Thea Atkinson's Blog, page 20

Thea Atkinson's Friday Mashup @bookrepublik

Thea's Three This Week

July 8, 2011

OK. Sometimes I peek at blogs from Twitter. Sometimes I'm annoyed at what I find; sometimes I'm intrigued; sometimes I learn something. And then….sometimes, I'm just damned amused. This week's mashup is about the blogs I find on Twitter.

I clicked into the first blog this week because of the phrase: "Remember, "y'all" is singular, "all y'all" is plural, and "all y'all's" is plural possessive" That ran across my feed. Huh? Wha? I HAD to click on the profile to see the weblink of whoever had that great a sense of humor.

Turns out the whole blog is like that. Love the bug post, the donut post, and oh, yes, the Southernisms.

 You really gotta check said blog, A Yankee's Southern Exposure out. I subscribed. No foolin'
 Kai's Kindle Reads is a review blog and it looks so durn pretty, I just had to include it. Besides, she's going to eventually review Secret Language of Crows for me. (Which is on sale at Smashwords right now. )
I met Andy when I put a tweet out that my goal for the month of July was to sell a book in Germany. He thought it was an odd goal and we got to chatting. I thought I'd try to send some traffic his way (not that he needs it–it's a neat blog)


Filed under: mashup

of paradise and outhouses: an #essay by Thea Atkinson

a view from the wharf

I press the shutter release to capture what is probably the 30th picture of a dilapidated two-seater outhouse crouching quietly at the head of a wharf. My husband, a lobster fishermen by trade and heritage wanders past, side-stepping another fresh heap of sheep pebbles left by an animal with free roam of the tiny island.

"Don't you have enough pictures of that thing?" he asks me, eyeing the yellow moss creeping up the door to the rubber handle.

Perhaps. To him the narrow building is just the source of bitter winter winds and a sheer layer of frost assaulting tender areas best exposed to the sanctity of modern plumbing. For me, it holds a strange fascination, a link to a piece of Canada I didn't know existed until he brought me here twenty years ago.

Back then, Deep Cove Island crept into my view after a 20 minute troll through Atlantic waters. From the forty foot lobster boat, I could see how barren of trees it was, how many rocks peppered the surface. A dozen wharves and an equal amount of equally rustic shanties filled my vision; a few straggling sheep munched on kelp on flats exposed by low tide.

We spend many summer weekends here, sequestered from the mainland, phones, and yes, indoor plumbing. I bring my notebook and a camera and I write stories of people that filled those shanties that used to house professional fishermen. Those shanties that now provide shelter for the occasional 10-year-old who during the day will hold a line off the end of the wharf waiting patiently for a fish to tug it. The island is rustic and time-capsuled, but when that August Moon clings to a cloudless sky and casts its light on the dozen wharves falling into the water, I believe I'm standing in a postcard.

Hubby has spent long hours here, weeks, seasons of time waiting for the alarm to ring at 4 AM. He has spent his mornings in the sardine-tin kitchen frying lobster and eggs before he heads out to his grounds to make his living. Now our daughter and I follow him, but it's only for the weekend.  I spend countless hours roaming the rock-riddled surface, capturing lambs in my viewfinder, and the first-in-Deep-Cove history black sheep. Still, I'm drawn again and again to the outhouse and the weathered shingles.

I realize this piece of history is even now evolving. There's little need for fishermen to stay the season in a shanty insulated by eelgrass just because it's closer to grounds than the mainland; the boats are faster now.  The island's lobster canneries are long gone, the pool hall all but forgotten; still the island lures its prey.

Every year, we bring a group of writers over from the mainland for the day so they can picnic and write and wander. They ask every year for a return invitation, and because I understand the compulsion of the ocean breeze, I beg my husband to acquiesce.

On this day, my sister-in-law and I watch from the porch as a couple from an American yacht picks their way up one of the ladders and wanders down the crag of hill to take a peek at the land. As they near, they ask for permission to cross the property; a strange request for any Nova Scotian to hear. In answer, we invite them to an evening bonfire on the beach.

After the sun dips behind the ocean's horizon, we set old lobster traps ablaze and roast hot dogs and marshmallows. The children cram sticky white into their mouths, and adults sip wine–all within easy sight of the outhouse's farseeing crescent eye.

