Ginger Simpson's Blog, page 65

Happy Birthday to Brett Next Jones

Today, my baby turns 40!  How can that be?  I'm only a few years older which is surprising because he's made more than a few hairs turn gray.   In fact, I've had my own personal expressway to the emergency room with him.  :)

Being mother to this child has been a wild ride.  First, he turned sideways, stuck out his hand, and I had to have a c-section.  I've seen that upturned palm most of his life, trust me.

He should be in Ripley's Believe it or Not for being the only person through whom you can see words pass through one ear and out the other.  This has been the path of most of our discussions.

He was a wonderful surprise, though, seeing as the doctors told us we would probably be the parents of only one child.  He and his brother are 8 years apart, so having Brett was like giving birth to a first child all over again.  I'd given away all my baby stuff, lost all the know-how I ever had, and despite having a normal delivery the first time of a baby weighing almost ten pounds, this one decided to make a grander entrance.

Why does he use "Next" in his name?  That was his father's attempt at humor for a name.  He always told me that if we used that moniker, and a salesperson said, "who's next?"  our son could step up and admit he was.  Of course, I didn't entertain the suggestion, but my son has added Next to his FB name in memory of his dad...but back to Brett.

How many of you have a child hit in the mouth with a horseshoe magnet?  Aren't those supposed to be good luck?  He "accidently" fell on a lincoln log and destroyed his throat...of course his brother's foot had nothing to do with why Brett tripped.  Has your son ever stapled his boot to his leg...entertained you while driving a truck of dead horses around with one teetering on the back?  (He worked at a rendering plant...he really doesn't slaughter horses.)  Did your son use your credit card to buy his friends gasoline?  Did your child cover a hole in the wall with a sexy poster that breathed when the wind blew?  Did he swear to the police he didn't own a BB gun then fail to explain why his bedroom screen was peppered with holes? Of course not.  I have the original and one and only.

 I could continue with the saga of his life, but this post would then become a book, so I'll stop here and simply add, I wouldn't change one thing about him...except maybe his stubborness, and I thank God every day for giving me Brett.

Happy Birthday wonder boy!

Believe it or Not! - Ginger Simpson

Ever have a question that you can't answer?  I do, and I'm hoping I get some answers today.

Why is it that those of us who write fiction held to believable standards when most television programs aren't?

I site a soap opera I've watched for years, General Hospital.  Examples:  Several of the main characters are in prison, and after being a correctional officer for a period of time, I'm amazed how they wander from cell to cell with nary a guard in sight.  Even more brazen, they seem to have smuggled in cell phones which no one seems to notice, though they make personal phone calls in the rec. yard and in their cells.  Where are the security cameras?  *lol*

Even more amazing, people seem to be held prisoner or get locked in basements, etc, yet never seem to have to use the bathroom.  For someone who can't venture far from mine these days, makes me wonder how they develop such bladder and bowel restraint.  *lol*

My dilemma doesn't just apply to my favorite soap...it's a fact in many tv programs.  If you're looking for believability, you aren't likely to find a lot of it.  Why then, do those who write contemporary fiction get held to higher standards and are more likely to get bad reviews than bad TV programming?

What ridculous things have you noticed on TV recently?

Writing is a Learning Journey - Ginger Simpson

I started my writing journey in 2002 and my first novel was published in 2003.  I thought it was awesome, but several years later, after many editing sessions and learning through critique groups and on-line classes, I shuddered when I read the finished product and realized the amateur mistakes I'd made.  Luckily, when my contract expired, I took my rights back and reworked the book, improving it.  Is it perfect?  No.  I still find things I wish I would have known and changed, but every book I write is better than its predecessor.

I highly recommend critique groups to help you hone your work and reviewing the writing of others has helped me immensely.  No, I'm not a know-it-all, but I sure recognize problem areas in books, and often wonder why their editors didn't suggest changes.  One I'm reading right now has me scratching my head over that very thing.  The story is very interesting and the author writes with great descriptions, but because I read with an editorial eye, I can't get past what I consider problem areas.

