tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54234862548047488682024-03-05T14:09:20.597-08:00Rantings of a Frustrated WriterA blog about writing, my books, my animals, and anything else that comes to mind.alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-16813269846305834092013-09-30T05:00:00.000-07:002013-09-30T05:00:03.407-07:00
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Writing in Romantic Suspense. How did I get here?</span></strong><br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, setting
out to develop a romantic suspense series came more out of a love for the
characters rather than a set intention. The goal of any story is to entertain,
to captivate the reader and whisk them away to a world of another’s creation.
As a writer I find stories spiced with romance and suspense to be the most fun
to create, but it is always the characters that make any story fulfilling. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My journey into
this genre began when I wrote my first novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To My Senses</i>. After that book had been published, I envisioned a
follow-up to it. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Recovery</i>, became the
second novel in the Nicci Beauvoir series and where we are first introduced to
Dallas August. Born out of my love for the characters, and my desire to
highlight New Orleans and all that she had suffered during the ravages of
Katrina, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Recovery </i>led to the third
book in the series, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sacrifice</i>. Even
after the saga of Nicci and David was complete, I felt there was still more to
be done with Dallas August. He is a character with a great deal of potential
and his business of buying and selling secrets ignites the imagination. I never
consciously decided to start out on a series, but I eventually let the story
and the characters make that determination for me. As a writer, I think you
know when a story has reached its conclusion and when there is more to be
written. The same is true for Dallas August, and I have already completed the
second book in The Secret Brokers series, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Of
Sins and Shadows</i>, which will be released next May. And I know there will
be more for him in future novels. I believe when you find a character
compelling as a writer you wish to continue with his or her development. It is
an intriguing process to see how far a character can go. And I believe the
reader enjoys revisiting old characters in each installment of a series as
well. Like any good life story, we want to find out what happens to characters
in which we have become emotionally invested. It is like conversing with long
lost friends and catching up on the trial and tribulations in their lives. We
find common ground and comfort in the fact that their downfalls are ours as
well, even if their secrets, affairs, intrigues, and schemes seem a little more
glamorous than our own. In the end, it is this feeling of familiarity that is the
biggest inspiration for creating a series. Like wrapping your body in a warm
robe on a cold winter’s evening, curling up with a favorite character is
appealing to most of us. What is dear to the heart gives one a sense of calm
amid the chaos of our ever-changing lives. And finding a few moments of peace
amid the hectic, technologically fast-paced, sometimes overwhelming world in
which we live is necessary, if not required. It nourishes our souls and reminds
us that true characters, even the ones made up on the page, matter to all of
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-27994727888960475502013-09-27T05:00:00.000-07:002013-09-27T05:00:03.487-07:00
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">Listmania and Goodreads. A good or bad thing?<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like most things
that start out with the best of intentions, I feel Goodreads and Amazon’s
Listmania have begun to try on the nerves of many writers. We are used to
people categorizing our books into a genre, but some of the lists individuals
come up with are just short of astonishing. When one sets out to write a novel,
they never imagine a day where they end up in the “best books with no story
whatsoever” list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But categories
proposed on Goodreads seem to have taken the list thing to a new level. With
the ever-present review bullying, the uptick in solicited reviews, and the
exploding use of ads clogging the site, the use of lists to categorize books
has become yet another in a long a list (excuse the pun) of offenses that has
turned Goodreads into a network site many writers dislike using. When we start
creating lists like “aggravating female leads who get on our nerves” or “books I
have no intention of reading,” then the list epidemic has begun that slippery
slide toward oblivion. When you trivialize what was once useful, you make it no
longer palatable to those readers and writers who are seeking genuine opinions,
and not fodder for foolishness. Which is the problem with any site that strives
to be commercial and in the end only becomes a mere shadow of the professional
and well-intentioned vista it started out as. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have watched
Goodreads and Amazon grow into the powerhouses of book promotion. Rivaled by no
other sites, Goodreads and Amazon perhaps need to start curbing the overzealous
ardor of its members and helping readers and reviewers stick to the facts of a
book, and steer clear of the fluff. I’m not advocating either site change everything,
but perhaps execute a little more discretion when it comes to silly lists, and
go back to the book-oriented sites they once were.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But don’t get me
wrong, I am all for the use of lists on these sites. As a Southern writer whose
books are usually based in and around New Orleans, I do treasure lists that
allow me to highlight the individual flavor of my work, but do I need a list
that touts best “awful sex scenes” or “books a sex stalker can relate to” or my
personal favorite from Listmania, “</span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/NUDE-PHOTOS-UFO-ALIENS-EROTICA-CLASSIC-SHAKESPEARE/lm/R2K67YB4U9L05O/ref=cm_srch_res_rpli_alt_9"><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nude photos UFO aliens erotica +
classic Shakespeare</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really?
I wonder what Bill wouId think of that list? I understand <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">50 Shades of Grey</i></b> has
changed the sexual landscape of books, and trust me, my books have a hefty dose
of panty dropping in them as well, but how much is too much? When does the list
pass the point of being useful and become comical and almost offensive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the end, I guess the lists that are
started on these sites are in a strange way a reflection of the world we live
in. It seems the rise of the social media has allowed everyone to voice those
once silent thoughts, and even given them the opportunity to make lists
glorifying their varied viewpoints. After all, freedom of speech is in our
constitution, but somehow I wonder if our founding fathers had to publish their
work on Goodreads or Amazon what kind of list would they have ended up on? “Hot
men in wigs do destiny?” It boggles the mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-39965909038487321562013-09-23T05:00:00.000-07:002013-09-23T05:00:14.818-07:00
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Why we cannot have too much of Paranormal Romance?<o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can one ever have
enough of hot vampires, shifters that combine the best of animal and human
form, witches, ghosts or all other assorted creatures that go bump in the
night? Of course not. Since we began telling stories as hunter-gatherers
huddled around the fire, the allure of the life that exists beyond the safety
of that firelight has enthralled us. Paranormal romance is a testament to our
imagination and a way of bringing all the legends of our past into our present,
and preserving them for future generations to come.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know some
paranormal romances may be bit much for future readers to swallow, and fiction
tends to blur the lines of fact, but it is the preservation of the concept of
what these paranormal creatures represent that will always captivate us. How
such stories have the power to transport us to another place and time is vital.
Feeding the imagination with stories, any kind of story, is as important as
feeding the body with food or the soul with spirituality. Without our
imaginations we cannot thrive, and whether stories are about vampires that live
throughout the ages, ghosts that fall in love with the living, or strange
mortal creatures that have the power to change form, all are needed to keep us
growing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus, there is a
great deal we can learn about our humanity from such tales. When we can see
another’s life, read their thoughts, and for a moment walk in their shoes, then
we also learn to embody compassion. Yes, they are supernatural creatures, but
when we feel their pain at not being able to walk in the sun, know the touch of
another, or live openly as they are, we begin to understand and empathize a
little more with that strange neighbor next door who feeds all the stray cats,
and never talks to anyone. Sure we might picture that neighbor as weird, and
perhaps be leery of their company, but we eventually learn to accept them; just
as we accepted Lestat, and Frankenstein as important aspects of our culture. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lastly, we can
never have enough of such stories because they give us hope and joy. They
entertain, and for a few hours take us away from the burdens of life. We all
need to escape, and paranormal romances allow us that escape. We become the
hero or heroine, we live vicariously through their adventure, we find love, we
face difficult odds, and for as long as the book lasts, we are enthralled.
Isn’t that what it is all about? To find a story that touches your soul?
Because in the end, what moves us matters. Sometimes to be able to appreciate
life, to be uplifted, you must first be swept away. No medium does that as well
as a book. And when it is a paranormal romance, well, that’s even better. Love,
after all, knows no limits. If we can believe a lonely vampire or abandoned
ghost can find love, then perhaps, hopefully, we can, too<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-12643974851694104272013-09-20T05:00:00.000-07:002013-09-20T05:00:01.105-07:00New Orleans<br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like the memory
of a first kiss, the warmth of New Orleans pervades your soul and forever
becomes a part of you. To travel among the wide oaks and antebellum homes of
the Garden District makes for beautiful postcard pictures, but it does not give
you a true indication of what it means to be a New Orleanian. You have to
immerse yourself in the old world atmosphere and varied traditions of the
people of this town in order to understand them, and, hopefully, become one of
them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need to dine
in the myriad of exceptional restaurants and take part in a heated discussion
about where to find the best bowl of gumbo. Spend a Monday morning drinking
coffee and chicory in an old uptown kitchen while learning how to cook the
perfect pot of red beans and rice. Experience the wrong way to eat a muffaletta
sandwich, the right way to shuck an oyster, and the only way to eat a beignet.