The next morning, the Americans are gone, and we sit on the porch watching the sheep reclaim the flats and listen to the barn swallows scold each other. Next weekend it will be another group who stumbles upon this piece of history–perhaps a flock of kayakers–and the weekend after, it will be another. I may not be here, but I'm certain someone will be, and they'll extend a hospitable hand, the same as was reached out to me those years ago.

I'm part of the new clan now. Folks who have a connection to the place, no matter how small. I pack coolers and duffels and climb aboard a 40 foot lobster boat to troll to the island. I wander; I eat, write, drink, and enjoy the allure of a place far removed from fax machines and Internet. And yes, I take countless pictures of derelict outhouses from every angle.

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Filed under: Uncategorized

Writing Exercise: use Hovercards for passive #promo Writer Wednesday

I'm over at the amwriting blog today! Basically, it's with this post but I thought I'd dup it for y'all and ask you to go on over to amwriting because it's CHOCK full of advice and items to help you out with your writing. You can even create an account and offer to guest blog, which I did. Johanna Harness (twitter ID: @johannaharness  please follow her) is incredibly giving as a tweeter and with her advice on the blog. So without further ado: The post.

I watch a lot of Simpsons. I really shouldn't admit that as I know some folks don't appreciate the humour of the show, but I mention it for a reason: it was the sole thing that encouraged me to investigate the concept of Hovercards.

What do Hovercards have to do with the Simpsons? Not much, really, except that when I first saw the term, I immediately thought of the episode where the Simpsons kids are offered a hoverbike by Marge in return for leaving a Cult run by "The Leader".

Hover. That's it. Just that one word connection, but it made a big difference to my social presence.

I first noticed Hovercards over at Kristen Lamb's blog. Yes. You know the blog: The MYWANA blog. I'd been noticing other bloggers Gravatars for some time, had even set mine up with the cute little cartoonie things offered by WordPress. I didn't think much of them, as so many that I saw were the same. Until one fateful day I decided to mouse over Kristen Lamb's picture.

Shock! The mouse made a small window fly out. In that window was a neat little promotional bundle with pics and links and info. I would have assumed it was some nifty bit of code that some awesome programmer had put in…except for the word: Hovercard. That made me take notice. I noticed in the lower right corner the words: "Turn off Hovercard." Hmmm. What was this? I examined the flyout more closely. Aha. A Gravatar symbol in the upper left corner of the flyout. WordPress? I thought. Is this a WordPress widget?

Turns out, TADA! It is, or at least I can utilize it and set it up from WordPress. I can go straight into my own dashboard and program in my own Gravatar complete with Hovecard.

So, you're thinking, big deal. So you get a little flyout. Um. Yeah. Big Deal.

I turned on Hovercards in my Dashboard and now with my little bit of customization, every time I comment on a blog with my WordPress account, it sticks in my picture…AND my marketing bit. When someone rests on my pic, up comes all my promotional links and pics to encourage folks to visit me, buy me, follow me.

Simple and free and one more tool in that promotions toolbox.

Let me see if I can help you set up:

Login to your WordPress account and Go to the dashboard
Click on Settings: Discussions and scroll waaaaay down to the Gravatar section. You will click a couple of things (Avatar display should be Show Avatars and Gravatar Hovercards should be set to view other people's profiles with a mouseover) These, so you can see others as well as yourself.
Save Changes

Now: Set up your profile

Go to the Account menu: edit my Profile
Customize to your heart's delight (don't forget book cover pics and links to your profiles across social media)
Save those changes.

Now for the fun part. Go to someone's WordPress blog and leave a comment. See your Gravatar? Mouse over it! Yay. Neat lil promo package all for free.

Now Hovercards can do all the hard work of promotion for you once you've left your comments behind. It's a neat way to upkeep that brand of yours.

Good luck and happy blogging.

comment to enter the monthly draw

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To be fair, this post was written for the amwriting blog; I just thought it was so useful I included it in my writer Wednesday exercise. let me know if you like it or if you're using them, or if you had no idea they existed. As always, comments will be entered into a monthly draw to win an ebook. This month, the gift will be Impeding Justice by Mel Comley

Filed under: writerwednesday exercises

Heather Domin guests: Not a lot of todo about #bookreviews @heatherdomin

Heather Domin, author of: The Soldier of Raetia

 

Purchase Soldier of Raetia on Amazon

An Exploration of Reviewing

I was happy to accept when Thea asked me if I'd like to do a guest post for her, but when it came to topics I found myself drawing a complete blank. (Which has been a theme lately, actually.)