Several would disagree with me, but one publisher limits the amount of "internal" thoughts an author can use, and I understand why.  My first manuscript was fraught with them, but when i re-read the book, I realized switching from third to first person on a regular basis pulls the reader out of the story.  My preference is to have the internal thoughts posed as questions for the reader to ponder.  See which you prefer:

 I thought he was going to kiss me.  He's good with the girls, and I think he likes me, but he does seem worried about something.

 Her heart raced with hope he'd kiss he but he didn't. She earned only a brief hug on his way out the door.  He'd been so good with the girls and acted as though he truly liked her, but he seemed preoccupied. Should she worry?

IMHO, the flow is much smoother.

A second pet peeve for me is using unnecessary adverbs.  Why not just use stronger verbs?  For example: She ate her pancakes hungrily.  How about she devoured her pancakes?  Or...The dog barked viciously.  I'd prefer to have you show me the vicious dog.  The dog bared his teeth and growled deep in his throat.  The fur on his back stood on end.  Better?

My most recent lesson learned deals with eliminating needless verbiage and insulting the reader's intelligence. *smile*  If we, as authors, do our job, we put the reader into the character's POV, therefore it's unnecessary to continually indicate who watched, felt, sensed, saw, etc.  Example:  She watched him pour a drink.   If we've been in her POV, then it stands to reason she's watching what he does, so he can just pour a drink.  He meandered to the bar and poured himself a drink.  Another example:  She felt the cold air on her bare arms.  How about showing the reader?  Goosebumps peppered her bare arms.  She embraced herself against the cold air.

There's a rule in writing called RUE=resist the urge to explain.  Readers are intelligent and little things like "to him, at her, for him" are easily figured out. Example:  He read the article aloud to her.  If they are the only two in the room and he's reading aloud, then I think you get my drift.  Seems petty, but these are the things that jump out at me.

 I learned to eliminate"that" from many sentences because it's unneeded.  He knew that she would feel insulted.  He knew she would feel insulted, or even better, if at all possible, eliminate the "he knew."  Of course, she'd feel insulted if he...  Put the reader into the story and let him/her figure it out.  It shouldn't be difficult.

Word echoes show laziness.  Instead of using the same word over and over, consult your thesaurus and find something different.  No one likes redundancy.  Of course sometimes, using the same word over again is used for dramatic effect, and that's perfectly okay.

I've listed a few problem areas here.  Feel free to list your pet peeves in the comment area.  This is all about learning, and good authors never stop.  Teach me something new so I can pull out the rest of my hair.  :)

Friday Freebits with Ginger Simpson #frifreebits

This week from Culture Shock:

Note:  Cynthia has gotten up the nerve to invite her handsome neighbor for dinner.  Now, the old tenament in which they live is interferring with their getting to know one another.  Of course, there is still danger lurking around...