And you will always have to remember that if your food isn’t boiled, blackened
or fried, it just ain’t cooked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will want to traverse the different
sections of the old city divided not by points on a compass, but by proximity
to the Mississippi River or Lake Pontchartrain. Because no one in the Crescent
City could ever tell you where to find the south end of town, but they could
recite by heart the neighborhoods along the bend in the river. From the
Bywaters to the Irish Chanel, from Lakeview to the infamous Ninth Ward, so many
smaller sections alive with their own unique histories make up this city. Each
part of New Orleans has a rich heritage based on the struggles of its French,
Spanish, Irish, African, or Italian founders. </div>
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</div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then head over to
Canal Street, where the local term “neutral ground” was created in the early
1800’s. In those days, the wide thoroughfare was first used as a common market
area between the feuding French and Spanish occupants of the city. Take a
streetcar ride down legendary St. Charles Avenue to see the world renowned
Audubon Zoo. Along the way, soak up the different styles of Victorian, Greek
Revival, and Colonial architecture represented by some of the city’s finest
homes. Let the soothing rocking motion of the streetcar ease your cares, as the
sweet scent of magnolias streams in from the open window beside you. At the end
of your streetcar ride, walk the broken cobblestones of the French Quarter, and
take in the alluring sights of the tightly packed Creole cottages. Listen for
the seductive sounds of Jazz music resonating around you, the smell of great
food hovering in the air about you, and let your imagination linger on the
romantic wrought iron balconies above you. Make your way to Jackson Square and
take in the tall spires of St. Louis Cathedral, the oldest Catholic cathedral
in the continental Untied States. Walk through the adjoining Cabildo Museum,
where the Louisiana Purchase was signed in 1803. Stroll on over to the
Moonwalk, by the edge of the Mississippi River, and enjoy the calliope music
coming from the Delta Queen Riverboat. After you have learned to bargain like a
pro with the vendors at the French Market, then saunter down the shady
sidewalks of Esplanade Avenue. The street made famous by Tennessee Williams and
his tale of hidden desire. Finally, let yourself wander the narrow alleys of
St. Louis Cemetery Number One, where you can visit the above ground tombs of
famous former residents Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen, and Paul Morphy, the
chess phenomenon.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there is
another, more important, criteria for being an ingrained member of this
eclectic southern city. You have to learn to appreciate life. Not the
day-to-day hurried existence that shortens the lives of stockbrokers and
businessmen, but the easy lust for the fulfillment of the senses. For
everything about New Orleans is tailored to the forgotten art of
self-gratification. In these days of such soulless existence, it is a
heartwarming relief to find a place unashamed of its abundant way of life. No
one in New Orleans regrets the way they live, they only regret when they have
to leave it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the next time
you think about my hometown, don’t linger on the unforgettable disasters of our
past. Instead, revel in what makes our city unique, shamelessly flamboyant, and
stoically unapologetic for its transgressions. New Orleanians have moved on
from Katrina. Despite the numerous media attempts to bury the residents under
clouds of negative press and dim outlooks, the people remain resilient. Because
they know that when Mardi Gras is over, crawfish season is right around the
corner. We may have paid a heavy price for our time in paradise, but we know
that somewhere up in the heavens, someone is answering our prayers. After all,
the Saints did finally win the Super Bowl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-6387688304398623242013-09-16T05:00:00.000-07:002013-09-16T05:00:12.594-07:00
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A French
Quarter Ghost Story<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The French Quarter of New Orleans has been called “the most
haunted place in America.” Trust me, it is. Growing up there, I often heard neighbors
complaining about their noisy ethereal guests. I, too, had strange experiences:
doors slamming, lights switches going on and off, cups flying out of cabinets,
the usual stuff. But probably the creepiest occurred one fall day when I was
alone in the Creole Cottage my father rented for his business. Left to answer
the phones while his secretary was at lunch, I was sitting in the front part of
the cottage where the french windows allowed in the bright sunshine. I had been
doing homework when this strange swishing sound began in the room behind me. It
was as if fabric of some sort was rubbing together. Now, in the office where I
was there were cats; four of them. What kind of business has cats in the
office, well, this is New Orleans and nothing is the norm. Anyway, the cats
were sprawled about on different desks and as the swishing noise drew near, I
saw every cat’s head pop up from where they were resting. As the sound entered
the office I was in, all the cats turned in unison to the room entrance. At
this point I was feeling a little uncomfortable. But as the noise grew louder,
all the cats suddenly sat up and began to follow something with their eyes
moving across the room toward me. The room instantly grew very cold and a
slight breeze brushed across the side of my face. At this point, all four cats
were staring directly at me. The hair on the back of my neck rose, and I was
frozen to my chair. If that was not enough, then the giggling started; a soft
tinkling kind of noise that was definitely female and sounded as if it was
right next to my ear. The swooshing noise began again and I watched terrified
as the cats began to follow something out of the room with their eyes. When the
noise stopped a few seconds later, the cats all stretched, repositioned
themselves on their respective desks, and went right back to sleep. At this
point, I jumped up from my chair and ran to the front door. I stood on the
doorstep with the door open so I could hear the phone ringing, but stayed
outside, comforted by the hum of life from the French Quarter around me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I told my
father about the incident, he laughed and said, “You just met Annabelle. She
died in the cottage of yellow fever in the epidemic of 1853 just a few months
short of her wedding to some plantation owner.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then inquired how
he knew this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A neighbor told
me. In the Quarter, the neighbors always know about all your ghosts.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The experiences I
had in that cottage became the impetus for my book, The Ghosts of Rue Dumaine.
It is my homage to Annabelle and all the other ghosts I encountered there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-52523599457777410802013-08-09T05:00:00.000-07:002013-08-09T05:00:07.376-07:00Sneak Peak: The Ghosts of Rue Dumaine<span style="font-size: small;"> Danica leaned against the doorframe and reflected on the various stages of childhood and adolescence she had gone through while occupying this room. The rainbow-painted walls her mother had painstakingly decorated for her had been replaced with posters of boy bands and television heartthrobs until her mother had died. After the funeral, Danica had come home and removed all the posters in a fit of rage, wanting to be surrounded once more by her mother’s rainbows. The last year she had spent in this room, she had felt comforted by those rainbows, as if her mother’s love had been forever sealed beneath the paintbrush strokes on her walls. <br />
<br />
"I missed this old place," she whispered. <br />
<br />
A sudden rush of cold air moving down the hallway caused Danica to turn away from the bedroom door and peer into the darkness behind her. She took a few steps further down the hall until the aroma of cigar smoke mixed with a hint of brandy wafted in the air around her. Danica remembered that smell. It had always filled her bedroom whenever the dark man would appear. <br />
<br />
"Is it you?" she softly called into the hallway. "It’s me, Danica. I’ve come back. Just like I said I would." <br />
<br />
Danica walked briskly past the entrance to the master bath to the final door at the end of the hall. Without hesitation, she pushed the cypress door open and walked inside the master bedroom. The light from the large picture window overlooking the courtyard shone into the room, accentuating the deep burgundy color of the carpet beneath her feet. She stepped into the center of the room and observed the ceiling fan above. Danica waited, straining with every breath to hear the slightest stirring. <br />
<br />
"Welcome home," a man’s wispy voice resonated around her. <br />
<br />
A hopeful smile curled the edges of Danica’s heart-shaped mouth. "Thank you, Gaston. It’s good to be home." <br />
<br />
A few minutes later, Danica returned to the living room, where she found Pat scrolling through messages on her cell phone. <br />
<br />
"Let’s sign the papers," Danica happily announced. "I want to get moved in as soon as possible." <br />
<br />
Pat gave her a wary going-over with her brown eyes. "You positive about this, Danica? I need to make sure you’re aware that other tenants have had problems—" <br />
<br />
"It’s fine, Pat. I know you said the place is haunted and people have had some bad experiences, but this…." Danica waved to the room around her. "Just feels right." <br />
<br />
Pat gave a skeptical shrug. "I have the papers ready back at the office. The rent is eight hundred and fifty a month. Mr. Caruso wanted me to charge you the same rate he charged your father. He insisted I make this as appealing to you as possible. You must have made quite an impression on the old man when you were a kid. He never cuts anyone a deal." <br />
<br />
"Please tell Mr. Caruso I appreciate it." <br />
<br />
Pat replaced her cell phone in her front jacket pocket. "Let’s turn off all of these lights and head back to the office." <br />
<br />
Suddenly, from the shuttered window beside them, three loud knocks reverberated across the room. <br />
<br />
Pat grabbed at her chest. "Jesus! What in the hell was that?" <br />
<br />
Danica smirked as she watched the color drain from Pat’s perfectly made-up face. "Just someone outside on the street banging on the wall…happened a lot when I was a kid. Drunk tourists would often bang on the shutters at all hours." <br />
<br />
Pat regained her composure. "Of course, you’re right. I didn’t think of that." <br />
<br />
Danica motioned to the pocket doors leading to the kitchen. "Let’s get you out of here, Pat, before you have a heart attack." <br />
<br />
"Gladly," Pat offered and rushed to the doors. "I never liked this place. I just hope you know what you’re doing, Danica." <br />
<br />
"I know," Danica asserted with a grin. "I’ve always known."</span><br />
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<span id="goog_1706626749"></span><span id="goog_1706626750"></span><br />alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-8454036523891170292013-08-03T05:00:00.000-07:002013-08-03T05:00:05.172-07:00Self-Publishing: The Good and The Bad.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like most writers, my path to publication
was plagued with numerous rejections, intermingled with a few unexpected
successes. I tried for several years to send out query letters to agents and
publishers. Every time I was told the same thing, you have talent but do not
currently fit our needs. Sometimes when a door is slammed shut in your face,
you need to pry a window open with a crowbar. Despite the numerous warnings for
authors to avoid such pitfalls, I decided to self-published my first novel, <i>To
My Senses</i>. I considered it an educational opportunity to discover if I
really had the talent to make it as a fiction writer. I researched quite a few
companies and went with one associated with a large, and reputable, book
seller/distributor. The experience gained was priceless. <o:p></o:p></span></h3>
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<h3 style="margin: 1em 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And after my first novel, <i>To My Senses,
</i>was released I learned the ins and outs of book promotion. My novel
garnered critical praise, and received a few awards, all of which helped to
bolster my confidence to continue onward with my writing. But it was the
encouragement of the book reviewers I got to know while promoting <i>To My
Senses</i>, that really convinced me to push onward and publish my second
novel, <i>Recovery</i>. Finally World Castle Publishing picked up my third
novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sacrifice.</i> Now I am on novel
number five, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Secret Brokers</i>, with
four more contracted and waiting for publication with my publisher.<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
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<h3 style="margin: 1em 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is my self-publishing adventure for every
writer? No, absolutely not. However, if you are a writer who writes for you,
and not to impress a publisher, then perhaps you should look into
self-publishing. It can be frustrating to get your book out there and garner
the attention you feel it deserves, but if you are talented, the readers will
eventually find you. Good books are hard to find these days. As an avid reader,
I set out to write a novel I would want to read and remember. And I soon found
I was not alone in my beliefs when a small following grabbed on to my novel and
started spreading the word about work. Word of mouth is your best promoter and
no publicist can buy you that kind of attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believe in your writing, get your work out
there by any means necessary, be patient, and the rest…well, that is where your
story begins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></h3>
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alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-1906751286148597912013-08-01T05:00:00.000-07:002013-08-01T05:00:03.836-07:00The Satyr's Curse Excerpt
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Excerpt The Satyr’s Curse<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> Julian
put his glass of wine down on the table. “Maybe it is time for a change of
tactics.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> Jazzmyn
cringed as he came up to her side. “I don’t know if I like the sound of that.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> He
moved closer to her and placed his hands about her waist. “I like you this
way.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> She
ran her hand up his thick chest. “What way?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Challenging,”
he replied as he enfolded her in his arms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Some
men might call it obstinate.” She slid her arms about his neck. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Not
me,” he admitted, holding her close. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> Julian
began swaying to the steady drumbeat of a strange melody drifting down from the
balcony above. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> Jazzmyn
moved along with him, easing her body side to side in time with the hypnotic
rhythm. The small garden echoed with the sound of flutes, cymbals, and a
seductive drumbeat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> “What
is this?” she asked while gazing up at the balcony where the tune was emanating
from. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Very
old music, almost ancient. Fascinating, isn’t it?” He dipped his mouth closer
to her ear. “Close your eyes and let the music in, Jazzmyn. Just give in to
it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">
</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
heat rising from his skin permeated through her thin dress while his enticing
scent tantalized her. His arms felt strong and sure about her as his hips
gyrated suggestively against her body. She closed her eyes and lost herself in
the dance as her longing for him began to build. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
smell like spring,” he whispered as his hands fervently roamed up and down her
back. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jazzmyn’s
body heaved with pleasure as she pressed against him. She fought to control the
desperate surge of desire that was taking over her rational mind. Her thoughts
became obscured with images of the two of them, naked and holding on to each
other in the darkness. The ache from her loins was so intense that she almost
moaned against his chest. Her hands squeezed his shoulders as she imagined him
moving inside her. It was as if the nearness of him set off some kind of
chemical reaction in her body. It was an all-consuming lust for him, a want
like she had never known. Sure, she had experienced passion with a few men, but
no man had ever evoked such desperate need in her. Unexpectedly, an image of
Kyle, making love to her in front of her living room fireplace, stunned her out
of her trance. She suddenly pulled back from Julian, feeling like a frightened doe,
running for her life in the woods. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What
is it?” he asked, noting the change in her. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She
shook her head. “Maybe I had too much wine. I just felt dizzy for a moment.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He
placed his arm about her shoulders. “Come and sit down.” He escorted her to the
table and pulled out a chair for her. “Here.” He reached for her water goblet.
