E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 85
November 8, 2012
A Reviewer Who Changed My Life--JL Whitehead of The Examiner
At the beginning of 2012, I heard about a reviewer who works for The Examiner. "JL Whitehead is very honest when he reviews books," a fellow author told me. "But if he gives you a good review, it can help your career immensely." I looked him up online and was very impressed. He had helped so many authors' careers, just by reviewing their books. I took a chance, bit my nails, and contacted him through Facebook.
I knew very little about promotion at the beginning of this year. I'd never done a book signing. I'd mostly promoted online.
JL Whitehead kindly wrote back saying he had quite a list of books ahead, but that he would review mine in time. Just over a month later, he read my book and was ready to write the review. He just needed some pictures of me at a signing to put at the top of the article.
I panicked because I'd never even BEEN to a signing--let alone had one for my books. But this was a chance to be reviewed by JL Whitehead! I had to think fast.
My mind raced to The REad Cat Bookstore in Clearfield, UT. Through this
bookstore, many children developed a love of reading. Residents
realized they could still afford to buy quality books. The place had
the most helpful staff and wonderful selection of new and used
literature.
I called and asked to speak with the owner.
"Hello, this is the owner, Eric," a kind-sounding man replied.
"I need your help, Eric. I'm a struggling author. I finally got a chance to be reviewed by The Examiner, but the journalist needs pictures of me at a signing."
He understood immediately. And although he had nothing to gain, he
generously helped me and never asked for anything in return. He gave me
a signing that very day and taught my daughter how to take pictures
during the event--she'll never forget his kindness.
"Why did you do this for me?" I asked, surrounded by people he'd invited to the event.
"Because, it feels good helping others. And I read the back of your book about your son who passed away. What you wrote will help people someday."
(I'm on the left. Melynda Fleury's on the right.)
This was nother signing at The REaD Cat Bookstore shortly before it went out of business.
I sent the pictures to Mr. Whitehead as soon as I got home. He posted the review shortly after and what he wrote touched my heart. You can read his review HERE .
That review and signing marked the beginning of all the success I've had this year. I drew the attention of big-name authors. I was able to make connections that got me a signing at Barnes and Noble and other helpful stores. But none of this would have happened without JL Whitehead. He believed in my writing enough to promote it more than I'd ever hoped. He (inadvertently) inspired me to land my first signing. Because of him my writing has reached more readers than I'd ever hoped.
This post is to thank JL Whitehead. I'd also like to say that if you need a thorough, honest review, he's the person to contact.
JL Whitehead of The Examiner reviews and promotes the works of authors. He also handles projects that entail proofreading, editing and
ghostwriting.
www.fourbrotherspublications.com
I knew very little about promotion at the beginning of this year. I'd never done a book signing. I'd mostly promoted online.
JL Whitehead kindly wrote back saying he had quite a list of books ahead, but that he would review mine in time. Just over a month later, he read my book and was ready to write the review. He just needed some pictures of me at a signing to put at the top of the article.
I panicked because I'd never even BEEN to a signing--let alone had one for my books. But this was a chance to be reviewed by JL Whitehead! I had to think fast.
My mind raced to The REad Cat Bookstore in Clearfield, UT. Through this
bookstore, many children developed a love of reading. Residents
realized they could still afford to buy quality books. The place had
the most helpful staff and wonderful selection of new and used
literature.
I called and asked to speak with the owner.
"Hello, this is the owner, Eric," a kind-sounding man replied.
"I need your help, Eric. I'm a struggling author. I finally got a chance to be reviewed by The Examiner, but the journalist needs pictures of me at a signing."
He understood immediately. And although he had nothing to gain, he
generously helped me and never asked for anything in return. He gave me
a signing that very day and taught my daughter how to take pictures
during the event--she'll never forget his kindness.
"Why did you do this for me?" I asked, surrounded by people he'd invited to the event.
"Because, it feels good helping others. And I read the back of your book about your son who passed away. What you wrote will help people someday."
(I'm on the left. Melynda Fleury's on the right.)
This was nother signing at The REaD Cat Bookstore shortly before it went out of business.
I sent the pictures to Mr. Whitehead as soon as I got home. He posted the review shortly after and what he wrote touched my heart. You can read his review HERE .
That review and signing marked the beginning of all the success I've had this year. I drew the attention of big-name authors. I was able to make connections that got me a signing at Barnes and Noble and other helpful stores. But none of this would have happened without JL Whitehead. He believed in my writing enough to promote it more than I'd ever hoped. He (inadvertently) inspired me to land my first signing. Because of him my writing has reached more readers than I'd ever hoped.
This post is to thank JL Whitehead. I'd also like to say that if you need a thorough, honest review, he's the person to contact.
JL Whitehead of The Examiner reviews and promotes the works of authors. He also handles projects that entail proofreading, editing and
ghostwriting.
www.fourbrotherspublications.com
November 6, 2012
How to write a query letter to a publisher
I'm now officially an editor/part owner of Wayman Publishing--which is an amazingly exhausting experience. I've been reading query after query, and manuscript after manuscript. At first I cried when I sent rejections--probably because I'm so freakin' empathetic AND tired. But now if there's the slightest typo, or it doesn't grab my attention, I know it'll get rejected.
I've probably been rejected more than any of these people. I know how bad it can hurt, and I hate doing that to others.
Knowing that, how can you write a successful query letter?
Step one: Spell check is your friend.
I've received many letters with spelling errors. Several of these were great queries trying to address Wayman personally about what they like about our company. But typos littered the personal addresses.
Utilizing spell check--and the power of patience--may help your query make it to round two (a request to read some of your manuscript).
Step two: Have other people read your query for typos and sentence structure. Since spell check doesn't have an artificial intelligence option, other people can really help you. Even the best writing can be improved.
Misplaced modifiers, dangling participles and other such fun terms can be weeded out by the right person.
Step three: Imagine you're the reviewer/editor.
Let me tell you something quickly before explaining step three.
As written above, by some crazy turn of fate I am now a reviewer/editor. After receiving hundreds of queries, Wayman has only offered contracts for three books.
Reading this much has made me understandably tired.
