies arrived yesterday.  As a writer, a different kind of journey  now begins,  traveling through the land of readers, as I wave high my completed novel  for any and all to see and wish to read.        

BIRDS FLY IN. BIRDS FLY OUT. A flurry of activity caught my attention in the backyard. Then I noticed that in the morning and late afternoon, the robins meet around our home, to visit the hackberry tree outside our deck. The branches overflow with orange berries. From all directions, the robins come to wait their turn. And that is the way it seems. A handful zoom into the tree, settle into a spot to taste berries, then leave and wait on the elm branches near by. A new group flies from the elm trees to peck away at the obviously delicious fruit, then departs to wait for another turn. It seems like such a polite system of taking turns. Online I found a recipe for hackberry jam, although it looked complicated and messy and why not leave this attractive treat to the busy robins? And I have only seen robins attracted to the fare offered by this tree. If I get the courage, I might try a bite of hackberry berry. We'll see.

HARD FREEZE. 26 degrees here in Omaha, NE. last night. Our neighbors covered their vining, pink flowers, but that didn't offer enough warmth to keep the blossoms going. NOw they droop in the sunlight. Bob sits in the living room, having coffee, while I sip my blueberry tea alongside him. Our 3 panel window looks out on the huge elms and assorted trees, still mostly green with hints of yellow. The sunlight dapples the scene. Then I see a leaf fall. Followed by another one. As I watch, none of them fall together. Just one by one, like notes, coming from different trees. They make a kind of silent music. And Bob and I are mesmerized by the rhythm of the falling leaves. Here. There. Quick. Quick. Slow. It's a lovely sight. As the morning warms, the leaf music stops.But we are happy to have seen mature's crisp morning song.

COMING BACK. Life took me away from writing for a while. My husband had some health issues, which occurred during the week of our family reunion and my birthday celebration. Now he's better and things have settled down. I like a quiet life without ER ambulances driving up to the house. It makes a person grateful, though once the worry and action is in the past. The calendar brought two events that cheered me up. One was reading my poems and free verse from "Cowboys & Wild, Wild Things", on the Century Link stage before the River City Roundup Rodeo. The wonderful part was the guitar background played by my grandson, Noah Sterba (he of one folk band and a couple rock bands). Having the music chords floating by made my part seem so much better. A grandma at a gig with her grandson. That's a memorable event The next day, I read from the book at The Bookworm, Omaha's only bookstore that encourages local authors, as far as I know. Seeing familiar faces made that a treat too. So the days have had the good balance bad. Family was here when Bob was whisked away to the hospital and the tests came back ok. I had a fantastic birthday dinner. I shared my writing with others and caught up with old friends. It's time to begin writing again.

THE CREATIVE SPIRIT Creativity is a way of varying the patterns of life. Studies show it relieves stress, stimulates the brain, and may even delay the progression of Alzheimers Disease. Art, writing, music, all contribute to well being, beside being fun and relaxing. Or if you're an artist, author, or composer perhaps it seems frustrating and bewildering, until the song or poem is written,or the painting finished. But I'm thinking more of ways to vary life in easy ways. We like to cook at our house and there's always some new and crazy ways to attempt fixing the standard fare. Bob tried to boil popcorn once. I knew that wouldn't work. Gardening, yoga, crossword puzzles, dancing, birdhouse repair, all qualify as creative endeavors, because a person can be creative about anything. Exception: best not to be too creative when preparing one's taxes or during various delicate projects, working with explosives comes to mind. I resort to the ceativity of simple things. Sitting in a different chair to read. Driving or walking a different route. Talking to a new person. Trying different things or different ways shakes up the brain cells and means one is not living life by rote. So now, I'll resume writing my new novel, while humming a different tune and doodling images while I reconfigure the plot. Later I'll dance up to the kitchen to pick an herb from the garden before inventing a new sandwich. I'll let Bob fix the birdhouse, while I assume a yoga pose to finish the crossword. Wish me luck.