“Drink this, it will help steady you.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She
took the glass and gladly sipped a few deep gulps of the cool water. The fire
in her belly cooled and her head immediately cleared. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Julian
kneeled beside her chair and worriedly examined her face. After she put the
glass down on the table, she finally turned to him. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
don’t know if it was the wine or the dancing, but I just had the most unusual
feeling.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What
kind of feeling?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“An intense
feeling of….” She rubbed her fingers back and forth over her forehead. “I don’t
know how to describe it.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
were thinking about us…about how we would be together,” he murmured in a sultry
voice. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jazzmyn
stared at him in disbelief. “How can you possibly know what I was thinking?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">His
slowly smiled. “I can feel your thoughts.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She
sat back in her chair, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I must come across as a
timid schoolgirl, but I guess I’m just a little overwhelmed by you.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
are hardly a timid schoolgirl.” He held out his hand to her and Jazzmyn took
it. He pulled her from the chair and wrapped her in his arms. “You’re a woman
with desires and needs. And I am a man.” He lowered his face to hers. “A man
who desperately needs you, Jazzmyn.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-56049626427296494252013-07-30T05:00:00.000-07:002013-07-30T05:00:10.025-07:005 Things I Have Learned from Animals I have learned over the years that animals can teach us a great deal about ourselves. Our behaviors are similar, and in many instances our social behaviors are the same, as well. But there are a lot of things wildlife can teach us about surviving in the world that we have created. If anything, you could say our four-footed friends are better at living among us than we are. After all, you don't see your local raccoons going after each other because they envy another's tail stripes, or running in gangs that try to lay claim to all the garbage cans in a certain neighborhood. They are a little more realistic about life than we are. For the animal world life is made up of food, shelter, and self-preservation. Things we seem to have taken to extremes with McDonalds, luxurious homes, and Botox. So there are a few things that dealing with animals have taught me that I think are important to keep in mind when trying to get through tough times in our hectic, fast-paced existence.<br />
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The first thing I noticed is that our furry friends lack any vanity. They are happy with how they look and don't seem to have any meltdowns because of fur loss, or missing limbs. They adapt to whatever setbacks they are given, and move on. I am often amazed at their strength, and wish I had that kind of resilience, especially with the pangs of middle age bearing down on me.<br />
Another trait is how animals co-exist among themselves. Sure, they hunt each other for food-and not expensive baubles-but when not in need of sustenance, they learn to live in peace among each other. The goal of any confrontation is never annihilation with them, but resolution. Territory is fought over, but eventually disputes are settled without lawyers, courts, or guns. It's amazing how respect, a not abject anger, eventual closes every argument. They may disagree, but they eventually find a way to live together. Why can't we do the same?<br />
Probably the most important lesson I have learned is that all creatures have an innate appreciation for their environment. The fallacy among our species is that all animals are destructive. But I have never seen a pack of squirrels take down a forest or level a lot of trees like we can. Animals give back to the land they live on, and preserve their homes. For them nothing is disposable, and everything is recycled. Respect for their planet is more ingrained in their minds than ours, which is a sad state of affairs. If we are the dominant species, why are they setting the example of how to keep our planet green?<br />
Love is unconditional with animals. There are no limitations or boundaries set that if you love me a certain way or treat me better, I will love you more. Love is love to them, it has no preference for one over another. Their depth of emotion is not blinded by wealth, appearance, or power. They love without restrictions because they are not blinded by the trappings of our society. <br />
And with them, you know you are loved because you are you.<br />
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Finally, I am amazed at their ability to enjoy the simple things. Nothing makes me smile more than when I see a variety of different animals soaking up the sun, or taking time to stop and smell the grass, or look up at a passing flock of geese soaring through the sky. That wonder for the world is always present in their eyes. They never appear jaded or lack the glow of discovery in their faces. Every new squeaky toy is a treasure, and every pecan a feast. Nothing is taken for granted, and everyday is relished. And when they settle down for bed at night, they are more thankful than the most pious of people, because they know that all they have is this moment. Tomorrow is always hoped for, but they are grateful for the wisdom they were given today.<br />
I still have so much to learn, and the time I have spent with our furry, finned, or feathered friends has given me a greater understanding of the big picture. It's not all about us, it's about them, too. And together, we might all just learn how to be happy on this big old earth, and learn to appreciate every gift that we have been given. <br />
alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-85723526770592720922013-07-27T05:00:00.000-07:002013-07-27T05:00:01.647-07:00Bad Day for Boobie <br />
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As many of you know I am a permitted wildlife rehabber with the Louisiana Wildlife and Fisheries. Part of my duties as a rehabber involve caring for orphaned and injured wildlife, and one of the squirrels under my care, Boobie, was taken to the vet yesterday for care. Now the vet that handles wildlife with difficult problems is an hour away from my home. Yesterday Boobie needed care for a bad tooth infection, and was taken to the vet. His infection required surgery, and I had to leave him behind and drive home to await word on whether or not he would make it. Later in the afternoon, I was told that the surgery could not be performed, and that antibiotics were his only hope. After driving back to the vet and bringing Boobie home, I started my own form of TLC along with his hefty dose of antibiotics. At this point you may be asking why did I go to so much trouble and spend so much time and money helping a squirrel?<br />
Easy. Because his life matters. Any rehabber will tell you of the cost and time involved with caring for these animals (and we do not get paid for any of this), but few can comprehend the satisfaction we get from knowing we have helped another have a better life. And after all, they have feelings and emotions just like us. When we help them, we help ourselves.<br />
So Boobie is home and will live with me on antibiotics and hopefully resolve the bad infection. He is a precious boy and knows I am trying to help. Sure he is grumpy, and having a human handle him all the time and shove bad tasting medicine down his throat isn't much fun, but, hopefully, we can get him back to the world he loves, so he can go on being a squirrel for a little while longer.<br />
I love what I do, and my wildlife keeps me sane, and when I see a squirrel like Boobie struggling with his difficulties, it puts my own infirmities and discomfort in perspective. We have healthcare, doctors, pain medication, and we can tell someone where it hurts. Boobie, and millions of others like him, can't. They have to depend on our ability to rise beyond our dependence on our language and hope we can see with our hearts, as well as our eyes. So next time you see a squirrel in a tree or running across the road, don't look at it like a inanimate object, without feeling or emotion. Animal is only something that defines someone who does not speak our language, but trust me they know us better than we know ourselves. A lot better.<br />
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alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-61387329568317838312013-07-26T05:55:00.001-07:002013-07-26T05:55:16.478-07:00Beyond the Bedroom Door
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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So you want to write a romance book. Now, what kind of
romance do you write? Do you stay with the teenage version of romance where a
kiss on the cheek and a yearning for more is enough, or do you go all the way
and break through those bedroom doors? I think this is a question every romance
writer faces. How far do you go? The level of heat you wish to put into your
story depends on such factors as the story, the characters, and the writer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story and how
sex contributes to it should play a role in your decision. Not every story
needs sex to sell it, but when you are talking about the human condition, sex
is invariably a part of our sense of self. Also, sex is a real life issue, and
whether your characters have it, or don’t, could make or break your story. I
let the characters decide that facet of a tale. Some characters, like people,
are less sexual, some more. Their interaction with others is sometimes based on
a sexual relationship. After all, the goal of any romance may be a “HEA”, but
do you know of many couples in today’s world that get to that “HEA” without a
having a little SEX. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Terminology is
also important. You can make it really dirty by how you refer to those
“sensitive areas” or try to be descriptive without getting into what some
people might call a vulgar territory. It’s tricky, but then again how your
characters interact in the story will have a lot to do with how detailed you
wish to get. If you are writing about werewolves, it might be easier to get to the
nitty-gritty, as opposed to writing a story about intrigue among a Manhattan
social set. Just be prepared to defend your choices. I invariably find that how
the sex scenes are played out has a lot to do with likability for readers. Many
reviews of your book will come down to how deftly you handled the way your
characters get down to business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you are going
to get graphic, then I suggest you also get ready for some interesting
questions from fans about sex, safe sex, and your sex life. It was the one
thing I never expected as a writer, but readers have a funny way of associating
your books with you. I get asked a lot of questions about my love scenes,
namely are they based on fact. Personal, yes, but we humans are known for our
curiosity. Needless to say, you had better be prepared to explain yourself if
your characters go all the “R” or “X” way. There will be questions about safe
sex, as well. In our AIDS and STD wary world safe sex has become the norm, and
some readers will wonder why you do or do not address it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bottom line
with sexual content is do what moves you as a writer. As in life, sex does not
a relationship make, and unless you’re writing erotica, it isn’t the beat all
and end all of a good romance book. It’s about love; happy, sad, unrequited, or
lost. What gets us to the bedroom is sometimes a hell of a lot more interesting
than what goes on behind those closed doors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-57562840036731843932013-07-24T06:06:00.000-07:002013-07-24T06:06:33.982-07:00Excerpt From Diary of a One-Night Stand.