My husband's out of town again. And taking care of four kids--by myself for days and days--can get pretty wild. I locked myself in the shower on Monday and sang LOUD show tunes--just to get a five minute sanity-break from my army of chocolate-covered children.
Two nights ago, my toddler woke up almost every hour. At one point, I had a lucid dream about my left eye turning red, so dry the red part grew scales, and I could no longer blink.
Keeping that all in mind, back to step three.
Imagine you're me--the reviewer/editor. You're so tired you're dreaming about scaly eyes. You're editing three books simultaneously. You don't have much time for hundreds of queries.
Now think about your pitch.
What can you say about your manuscript that will grab a reviewer's attention? It better be amazing because you only have a few seconds to hook them. Write something that will wake us up and get us excited about the project.
It sucks sending out rejections. I personally could line my entire house with rejection letters I've received. Now, after rereading my own queries, I know why. They weren't hitting the enticing key points of my stories. And I might have queried someone like me who has little time. In hindsight, I gave editors no reason to take a chance by requesting some of my MS.
...It SUCKS worse than Monica Lewinsky.
(Sorry. I had to go there on Election Day.)
Step four: Become a salesperson. You're selling them your book. Why should they spend time and money on your writing? For example, Wayman pays for EVERYTHING. If your name isn't well-known, you NEED to give us a good reason to take an interest in your story. What's the most unique/amazing/wonderful thing about your MS? Do you have a platform you can brag about?
Step four is a big deal. Too often authors don't view themselves as hard-working professionals worth the time and effort a publisher will take getting a MS ready for publication. If you have something worth being published, sell it with all your heart in that query letter.
To my amazing blog family,
I feel terrible that I haven't been able to comment on as many blogs as I normally do. I've actually been reading posts on my phone while I'm running errands (waiting for the baby to get antibiotics, getting the car fixed, standing in line for a LARGE energy drink). Those posts I read made me smile and helped me make it through the day. After reviewing endless queries--that keep piling up--I've needed to smile and read about your fantastic lives.
Anyway, it's crazy working so much on top of feeling like a single mom. I'm also finishing up my book, Homeless in Hawaii (coming out in December). I'm not sure how I'll keep writing manuscripts like I used to. My life's shifting. Editing and reviewing is taking every bit of free time that I have.
Please know that I wish I could read and comment more. Maybe I've bitten more than I can chew. For now I'm doing the best I can and hoping at least some of my endeavors will pay off in the long run.
Closing
I hope this advice has helped someone. I'm going to take a nap!
I've probably been rejected more than any of these people. I know how bad it can hurt, and I hate doing that to others.
Knowing that, how can you write a successful query letter?
Step one: Spell check is your friend.
I've received many letters with spelling errors. Several of these were great queries trying to address Wayman personally about what they like about our company. But typos littered the personal addresses.
Utilizing spell check--and the power of patience--may help your query make it to round two (a request to read some of your manuscript).
Step two: Have other people read your query for typos and sentence structure. Since spell check doesn't have an artificial intelligence option, other people can really help you. Even the best writing can be improved.
Misplaced modifiers, dangling participles and other such fun terms can be weeded out by the right person.
Step three: Imagine you're the reviewer/editor.
Let me tell you something quickly before explaining step three.
As written above, by some crazy turn of fate I am now a reviewer/editor. After receiving hundreds of queries, Wayman has only offered contracts for three books.
Reading this much has made me understandably tired.
My husband's out of town again. And taking care of four kids--by myself for days and days--can get pretty wild. I locked myself in the shower on Monday and sang LOUD show tunes--just to get a five minute sanity-break from my army of chocolate-covered children.
Two nights ago, my toddler woke up almost every hour. At one point, I had a lucid dream about my left eye turning red, so dry the red part grew scales, and I could no longer blink.
Keeping that all in mind, back to step three.
Imagine you're me--the reviewer/editor. You're so tired you're dreaming about scaly eyes. You're editing three books simultaneously. You don't have much time for hundreds of queries.
Now think about your pitch.
What can you say about your manuscript that will grab a reviewer's attention? It better be amazing because you only have a few seconds to hook them. Write something that will wake us up and get us excited about the project.
It sucks sending out rejections. I personally could line my entire house with rejection letters I've received. Now, after rereading my own queries, I know why. They weren't hitting the enticing key points of my stories. And I might have queried someone like me who has little time. In hindsight, I gave editors no reason to take a chance by requesting some of my MS.
...It SUCKS worse than Monica Lewinsky.
(Sorry. I had to go there on Election Day.)
Step four: Become a salesperson. You're selling them your book. Why should they spend time and money on your writing? For example, Wayman pays for EVERYTHING. If your name isn't well-known, you NEED to give us a good reason to take an interest in your story. What's the most unique/amazing/wonderful thing about your MS? Do you have a platform you can brag about?
Step four is a big deal. Too often authors don't view themselves as hard-working professionals worth the time and effort a publisher will take getting a MS ready for publication. If you have something worth being published, sell it with all your heart in that query letter.
To my amazing blog family,
I feel terrible that I haven't been able to comment on as many blogs as I normally do. I've actually been reading posts on my phone while I'm running errands (waiting for the baby to get antibiotics, getting the car fixed, standing in line for a LARGE energy drink). Those posts I read made me smile and helped me make it through the day. After reviewing endless queries--that keep piling up--I've needed to smile and read about your fantastic lives.
Anyway, it's crazy working so much on top of feeling like a single mom. I'm also finishing up my book, Homeless in Hawaii (coming out in December). I'm not sure how I'll keep writing manuscripts like I used to. My life's shifting. Editing and reviewing is taking every bit of free time that I have.
Please know that I wish I could read and comment more. Maybe I've bitten more than I can chew. For now I'm doing the best I can and hoping at least some of my endeavors will pay off in the long run.
Closing
I hope this advice has helped someone. I'm going to take a nap!
November 5, 2012
What a scam!
I've received a lot of spam emails lately. The funniest one involved a man claiming to be a rich businessman from Europe. The email started quite sweetly. He said he was old and had no family, so he'd decided to give his entire life's saving as an inheritance to a person at
a random email address--mine.
I could get the money if I simply sent
him $200 for taxes . . . or something.