Thea had just mentioned how much she liked my review of Trevor Munson's Angel of Vengeance, so she suggested I do a post about reviewing. Now, lest you think I'm about to throw my two cents into the "should writers review" debate, that's not how I roll. If I've learned anything in fifteen years on the internet, it's that the same arguments get recycled over and over and over, and I'm not interested in that. I do what I do, and everyone else can do what they do, forever and ever amen.

Since writing is not my career, I'm not under pressure to build a brand, which leaves me free to do things my own way. On the other hand, I have pretty long gaps between completed stories, and I'd prefer to have something to say in those gaps other than "still not done".

One cannot blog on memes alone. I've been reviewing for the Historical Novel Society for several years now and keeping a more casual reading record at Goodreads, so I thought maybe I'd try doing a few reviews in my LJ.

Imagine my surprise when I was offered my first ARC. I was like, "Me? Seriously? Have you read this LJ?" It's an excellent feeling to be trusted with someone else's work, and it helps me bring more content to my readers. These days I enjoy a nice middle ground: I get to review lots of great books for the HNS; I blog when I can and do reviews when the opportunity arises; and I keep it light and casual with my friends on Goodreads. I post to my LJ when I have something to say and putz around on Twitter and Tumblr when I don't. And it goes without saying that writing and reading always come first. Everything else is gravy.

Reviewing is simple for me. If a review has been requested – either by the author or as part of my commitment to the HNS – I do my best to compose an intelligent, concise, and professional summary emphasizing which audience might enjoy the book. When I review something spontaneously (like I did with the Munson novel), I write the way I talk, squee and snark and all, with all the internet grammar and fannish references I would use in any other post. Either way, though, I'm not into trashing books – I'll point out crucial issues and/or technical flaws, but the vast majority of criticism is based on personal opinion, and I'm not down with presenting my opinion as fact. I just want to tell my friends about the books I read. My motto for reviewing is my motto for everything else I do online: relaxed and groovy. (The wisdom of Eddie Izzard – useful in so many situations.)

So I don't consider myself a Serious Internet Book Reviewer any more than I consider myself a Serious Internet Blogger (or for that matter, a Serious Internet Indie Author). I'm just a nerd who loves books – reading them, writing them, collecting them, sharing them, geeking out over them, evolving with them. I like how books make me feel. If I've made one other person out there feel that way, then I've met my only goal as a writer. I feel really lucky to be made for the creative life, and I plan to continue living that life in my own way. I wish the same for all my peeps out there who are walking this weird and wonderful path with me. Nerd life rules.

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Heather Domin is the author of The Soldier of Raetia, along with a bunch of other lurking in shady corners of the internet and gathering dust in a bookshelf full of 70-page Mead notebooks. The nerdy blog mentioned in this post is her Livejournal. She's also on Twitter, where she doesn't say anything interesting but at least she doesn't spam you.

Filed under: guest blogging

#smashwords deals on #ebooks by @theaatkinson

Smashwords is having a sale on ebooks all over its site for the entire month of July. So who am I to fight it? In fact, it gives me a chance to offer you some great deals.

 

You can download the following books for less. In some cases, even free

Anomaly is getting great reviews. Check it out

FREE: God in the Machine: a slipstream short story of divinity
One Insular Tahiti: a tale of reincarnation is 49% off: (coupon code: SSW50)
Secret Language of Crows: 49% off: coupon code: SSW50
Anomaly: 25% off coupon code: SSW25

Other books that you might enjoy:

YOUR SWEET MAN http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/70164
A Twist in the Tale: http://www.smashwords.combooksview70372/
Impeding Justice: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/28137
Final Justice: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/43071


Filed under: Kindle stuff

Ogle Me Some features Ryan Cook @iryancook #countrymusic @musicnovascotia

Ryan Cook on GonzoInk

Ryan Cook at concert to promote Music Week 2009

This pic was taken back in the winter of 2008. My hometown was trying to promote the notion of Music Week coming to our area for its annual convention. When they decided to put their celebration in our town, they offered a concert to celebrate and hometown local musician, Ryan Cook played to a full house. Ryan Cook is a small town boy with big town aspirations–and he just might make it. Recently, he was contracted to open for Dwight Yoakem and Travis Tritt. Pretty big news. But then, Ryan's has pretty big star potential. Plus, he's just a real nice fella.