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re here,” a deep voice said in front
of her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kara opened her eyes and beheld Scott
Ellsworth’s handsome face. He was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and a pair
of gray slacks. His dark, wavy hair looked a bit disheveled, as if he too had
been anxiously weighing the pros and cons of their meeting. His deep-set gray
eyes gazed up and down her slim figure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I wasn’t sure you would come,” he
admitted as he stood back from the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I told you on the phone I would be here.”
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kara walked into the suite and took in the
finely decorated living area. To her right she spied a gold sofa, coffee table,
and two matching gold and mahogany chairs. Beyond the living room there was a
small bar with a sink and mini refrigerator. Placed atop the bar were two
crystal flutes, with a silver ice bucket sitting between them. In the bucket
was an open bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She turned back to Scott. “Champagne?” She
raised one blond eyebrow. “That’s rather cheesy, don’t you think?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scott closed the door. “I figured it would
help get you in the mood.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kara tossed her black purse onto the
couch. “In the mood?” Kara arched one eyebrow as she walked up to him. “That’s
what foreplay is for, isn’t it?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scott put his arm about her slim waist.
“So, am I to skip all of my well-planned seduction material and just get right
to it then? That’s rather a lot of pressure to put on a man, Kara.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kara gracefully ran her hands up his white
shirt. “I thought you were the kind of man who worked better under pressure.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scott grinned. “Yes, I am.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He placed his other arm about her and
pulled her close. His eyes drank in the aristocratic curve of her chin, dainty
nose, exquisite cheekbones, and round, red mouth. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’ve waited long enough,” he mumbled,
and then he lowered his lips to hers. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first Kara was surprised by the
intensity of his kiss, but then she found her body responding to his raw
desire. This was not the sugarcoated kiss of a nervous lover or anxious beau
seeking her approval. This was the kiss of a man wanting only one thing,
without the trappings of a hoped for future together. When she was younger she
might have been repelled by such a kiss, but now she reveled in it. She had
done the “right thing” with the right kind of man, and for a time had found the
experience fulfilling. But now as she noticed more lines on her face and a
roundness settling over her hips, she wanted nothing more than to know an
uncomplicated kind of mating. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She eagerly started undoing the buttons on
his shirt. Scott moved his lips away from hers and his teeth nipped along her
pink cheek until he found her earlobe. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I want you,” he murmured in her ear. “All
I have been able to think about for the past week is you.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kara kissed the exposed skin on his chest
as she hurriedly fought to finish with the buttons on his shirt. Scott’s hands
reached around and pulled at the zipper on the back of her dress. She felt the
cool air in the hotel room tease the skin along her back as he worked the
zipper down. She kissed his neck and chest, and then bit down hard on his right
nipple. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scott gasped and then stood back from her.
She stared into his eyes, then at his mouth, and finally took in the smooth,
tanned skin on his muscular chest. He grabbed her hand and led her to the bar,
but instead of stopping, he picked up the champagne from the ice bucket and
pulled her to a partially open door on his left. After shoving the door open
with his foot, he took a swig from the bottle in his hand and nodded to the
doorway. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Get in there,” he ordered in a husky
voice. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kara casually strolled into the bedroom.
Before her was a spacious room decorated in muted shades of gray, with a
king-sized bed, love seat, and a large patio door that opened onto a private
balcony. She looked back from the balcony to see Scott following her into the
room, carrying the bottle of champagne in his hand. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Take off that dress,” he said in a
commanding voice. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kara never removed her eyes from his as
she slipped the dress from around her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took another long sip from the
champagne bottle. “And the bra.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kara removed the black lace bra from
around her breasts and let it join her dress on the floor. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He slowly moved toward her, letting his
eyes wander over every inch of her body. He took another gulp of champagne.
When he pulled the bottle away, Kara watched as the liquid glistened against his
lips. She leaned forward and tasted the champagne on him. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scott pulled himself away and pushed her
back toward the bed. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Lay down and take off your underwear,” he
told her in a voice no louder than a whisper. “I want to see you naked on the
bed.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, Mr. Ellsworth,” Kara replied as she
sat back on the bed. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-80474777390365021852013-07-23T05:00:00.000-07:002013-07-23T05:00:03.346-07:00Love vs Romance
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first book,<i>
To My Senses, </i>has been called a romance by some and more than a romance, a <span class="yshortcuts">love story</span> if you will, by others. Is there a
difference between a romance and a love story? I believe that difference is in
the eye of the reader. For some, a romance novel may follow a set of
circumstances that promise the inevitable happy ending, but a love story often
takes the reader on a much different ride. It engages the reader on a deeper
level with emotionally charged characters and poignant, life-altering choices.
Romances may bring a comforting conclusion, but a love story does not because,
as many of us know from experience, love is never predictable. Some romances
may be forgettable, but a <span class="yshortcuts">great love story</span> will
live on in the reader’s memory for many years to come. </div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why are <span class="yshortcuts">love stories</span> so engaging? Perhaps it is because of the
nature of love itself. Love changes us, and can alter our direction in life, as
Nicci Beauvoir was awakened by David Alexander’s love in <i>To My Senses, </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">or Pamela was transformed by Daniel’s love
in my novel,<i> Broken Wings</i></span>. Such great love can act as a sudden
wind on a calm sea, righting the sails of a ship, giving us a new course and a
new horizon to aim for. We are penetrable souls, influenced and defined by whom
we love. In such a way, love can move mountains or melt even the coldest heart,
as is the case with my favorite character, Dallas August in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Recovery</i>.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> </div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When looking back
on our lives, it has never been the house, car or other material things we long
for, but those individuals most cherished whom we hold in our hearts forever.
Kara Barton realized this in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Diary of a
One-Night Stand,</i> and Dallas August also has such an epiphany during his
adventures in my fifth book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Secret
Brokers</i>. These characters learned that in that final moment of life, we
remember those we have loved, and hope to carry that love with us to the other
side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not to say
that the love shared between the characters of a “happily ever after” <span class="yshortcuts">romance novel</span> is any less sincere than the emotional
ties binding two star-crossed, and sometimes tragically torn apart, lovers.
Maybe it is when characters are taken to heart and become embedded within our
psyche that they move from the light fragrance of a romance to the rich bouquet
of a <span class="yshortcuts">love story</span>. Where romance may tweak at our
hunger for passion and adventure, a love story reaches down into the inner
workings of our soul and touches us in a way never expected.<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is what I hope
my books do; take the reader on a journey through the highs and lows of love.
Teaching everyone that it is the attainment of life’s greatest endeavor that
matters most, and everything else we garner along the way simply pales in
comparison. As Nora Kehoe, from my latest novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Acadian Waltz,</i> said, “our souls are not judged by the sins we
accumulate in life, but by the love we take with us after our life has ebbed
away.” <o:p></o:p><br />
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alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-10094920138716257362013-07-21T05:00:00.000-07:002013-07-21T05:27:03.538-07:005 Steps to Inner Beauty<span style="font-size: x-large;">5 Steps to Inner Beauty</span> (My Article from Beleza 11/12)<br />
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<br />
Ever since man could put his thoughts down on parchment,
papyrus, stone, or animal hide, he has sung the praises of beauty. What was
true in ancient times is true today, and the myth of what constitutes true
beauty eludes us as much as it did our ancestors. So what is beautiful? What is
timeless, and what makes a person unforgettable?</div>
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I am not speaking of physical appearance. Outward beauty is
an opinion and not meant to arbitrarily blanket a population of varied
cultures, races, and diverse individuals with a generic formula for what is
pleasing to the eye. All the designer clothes, enticing perfumes, and makeup
are not going to change the way you feel about the face you see in the mirror
everyday. Real beauty starts on the inside. </div>
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The essence of inner beauty begins with confidence. What is
confidence? Have you ever watched someone walk across a room at a party or
business meeting, and your eyes are drawn to them like a hypnotic beam of
sunlight undulating on a dark ocean? They move with an uncanny grace and wear a
haunting smile. You have just witnessed the effect of confidence. More
intoxicating than a shot of tequila and able to take out a Wall Street tycoon
with a single wink, confidence is the powerful light that makes beauty
blinding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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How exactly do you nurture confidence? We all know
confidence is not something one is born with, and in our cynical world it is
becoming a much more difficult commodity to acquire. But, with a little effort,
you can strengthen your confidence. Let’s begin by looking at five steps that
can help your true beauty flourish. </div>
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Step one: Explore the inner workings of you. What appeals to
you about you? No one has seen the world, experienced life, or lived quite like
you. You are unique. Too often we try emulating everyone else, and what we end
up becoming is unhappy. Those who have learned to embrace their individuality
have cultivated those qualities that make them unique, and as a result, they
are the happy ones. Happiness helps to amplify beauty. When we feel good about
ourselves, it shows. So grab on to those qualities you love about yourself and
rejoice in them.</div>
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What about the qualities you are not so crazy about? You
must be willing to accept the whole you, flaws and all. No diamond is without a
few imperfections. It is your flaws that make you who you are. Those quirky
characteristics that cause you to cringe are parts of your personality, and
somewhere in the cosmos you were deemed strong enough to handle those pesky
shortcomings. So pat yourself on the back. Your imperfections are a gift
because they have made you stronger and better on the inside than you could
have ever thought possible. Never waste your time wondering why you have been
given such flaws. EVERYONE has them! No one has a perfect life, a perfect body,
or a perfect mind. So do not envy what does not exist.</div>
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If there are things about you that you absolutely have to
change, then change them. Do, build, educate, or be whatever it is that makes
you feel the best about you. Learning to enrich what you are will invariably
lead to a better feeling about who you are. Further your education, learn a new
skill, accomplish a goal, or conquer a bad habit, overcome any obstacle that is
keeping you from feeling the best about who you are. Many times it isn’t the
newly acquired degree or skill that empowers us, but the act of overcoming the
hurdles in order to attain a long-desired goal that builds confidence.</div>
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Step two: Assess your environment. Being in a situation that
takes away from your inner sense of confidence can be just as debilitating as
having no confidence at all. Find people who share similar interests. Pursue a
job or career in a place that will help bolster you and not tear you down.
