Jane Alvey Harris's Blog, page 2

MEDITATION FOR SLEEPLESS NIGHTS, or Why Are They So Long? (That's what she said).

You know how sometimes you can’t do everything by yourself even though you've tried your very best and whined to all your friends and family (who insist you have to figure it out on your own) and it’s finally time to call in the Big Guns?   "But Jane," you say. "We don't have access to Big Guns!"   But guess what. YOU DO. It’s your Subconscious.   NEWS FLASH: I, too, encounter problems in life and in my novels I can’t think or imagine my way out of.     I KNOW. It’s shocking. But after

A DREAM IS A WISH YOUR HEART MAKES, or If You Show Me Yours I'll Show You Mine (there's a couch in your head).

  When I'm made to clean my own house I pretend I'm Cinderella.   NOT Snow White. While I do admire her puffed sleeves and #madwhistlingskills, I'd rather take my chances with a homicidal witch than seven slobs (of any size or gender).    Okay, okay. No one MAKES me clean my house.  Alright, FINE. I haven't really cleaned a house in probably five years. But I do the dishes and laundry and pre-clean for the real cleaners along with occasional light vacuum and swiffer work and I still pretend to

HEY, WHAT DID YOU CALL ME? or Choosing Words (introvert, empath, drama queen, dreamer).

You Guys. I was an ADORABLE baby. So was my twin sister, as you can clearly see here: OMG hahahaha! Lol!! Get it??  Because you can't actually SEE us at ALL. My parents are pretty cute, though, IMHO :D   Amy and I are fraternal twins, which means we come from separate eggs and don't look alike. These days Amy is a blonde, athletically thin 5'9" to my...errr...less-athletically thin 5'7". (Fine. 5'6", who's measuring?)   But as infants we were both small, baldy, and consistently dressed alike.

OUTCRY WITNESS, or It's Not About You. (Seriously, my last name is better than yours).

Let's get down to the nitty-gritty. I've had a lot of emails, and phone calls, and text messages since this website went live and I began promoting my books. Most of the calls, texts, and emails have been so supportive (THANK YOU!) The ones I want to address in this blog, however, are the ones demanding to know whom, exactly, the MY MYTH Trilogy is about? And why, (exactly), would I write such things? And what, (exactly), am I trying to accomplish? Not to mention: HOW DARE I??? and also HAVE I

MY CHILD WITH HARRISON FORD, or Why Can't I Have Hair Like Hers? (Aka Fifty Shades of Jane).

When I was a little girl I had a fantasy in which Harrison Ford was my boyfriend. We weren't married...neither of us wanted to be pinned down by the constraints of a traditional union...our love was timeless and pure and beyond the scope of religion or law. We shared a house in the mountains that had a gourmet kitchen. Often--when our Joy de Vivre was unconstrained--we tossed chickens to one another while preparing dinner for our friends. (Don't worry. The chickens were deceased.)  In addition

THE POWER OF MUSIC, or My Children Are Puppet-Masters (for reals you should be scared).

Many of you know that Jacob, Aidan, and Claire aren’t just characters in the MY MYTH series, they are also characters IN MY LIFE. I asked them if they wanted me to change their names in the books but they said, “No. We want to be famous.” This works out well for me, actually, because whenever they are naughty I just threaten to whack one of them in books two or three and they grumble off to clean their rooms. You shouldn't feel sorry for them. They are Puppet-Masters when it comes to getting

MY EPIC PARENTING FAIL, or How My Thirteen Year-old Daughter Metaphorically Kicked My Ass.

Deep breath…Welcome to my AUTHOR WEB PAGE!!!   Betcha didn’t even know I wanted to be an author, did you? Or maybe you’ve seen the “Works at Author, Writing” on the About section of my Facebook page and thought, “How cute.” Guys, it’s not only that I want to be an author. I’m actually an honest-to-goodness author! I’ve written an actual book and guess what. It isn’t just good…it’s beautiful, hilarious, important, inspiring and heartbreaking.  For. REALS. “Oh. What’s it called?” you ask. “Maybe