What's the worst scam/spam email you've ever heard of?
a random email address--mine.
I could get the money if I simply sent
him $200 for taxes . . . or something.
What's the worst scam/spam email you've ever heard of?
November 2, 2012
Pictures of the Hippie and the Scribe
The Scribe is growing up.
My very blonde Hippie saw herself in the mirror on Halloween and
said, "Oh my . . . you've turned me into a black-head!"
On Halloween, I promptly sent both of these pictures to their grandmother. The Hippie--who's all about technology AND her grandma--breathlessly read the response on my phone.
You look like Cleopatra, the Queen of the Nile!
She was very famous and was the Queen of her country--Egypt.
She ruled without a king for many years!
Hope you get lots of good candy tonight.
Right after that, the Hippie tucked her long black hair over her shoulders. She visibly transformed into a ruler--an empress. A group of unfortunate families knocked. The Hippie swung open the door and leered at those peasants.
"Hello," she swept her jeweled hand through the air and bowed. "What may I do for you?" She pointed at each of them.
"Ummm. We're here for some candy?"
"Trick or Treat?" another kid said, nearly quivering in the face of Cleo's glory.
"Yes," the Hippie said. "I guess I will give you some candy THIS time."
One of the parents suddenly asked, "Who are you anyway?"
The Hippie looked right into his eyes, still giving out candy since queens can multitask, and said to that bulky man, "Why, I'm Cleopatra, the queen of Egypt. And I ruled for many years without a man."
His face paled--for he knew asking such a question must have been sinful. As soon as they'd collected their candy penance, they scurried down the stairs and never came back.
In other news, for a hilarious post about shoe porn, please go HERE .
Also, I'm going to be in two more anthologies this holiday season. I'm pretty excited.
Isn't this cover beautiful?
More info coming soon.
My very blonde Hippie saw herself in the mirror on Halloween and
said, "Oh my . . . you've turned me into a black-head!"
On Halloween, I promptly sent both of these pictures to their grandmother. The Hippie--who's all about technology AND her grandma--breathlessly read the response on my phone.
You look like Cleopatra, the Queen of the Nile!
She was very famous and was the Queen of her country--Egypt.
She ruled without a king for many years!
Hope you get lots of good candy tonight.
Right after that, the Hippie tucked her long black hair over her shoulders. She visibly transformed into a ruler--an empress. A group of unfortunate families knocked. The Hippie swung open the door and leered at those peasants.
"Hello," she swept her jeweled hand through the air and bowed. "What may I do for you?" She pointed at each of them.
"Ummm. We're here for some candy?"
"Trick or Treat?" another kid said, nearly quivering in the face of Cleo's glory.
"Yes," the Hippie said. "I guess I will give you some candy THIS time."
One of the parents suddenly asked, "Who are you anyway?"
The Hippie looked right into his eyes, still giving out candy since queens can multitask, and said to that bulky man, "Why, I'm Cleopatra, the queen of Egypt. And I ruled for many years without a man."
His face paled--for he knew asking such a question must have been sinful. As soon as they'd collected their candy penance, they scurried down the stairs and never came back.
In other news, for a hilarious post about shoe porn, please go HERE .
Also, I'm going to be in two more anthologies this holiday season. I'm pretty excited.
Isn't this cover beautiful?
More info coming soon.
October 31, 2012
I Was Published in a Humorous Anthology!
I'm so thrilled to be in this anthology. My story is called Caffeine and Boobs--and Bauu Press thought it was funny enough to publish! I'm ecstatic because the other authors in this anthology are hilarious and quite well-known.
Stepping down from cloud nine now . . .
If you're looking for something humorous and affordable, check this one out. It's only 2.99 for a limited time. Plus, if you get this book you'll find out if caffeine can really make your boobs swell.
Go HERE to read a excerpt.
Which actor/actress would play you in a movie?
Happy birthday,
Shane
!!!
Also, if you'd like to read a great Halloween story by Shane, please go HERE .
Thanks to Carrie Seymour for tagging me to answer some fun questions about Homeless in Hawaii.
Click the cover for more info about this book, or to include it on your
Goodreads TO READ List
Release Date: 12/10/2012
Where did the idea come from for Homeless in Hawaii?
Every time I've told someone I was homeless, they gape. After all, I don't look like I've almost starved, or lived on the street at some point in my life. Then after the shock disappears, people ask questions wanting to know everything.
I'd never thought about detailing those 'adventures' until receiving several letters from people who read The Go lden Sky . In each letter, they asked about my experiences in Hawaii. This book is for those readers because their encouragement has meant so much.
What genre does your book fall under?
Memoir
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Actors to play my part and Cade's . . . That's hard since we're real people. Hmmm . . . How about the main actress from The Help for me?
James Franco for Cade.
And for Blondie, the villain.
And Cade's brother Chayne
Hugh Jackman
Tell us about your book in one sentence.
Elisa's only seventeen, homeless, and with a man she hardly knows; will they be able to put aside their differences and survive as street musicians?
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
Published by Wayman Publ ishing .
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
Two months for the first draft. Nearly six months to polish. I had a deadline though. Most of my books have taken several years.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Eat, Pray, Love
Who or What inspired you to write this book?
A lot of people inspired me to write this book, but mostly Cade and my writing mentor. Thank you.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
It's a story of self-discovery. I hope people will read this and see new aspects about themselves.
If any of you have written or are working on a book, I'd love to read your responses to these questions. If you write a blog about it, let me know and I'll mention it on a post.
Happy Halloween.
Also, if you'd like to read a great Halloween story by Shane, please go HERE .
Thanks to Carrie Seymour for tagging me to answer some fun questions about Homeless in Hawaii.
Click the cover for more info about this book, or to include it on your
Goodreads TO READ List
Release Date: 12/10/2012
Where did the idea come from for Homeless in Hawaii?
Every time I've told someone I was homeless, they gape. After all, I don't look like I've almost starved, or lived on the street at some point in my life. Then after the shock disappears, people ask questions wanting to know everything.
I'd never thought about detailing those 'adventures' until receiving several letters from people who read The Go lden Sky . In each letter, they asked about my experiences in Hawaii. This book is for those readers because their encouragement has meant so much.