I have two favorites: One is his zombie inspired tune: Dead like Me and this one that is just so evocative of our area. Summer in the Valley

Please follow Ryan on twitter or fan him on Facebook and pick up his album or tickets to wherever he is playing. You won't regret it.

Filed under: ogle me some

The killdeer are coming; the killdeer are coming. Signs of #summer

Once every year we are treated to a special event here in the Maritimes. Come mid June, the killdeer parents take their babies on a trek to the water from whatever stony home they've built their nests.

Our property lies very close to the Atlantic Ocean on one side and a really nice pond on the other. My brother-in-law is the one who usually witnesses the annual trek, but he mentioned that he hadn't seen them in a couple of years. My husband and I thought they'd moved on to other nesting grounds and never thought any more of it, as we have never been lucky enough to catch this march first hand. Until this year.

A couple of weeks ago my husband said to me, "Do you hear that killdeers?" In childhood, he spent a lot of time on a remote island in the Tuskets, and he's quite familiar with the sounds birds of all species make: from swallows, to ducks, to bluejays, and yes, killdeer. I just shrugged it off. I hadn't heard a thing–probably spending too much time with my MP3 earbuds in.

Then, two days ago he ran into the house where I was sweeping the endless amounts of shed black lab fur off the floor–again.

"The killdeer have babies!"

At first, I didn't register the word killdeer; the crackle birds had already shown up at the feeder with a dozen babies and were stealing the birdseed from the mourning doves. "Yeah," I said, unimpressed. I walked away, brushing the broom across the floor. Then I registered the keyword: killdeer.

Down went the broom into a pile of black fur, and I rushed to the front lawn. There they were: all three little chicks toddling across the yard and into my garden. The mommas were screeching and circling overhead, calling them toward the water that runs from a river across the road toward the Atlantic.

the sprint to the garden

I ran back in the house to grab for my camera. I had no idea that the mama who dropped from the air at my feet once I got about ten feet off the front step was sending warning screeches to a baby that was a little slower than the rest. I just knew she was screeching to high heaven. I waited to see if she'd break her wing. Nope. It must be safe, I figured. If there was a baby close, she'd surely somehow come up with a handicap. Instead, she just squawked. Then she fluttered away. She squawked again. And then she repeated it.

Right about the third time, I decided to look down and I immediately groaned. The poor

every good child listens to its mama

babe was right at my feet. Dead, obviously. It wasn't making a sound. It wasn't moving–not even a tremble or quiver beneath the foot just about to step on it.

Mama sent out a few more hollers. It took me about a minute to figure out it wasn't dead. No. It was flat to the ground, barely visible in the grass, and like any good child, it was listening. I imagined the mama was yelling at it, "Stay down. Don't move. Stay down."

And stay down it did. I crept away to sit under my apple tree and watch. The mama kept up her show, trying to lure me away, yelling at her chick to stay down. After a while she sensed I was too stupid to realize how close I had come to catching my dinner and called to it, confident it was safe for the little thing to come out.

It popped up out of the grass and set to running. Mama coaxed it closer. She took flight. The chick ran toward her and the thick grass in the ditch, headed to the river that's so close to the open ocean.

No wonder my brother in law was so disappointed. It was the most divine thing I'd seen all spring.

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What do you know about killdeer?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filed under: Uncategorized

Writer Wednesday exercise is #humor #writing: Paris Hilton gets a Fairy

You may know that in April I spent some time writing flash fiction in different genres and posting them on blogs across the internet, and if you didn't know that…where the heck were ya? (check the categories dropdown under blogstreak)

I recently had a twitter chat with JH Sked who writes really funny tweets and makes me laugh almost every time. So I told her she should write humour. "I'll post it on my blog," I said. Being the writing trooper she is, she agreed. Her resultant post is below and I think it's pretty durn good…for someone who says she doesn't write humour. I think she's pretty happy with stepping outside of her comfort zone, and now she has another piece in her arsenal.

I doubt many of you have attempted humour. I've tried it to some small success, but both in flash fiction pieces as I just couldn't sustain it over the long term. Humor is deadly tough. Even folks with great senses of humour have a hard time being funny on paper.

Some resources that might help:

Write to Done:
Humor Blogging:
Wall Street journal: how to write like a Cartoonist:

comment for a chance to win Four years from Home

So the time has come to get you out of YOUR comfort zone. Your exercise today is to

write humour. Or try to. You can use the post below to guide you if you like.