Build relationships that are positive and uplifting. Learning to avoid situations
and people who are detrimental to your inner beauty can be very important. When
you find yourself surrounded by individuals who are negative or a work
situation or home life that eats away at your steadfast belief in yourself,
then walk away. Stress comes from living a life that is incompatible with your
inner workings. Stress is bad for your health and painful, so remove from your
life those stressors that you can control and you will immediately feel your
confidence gaining ground. </div>
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Step three: Learn to be receptive to new experiences. Any
and all experiences are great confidence builders. Take friends up on offers to
go places you would never have thought of visiting in the past, or accept
invitations to see new or unusual surroundings. But you do not have to wait for
others to take you to places you have never been. Set out on your own to tackle
such exploits. Dine at a restaurant alone or go to a movie by yourself and see
how much more confident you feel after such a feat. Sometimes it is the simple
act of overcoming a place or situation that we fear that can be the most
rewarding. And it makes no difference if the experience is good or bad, they
can all help you to grow and build your confidence. Look at every experience as
a new adventure and revel in what you learn about yourself along the way. Do
not hesitate to accept every chance to expand your horizons. You never know
where each opportunity may take you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Step four: Be willing to reinvent yourself. We are dynamic
individuals whose bodies and minds change with the passing of time. No one
likes change, but you must accept the fact that nothing stays the same. Realize
that all you have is this moment, and once it is gone, it can never be
recaptured. Know you are not going to be the same person you were in your
twenties as you are in your thirties. How you see yourself will vary as you
live your life, encounter new experiences, and grow as a person. At this moment
you may be a hard-working career girl with no time for a social life. But in ten
years you may be a wife and mother, and your inner confidence will change as
your definition of who you are changes. Be mindful of those life events and be
willing to re-evaluate what makes you confident and beautiful at every stage of
your life. <br />
Step five: Be able to laugh at yourself. Laughter really can
heal, and wherever there is laughter, there is optimism. When you stand in
front of the mirror getting ready for that next big business meeting, date, or
social gathering, look at your reflection and laugh. There is nothing more
confident than to be able to laugh at yourself. Individuals who approach life
with a tongue-in-cheek attitude will eventually be the ones to whom everyone
migrates. So the next time you walk across a crowded room, remember laughing at
yourself in the mirror and let that sly smile settle across your lips. You will
notice then that people will be looking at you and wondering what makes you so
confident. Just keep them guessing and always remember you are alive, you are
here, and you are beautiful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRbxn3lwtQw4JP7F_daBGZqS7MV5-7Ysjbdhm_MImVEJ8LxngjJ21_2Fhp525yD9Gmuh11Bfg9tZN_K-rwwctgSLJPKSCeMKUMaTiqwZadYp8oCZQ1VaGT3TBmTcQiSaAEnbajT-EIUw/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRbxn3lwtQw4JP7F_daBGZqS7MV5-7Ysjbdhm_MImVEJ8LxngjJ21_2Fhp525yD9Gmuh11Bfg9tZN_K-rwwctgSLJPKSCeMKUMaTiqwZadYp8oCZQ1VaGT3TBmTcQiSaAEnbajT-EIUw/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-3342374842231346582013-07-19T09:08:00.001-07:002013-07-19T09:08:09.895-07:00
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<span style="font-size: large;">The View Over 40!</span></div>
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Being a reader, I discovered many of the books in the
romance market had characters under the age of thirty as the heroine. Being a
woman over 40, I wanted to write about a heroine going through the same inner
turmoil as someone from my generation. I believe the over 40 female reader is
woefully underrepresented in today's market. I set out to write a character
that many women could relate to, and to cover issues that are part of getting
older. I also wanted to tackle the foibles of marriage. A lot of books end at
the "happily ever after" part in a story, but fail to cover the
challenges of marriage through the years. In Diary of a One-Night Stand, we
find a woman, Kara Barton, in her forties, grappling with a stale marriage and
searching for more. Her decisions are not every woman's decisions, but I feel
many women can relate to the issues she tries to cope with. Kara embarks on an
affair with a business associate, and it turns into something much more than
she ever imagined. Her marriage falls apart, and she tries to make important
life choices for her and her ten-year-old daughter, Simone. I know many readers
take issue with the whole concept of infidelity, but it is a fact that such
shortcomings are common in the world. I did not want to glorify any extramarital
affair, but show how such an encounter could not only pull a marriage apart,
but also strengthen it. Diary of a One-Night Stand, I hope, gives a reader
pause and helps them to consider that the grass is not always greener on the
other side of marriage. Oh, and did I mention that it is also a pretty hot love
story. So, if you are looking for a steamy read with some valuable,
thought-provoking content, pick up Diary of a One-Night Stand, and see how
great life can be after 40!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7g9viYoQ4MfdipNPw0Ot0UgyWL0ZvHn_cOIu7vzue-J5GO0tGJNnyYEFXDjh_iPwTQf3y9ZjKyUm72uLD2cOByUUqK1Mma2WVmM5JXHLa7rlr3lGCdOoU8j_x3suMQIQ1X0ET51Yowrs/s1600/Diary%2520200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7g9viYoQ4MfdipNPw0Ot0UgyWL0ZvHn_cOIu7vzue-J5GO0tGJNnyYEFXDjh_iPwTQf3y9ZjKyUm72uLD2cOByUUqK1Mma2WVmM5JXHLa7rlr3lGCdOoU8j_x3suMQIQ1X0ET51Yowrs/s1600/Diary%2520200x300.jpg" /></a></div>
alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-80839726170632476992013-07-18T20:23:00.001-07:002013-07-18T20:23:52.860-07:00Out Now! A different kind of Paranormal Romance. <br />
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Gruesome murders shock New Orleans. But Jazzmyn Livaudais is too busy
running her restaurant to pay attention to the sensational headlines. And when
the charismatic Julian Devereau enters Jazzmyn’s life, she becomes even more
distracted by the handsome stranger. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Seduced by Julian’s charm, Jazzmyn
is swept up in a passionate romance. Then she learns the horrific truth about
Julian and the murders. Cursed to an unending life where no woman can satisfy
his lust and no wine can quench his thirst, Julian needs Jazzmyn’s love to free
him from his torment. <o:p></o:p></div>
But Jazzmyn is in love with someone
else. And Julian isn’t very happy about it. He vows to keep on killing until
Jazzmyn submits to his will. For Jazzmyn Livaudais the nightmare
is just beginning. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVO3h3kWiiHFEKwCLtf2VoR18IaVsJoYE3s8GKWqqC3zXj60PW56FOqb0M929CC8EhbeB3HHUAlP4oaUmWEVT3g-pGJSyH7VQsW_UcpWrs4SebdDsprW3NRz0_xCCDbW0L4c0j2PBdGl4/s1600/The%2520Satyrs%2520Curse1%2520200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVO3h3kWiiHFEKwCLtf2VoR18IaVsJoYE3s8GKWqqC3zXj60PW56FOqb0M929CC8EhbeB3HHUAlP4oaUmWEVT3g-pGJSyH7VQsW_UcpWrs4SebdDsprW3NRz0_xCCDbW0L4c0j2PBdGl4/s1600/The%2520Satyrs%2520Curse1%2520200x300.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>The
Satyr’s Curse</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-5334751840685917302013-07-17T19:35:00.001-07:002013-07-17T19:35:16.040-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3SCyn7mNMcHw-jJKjpjdm7vpWNP4DDeyczIS8IIz1793ufEvBZqGFZB5pe6J7yfvhrs7hHp0y6ZaYGiuaBfRGkiXMyXPKJogBNY8r8psZzPfNWyZB7UxI6b8iHuTgbs3nrSruXExc9N8/s1600/AcadianWaltz%2520200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3SCyn7mNMcHw-jJKjpjdm7vpWNP4DDeyczIS8IIz1793ufEvBZqGFZB5pe6J7yfvhrs7hHp0y6ZaYGiuaBfRGkiXMyXPKJogBNY8r8psZzPfNWyZB7UxI6b8iHuTgbs3nrSruXExc9N8/s1600/AcadianWaltz%2520200x300.jpg" /></a>Finalist in the 2013 Readers' Favorite Books Awards for Best Southern Fiction and Best Contemporary Romance!</div>
alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-7500350977554117212012-02-17T18:42:00.000-08:002012-02-17T18:42:31.828-08:00Excerpt Broken Wings<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b> </b><b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chapter 1</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drab gray clouds covered the expansive horizon, obliterating the warmth of the sun. Like the delicate flora of nature covered by endless miles of sidewalks in some sprawling super city, the heavens above were suppressed behind a wall of lifeless color. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela Wells stood in her back door and surveyed the sulking skies above. “It’s an early spring sky,” she mumbled.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spring; thoughts of the season brought to mind frolicking bunnies and brightly colored birds preparing nests for much anticipated hatchlings. Everywhere animals would be shaking off their thick winter coats and embracing the start of a new reproductive cycle. But for Pamela, the warming breezes of the change in seasons were not always a welcomed event. She sighed as she turned her eyes to the expanse of land around her and contemplated the work that lay ahead. With the coming spring, Pamela knew all of her aches would return from their winter respite. But her pains were not limited to the constant throbbing in the various joints of her body; dark days brought an ache to her heart, as well. It was on such a day that she had met Robert, Bob to his friends. The memory of Robert Patrick dressed in his expensive tailored suit and designer Italian custom made shoes made Pamela laugh. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had been lying in her hospital bed, days after a bad car accident, when Bob walked into her room. He was fresh out of law school and in desperate need of clients. After reading about her accident in the newspaper, Bob hunted Pamela down and signed her on as his first client. One year later, they married in a lavish ceremony inside St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela shook her head. “Eight years after that, Bob turned into an asshole,” she said as she gazed out at the barn behind her blue and white Acadian cottage. “Well, at least I got this place in the divorce,” she whispered.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meant as a get away from the urban overload of New Orleans, Bob bought the two-bedroom cottage on fifteen acres for Pamela as a wedding present. The wilds of St. Tammany Parish became her refuge when life as the wife of a prominent personal injury attorney had been too much for her. She moved into the cottage permanently almost six years ago when Bob unexpectedly announced that their marriage was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Out of nowhere, a wide raccoon with a slow, sauntering gait and a glint of childlike mischief in his masked eyes wandered up to Pamela. The raccoon stopped just below the three steps to Pamela’s back porch and stood on his hind haunches. He looked at her and warbled in the way a raccoon baby calls to his mother.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Good morning, Rodney,” Pamela said to the raccoon as she walked down the steps to greet the animal. “How are you today?” She bent over and rubbed behind the raccoon’s silver-tipped ears. Rodney fell on his back like a lump of whale blubber and proceeded to grab at the woman’s hands and direct them to the spots on his belly that needed immediate scratching.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela laughed and rubbed the animal’s wide stomach as Rodney wiggled with delight. The sudden screech of an owl from a nearby tree frightened the raccoon. He jumped to a standing position and eyed a tree close to the house, snorting loudly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela patted the raccoon on his round bottom. “Relax, Rodney. You know Lester won’t hurt you.” She spied the owl up in the tree next to her bedroom window. “Lester, did you have a good night?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The owl screeched again, opened his large brown and white checked wings and flapped vigorously upon his tree branch.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, I know you’re hungry, Lester,” Pamela said, nodding at the raptor. “But I have got baby squirrels to feed, and then there are cages to clean before you can have your ham and eggs.