SUNDAY MORNING FARMER MARKET We're back from the nearest farmer's market after a weekend infusion of vegetable beauty. Stand after stand of tomatoes, peppers, onions, sweet corn, radishes, cabbages, all delighted the eye. As we strolled along, a wealth of music filled the air. The African American harmonica player set the white poodle dancing in the street. One guitar player plinked out toe taping tunes. And a little girl who played the violin, with her mother accompanying her drew a crowd. She played "Casey would waltz with the strawberry blond and the band played on." Bob asked her to dance and she gave him a funny look. "I don't think she knows the words," he murmured to me, and we hurried on our way. Dogs,s dogs, of pure and mixed breeds behaved beautifully. Little kids stood entranced over wooden pumpkins and birdhouse. We traveled on to admire eggplants of all sizes and colors. We tasted jams and jellies. Breads and cookies. Meat samples. Popcorn. It was so filling visually that we didn't buy much. A bag of tomatoes from Decatur, NE and a bunch of kohlrabi to slice and salt for a bit of crunch. Our senses sated, we smiled and waved goodbye.

THE OMAHA SKY EXPLODES WITH BIRDS. My daughter, Fae, invited me to drive down to the Nebraska Med Center before sunset to skywatch with her. She packed a cooler of grapes, crackers and Hatch chili cheese, and with Bob's sister Marilyn, we set off. "I've heard there are two spectacular bird events in Nebraska," Fae told me. "Sandhills Cranes and Omaha Purple Martins." If there are others to compete, I hope to hear about them. We set up portable lawn chairs on the corner of 44th and Farnam, under a large pine tree. We prepared for - not a countryside, but a city showstopper. The traffic lights flashed at the intersection, cars and trucks sped along, or halted on red light command. Bikes rolled past and people of all ages walked by. Then, birdwatchers arrived from all directions to sit on the grassy slope across from the tall Med Center buildings, or to find another spot to view the event. Looking up at the sky, dots appeared high, high up. More and more specks swam in the clear blue. Specks became birds and we watched the Martins swirl around, losing altitude as they checked out the Farnam St. airstrip. A few birds plopped down on the edge of the high buildings, forming a long row of winged spectators. Soon purple martins divebombed into the tops of the dense Ash trees that marched around the Med Center. An ambulance swept by, siren calling the alarm, but the birds took no notice as the vehicle dashed up the street immediately next to their tree roost. Flocks of birds continued to come from all directions, first flying high above us, then dropping down. The numbers increased, until it was unbelievable. The sky was thick with them, and the birds came closer and closer, right above us. Apparently the birds arrive from a 100 mile radius and choose this site because of surrounding staging places, the warmth provided by the grouping of the buildings and the comforting, heavy foliage of the trees that landscape the 44th and Farnam St. corner. Estimates range from 25,000 to 65,000 birds visit this spot during the migrating August and September season. All we know is that it was an endless storm of dark birds flying above, circling down, roosting and then flying up again, only to play their fly/zoom trick again. We watched the Purple Martin airshow until the sun went down. The sky began to clear as the last diminishing flocks of birds swooped down and disappeared into tree greenery. The bird spectators on the building roofline joined their compatriots and we heard the song of Martins chattering whenever the traffic noises softened. We closed our mouths. We packed up. We'd watched the astonishing assemblage of Purple Martins getting ready for their long trip south. And we headed home.

A DEBUT OF SORTS. About Computers, remembering our first one. It was years and years ago when Bob brought home a Radio Shack box and a special desk to set up in our sun room. He poked around on it, learned its habits, taught me and then the kids how to compute. I was reluctant to use it for creative writing and couldn't believe it would make my life any easier. But I relented and tried to think and write on the TRS-80. Didn't do well. Then, I typed a script I'd already written into the computer and printed it out. Wow. I saw how easily I could make changes, how quickly paragraphs could be moved around, how copies could chug out in great numbers. It didn't take long to convince me and I've never looked back. These days, if my computer has a problem, it's like a friend of the family is ill. I pace the floor waiting for computer good health to be resumed. But now I'm back learning about social media. I admit I'm creeping slowly into the game. Started a blog, but didn't tell anyone until I was comfortable. Guess I'm ready to debut.