"Whoa, what happened?" Alex asked. Cynthia wanted to swear but restrained herself. "It's that darn breaker. The old fuse boxes were replaced, but nothing has been done about the ancient wiring. The breaker switch trips every time I plug in one extra thing. I have no idea how this building passed the code restrictions. Sometimes I actually see sparks fly when I vacuum." His melodious laughter filled the darkened room. "Maybe you should slow down." She poked him in the arm. "Very funny. I'm talking danger here, and you're making jokes." Despite the man-eating couch and the faulty wiring, the evening was still going far better than she'd hoped. She felt like she'd known Alex for ages. "Do you know where the breaker box is?" he asked. "Probably in the same place as the one in your apartment." "Duh! Guess I should have figured that out. Do you have a flashlight?" "In the kitchen drawer. I always keep fresh batteries there. It only took three or four times for me to learn they're a necessity at The Cairns." She felt around for the coffee table and set her cup down. Rising, she groped her way into the kitchen to find the flashlight. She fumbled in the drawer where she remembered last putting it, and finally, her fingers closed around its familiar long handle. The on switch wouldn't budge, but maybe Alex’s strong fingers could make the darn thing work. She turned and started back to the couch and ran smack into him. The flashlight fell to the floor with a thud. "Yikes," she yelled. "I thought you were still over there." "I guess I should have stayed." He chuckled. She dropped to her knees and began feeling around in the darkness. "Ouch!" Her head collided with his. "What are you doing down here?" "Just trying to be helpful." His warm breath fanned across her face as she rubbed the point of impact on her forehead. "Thanks, I guess." "Eureka, I found it," Alex yelled. "Great! Now, if we can make it to the fuse box without any further incidents, that would be nice." She hoped her voice carried her smile through the darkness.  While Cynthia held the light, Alex fumbled with the breakers inside the musty closet. Finally, after flipping each of them to find the thrown one, the electricity surged to life. Alex raised his arms toward heaven. "And the Lord said, 'Let there be light'." "Thanks. You're pretty handy to have around. I’ve done it myself before, but I'm glad you were here." "Maybe you should apply for the apartment superintendent's position. God knows we need a good replacement." She picked a safe topic but her mind fantasized about another scenario. Maybe staying in the dark would have been more satisfying. Would it be so wrong if they shared a kiss so soon? She snapped back to reality, hearing her mother’s voice caution Cynthia about being a brazen woman. A first date is way too early for romance. Alex held up a hand in protest to her suggestion. "Nooo! Not me. This building could become a lifetime commitment, and I'm not planning on staying here until I die." He returned to the couch, sat and downed the last of his coffee. Hiding her disappointment, Cynthia put away the flashlight. "Would you like another cup? I'm sure what you just drank was disgustingly cold." "No thanks. I'm fine." She joined him on the couch. Tucking one leg beneath her, she leaned closer. "Talking about the super and his job…do you find him as non-responsive as I do?" Alex nodded. "I think he's a lazy, no-good shirker. It's easier to fix things myself then have to keep calling him. He's no better than the one who used to work here."
"Oh, I didn't know the other one, but this guy has only been in my apartment once since I moved here, and that's enough for me. He gives me the creeps. He has those beady little eyes and looks like he hasn't bathed in weeks. I just keep my fingers crossed that nothing else breaks." She eyed her door.  “Of course, I’m still waiting for him to come fix my deadbolt.”

Available on Amazon

Let's Chat About Odessa...and Not the City - by Ginger Simpson

Recognize the picture?  It's on my website.  Love the cover done by Dawne Dominique.  Notice the shadow of the name?  Who is your favorite cover artist.  I have a couple.


Publisher: Eternal Press
Format’s available: eBook: YesTrade paperback: Yes Character’s name: Odessa Clay
Brief summary of story and character’s role in it.
It’s 1886.  The wagon carrying Odessa Clay and her father overturns, killing him.  Alone and frightened, somewhere in the desert, she faces finding her way to Phoenix and Aunt Susan.  Her food and water run out, and Odessa is near death when Zach Johnson finds her. On his way to becoming a reluctant outlaw, he can’t leave such a young beauty to die.  She awakens in his arms, thinking she’s already died and gone to heaven, and for him, now not only his father’s land is at stake—he faces losing his heart, too.


Tell us a bit about yourself.  Well, I suppose you could consider me an orphan, since my Ma died some time ago, and my father recently passed in the wagon accident that started my story.  Pa wanted to move me to Phoenix so I could be around a better class of people, and after a whole lotta trials and tribulations, I finally made his dream come true.

How did you get yourself into this predicament?  Like I said, Pa wanted to move us to Phoenix to be closer to his sister, my aunt, Susan.  Ever since Ma died, I really haven't had a woman's influence in my life, and I reckon he thought I'd have a better chance at being courted by a good man.
How do you feel about Zach Johnson?  Oh, Lordy.  The man is truly handsome and he makes my stomach feel kinda funny, but he's so bossy.  I keep haven' to remind him he ain't my Pa.
When did things start to go wrong?  I suppose you mean about the trip?  Well, things were going fine.  It was hotter than Hades out there in the desert, and if it had been a tad cooler, perhaps Pa wouldn't have cracked the reins to get the horses moving enough to stir a breeze.  If the wagon wheel…*pauses and wipes her eyes*…the wagon wheel hadn't struck a rut in the trail and caused the wagon to turn over, Pa never would have gotten pinned.  *She stares into her lap.*