What genre does your book fall under?
Memoir
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Actors to play my part and Cade's . . . That's hard since we're real people. Hmmm . . . How about the main actress from The Help for me?
James Franco for Cade.
And for Blondie, the villain.
And Cade's brother Chayne
Hugh Jackman
Tell us about your book in one sentence.
Elisa's only seventeen, homeless, and with a man she hardly knows; will they be able to put aside their differences and survive as street musicians?
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
Published by Wayman Publ ishing .
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
Two months for the first draft. Nearly six months to polish. I had a deadline though. Most of my books have taken several years.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Eat, Pray, Love
Who or What inspired you to write this book?
A lot of people inspired me to write this book, but mostly Cade and my writing mentor. Thank you.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
It's a story of self-discovery. I hope people will read this and see new aspects about themselves.
If any of you have written or are working on a book, I'd love to read your responses to these questions. If you write a blog about it, let me know and I'll mention it on a post.
Happy Halloween.
October 30, 2012
Texting Can Make You Feel Younger
Most of you know Melynda from
Crazy World
. She's sweet AND hilarious--a combination God rarely allows on Earth. That woman could draw a smile from anyone because she's just funny. So when she asked me to teach her daughter piano, I was thrilled. She made one condition on the arrangement though. "Text me every Wednesday, so I won't forget about her lessons."
"No problem," I said, and that was the beginning of the biggest misunderstanding the world has ever known.
Everyone's heard horror stories about texting; how it can make you walk into manholes; how you can get mangled in a car wreck; how you can get a break-up message if you make the wrong move in a relationship. I'd heard about the nightmarish things that can happen, but I didn't listen until things went awry for me personally.
I'd been texting Melynda for TWO YEARS. Things had gone well; she always responded with hilarious things and I loved it.
"Lessons are today," I'd text.
"I still don't play the piano."
"I know. HA. HA," I'd respond. "That's why we need to get you some lessons too."
"So how are you today? I haven't talked to you all week," I texted.
"We're great." I smiled because we'd had some pretty funny texting sessions over the past years. I actually looked forward to Wednesday.
As I sat there grinning, my phone beeped with that happy little jingle I'd set. I looked at the screen on my phone and blinked hard. The message made no sense. I read it twice . . . three times. "I'm a hard one to convince," the words shot out at me. "But I've decided to take you up on your offer. I want to take piano lessons. Really, I just want to meet you in person."
What??? Didn't we see each other all the time!
"HA. HA," I texted back. "Sometimes you get me rolling, Mel."
"This isn't, Mel. I didn't know how to tell you. I tried at first, but then didn't want to ruin things . . . My name is Brian and I think I'm in love with you."
It must have been a joke. After all, Mel is one funny lady. So I hurried to her house and thank God she was there. I showed her the last few texts. "Very funny, woman!" I accused. "You had me going for a whole sixty seconds. You really did."
"That's one Hell of a text session you got there, honey. Who's it with?"
"It's with you!"
Amusement lit her eyes and she started giggling. "No. What have you done now?"
I flipped open my phone again. I did it detective style, like I had a notepad and was preparing to write down some pertinent evidence. "Fine," I said. "Is this your number?" I pointed to the numbers parading on and off my screen and read them.
"Nope, sunshine. I think you've been texting the wrong person. That three is supposed to be a seven. Looks like you got yourself another piano student."
"Fine? You want to play this the hard way?" I called the number on the phone. It rang once, twice, but Mel's phone didn't ring. She held it up toward my face and I looked at her horrified. Just as someone--a man--answered the phone I hung up.
"Why do things like this always happen to me? Why?" I put my face in my hand.
She laughed so hard that I thought she'd spit out some of the diet coke she'd just drank. "Only you, my friend. Only you. That's so awk--ward." She sang the last bit and grinned. "So, what are you going to do?"
"I have to let him down easy. I'm married for crying out loud." I flipped out my phone again--my weapon of choice. "What the Hell do I say? He's been a good friend to me?"
"Tell him you're a man," she sputtered, laughing so hard.
"He sounded like a big dude. I don't want to make him mad." I started punching buttons, texting on my phone. "I'm happily married, really I am. And it's great that I've sparked your interest for playing the piano. Hopefully you can find a teacher near you--we're all the same." Then I hit send.
"Good for you. You show 'em." Mel nodded.
My phone beeped rather quickly. "I knew this was a mistake. I'll think of you every Wednesday," the words read.
"Good luck with those lessons," I texted back. "I feel like an idiot!" I said to Mel.
"It's okay, honey. On a side note, do you want my real number, just in case you feel like texting someone you know this time?"
I blushed. "Hey, take it easy. At least I inspired someone to start taking piano lessons!"
We both laughed, and I had to admit, it was great having her real number this time.
For another AMAZING post about Melynda, please go HERE.
"No problem," I said, and that was the beginning of the biggest misunderstanding the world has ever known.
Everyone's heard horror stories about texting; how it can make you walk into manholes; how you can get mangled in a car wreck; how you can get a break-up message if you make the wrong move in a relationship. I'd heard about the nightmarish things that can happen, but I didn't listen until things went awry for me personally.
I'd been texting Melynda for TWO YEARS. Things had gone well; she always responded with hilarious things and I loved it.
"Lessons are today," I'd text.
"I still don't play the piano."
"I know. HA. HA," I'd respond. "That's why we need to get you some lessons too."
"So how are you today? I haven't talked to you all week," I texted.
"We're great." I smiled because we'd had some pretty funny texting sessions over the past years. I actually looked forward to Wednesday.
As I sat there grinning, my phone beeped with that happy little jingle I'd set. I looked at the screen on my phone and blinked hard. The message made no sense. I read it twice . . . three times. "I'm a hard one to convince," the words shot out at me. "But I've decided to take you up on your offer. I want to take piano lessons. Really, I just want to meet you in person."
What??? Didn't we see each other all the time!
"HA. HA," I texted back. "Sometimes you get me rolling, Mel."
"This isn't, Mel. I didn't know how to tell you. I tried at first, but then didn't want to ruin things . . . My name is Brian and I think I'm in love with you."