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sound of a car driving down the gravel road toward the cottage made Pamela divert her attention away from the impatient owl. She turned and faced the road, just as Rodney came up beside her and wrapped his child-like arms around her lower leg.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A blue open-top Jeep Wrangler with wide off-road tires appeared from out of the brush at the end of her drive. Pamela observed the car with a feeling of trepidation sweeping through her. Strangers coming down the gravel road to her sanctuary were either delivering orphaned or injured wildlife to her care, or coming to deliver food and supplies to her wildlife sanctuary. But no one was ever unexpected at her facility, and uninvited strangers were never welcome. A cacophony of barking broke out from the direction of the front porch steps. The assorted stray dogs Pamela had collected through the years ran to greet the car as it came to a quick stop in front of the cottage. She walked toward the front of her home and watched tentatively as the dogs surrounded the Jeep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A tall man with thick, dark brown hair and sunglasses stood up in the cab of the Jeep and peered down at her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hey there,” he said then glanced at a slip of paper in his hand. ”Is this Second Chance Wildlife Rehabilitation Center?” he asked in a deep voice.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes. Is there something I can do for you?” Pamela gave the man a curt nod of her head as the dogs around the car growled almost in unison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You want to call off the posse?” he said as he waved to the five dogs surrounding his Jeep. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela folded her arms over her chest. “First, tell me who you are, and what you’re doing out here?” she demanded as she tried to walk to the car, pulling Rodney along with her as he continued to cling to her leg.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stranger removed his sunglasses. “Your facility requested a service worker to come out and help clean cages, right?” He shrugged his wide shoulders at her. “I’m your service worker,” he declared.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The probation office sent you?” Pamela frowned. “But they called and told me you were supposed to come next Wednesday. Today’s Saturday.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s my day off and my probation officer said it would be all right.” He made a move to step down from the Jeep, but the snarl of a tall, black Catahoula mix stopped him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Quincy,” Pamela called out to the dog. “Go back to the porch.” She pointed to the porch at the front of the house. Quincy, along with the rest of his canine pack, obediently obliged and made their way slowly to the porch steps.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela waited for the dogs to settle down on the shady front porch before she looked back at her new service worker. “I’m Pamela Wells, the owner. Your probation officer told you what is expected around here? I don’t tolerate drinking, cursing or–”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Lewd or rude behavior,” the man said, interrupting her as he stepped down from the Jeep. “Yeah, I got the memo. Don’t worry, Ms. Wells, I will be like a choir boy in church while I am here.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What’s your name?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Daniel, Daniel Phillips.” He hung his sunglasses on the neck of his white T-shirt as he looked her up and down. “You don’t have a stable hand or someone to clean up around here?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela noticed that his round, dark brown eyes appeared almost black and had a seductive quality to them. She nervously cast her eyes to the ground. “I’d have to pay for help. This facility runs on a shoestring budget already. To hire someone would break me. Besides, there’s not much to it.” She noticed his expensive-looking leather boots. “You ever worked with wild animals before?” <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daniel laughed as he took a step closer to her. “Only the human kind. I deal with a lot of wild people at work.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela glanced up at the man before her. He was dressed in old faded blue jeans and stood a good bit taller than she. He had a slender build, muscular arms, a broad chest, and long legs. His face was rectangular with a wide forehead and chiseled jaw. He did not look any older than his early thirties. A scar under his left eye made him appear more sinister than innocent, making Pamela suspect that this was not the first time Daniel Phillips had found himself under the direction of the courts and a probation officer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She quickly checked her disconcerting thoughts. “Where do you work?” she asked, trying to sound more confident than she felt.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Pat O’Brien’s in the Quarter. I’m a bartender there.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re a bartender in the French Quarter?” Pamela asked, raising her brows at him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yeah, I’ve worked at a couple of places in the Quarter. The Voodoo Lounge on Decatur, Muriel’s on Jackson Square, and even did a few months at The Dungeon.” Daniel carefully examined the slender woman before him. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela found his dark eyes disturbing. She knew from experience that her slim figure and shoulder length dirty blond hair made her an easy target for a man’s overactive imagination. But it was the way Daniel looked at her that rattled her so. It was almost as if he were sizing up her potential as a meal rather than a quick roll in the sheets. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned his eyes away from her and browsed the facility surrounding them. About a hundred yards from the rear of the house was an old battered blue barn with a few other smaller out buildings to the right of it. Located close to the barn, at the edge of the cleared property, were several tall wood-trimmed cages. Each cage was covered with wire, had a tin roof, and a water faucet attached right outside of the entrance. Majestic oaks were scattered about the property as well as next to the blue and white house. An open shed to the left of the property had a tractor, a white Ford pick-up truck, and two ATVs inside of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You told my probation officer you needed someone to help out around here,” he said as his eyes continued to scan the property.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, with spring finally here we will be swamped with babies soon. I’ve already gotten quite a few baby squirrels. The cages you will be cleaning are where I wintered several different animals. They have all just recently been released.”<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What kind of animals do you usually get here?” Daniel kept his eyes on the trees along the edge of the clearing beside the house. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fox, rabbit, skunk, gray squirrel, fox squirrel, raccoon, opossum, bats, nutria, and an occasional river otter. But I have rehabbed chipmunks, beaver, a few owls, and once, a baby coyote.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What about deer?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“As a permitted wildlife rehabber, the Louisiana Wildlife and Fisheries does not want us working with deer. There has been an increase in a certain kind of wasting disease in the Louisiana deer population and most injured deer are put down, along with any fawns. Deer are also very hard to return to the wild once they have bonded with humans.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daniel turned back at her. “So is this all there is to the place?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why? What did you expect?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shrugged. “I don’t know, something like the Audubon Zoo maybe.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela focused her gray eyes on his. “This is not a zoo,” she responded, indignantly. “It’s a wildlife rehabilitation facility. We care for orphaned and injured wildlife and do not keep animals for display to an indifferent public. If more people knew about what we do here, they would, hopefully, be less willing to support zoos and more apt to make donations to a cause that puts animals back into their natural habitat.” She gave the man another going over with her eyes as he stepped closer to her side. “What were you convicted of? I often have volunteers on the site and I want to make sure–”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m not a serial rapist, Ms. Wells,” Daniel proclaimed in a perturbed tone of voice. “I hit a guy in the bar where I work for roughing up his date. He filed charges and I was busted for assault and battery. My sentence was one hundred hours of community service. Satisfied?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Did they throw in any anger management classes with that community service?” she quipped.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daniel smiled, cockily, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth. “No, the judge didn’t seem to think I needed any.” He stared into her face for a moment as if trying to figure her out. “So am I to call you Ms. Wells the entire time I’m here, or will Pamela be all right with you?” he questioned.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Pamela is fine. We don’t stand on formality around here.” A loud sniff came from around Pamela’s feet. She looked down at the ground to see Rodney standing behind her legs, staring at the stranger.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“One of the rehabilitated returned to the wild?” Daniel asked as he nodded to Rodney.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela leaned over and picked up the overweight ring-tailed creature from the ground. The animal cuddled against her chest and warily watched the man standing next to her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela shifted the heavy animal in her arms. “This is Rodney. He was rescued from a hawk when he was about two weeks old. He’s over a year now and I can’t get him to leave. He thinks he is one of the dogs.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daniel reached out to pet the raccoon, but the animal growled at him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“He doesn’t like strangers,” Pamela quickly added. “All of the animals in this facility are wild. Do not pet them or try to treat them like a cute and cuddly lap dog.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And are there any more like him?” he asked as he motioned to the raccoon nuzzling up against Pamela’s neck.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A few. You’ll meet them later. For now, I’ll show you to the cages that need cleaning.” She turned away and started toward the row of cages and sheds located a short distance from the back of the house.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daniel directed his attention to the blue and white wooden cottage on his right. The home appeared clean and well taken care of. But on closer inspection some shingles on the roof had cracked and were falling away, and the paint covering the wooden boards along the side of the house had begun to bubble up and peel off. The house looked older, like many scattered around the countryside of Louisiana. It was an Acadian cottage that had been built when horse farms and cattle ranches had filled most of St. Tammany Parish. But such communities had long since given way to manicured subdivisions and posh country clubs as hurricane weary New Orleanians had left the city and taken over the lands north of Lake Pontchartrain. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How many acres have you got here?” he asked, following her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fifteen. There are another fifty acres behind this property that belongs to one of my patrons. So the animals have a large refuge to roam far away from any humans.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daniel watched as the raccoon rested his head against the woman’s shoulder as she carried him. “Is there any money in this sort of thing?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela stopped walking and turned to him. “There is no money here if that is what you’re asking. Everything is for the animals,” she said, scowling at him. “So if you are thinking you can steal from me, borrow equipment, or make a tidy profit from your time here, think again,” she curtly added.