CURIOSITY. I've decided that it is one of the most important qualities that makes my life worthwhile. I don't understand those who are not interested in the fabric of things around them. Years ago, I sat in an outdoor restaurant patio one day with a sandwich and lemonade. We were traveling through California and it was a place I'd never been before. Next to the patio grew a beautiful tree with lovely shaped leaves. I admired it so much that I asked the waiter what it was. "I don't know," he said. "Do you think anyone inside would know?" "I don't know," he said. After I paid my bill, I went in and sought out the manager. He didn't know either and obviously, didn't care. I left without being able to name this beautiful tree. If it happened today and I had a cell phone, I'd take a photo and go home to the computer and ID it. Amazing Google, right? But that day, as I left I thought, how sad that this beautiful thing lived next to someone's workplace and it wasn't noticed. I wrote an essay called "Lint & Light" that's in our book,"The Desert Eternal" and published later in "The Art of Living, A Practical Guide to Being Alive", a book edited in Spain, but with an English as well as Spanish version. Someday I'll blog about that. The premise of my essay came from an art professor, Rhinehold Marxhausen, of Concordia College in Seward, NE who talked about noticing the things around us, something as simple as the design of the cracks in the sidewalk. He took colored lint from the dryer and made abstract art work from it. I still have one of his works. I suppose he taught me about seeing. But curiosity goes deeper. It would explore all sorts of things about that tree. Recently I was told there's a Catalpa sapling outside our house, along the pond's edge. I don't know anything about Catalpas, so now I'm off to find out more, feeding my curiosity.

VIVE LE TOUR. Each summer I go on a vacation to France, well, not really. With devotion, I watch 3 weeks of the Tour de France and I 've done so for about ten years. I can't remember how it started, and I didn't know anything about cycling, but I loved the 2 British men who commented, Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen. They talked of the Tour with its crashes and complicated race within race, and explained the rules and gave background, but they also commented on scenes of the countryside as more than a hundred cyclists went whizzing by. Lavender fields, maize fields, sunflowers. White cattle that are born brown. Special white vultures. Red and grey roofed villages and towns and cities. War memorials. Cathedrals, chateaus. The beaches, the Alps and the Pyranees. And not only do the athletes cycle in France, their bicycles tip into Belgium, Italy, Spain, Germany and any other country akin to France. One year they started in Great Britain. The race ends in Paris on a wild ride around the cobbled streets of the Champ de Elysee. Oh yes, Bradley Wiggins from Great Britain won the gold jersey, the first time in history Great Britain caught that great prize. Funny thing is, I don't even know how to ride a bicycle with gears. But I love it. When we lived in Arizona, I even set my alarm for 4:30 on mountain mornings. I liked watching it live. As I mentioned, I'm a devoted fan.

A DAY LATE
With the photo. I was going for a small postage stamp, to the side, but that skill will come later evidently. So hope all will imagine the cover under my face and in a polite size.
   In nature news, a Blue Heron stopped by our bank yesterday, or so I've heard. He's on our pond, visits next door in the afternoons, and has for 20 years so I'll be on the lookout. I've never spotted him.
   I'd intended this blog to be about recipes that haven't turned out, but was distracted when our neighbor phoned to tell me about the bird. I rushed outside, but he'd flown away. Back to food.
  Ever so often, I make an old favorite and it's a disaster. Yesterday, the family came over and I made an old favorite, cucumber sandwiches. The simplest recipe. Roll white bread slice thin, add thin covering of mayo to one side, cream cheese to the other, cucumbers on top, onion salt, that's it. How could that go wrong? The bread was very fresh and rolled down to a thin height. I made the sandwiches ahead and wrapped in sandwich bags. I used whipped cream cheese. The result: a soggy mess that everyone politely ate, but I was sad. A family tradition ruined. Will I try again? I suppose so after an embarrasing interlude goes by. Send any other hints.