It must have been a joke. After all, Mel is one funny lady. So I hurried to her house and thank God she was there. I showed her the last few texts. "Very funny, woman!" I accused. "You had me going for a whole sixty seconds. You really did."
"That's one Hell of a text session you got there, honey. Who's it with?"
"It's with you!"
Amusement lit her eyes and she started giggling. "No. What have you done now?"
I flipped open my phone again. I did it detective style, like I had a notepad and was preparing to write down some pertinent evidence. "Fine," I said. "Is this your number?" I pointed to the numbers parading on and off my screen and read them.
"Nope, sunshine. I think you've been texting the wrong person. That three is supposed to be a seven. Looks like you got yourself another piano student."
"Fine? You want to play this the hard way?" I called the number on the phone. It rang once, twice, but Mel's phone didn't ring. She held it up toward my face and I looked at her horrified. Just as someone--a man--answered the phone I hung up.
"Why do things like this always happen to me? Why?" I put my face in my hand.
She laughed so hard that I thought she'd spit out some of the diet coke she'd just drank. "Only you, my friend. Only you. That's so awk--ward." She sang the last bit and grinned. "So, what are you going to do?"
"I have to let him down easy. I'm married for crying out loud." I flipped out my phone again--my weapon of choice. "What the Hell do I say? He's been a good friend to me?"
"Tell him you're a man," she sputtered, laughing so hard.
"He sounded like a big dude. I don't want to make him mad." I started punching buttons, texting on my phone. "I'm happily married, really I am. And it's great that I've sparked your interest for playing the piano. Hopefully you can find a teacher near you--we're all the same." Then I hit send.
"Good for you. You show 'em." Mel nodded.
My phone beeped rather quickly. "I knew this was a mistake. I'll think of you every Wednesday," the words read.
"Good luck with those lessons," I texted back. "I feel like an idiot!" I said to Mel.
"It's okay, honey. On a side note, do you want my real number, just in case you feel like texting someone you know this time?"
I blushed. "Hey, take it easy. At least I inspired someone to start taking piano lessons!"
We both laughed, and I had to admit, it was great having her real number this time.
For another AMAZING post about Melynda, please go HERE.
October 29, 2012
How to be a Homeless Street Musician
As many of you know, at seventeen I ran away and became a homeless street musician in Hawaii.
It might not make sense to anyone who hasn't read my journal The Golden Sky or the prequel Bible Girl & the Bad Boy. Both books show the real reason I left Utah.
The crazy thing about this story is that I'd only known Cade for a few weeks when we became homeless. After that, we played music in front of coffee shops and diners. Every dollar . . . every cent mattered. We met amazing people, in small towns and cities, people who had more compassion than I'd guessed. Once, in a small town in Northern Arizona, I told an old man we were living in a car.
He laughed. "You don't need to lie."
It wasn't a lie though and Cade and I got a kick out of that man who loved our music and coffee so much.
After making it to California, we visited family, then earned enough in Berkley that we were able to fly to Hawaii.
This bottom picture is of us playing for tips at the airport (before 9-11-01).
The top picture is from Hawaii and the money is one of the tips we got while there--I still don't know how much it's worth.
I was so burned in the top picture.
When we'd sleep on the beach during the day,
sometimes the sun would move and I'd be so tired I wouldn't notice.
Being allergic to sunscreen can have its downfalls.
Living homeless in Hawaii wasn't always paradise. Cops constantly patrolled the streets. One time it rained, so Cade and I each squirmed under a bench to get some sleep.
My eyes closed and I rested, having vivid dreams about my past problems. Before the dream could continue, a splitting pain shot through my side and I woke up. Two cops stood over me. One had jabbed me with something he held in his right hand.
“Ouch,” I winced. As the other cop jabbed Cade, I screamed. “Stop it! Don’t hurt him.”
“Homeless scum sleep in Homeless Park,” a cop yelled. They pulled Cade and me from under the benches. Cade stood by my side protectively.
“But Homeless Park . . . I’ve heard it’s dangerous,” I whimpered.
“Well, you should’ve thought about that before you decided to sleep on the strip!”
We edged closer to the park, past a gang of massive Hawaiians who sat smoking pot, near flickering shops. The scant lights, spread beams that shifted in the rain. I held my violin close and worried about the people ahead and behind us. Once we got to the park, we slept in shifts. A hippie approached at one point, his movements drugged and greedy when he saw the violin case I clutched and Cade's guitar. But even though Cade and I stayed back to back, it was a long, scary night.
So, after that we slept on the beach during the day and then played all night for tips. We were there from February to April, almost the exact amount of time our son lived two years later.
Once (after Zeke died) an old religious woman told me Zeke died because I sinned and ran away, but I hope that's not why. Even though I know that's silly, it's amazing how words can eat at your mind over time.
We made it through one stolen guitar, a party where we played for some famous people, a moment where we almost got killed by a psycho, and much more. All that happened in a short amount of time, but through it all we got to be friends with the homeless people (some who were really rich people pretending to be homeless). We made friends with those massive Hawaiians and I fell completely in love with the stranger I'd left with.
I learned life can be fun, even if you're traveling with someone you hardly know and can only afford to eat a $0.99 burger. I learned how amazing people can be even if they're a recovering drug addict covered in dirt.
I know it sounds silly, but I was meant to be homeless in Hawaii. Even though it was hard at times, it could be rewarding and it helped me be wise enough to make it through the death of my son.
Click the cover for more info about this book, or to include it on your
Goodreads TO READ List
Release Date: 12/10/2012
It might not make sense to anyone who hasn't read my journal The Golden Sky or the prequel Bible Girl & the Bad Boy. Both books show the real reason I left Utah.
The crazy thing about this story is that I'd only known Cade for a few weeks when we became homeless. After that, we played music in front of coffee shops and diners. Every dollar . . . every cent mattered. We met amazing people, in small towns and cities, people who had more compassion than I'd guessed. Once, in a small town in Northern Arizona, I told an old man we were living in a car.
He laughed. "You don't need to lie."
It wasn't a lie though and Cade and I got a kick out of that man who loved our music and coffee so much.
After making it to California, we visited family, then earned enough in Berkley that we were able to fly to Hawaii.