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daniel raised his hands up in submission. “Hey, don’t get all bent out of shape, Pamela. I was just wondering why anyone would go to this much trouble for a bunch of stray squirrels.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pamela shook her head in disgust, leaned over, and rubbed her cheek against the raccoon’s fluffy face. “The cages are this way.”</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She quickly turned and started for the cages at the end of the clearing, leaving a wide-eyed Daniel to follow behind her.</span>alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-30836965377399028572012-01-19T06:04:00.000-08:002012-01-19T06:04:00.071-08:00Has Customer Service Become an Oxymoron?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Today I found myself in the post office waiting to send some books off to reviewers when one of the clerks behind the desk picked up the phone and started shouting, yes shouting, into the phone for a supervisor, This gentleman did not do this once, but three separate times. After his third attempt at trying to track down someone in charge, the man in line next to me turned and mumbled, “Some customer service, huh?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now this is the post office and most Americans joke about the less than stellar service offered by many government affiliated organizations. But it got me thinking. Has the common courtesy of giving a customer service gone the way of the dodo bird? More and more people are complaining about customer service. Most of the time it isn’t even human customer service but a highly irritating automated system that sends you through a long litany of questions and keys to hit, and even then you still don’t get the help you need. We all know how eager companies are to get our business, especially in these tough economic times, but why does the service disappear after the act of sale. And how many of us have suffered through more bouts of abysmal service, or no service at all, than have had a caring interaction with someone who has actually helped solve our problem. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> After hurricane Katrina many of us in the New Orleans area experienced a rare opportunity of unified outstanding customer service. Not from our insurance companies, don’t even get me started on that, but from electric companies, mortgage companies, water companies, and just about anyone that billed on a monthly basis for their services. I have never experienced such kindness and concern from so many customer service representatives as I did after that storm. But why does it take a natural disaster for us to get the courtesy we deserve? Shouldn’t good customer service be just as important to any company as providing a good product? Or do they just not care about their service or their customers. Is the apathy of the business world toward its customers a reflection of society’s apathy toward its citizens? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Perhaps we should all stop ranting about the poor quality of everyone else’s customer service and start looking at our own. How we treat other people is just as important as how companies treat us. And the companies that we buy from cannot change unless we change. Kindness starts from the inside out. One caring act will lead to another, and maybe one day, customer service will be a term that makes us smile, instead of cringe. And by the way, after all that shouting, the supervisor never did show up in that post office. I think next time I’ll use FedEx.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX8H7nA1mOqsfX5VNS-EHgC0ATKJcv8dJ516FAmhJprgkmGFQ6hO5pUpQlm6a1N7qXx7aiQAKterPzNYctf4aEnFOiTlKbd_tMK8fklwJHzWAf1B4prmHQGKNyGsLkfXZXa1lX9cbMYkw/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX8H7nA1mOqsfX5VNS-EHgC0ATKJcv8dJ516FAmhJprgkmGFQ6hO5pUpQlm6a1N7qXx7aiQAKterPzNYctf4aEnFOiTlKbd_tMK8fklwJHzWAf1B4prmHQGKNyGsLkfXZXa1lX9cbMYkw/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center"></div>alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-25519826922888916962012-01-18T06:24:00.000-08:002012-01-18T06:24:53.296-08:00Editing Hell and Vodka<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> Recently I have been in editing hell for my next novel, Broken Wings. And after several sleepless nights, more trips to the online grammar boards than I care to remember, and a bottle of vodka, my manuscript is ready to be sent to the publisher to make its way out into the world. I only have one question. WHO IS THE IDIOT THAT CREATED ALL OF THESE STUPID RULES FOR WORDS?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> I mean come on, does it matter if your character goes out the door or out of the door, that you put a space before and after an ellipse, and that you place a hyphen in air-conditioning, but not air conditioner. What ever happened to creative freedom because it sure in hell is not alive and well in the literary world. You can write a story about a rabid squirrel that takes out half of Cincinnati, but God forbid you have him chew the head off of someone instead of off someone. No one taught me any of these rules in high school. Let’s face it, do any of us even remember what we learned in high school, inside of the classroom that is. And when you find a rule, there are about thirty different opinions from grammar experts on whether or not you are even to follow that rule. But the time I get off the Internet, and not off of the Internet, my head is swimming, hence the bottle of vodka. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNiLTcMDMuKTMrRDHSvO6gk26682HDRc5ynn_a0_-PBYU0TbkL3rz6SEaqEg_lwr1KQrR3Oh7UQ_xJPkFzp3L_86mrzepwy0p2hd0GBMItMucBsqi8VCJYXeLOLGdn5f-OO9MCWLQv9Eg/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNiLTcMDMuKTMrRDHSvO6gk26682HDRc5ynn_a0_-PBYU0TbkL3rz6SEaqEg_lwr1KQrR3Oh7UQ_xJPkFzp3L_86mrzepwy0p2hd0GBMItMucBsqi8VCJYXeLOLGdn5f-OO9MCWLQv9Eg/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> Do all of these rules really matter to the reader? If a story is good, really good, can a few slips of the keyboard be overlooked? Not according to many reviewers. Editing mistakes are for some reviewers the bane of their existence. But is there really a perfect manuscript out there? Maybe in another dimension, but definitely not in this one. I found references to Chaucer not correctly placing commas in his stories. If we have to go that far back into literature and attack someone we all grew up reading in high school, even if we don’t remember it, what does that say about the chance any author today has of getting the rules right. And what manual are you supposed to follow to get the rules right. I was taught the <i>Chicago Manual of Style</i> was the be all and end all for fiction writing, but not everyone agrees on that. There is no definitive reference guide used today and many editors vary in the references they do use. So who is right? Who is the ultimate judge of what is correct? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> I guess like most things in this business it is up to the reader to decide. And in the end I think the reader will choose a story that moves them. I never believed before this point in my life that a choice of career could lead to a psychological disorder, but after picking up the pen I find myself now suffering from an acute case of anal-retentive syndrome. And yes, you do spell it with a hyphen. That way you know you are anal-retentive. Because if you weren’t you wouldn’t care about the damned hyphen anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-13291138499650286842012-01-14T06:05:00.000-08:002012-01-14T06:05:06.926-08:00Today's Guest Rant is by author Victoria Watson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf5bnbiKfbP1Cbixy4Oknf5nc2xz8DpJI_-VmVdThkyWdBN22JJyxhClOulb85VxtpS7dpqMPll4xYXldJ5AGZhWHNCYDf2JCcmqhmuxhov5BF_N5DgCHsYMAP0BxXTZ5_0Fh2OSwHW80/s1600/vic+june.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf5bnbiKfbP1Cbixy4Oknf5nc2xz8DpJI_-VmVdThkyWdBN22JJyxhClOulb85VxtpS7dpqMPll4xYXldJ5AGZhWHNCYDf2JCcmqhmuxhov5BF_N5DgCHsYMAP0BxXTZ5_0Fh2OSwHW80/s320/vic+june.jpg" width="255px" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial;">I don’t know about you but I always thought that if someone was good enough to pay you to do a job, you’d better at least <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">try </i>to do your best. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial;">I never understand people who enter into occupations in which they have to deal with the public who then make no effort whatsoever to give the customer – i.e. the person who effectively pays their wages – a good experience. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial;">I don’t just mean people who work in restaurants and shops but also people like receptionists, librarians and doctors (among many others). If you don’t want to serve the public, don’t work in customer service!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial;">I am sick of going to a shop, a bank or a hospital where people obviously hate their jobs and, by proxy, hate you. I understand that people feel they are under-paid and over-worked, particularly with so many companies cutting back due to the recession but let’s look at the flip side: would these people prefer to be laid off? At least they have jobs! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial;">When I was sixteen, I took on a weekend job in a shop. The boss I had there was firm but fair. She told us what she expected of us and we gave, in my opinion, great customer service. Some days we’d be rushed off our feet but I believe everyone who came to the shop, went away with a positive opinion of our company. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial;">We were told to answer the telephone as quickly as possible, we were also to approach as many customers as possible just to let them know we were there if they needed any help. If there was a queue at the till, we had to stop what we were doing and serve the customers. Likewise, if we didn’t have the stock the customer wanted, we were expected to ring other branches, check the warehouse and do as much as we could to leave the customer satisfied. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial;">However, what the great training I went through did was make me aware of how utterly terrible other people can be. My motto is “treat others how you wish to be treated” and therefore, whenever I deal with people, I try to empathise with them and put myself in their shoes. Why don’t other people? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial;">I was in a shop today where every member of staff I encountered seemed bored or actively angry. I was coughed over (by a member of staff), ignored, had a changing room shut in front of me when I quite obviously wanted to use it, was shouted at and ended up queuing (and almost fainted) in a ten-minute queue while a girl filled shelves nearby. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial;">What upsets me about our National Health Service is the service (or lack thereof) that I come up against whenever I have to use them. I was taken to A&E a year ago with terrible pain which turned out to be kidney stones. I sat in that waiting room for ten hours before being seen. I understand there may have been people who had worse issues than me but what I didn’t appreciate was the fact that nurses kept walking through the waiting room and refusing to make eye contact with anyone. When my mum lodged a complaint at 3am in the morning, a staff nurse sat with us and complained to us about the governmental cuts being imposed on the National Health Service and how much pressure it left them under. She told us that the walk through the waiting room was jokingly referred to as “The walk of shame”. This angered me: if it took an emergency call handler took a long time to answer the phone and then complained to the caller about cuts being imposed by the government, they’d be disciplined! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial;">I’ve dealt with several medical receptionists and secretaries in the past few months and, bar one very helpful lady, I have encountered nothing but ignorance and rudeness. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial;">We’re all suffering due to this recession; we’re all doing the work of several people and feeling the strain but this isn’t an excuse for antipathy. If you do the best you can, there’s no more than you can do but if you don’t put the full effort in simply because you can’t be bothered, you shouldn’t be in the job. </span></div>alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-4242224528186309182012-01-13T05:36:00.000-08:002012-01-13T05:36:28.756-08:00Is conversation becoming extinct?