Have the events of the story made you a stronger person?  You bet.  I never expected to be left alone in the middle of the desert.  I had two choices: Die with Pa or try to find my way to Phoenix.  I figured I'd just follow the trail, but I didn't get very far.  Thank the Lord, Zach came along when he did.
What have you learned?  I've learned I can survive just about anything.  I went from being lost in the desert to watching a man die right before my eyes in a saloon.  Then I got kidnapped, saved by a couple traveling to Phoenix in a wagon, and I found my Aunt Susan.  I'd say that was a pretty decent lesson.  Wouldn't you?
Where do you see yourself in the future?  I'm pretty sure Zach and I have a future together.  You know, when he found me, he was on his way to join a pretty famous outlaw's gang in order to get enough money from robbing a stage coach to save his Pa's ranch.  He took the time to get me to safety, and you'll find out when you read my story, neither of us are very good at listening to advice.  He's about as bullheaded as they come, and I can be pretty darn stubborn, too.
What can you tell us about Ginger?  I'm certainly glad I had her head to pop into.  She doesn't outline, but follows what a character tells her.  I believe it's being called a "pantser."  She's a good author, and her books are available in a lot of places.  I heard recently that Sarah's Heart and Passion and First Degree Innocence are for sale in brick and mortar stores.  Not sure the locations but I do know she has a page at Amazon where everything is featured...all in download, most in trade paperback.  Check her out.  I know she'll appreciate it.

A Page Straight From Jack Rollins #apagestraightfrom

By Jack Rollins A Gothic Tale of Horror and Misfortune De Kroll led us into a small dark room which became darker still once the door closed. There were no internal windows to lend any illumination at all. At once we took our seats and he took payment from us. The room was occupied by a small, circular table, with six chairs arranged around it, and a large black cabinet or frame with black cloth draped over it. The structure was about the size of a large wardrobe, where perhaps four adults could comfortably sit or stand within it, with little trouble. I had heard of spirit cabinets before was not surprised to see that De Kroll had one as part of his demonstration.            Half of the candles in the room were extinguished one by one at the merest wave of the Viscount’s hand. I remember that this caused Douglas to shiver, and Sally to giggle. They sat next to each other, of course. I recall distinctly that they held hands for the briefest of moments, fingers squeezed together in nervous anticipation of what would transpire.            De Kroll took his seat at the table and bade us all place our hands upon the surface. At De Kroll’s instructions, we each arranged our hands flat on the table, fingers outstretched with our thumbs overlapped to form a cross. Our hands became a chain, our little fingers reaching out to each other, connected.            De Kroll’s voice took on a deep, sinister tone, eliciting anxious chuckles from us all. His eyes, though deeply shaded, caused us to fall silent as he cast a disapproving look around the circle.            “Ancient spirits, I summon forth my guide,” De Kroll growled. “My loyal and trusted guide Jacintha… Jacintha, do you hear my appeal? It is I, Viscount Alexander De Kroll, who must awaken you from your slumber to assist me once more…”            The room was completely silent.            “Jacintha, do not abandon me. I am unworthy of your assistance and will seek to find you on the other side when it is my time. Then, my love, we shall be reunited. But until then, my dear, sweet Jacintha, allow me to pass the esoteric secrets of the other world to these non-believers, that your spirit might be energised by the power of their newfound belief…”            Two of the candle flames wavered in some inexplicable breeze. I gasped, which in turn caused Daniel and Eliza to jump with fright. An electrical current of fear seemed to jolt through our gathering when all of a sudden, a loud rapping, once, twice, came first on the wall behind me, then on the opposite wall.            I glanced around, but in the dim candlelight I saw nothing.
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Buy Link:
http://www.amazon.com/The-Seance-Gothic-Horror-Misfortune/dp/0993062008

Ginger's Taking a Stroll from 2008

One of my favorite things is tripping down Memory Lane. My sis and I do a lot of that lately, and today we were laughing about the worst jobs we ever held. I had to share my memory with you.