SO I'VE QUIT LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW and must now get to work. Our book "Cowboys & Wild, Wild Things", my writing and my husband Bob's photography has just been released by Amazon, in paperback and also for Kindle. It's cowboy and western poetry/free verse. Although we've published and been published traditionally, this is our first foray into ebook land. We had no idea there would be so much to learn. We're happy to have advice or input from anyone, writer/reader/candlestick maker. The Kindle version already has some really good reviews, but the paperback has none. It's a whole new world and we're running to catch up.
   I said I would quit glancing out the window, but 3 Canada geese just wandered by and plopped down in the green grass shade by the pond. If geese could read, I'd race out and barage them with questions about western poetry, since that's my focus this morning. Luckily they're safe from interruption, and will add a peaceful point of view to a day destined to be in the 100's.          

ONE ELF LIVES. For a long time, our calico cat, Marbles, sat staring out the lower level family room window. Another bed of hostas rests even with the window sill. Bob finally went over to see what vision had mesmerized the cat and saw one of the little bunny elves snuggled up in the shade. Now the cat waits expectantly every morning for his companion. It doesn't look like the bunny has grown much. Maybe he's existing on hosta leaves. We've seen no mature parent rabbit hopping about.
   I am captive to the Tour de France this July, as I've been for the last ten years. I call it my yearly vacation to the mountains, beaches and fields of sunflowers. The biggest reason, in additon to the fine scenery, is that the European announcers, Phil Ligett and Paul Sherman, give the history of castles, cathedrals and other points of interest along the way: French Mountain Ponies prancing beside the cyclists, the saltworks, cheese factories, wineries. They also comment on the race. It's a 3 week visit that I look forward to it each year, so I'm now immersed in the rolling wheels and crashes of the tour. .

IT'S A CRUEL WORLD. This morning. I raised the shades and saw five huge crows stomping around on the street, hopping about and pecking the roadway. One rabbit chased after them as best she could. Then I saw the flattened fur that had drawn the dark birds' attention. I knew it was her baby and my buinny elf. One of them, at least. Since then, no chrming little faces have peered out from the backyard hosta leaves. Life. Beauty. Death. That's all there is to say.

ONE BUNNY THE SIZE OF A LITTLE MOUSE sat on our back patio. He hopped, skipped and jumped toward the hosta bed and nosed in. Later I saw his little face peeking out. He looked like an elf in the leaves. The next time I looked out, there were two little elves peering from the hosta cover. The mother rabbit was nowhere in sight and I wondered how she'd let these two little creatures out alone  to face the dangers of the world. The bunnies nestled together in the greenery until dark. I wondered if it was their new home. If I parted the leaves, would I find small green beds, white coverlets and hanging blue coats? Like the cozy room in the Peter Rabbit book. I'll just keep it in my imgination. 

Spent hours cleaning my office so I could find my new Internet accounts and passwords since I have not been able to Blog. Couldn't remember what it was, and couldn't find the slip of paper that had my user name and password jotted down. Any hints on how to stay organized? Finally found it on a sticky yellow pad below my screen. Since I've just started exploring ebooks for my writing, I've found there are many, many sites that can be part of the publishing and marketing process. Previously, my writing was published the old fashion way and the PR carried out the old fashioned way, attending meetings, conferences, conducting workshops, then handing out cards and giving info on the newly published book or anthology. Now, I'm scrambling to get organized for this new way to proceed. Sticky notes are not the answer. Back to cleaning. Back to organizing.     

JUMPED TOO SOON TO MY CONCLUSION
   The geese are still here. Guess they've been hiding in the rain. I don't know who Critter Control sought out and took away. Hmmm, haven't seen the turkeys lately. I do like to keep track of the critters that wander across the back yard. Bob saw a mink last night, but I missed it. Last year neighbors said mink lived in a connected pond, but I wasn't sure they were still around.
    Everytime I get out of the car in the garage I see the box of little jam jars reminding me of my once aspirations. The jars have been there for a couple years, since I did intend to can some tidbit or other. Yesterday, in the spirit of cleaning up garage shelves, I brought them inside and looked up recipes. Ended up doing freezer strawberry jam, since it sounded easier than canning and lasts one year in the freezer. I sold my canning gear in a garage sale a couple years ago, so I'd planned to can in my tamale pot, but was uncertain if that would work. I found "no sugar" jam recipes available and I ended up with 9 little jars to keep and give away to family and friends. The jam was tarter than usual, a taste I appreciated, since I do not like super sweet things. Now, what to do with the rest of the junk (or valuables, depending on one's frame of mine) that rests on my side of the garage.   