Remember to come back and tell us how it went. The draw for Four Years From Home by Larry Enright is this week, and you KNOW you want a copy. (it's funny even though it's a really great mystery) And if you don't like this exercise, The Writing Network (twitter ID @theladywrites) has a different one you can try. It's just about getting creative and feeling inspired. Doesn't matter to me whose exercise you do, just exercise.

Purchase Wolfsong by JH Sked

Paris Hilton gets a fairy

By JH Sked , author of: Wolfsong

I looked around the room full of funeral attendees, chatting away in animated groups. All of us, the fairies of the world, gathered to the mourn the passing of one of own.

Atkins and Cabbage Soup were chattering  at each other in the corner,  carefully avoided by everyone else in the room. Allie Oops stood some distance away, an expression of utter dismay slowly creeping over her face. I shook my head.  Diet pill manufacturers have a lot to answer for. By the looks of things, having a fairy shit herself at a funeral had just been added to the list.

Paranoia was gabbling away at Conspiracy Theory, then tried to grab his tinfoil hat. Conspiracy shrieked and burst into tears. I turned away to signal  the trolls I'd hired as bouncers – and saw her.

Her.

Paris Hilton.

Mincing into the room on a pair of Jimmy Choo's and wearing the shortest little black dress possible. She stopped to tickle one of the trolls under his chin and coo as he flexed his abs.

Paparazzi whistled and took a series of pictures, then let Paris head for the buffet.

I grabbed his arm. "What is the human doing here?"

He shrugged, wings flickered in a quick burst of strobe. "It was her fairy that died," he shrugged. "Besides, I told her it was a photo op."

"Are you insane?" I hissed. "You can't bring a human into our world!"

He looked at me, black shades firmly in place. "I thought you'd want to meet the woman who killed one of us," he said, and nodded at the portrait on the stand in the centre of the buffet. "Took her awhile," he added. "But I reckon it was her, sure enough. Common Sense just never stood a chance."

He started towards the table, then turned back. "You know, you're probably the most powerful one in this room. Think about that."

I thought it about all afternoon, watching the socialite flutter from diet fairy to drug fairy to sex tape fairy. She said "Like" a lot, and a few other things that made my wings itch.

She avoided Decency as though the fairy carried an STD, which was strange since she'd hugged both Syphillis and Gonoreahea  repeatedly, and gave Chlamidia  an impromptu lap dance at some point after finishing most of a bottle of funeral wine.

I thought about it in the bathroom, carefully adjusting my spanx.  I influence and affect millions throughout the world. Do what you want, unless the liposuction fairy smiles at you, once I'm there, I play for keeps. You will hate me until the day you leave this world.

I re-entered the room, caught Paparazzi's eye, and nodded. Then I marched over to Paris, who had her face buried in Cocaine's hair, and pulled her away from the party.

"Like, who are you?" she said, pulling away.

I beamed at her. I'm good at that kind of smile. Sugar and sweetness with no hint of the bitterness to come. "I'm your new fairy," I said.

"Like, cool. But where are we going?"

I pulled out her schedule. "You have a nightclub booking in an hour. Let's get you ready, shall we?"

"Cool."

And as we left the funeral, I heard one of the trolls speak to Paparazzi, following close behind us.

"Who'd the human get assigned to?"

"One of the big guns," Paparazzi whispered back. "That's the muffin top fairy."

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Filed under: writerwednesday exercises

Jackie Buxton guests: #Tennis Anyone? the race to #publication @jaxbees

Jackie Buxton brings us:

Jackie Buxton, freelance copywriter

Baghdatis, the race is on!

Sometimes we're lucky enough to experience a day which we know we'll remember forever. Yesterday, with my centre court ticket for Wimbledon in my hot little hand, this was that day for me.

After hitting a ball relentlessly against our tin garage door before progressing, much to the delight of the neighbourhood I'm sure, to the pitted, gravel courts near my grandparents and the instant game of doubles which was me and my three sisters, my love for tennis was cemented around my twelfth birthday. This was when I finally procured a racquet of my own. It was a white Slazenger with a purple handle and very of-the-moment compared to the wooden racquets loaned out at school. There wasn't a speck of steel or graphite and the head was only the size of a large tea plate.