After moving to Northern California and relocating to Dixon, there was a time during my first marriage that I actually stayed home and was wife and mother. A couple of friends and I became bored and decided that a "seasonal" job that led to unemployment befits the remainder of the year wouldn't be such a bad gig. So...we trouped down to the tomato processing plant and applied. Surprise, we all got hired.

The first thing employees did when they entered, which should have been a negative sign, was don a yellow plastic outfit, a hairnet, rubber boots and headphones. If you're into beauty...this isn't the look you'd want.

I was assigned to the highest rung of the 'catwalk', the unloading table. This was the first stop for the tomatoes coming directly from the field by truck. My mission, should I choose to accept it, was stripping the tomatoes from any vines still attached, weeding out any rubble...which I soon found included snakes, dead rabbits, and other assorted pests. I didn't last long at the task because my screams kept interrupting the flow and I couldn't master the wrist fling that freed the fruit. Instead, I continually pelted those around me with maters. I got moved when, suffering from human contact and humor, I started displaying obscene tomatoes to my neighboring workers.

From there I went to the sorting table, two rungs down. This table held only the roundest, plumpest tomatoes, headed for the steamer. My job was to make sure there were no rotten spots, stems, or other problems. I would have probably been awesome at the task had I not immediately been hit with motion sickness. I felt as though I was moving and the table stood still. My pasty pallor and drunken swagger attested to my nausea and I was relegated to the steam table at the bottom. I'm sure you can see where my career is headed.

You might have heard that steam is good for the complexion. Wrong...especially when it opens your pores to tomato juice splashing from the table onto your skin. I thought I'd finally found my niche, but soon looked forward to a break in the monotony and heat.

Some ten minutes that was. From the top, it took eight and a half to climb down the metal scaffolding, wash off, and find a place to sit. By the time I did that, it was time to get back to work. This is definitely not a career for someone who needs a break from standing.

I finished off the day there, but went home with the worst case of hives ever. I woke up the next morning with a severe head cold, called in sick, and got fired for poor attendance.

As if that wasn't enough...I lost my gold nugget necklace somewhere in the fray. Somebody, some place found a nice reward in their ketchup, soup, or sauce. Believe me, that piece of jewelry was a real prize compared to the other strange things that end up in those products. I couldn't eat anything made from a tomato for over a year. There is no way you can get ever 'dead' thing off that conveyer belt...trust me. So...that was my worst, and shortest job ever. There are just some things I'm not cut out for and that was one of them. :)  Any wonder I became an author?

You can find my books on my amazon page.

It's Becoming Painful to Watch TV - A Rerun from 2007

I've always been very open to suggestion and even had to stop watching Marcus Welby M.D. in my youth because I manifested the same symptoms the morning after I viewed an episode. Now don't class me as a hypochondriac... there's a vast difference between inventing illness and mimicking one.

I thought I had a pretty good handle on that problem, but now I have to worry about the side affects of the medicines I take. You know all those things they babble at sound faster than the speed of light at the end of the recommending ad. Would you rather have RLS (Restless Leg Syndrome) or a severe gambling problem? I'm not sure. Depends on my luck, I guess.

Although I don't suffer from the condition, I'm thrilled that those with genital warts are trying to protect their partner by taking a little pill a day, but how happy will they be when their mates suffer a stroke? How about that commercial that shows someone slumbering restfully after ingesting just one little tablet? How peaceful can you sleep when complex behaviors such as “sleep-driving” have been reported by people taking the drug. I kid you not! And what about this epidemic of penile flacidity? Is that even a word? Has this always been a problem and if so, why are we forced to hear about it now?

I take medication for atrial fibrillation that comes with a warning list a mile long. I can't take over-the-counter cold medicines because I might have a stroke, and if I combine it with a certain anti-depressant, I might become suicidal. Next thing I know, I won't be able to have sex on a night with a full moon in any month beginning with J.