<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> I was in Wal Mart the other day when I saw a young boy furiously texting away with his thumbs. I remember thinking at the time that wasn’t exactly what God had in mind when he created such an opposable digit. A few moments later, I noticed another boy walked up to this young man, also texting on his cell phone and asked, “You get my text?” The young man nodded without looking up from his phone and said, “Yeah, I’m texting you back.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> Now someone please explain to me the purpose of that conversation. And why in the hell couldn’t these two boys just speak face-to-face to each other. Has the art of conversation been reduced to the incomprehensible shorthand one finds in a text? Are we so afraid to look another person in the eye that we have to hide behind technology in order to find our voice? The greatest leaders the world has ever known were masters of public speaking, but I’m sure if they had been given cell phones as a teenager they would never have left the safety of their living rooms. I have neighbors who live within fifty feet of each other’s front door and choose to Skype each other rather than stick their heads out of their windows and have a non-technologically based interaction. And when they do “talk” to each other, the conversation doesn’t follow the long observed norms of the weather, the family, or the dog’s recent confrontation with an enraged squirrel. No, they want to compare the newest apps for their smart phones, or debate the necessity of living in a tent for two weeks outside the local Apple store in order to be able to claim the title of “first phone sold.” </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiac5_qhLM7VZFkFzrdCQx-E4hh49m3EWs6Q7OxZanMt5wVb-5OnpnDiK0tXAHs2aSueVeYe0-ra7e6z8FSaTygsfj0WidQd2WvrquhR-QjfREa5KJL2ca0DQ4ZL3quZYgnHk6px1LcKto/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiac5_qhLM7VZFkFzrdCQx-E4hh49m3EWs6Q7OxZanMt5wVb-5OnpnDiK0tXAHs2aSueVeYe0-ra7e6z8FSaTygsfj0WidQd2WvrquhR-QjfREa5KJL2ca0DQ4ZL3quZYgnHk6px1LcKto/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> Do we really need all of this technology and is it taking away from the fundamentals of being human? Teenagers are closer to the phones than their parents. Grown human beings spend more time locked away in their bedrooms surfing the net than interacting with their families. Everyday we are inundated with emails, texts, tweets, Google alerts, instant messages, cell phone calls, and video conferencing. How much more can our brains take before we turn into the technology we have placed above our family pet? I don’t think a man walking with an antenna out of his ear that connects to WiFi and has a hard drive capable of downloading Cleveland is what Darwin had in mind for us. </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> When will we learn to put our humanity first and technology second, because we are not the emotionally bereft computers we so solemnly worship. Our emotions, our words, our interactions with others are what makes us unique as a species, and if we continue down this road we will be no more emotionally advanced than the rocks on the side of that road. So take that cell phone out of your ear, disconnect from the Internet, and grab your loved ones. Pretend you are a family unit, and do something that families have done together for decades before the invasion of all our technology. Go watch television.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-28224583992509370642012-01-12T05:58:00.000-08:002012-01-12T06:00:23.217-08:00Green-Eyed Monsters Need Not Apply<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate to admit it, but I have had bouts of jealousy. Hell, I am having one right now as I eye my neighbor’s perfectly manicured garden and want to rip out his brilliant assortment of rose bushes. But then in mid thought, as I have a picture in my mind of those rose bushes in my garden, I wonder why I am feeling this way. I don’t even like gardens and, having been born with the black thumb of death, anything I do bury in the dirt resembles more of a zombie plant rather than something remotely green and healthy. So why do I envy someone their success with roses? Then again, why do we envy anyone his or her success? Is it because it is in our nature to want to steal away the success of others and make it our own? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The American Indians call raccoons the thieves of the animal world because they habitually seek to take anything they can find and claim it as their property. Now we are not raccoons, at least not all of us, but is their something deep inside of us at a genetic level that drives us to covet our neighbors belongings. Is it part of an undiscovered survival mechanism that psychologists have yet to identify with some abbreviation like ADHD? Perhaps envious as *&$# syndrome, or EASS. One more disorder that takes a lot of therapy, and a healthy dose of prescription medication, to discreetly control. And what about those Christian values we have all been raised on. I’ve seen people sitting in church turn pee green with envy when they spy a beautiful couple with their perfect angelic looking children, expensively tailored clothes, and glittering jewelry, walking to their private pew. We assume they must happy, right? They are better looking, richer, and have more than any of us. But is that necessarily true. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reality television must have taught us that even the Kardashians can have a bad hair day. So why since Cain first took a swing at Abel, have we been coveting our neighbor’s happiness? Have we not learned anything since we first had to cover our nakedness in the Garden of Eden? Granted, some individuals have mastered the ability to forgive and forget. Perhaps it’s their belief in a karmic retribution, rather than a Christian ideal, that motivates their exemplary attitude. I have witnessed the power of this universal truth. What you send out into the universe will eventually come back to bite you in the ass. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I stare at Mr. Green Thumb’s roses, I vow to try and temper my envy, and instead appreciate the fact that someone has achieved something that has made the world a better place to live. What you do for yourself, you do for all of us, because we are all connected. In a way, Mr. Green Thumb’s success is mine too. I should celebrate his efforts, and not negate them. But damn, I think as I stare at his bright crimson blooms, those roses would look much better in my garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqhTvWhk4QN9llhp14hDxyqnVfiFr_iVeu30p30HD4QpxQ7TduSWEXY8MUvgrj3H0xsSaB6KUIPApgqIm4V-mecCVGEhyphenhyphenFtY4Y1S0A2caxzR9_GhX7omFoR9B6Ve3DkJ9Q44S2xWCQnM/s1600/valentinesdayredrose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240px" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqhTvWhk4QN9llhp14hDxyqnVfiFr_iVeu30p30HD4QpxQ7TduSWEXY8MUvgrj3H0xsSaB6KUIPApgqIm4V-mecCVGEhyphenhyphenFtY4Y1S0A2caxzR9_GhX7omFoR9B6Ve3DkJ9Q44S2xWCQnM/s320/valentinesdayredrose.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-38867774201804856842012-01-11T05:36:00.000-08:002012-01-11T05:52:28.249-08:00The comma: Are you kidding me?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I would love to get my hands on the sadistic grammarphile who first developed the comma. A piece of punctuation that resembles a sperm with scoliosis, the comma has more rules than the TSA, and is about as infuriating as going through one of their airport screenings. Why is the comma such a mystery? I have seen editors come to blows about how to use the infernal thing in a sentence. And if the comma is to suggest a pause, then why do we even put such markers in our reading. Who wants to pause? We are all in such a rush these days, so let’s just hit the gas, get through the damn sentence, and on to the next one. We don’t have commas on our roads, no matter how many people try to turn stop signs into pause signs, then why do we have them in literature. I mean they’re just words, right? Open to the subjective interpretation of the reader, and bound to garner praise as well as ridicule. Shouldn’t the placement of the comma be up to the discretion of the writer? I put a comma here, because I damn well feel like it. If congress can waste the country’s time and money debating on the whether or not redwood trees in California should be given legal citizenship, then why can’t writer’s be free to write without all of those commas getting in the way. Why is so much of what a writer does governed by rules? Then again, why is so much of life overseen by rules? Everywhere we turn these days there are more and more rules being touted by institutions, governments, businesses, and mothers. And who writes these rules? Who is the person that gets to say when you are old enough to drive, to marry, to have sex, to go to war, to drink, and to do just about anything that involves the use of your brain. Not all rules are meant to arbitrarily blanket a society filled with such a diverse array of peoples and cultures. We have built a world so constricted by the regulations of others, that we have forgotten how to please the individual inside of us. And to ignore who we are will invariably lead to the destruction of what we are. Society must learn to embrace the individual before it creates more rules that will eventually stifle every unique voice. I guess in many ways people are a lot like commas. Every now and then we should pause and appreciate all of the individuals that have enriched our lives up until that moment, before we move on to the next. A shame life doesn’t imitate literature sometimes. Imagine all of the wonderful characters we could have taken the time to cherish if only a comma had been there to remind us. Now don’t even get me started on the semi colon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5423486254804748868.post-79387030315740146632012-01-10T05:41:00.001-08:002012-01-10T09:35:26.771-08:00Facebook: The new cocaine?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I find myself compulsively checking Facebook several times throughout the day. Well, that isn’t right, maybe several dozen times throughout the day. But the one question I have is why? Why do those of use who continually send friend request and check the “likes” and “comments” on our pages feel compelled to do so. And please explain to me the reason why we have to share the intimacies of our lunches, bowel movements, pets, private parts, children’s homework, or crazy Aunt Nora’s hip replacement with complete strangers. Has Facebook become the replacement for that popular social drug of the eighties, cocaine? Are we getting high on “liking” pages that we never plan to visit again, or wishing people we don’t know happy birthday because we want to make sure they will reciprocate when our special day rolls around. What about the medical implications of Facebook? Are we developing some latent form of ADD by watching what rolls on that infernal ticker at the right hand side of the page. Are we becoming a society of self-imposed, solitary, cyber space sycophants by begging total strangers to be our friends? And how man friends does one need on Facebook anyway? Even Facebook cuts you off at five thousand. But what in the hell are you going to do with five thousand friends? Invade Rhode Island? And why would you want to be friends with that weird guy who is always posting naked pictures of himself with his cats? Don’t we have enough to do with emails, Tweeting, Googling, Skyping, texting, surfing the web, checking apps on our smart phones, and in general sparing ourselves the agony of having a face-to-face conversation with another human being, without adding the addictive nature of Facebook to the mix. And what raving idiot decided to add games to this technological revolution. What possible satisfaction can come from waiting for your dinners to cook in Café World, while you off a rival in Mafia Wars, and then have to check your crops in FarmVille? How many people on Facebook have even seen a barn, let alone know how to build one, and why are you continually asking me to send you equipment I don’t have. Facebook has for many people replaced the necessity of having relationships. If your computer had an orifice, trust me, some moron would figure out how to take cyber satisfaction to a whole new level. And Facebook would probably want you to join a safe sex group page to make sure you don’t spread any viruses. Where will this all end, and how much further can Facebook intrude into our lives? So go ahead and ponder the possibilities and fear for our future sanity. In the meantime, I’m going to check on my cupcakes in Baking World. I’ve got to get them out of the oven before they burn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>alexandreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16741512902210718066noreply@blogger.com3