AN ENDING
Looks like my blogging goose stories are finished. Yesterday, I saw a yellow Critter Control truck arrive on the lakefront road. I wondered what animal had offended. Yesterday afternoon, I watched for the Canada Geese family to arrive outside our home, birds shuffling through the grass, pecking about for bugs, then collapsing into feather heaps along the banks. The three babies had grown out of their fuzzy yellow fluff, but not yet found their colors. I was anticipating watching them mature. But no geese spotted today.
   I know several residents do not like them, and may have complained, yet I enjoy seeing the majestic water fowl outside my window as I write. So I am sad and lonely today because my companions have probably been removed. I did not even get to say goodbye. Unless the birds happen to read my blog. In that case, fare thee well, beautiful winged creatues.
   I was told that sometimes the geese are taken to a reserve, but I wonder if it's like the words I heard as a child. "We took the pet (dog) (cat) to the farm." I never had the courage to ask any further questions. And I find myself in the same spot this afternoon. I'll hold them in my memory.  

MY APOLOGIES

So sorry geese, you may not have been the culprits that nibbled off my purple flower top and lily buds. Others folks have come forth, and pointed fingers at different possible garden intruders. Rabbits. Squirrels. Ground hogs. True, all these furry friends come near the garden patches, and I have no evidence of the guilty parties. I based my guess on the long, slender necks of the Canada Geese, whose beaks were the exact right height to bite off a morsel or two. Today the little goslings pecked away at the debris that had washed out from our gutter tube. After the rain, there were clumps of seeds. Elm seeds, yum. This year I planned to buy a tomato plant for the deck, but when I checked to see if the leaves and stems were poisonous, the answer was yes. Our cat hangs out on the deck. Silly cat, she’s prone to chewing on floral leaves, petals etc., so looks like I will buy my home grown tomatoes at the Farmer’s Market this year. 

DAY OF THE GOSLINGS

   I call today “the arrival of the goslings”. For the past two years, we’ve lived along a pond, fed from a natural spring. After the winter goes on its way, Canada Geese drop by, and stay to raise their families. Many in our neighborhood are not fond of the geese. “Messy”, they say, and that is probably right, but for me, it’s an exciting sight to have large, wild birds with long, elegant necks parading past my window.  This morning, I saw three babies following after mama and papa. The goslings were still yellow feathered, but I could see an overshadowing of brown and grey. Today, the geese settled in down by the water. Later, they nibbled on grass and bugs and apparently lily buds, since some stalks were snapped off when I checked after they were gone. I also had a lovely, purple flowered stalk by the back door, and when I checked, it was gone too. Maybe next year, this illusive bloom will receive a name, if I get to it before the geese do. Eventually, the birds left via the pond, with wide V’s trailing behind them. It always makes me sad when they desert me.       

A blog about writing, nature, cooking, an occasional philosophical bent &/or random thoughts. Since my mind leaps about like a hooked fish, I need a large menu of topics to jolt my thoughts.

   It did take a while, but I’m finally jumping in the darn, bloggin’ ocean. Brrr and shivers. By way of introduction, I’m an author, published traditionally in several anthologies, also have POD’s, and an ebook just barely out. Won some writing awards for two nature books. Made very little money. Isn’t that the way with so many of us? Do we quit? No, we do not. Enough of that.

When I’m asked why I write, I find many reasons, and for some of us lucky ones,, writing is a kind of healing.

It waits there, something white and blank, always open to me no matter what I choose to reveal or unburden or imagine. There is no judgment. Writing absorbs my efforts to face life events that whip around the corner and push me down, sometimes flattening me with unwanted surprises. And once the words are there for me to re-read and study, then understanding begins to find a way. Through phrases, sentences and paragraphs, the page pitches my thoughts back at me and if I don’t duck, it is a beginning.