What happened to the days when we didn't have to hear about feminine itching, hemorrhoids and especially sexual dysfunction. Do we really want to see a couple who has that problem, see the twinkle in their eye and know their business? I don't. I'm an author and I believe in a good romance, but I like something left to the imagination. Don't you?

Friday Freebits with Ginger Simpson #frifreebits

Preface:  Remember, Cynthia thought she saw something suspicious going on at the dumpster?  She's read there's a serial killer loose in her neighborhood...could he be closer than she thinks?





He watched the couple disappear from sight, inched his door shut then leaned against it. He placed a cigarette in his mouth and struck a match. The smell of sulfur hung in the air. What a disgusting display he’d just witnessed. A chuckle, sounding evil even to him, escaped his puckered lips as he held the fire to the tobacco end and watched the Camel come to life. 
The way they'd laughed and carried on while he peeked through the door. She was a looker, that blonde from upstairs, but then she probably knew it. He could tell by the way she batted her eyes and flaunted her curves at her unsuspecting victim. Her actions made him sick to his stomach. 

The sun had climbed higher in the sky and left his room virtually dark. He moved to turn on the light and pondered saving the poor schmuck who'd been with the bitch. So many blondes and so little time. But, ridding the world of women like her was his responsibility and he'd take care of her soon, very soon. 
Buy Link:  My Amazon page

A Page Straight From Roseanne Dowell #apagestraightfrom

Another Day byRoseanne Dowell

Someone once said a hangover felt like a sharp spear of light, slicing your eyeballs out of their sockets and leaving every nerve rubbed raw, while a hundred drummers played in your head, complete with cymbals. I couldn’t remember who said it, but I could attest to the truth of it. The room spun. My stomach churned, and my mouth tasted like sour milk. I squinted against the bright sunlight. Darn, why hadn’t I pulled the shades? What time was it anyway?  Rolling over and lifting my head just high enough to look at the alarm clock, I tried to focus. My eyes hurt just looking at the digital numbers.Ugh, eight o’clock already.Slumping back down onto the soft mattress, I pressed my fingertips into my temples. Rotten headache, served me right. Had I really drank a half bottle of wine?  God, I had drunk so much and barely remembered anything from last night. Anything that is, except Paul’s hands all over me. Oh Lord, Paul. Memory of last night flashed through my mind.What had I done? Trying to block out the memory, I pulled the sheet over my head, and inched my way to the other side of the king-sized bed, glad for the coolness of the soft cotton sheets. What had possessed me last night?  I wasn’t some sex starved teen. I was married for cripes sake.Oh God, how would I face Andrew?Tears stung my eyes. Suddenly, my actions from last night became all too clear. How could I have done this? Just because Andrew had been inattentive and away on business a lot didn’t justify having sex with another man.I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and groaned. What attracted me to Paul anyway? He wasn’t even my type.  What the hell does a forty-two year old woman want with a twenty-eight year old? Hardly even a man. Still a kid.  Young enough to almost be my son.Stupid, stupid, stupid! I hated that I had given in. Hated the guilt that seeped into me. I’d never be able to live with this.Sexy though Paul was, with his black curly hair and tanned muscular body, we had absolutely nothing in common. Paul, single, athletic and outgoing, bordered almost on the point of being crude. Oh, he treated everyone polite enough, and all the women at the club fawned all over him. Maybe that was the problem — he acted like God’s gift to women.So what in the world made me give into his seduction?  Clearly, I hadn’t been thinking straight.“Thinking straight?” I covered my head with the pillow. “Honey, you weren’t thinking at all.” My voice sounded harsh, raspy. I rolled over, eased myself up, sat on the edge of the bed, and pushed back the wave of nausea and dizziness. “Pull yourself together, girl. You have to think this through.” Think, I couldn’t even focus. And how was I going to face Andrew when he came home later? I wasn’t good at lying, never had been. Andrew would guess the minute he saw me. Damn, damn, damn, what had I done?
Another Day is available from Amazon