This bottom picture is of us playing for tips at the airport (before 9-11-01).
The top picture is from Hawaii and the money is one of the tips we got while there--I still don't know how much it's worth.
I was so burned in the top picture.
When we'd sleep on the beach during the day,
sometimes the sun would move and I'd be so tired I wouldn't notice.
Being allergic to sunscreen can have its downfalls.
Living homeless in Hawaii wasn't always paradise. Cops constantly patrolled the streets. One time it rained, so Cade and I each squirmed under a bench to get some sleep.
My eyes closed and I rested, having vivid dreams about my past problems. Before the dream could continue, a splitting pain shot through my side and I woke up. Two cops stood over me. One had jabbed me with something he held in his right hand.
“Ouch,” I winced. As the other cop jabbed Cade, I screamed. “Stop it! Don’t hurt him.”
“Homeless scum sleep in Homeless Park,” a cop yelled. They pulled Cade and me from under the benches. Cade stood by my side protectively.
“But Homeless Park . . . I’ve heard it’s dangerous,” I whimpered.
“Well, you should’ve thought about that before you decided to sleep on the strip!”
We edged closer to the park, past a gang of massive Hawaiians who sat smoking pot, near flickering shops. The scant lights, spread beams that shifted in the rain. I held my violin close and worried about the people ahead and behind us. Once we got to the park, we slept in shifts. A hippie approached at one point, his movements drugged and greedy when he saw the violin case I clutched and Cade's guitar. But even though Cade and I stayed back to back, it was a long, scary night.
So, after that we slept on the beach during the day and then played all night for tips. We were there from February to April, almost the exact amount of time our son lived two years later.
Once (after Zeke died) an old religious woman told me Zeke died because I sinned and ran away, but I hope that's not why. Even though I know that's silly, it's amazing how words can eat at your mind over time.
We made it through one stolen guitar, a party where we played for some famous people, a moment where we almost got killed by a psycho, and much more. All that happened in a short amount of time, but through it all we got to be friends with the homeless people (some who were really rich people pretending to be homeless). We made friends with those massive Hawaiians and I fell completely in love with the stranger I'd left with.
I learned life can be fun, even if you're traveling with someone you hardly know and can only afford to eat a $0.99 burger. I learned how amazing people can be even if they're a recovering drug addict covered in dirt.
I know it sounds silly, but I was meant to be homeless in Hawaii. Even though it was hard at times, it could be rewarding and it helped me be wise enough to make it through the death of my son.
Click the cover for more info about this book, or to include it on your
Goodreads TO READ List
Release Date: 12/10/2012
October 26, 2012
Amateur or Professional?
Thanks to Wayman Publishing and Carrie Seymour for the mentions. That was so sweet!
Now, onto the post of the day.
Because . . . even werewolves like the violin.
"I'd like to buy some new strings for my violin," I told a teenager who stood behind the counter at a tiny music store. I nearly coughed from all the dust clinging to the instruments around us. But I smiled nonetheless, trying to be extra nice.
The young clerk studied everything about me, chewed a huge wad of gum, then asked condescendingly, "Amateur or Professional strings?"
#1 WHY was she chewing gum? Who cared she had rhythm even as she chewed--THAT was unprofessional.
#2 Wasn't her question a bit offensive?
"Pro . . . fes . . . sional?" I drew out the word, doubting myself.
"Really," she scoffed. "Fine then, what brand?"
Was this twenty questions? I just wanted some stupid strings to play for a gig I'd been HIRED for.
"Adurrio?" I muttered, forgetting the name because I have post-pregnancy brain--always.
She laughed so hard she bent from the exertion. "Correction. D'addario. That's the kind my teacher uses." She turned and grabbed a pack while whispering, "Amateur."
I wanted to grab a dusty violin from the wall and show that CHILD a thing or two. I became a professional when she was still poo'n in diapers! I became a professional--who didn't have to worry about nice strings making me sound good. I know this might sound conceited, but playing the violin is one thing I'm good at. In high school I didn't feel worth much. I was usually self-conscious and nervous. But when I played my violin, people saw me differently. I made friends and guys asked me out. It was as if my soul finally came through the music and kids thought I had value--for once.
I blinked, staring at the girl who held out amateur strings for me to buy. I could have shown her up, and made her feel like crap, I really could have. But instead, I let her have her moment and I walked from the store.
When I got home, I strung my violin, went outside and played a haunting song in my backyard. The birds stopped singing and just listened. A tall farmer who lives behind me quit whistling. The world stirred and all the delicate things in nature danced within the music of those amateur strings. When I finished, the farmer clapped. He yelled from over the fence, "You're the best fiddler I've ever heard of. And to think, people wouldn't guess unless they knew."
"Thanks, Mike. That's the beauty of it though. It's my secret." His recognition felt nice. I wondered for a moment why I hadn't proven myself to that teenage clerk. The answer came almost as quickly as the question . . . because I'd finally found a bit of worth inside myself, and it hadn't come from people saying how great I am at the violin.
Now, onto the post of the day.
Because . . . even werewolves like the violin.
"I'd like to buy some new strings for my violin," I told a teenager who stood behind the counter at a tiny music store. I nearly coughed from all the dust clinging to the instruments around us. But I smiled nonetheless, trying to be extra nice.
The young clerk studied everything about me, chewed a huge wad of gum, then asked condescendingly, "Amateur or Professional strings?"
#1 WHY was she chewing gum? Who cared she had rhythm even as she chewed--THAT was unprofessional.
#2 Wasn't her question a bit offensive?
"Pro . . . fes . . . sional?" I drew out the word, doubting myself.
"Really," she scoffed. "Fine then, what brand?"
Was this twenty questions? I just wanted some stupid strings to play for a gig I'd been HIRED for.
"Adurrio?" I muttered, forgetting the name because I have post-pregnancy brain--always.
She laughed so hard she bent from the exertion. "Correction. D'addario. That's the kind my teacher uses." She turned and grabbed a pack while whispering, "Amateur."