I should point out here that, although an enthusiastic amateur, I don't recall ever winning anything more significant than a hearty handshake. Even if I'd had the skill, which I didn't, I certainly didn't have the head for it.  'Don't throw it all away now,' the little voices would say. 'Just don't do a double fault for goodness sake, don't do a double…' Oh dear.

It didn't matter. Tennis for me was more about meeting my friend, Rachel, at the town club (it wasn't as grand as it sounds) and bashing the ball back and forwards over the net as we discussed our burgeoning love lives, our fast deteriorating school and the general trials and hairspray which accompanied teenagehood in The Eighties.

Lack of skill, height and hunger for the game were major contributory factors as to why my tennis never went any further but it didn't stop me following Wimbledon on BBC2 every year, in the days when McEnroe still had the anger and the headband and Connors wasn't stopped from jumping over the barrier to sit with the crowd while the slightly befuddled umpire attempted to sort out whatever battle of wits he'd generally started.

Yesterday, the first two matches went pretty much as the winner would have planned.  Caroline Wozniacki, the number one seed, finished off her opponent's Wimbledon in an hour.  And Roger Federer showed us why he has won quite so many tournaments to date. Both were incredibly impressive. But it was a little like viewing a painting from an undoubtedly talented painter which you wouldn't hang in your home; you can appreciate the skill but you're seeing it with your eyes and not your heart.

Then came Novak Djokovic and Marcos Baghdatis. Although a fan of Djokovic (largely, and I apologise to tennis purists, because he always signs autographs and smiles when his opponent hits an unassailable winner), I found myself cheering for another seemingly nice guy, Baghdatis. Djokovic had won the first set and I didn't want my day at Wimbledon to end any sooner than it had to.

When Baghdatis won the second, I flung my arms in the air like it was my child out there. I'd lived that second set with him, my heart pumping harder, willing the stunning rallies to continue and for Baghdatis to finally outwit Djokovic. I found myself thinking positive thoughts on his behalf.  Ranked 30 places behind Djokovic, I willed Baghdatis to tell himself that he was his equal.

Marcos Baghdatis

And when they sat down at the end of the third set and Baghdatis was trailing two sets to

one, I thought to myself that winning tennis matches at this level is a little like the battle to publication. It's understood that tennis players have talent, it's also true that without the self-belief and determination to go with it, they will not succeed. Assuming a writing competence, this is the same of writers who are not yet published.

'What's the difference between a published and an unpublished writer?', thriller writer and witty man, JR Ellory, asked us at a writers' conference. 'The unpublished author gave up,' he said.

Djokovic crashed out of Wimbledon in 2010 and vowed he'd come back better.  He changed his diet and the way he trained and an amazing year followed. I'm not sure all writers will get published who continue to submit the same rejected material – but have a re-read, act on some new feedback and chances must surely be higher.

It is hard to receive that stinging slap to the face when your baby is rejected, without rubbing the sore patch for a while. But tennis players don't take months off.  They take a day, perhaps, but then they're back out training, tweaking their game.

Baghdatis' submission for the ultimate prize in tennis was rejected yesterday. He's never yet won a Grand Slam. Many, even some close to him, will think he never will.  But nobody can influence the outcome more than Baghdatis and come the next major tournament, I know he'll be back out there trying again.

Will Baghdatis win a Grand Slam tennis tournament? Will I get published? Marcos, the race is on.

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About Jackie from her blog:

What started as musings during my travels along that well-worn path to the publishing gold at the end of the wannabe published author's rainbow, has turned into chatter about the quirky, unbelievable and downright bizarre things that happen in life. Nobody is more surprised than me to find that much of the content falls into my lap while sitting in my little study. I say, 'little', in reality my study is a converted double bedroom with an antique wooden desk and shelves and shelves of books to rival our local mobile library van. Sound good so far? It's also lined with a messy family of four's collection of essential items which have no home, piles of belongings which would go in the garage we don't have and general every day paraphernalia which hasn't quite made it to the bedroom of choice. I'm not complaining. I wish I could spend more time here.

Filed under: guest blogging, writing

Freebie Short Story

Just thought I'd mention that I posted a free short story on Smashwords for your enjoyment and as a thanks to all those who gave me a chance on their ereaders.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...

Evelyn is just another inmate suffering from a Jesus complex, but to her roommate, Celia, she is God Incarnate. A slipstream tale of divinity.

warning: language and adult situations.