I wanted to grab a dusty violin from the wall and show that CHILD a thing or two. I became a professional when she was still poo'n in diapers! I became a professional--who didn't have to worry about nice strings making me sound good. I know this might sound conceited, but playing the violin is one thing I'm good at. In high school I didn't feel worth much. I was usually self-conscious and nervous. But when I played my violin, people saw me differently. I made friends and guys asked me out. It was as if my soul finally came through the music and kids thought I had value--for once.
I blinked, staring at the girl who held out amateur strings for me to buy. I could have shown her up, and made her feel like crap, I really could have. But instead, I let her have her moment and I walked from the store.
When I got home, I strung my violin, went outside and played a haunting song in my backyard. The birds stopped singing and just listened. A tall farmer who lives behind me quit whistling. The world stirred and all the delicate things in nature danced within the music of those amateur strings. When I finished, the farmer clapped. He yelled from over the fence, "You're the best fiddler I've ever heard of. And to think, people wouldn't guess unless they knew."
"Thanks, Mike. That's the beauty of it though. It's my secret." His recognition felt nice. I wondered for a moment why I hadn't proven myself to that teenage clerk. The answer came almost as quickly as the question . . . because I'd finally found a bit of worth inside myself, and it hadn't come from people saying how great I am at the violin.
October 25, 2012
Pictures of When I Was a Model
I’m twenty-nine; let’s just get that out of the way. I was eighteen when I had The Scribe. Yes, I got pregnant while homeless in Hawaii and NO, don’t ask! That story is coming out in December anyway.
Zeke died when I was nineteen. I had The Hippie at twenty-one. Needless to say, I grew up young and over the years I've had several different jobs trying to make money until settling into writing.
When Zeke fought in the hospital, I became extremely depressed, cut off my hair and dyed it black-cherry. Then after Zeke died I started modeling and even modeled for a swimsuit calendar--not my finest moment. You can read more about that in The Gol den Sky .
This is me over eight years ago:
This is me now:
Well, a few years ago, I decided to try modeling again, get gigs playing the violin IF I made it through the interviews and lines of people. In the past though, I’d go to an audition and not get anywhere. It was just worth it for those few times when I got the well-paying job.
I went back to the agency I used to be with and hoped they'd rehire me.
Please note: This isn't my current body OR my face. Darn it! That face is worth money!
Now keep in mind, I modeled when I was much younger. Dozens of people sat in the waiting area. The girls were gorgeous, the men chiseled from stone.
A lady sat at the desk. She’s five years older than me, and modeled once. I know because she’d been put out to pasture right before I started modeling.
“I haven’t seen you in years,” she said. She’s over six-feet tall and had to bend down to hug me.
Years? It had been A FEW years, not that many in my eyes. “I know, it’s been a long time . . .” I shuffled my feet. It’s embarrassing, asking for work and I felt totally out of place in an agency like that. All those people in the waiting area heard me. I glanced down, a bit happy I’d brought The Scribe and The Hippie with me. I whispered, “Do you think you’d have any modeling jobs for an old violinist friend? It would be fun to get some extra gigs.”
Her lips drooped--even though I was twenty-six at the time. “Elisa, I don’t know how to tell you, but you’re getting older. You’ll be competing against teenagers.” She motioned toward the waiting area. My heart sank. It dropped into my butt, then my knees. I looked over and a young girl set her magazine in her lap and waved at me. I wanted to stick my tongue out.
“Did you see that?” I whispered to the receptionist. “Did you see that girl wave?”
“Oh, tell me about it,” she whispered. “She’ll never go anywhere with that attitude. She’s already been in three times this week, asking for work. I gave it to other people instead. We don’t need her giving us a bad name. I don‘t know why we chose to represent her in the first place. She even tried hitting on my boyfriend.”
“You’re still dating the owner?” I whispered. She nodded and flashed the ring on her finger. “Congratulations . . . that is so exciting!” I squealed.
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said. “If you were younger, I’d take you in a heartbeat. You know I would.”
I looked at the pictures on the wall--a place my picture had been years before. Were they hiring teenage babies to model for them now? I gasped, they were! They were hiring babies--with boobs! “Okay, I understand. It was so nice to see you though.” I turned to walk out the door, when the receptionist suddenly stopped us.
“But . . . These are your girls, right?” She pulled a measuring tape out of thin air. “These are your girls. Look at them! I remember when this one was barely walking.” She tapped The Scribe on the head. “Can they play the violin?”
“Sure we can,” The Hippie said in a five-year-old voice.
“Yep,” I agreed, “well it was nice seeing--”
“You can’t leave. I need to take their measurements. Now, how old are they?” She pulled us into a room and shut the door as she asked question after question.
After that the owner of the agency came in. He held a clipboard in his hand, grabbed a pen from the collar of his shirt and clicked it into obedience.
“Elisa,” his eyes never met mine, “how have you been?”
“Pretty good.”
“I see you had another one after your . . . a . . . son . . . Passed.” Zeke. “I’ll never forget that shoot in the swamp.”
“Me either.” It wasn’t the best of memories. The mosquitoes had loved me that day.”
“All right girls, can you remember some lines?”
My girls looked at each other. One nodded and the other shook her head ‘no.’ As he continued talking to them, I craned my neck and looked at the paper he held. It had the girls’ measurements, how they compared to children their age. Notes about what they’d said, how’d they’d acted. If they seemed well behaved. Any concerns about their height and weight.
Suddenly the owner tapped his clipboard and said, “Elisa, can you come into the hall? I need to talk to you.”
I followed him and he shut the door. He talked very softly. “Now, I’m only interested in one of your girls. They’re both beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but one of them has more of what we’re looking for.”
“Well, why can’t you just take both of them?”
“You know we can’t do that.”
I bit my lip. “And what would I tell the kid who didn’t make it?”
“Just tell her the truth. She’s not meant to be a model. It’s just not in her cards. Plus, she doesn’t have the “it” factor I need.”
“Oh, really . . .” I opened the door and asked for the kids to come out. “Thanks for your time, but no thanks,” I said, not even asking which girl he had interest in.
When we trudged from the office, I felt dirty for being there. I sprinted from the building, took a deep breath and sighed. It seemed like a different world in that building, where nothing matters except how much money you can make them. I still can’t believe their callous reactions. Isn’t it crazy how people can judge worth just by a scale, a measuring tape and few stupid questions?! They had no idea, what both my girls are capable of. I couldn’t believe they’d just picked one.
So, I got put out to pasture, sure it stung, but maybe the pasture isn’t all that bad. It seems like I learned more that day than I would have otherwise. It was interesting watching them judge my kids. It makes me wonder what God thinks of us and the silly things we do. He sees us all as amazing, wonderful people--just how I look at my kids. It’s neat thinking about God like that. To me, it makes life feel brighter, like I can make it through anything. I guess that’s the feeling of true, unconditional love. The kind of love God has for each one of us--even if we’ve been put out to pasture!
For info about my books, please visit my author page HERE .
Zeke died when I was nineteen. I had The Hippie at twenty-one. Needless to say, I grew up young and over the years I've had several different jobs trying to make money until settling into writing.
When Zeke fought in the hospital, I became extremely depressed, cut off my hair and dyed it black-cherry. Then after Zeke died I started modeling and even modeled for a swimsuit calendar--not my finest moment. You can read more about that in The Gol den Sky .
This is me over eight years ago:
This is me now:
Well, a few years ago, I decided to try modeling again, get gigs playing the violin IF I made it through the interviews and lines of people. In the past though, I’d go to an audition and not get anywhere. It was just worth it for those few times when I got the well-paying job.
I went back to the agency I used to be with and hoped they'd rehire me.
Please note: This isn't my current body OR my face. Darn it! That face is worth money!
Now keep in mind, I modeled when I was much younger. Dozens of people sat in the waiting area. The girls were gorgeous, the men chiseled from stone.
A lady sat at the desk. She’s five years older than me, and modeled once. I know because she’d been put out to pasture right before I started modeling.
“I haven’t seen you in years,” she said. She’s over six-feet tall and had to bend down to hug me.
Years? It had been A FEW years, not that many in my eyes. “I know, it’s been a long time . . .” I shuffled my feet. It’s embarrassing, asking for work and I felt totally out of place in an agency like that. All those people in the waiting area heard me. I glanced down, a bit happy I’d brought The Scribe and The Hippie with me. I whispered, “Do you think you’d have any modeling jobs for an old violinist friend? It would be fun to get some extra gigs.”
Her lips drooped--even though I was twenty-six at the time. “Elisa, I don’t know how to tell you, but you’re getting older. You’ll be competing against teenagers.” She motioned toward the waiting area. My heart sank. It dropped into my butt, then my knees. I looked over and a young girl set her magazine in her lap and waved at me. I wanted to stick my tongue out.
“Did you see that?” I whispered to the receptionist. “Did you see that girl wave?”
“Oh, tell me about it,” she whispered. “She’ll never go anywhere with that attitude. She’s already been in three times this week, asking for work. I gave it to other people instead. We don’t need her giving us a bad name. I don‘t know why we chose to represent her in the first place. She even tried hitting on my boyfriend.”
“You’re still dating the owner?” I whispered. She nodded and flashed the ring on her finger. “Congratulations . . . that is so exciting!” I squealed.
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said. “If you were younger, I’d take you in a heartbeat. You know I would.”
I looked at the pictures on the wall--a place my picture had been years before. Were they hiring teenage babies to model for them now? I gasped, they were! They were hiring babies--with boobs! “Okay, I understand. It was so nice to see you though.” I turned to walk out the door, when the receptionist suddenly stopped us.
“But . . . These are your girls, right?” She pulled a measuring tape out of thin air. “These are your girls. Look at them! I remember when this one was barely walking.” She tapped The Scribe on the head. “Can they play the violin?”
“Sure we can,” The Hippie said in a five-year-old voice.
“Yep,” I agreed, “well it was nice seeing--”
“You can’t leave. I need to take their measurements. Now, how old are they?” She pulled us into a room and shut the door as she asked question after question.
After that the owner of the agency came in. He held a clipboard in his hand, grabbed a pen from the collar of his shirt and clicked it into obedience.
“Elisa,” his eyes never met mine, “how have you been?”
“Pretty good.”
“I see you had another one after your . . . a . . . son . . . Passed.” Zeke. “I’ll never forget that shoot in the swamp.”
“Me either.” It wasn’t the best of memories. The mosquitoes had loved me that day.”
“All right girls, can you remember some lines?”
My girls looked at each other. One nodded and the other shook her head ‘no.’ As he continued talking to them, I craned my neck and looked at the paper he held. It had the girls’ measurements, how they compared to children their age. Notes about what they’d said, how’d they’d acted. If they seemed well behaved. Any concerns about their height and weight.
Suddenly the owner tapped his clipboard and said, “Elisa, can you come into the hall? I need to talk to you.”
I followed him and he shut the door. He talked very softly. “Now, I’m only interested in one of your girls. They’re both beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but one of them has more of what we’re looking for.”
“Well, why can’t you just take both of them?”
“You know we can’t do that.”
I bit my lip. “And what would I tell the kid who didn’t make it?”
“Just tell her the truth. She’s not meant to be a model. It’s just not in her cards. Plus, she doesn’t have the “it” factor I need.”
“Oh, really . . .” I opened the door and asked for the kids to come out. “Thanks for your time, but no thanks,” I said, not even asking which girl he had interest in.
When we trudged from the office, I felt dirty for being there. I sprinted from the building, took a deep breath and sighed. It seemed like a different world in that building, where nothing matters except how much money you can make them. I still can’t believe their callous reactions. Isn’t it crazy how people can judge worth just by a scale, a measuring tape and few stupid questions?! They had no idea, what both my girls are capable of. I couldn’t believe they’d just picked one.
So, I got put out to pasture, sure it stung, but maybe the pasture isn’t all that bad. It seems like I learned more that day than I would have otherwise. It was interesting watching them judge my kids. It makes me wonder what God thinks of us and the silly things we do. He sees us all as amazing, wonderful people--just how I look at my kids. It’s neat thinking about God like that. To me, it makes life feel brighter, like I can make it through anything. I guess that’s the feeling of true, unconditional love. The kind of love God has for each one of us--even if we’ve been put out to pasture!
For info about my books, please visit my author page HERE .
