Barbara Silkstone's Blog, page 12
February 13, 2012
Indie Chick - Cheryl Bradshaw
Cheryl Bradshaw
Just Me and James Dean…by Cheryl Bradshaw
When I was a little girl I used to make up stories atbedtime for my younger sister, Michelle. The most vivid centered on a boy and agirl who received a piece of gum for Halloween in their trick-or-treat bag, andwhen they chewed it, they were transported to a magical land where they weregranted unlimited wishes. Even at such ayoung age, the process of concocting stories was effortless. My mind revolved like the reel of a moviespinning inside my head.
I spent many hours daydreaming as a child. Back then everything was as beautiful andwhite as a freshly painted fence. Ifantasized about the day I would get married, the children I would have, thehouse I would own, and the life I would live when I was all grown up.
When I was a teenager,my mind still swirled with girlish hopes and dreams. I remember lying on my bed in my room staringat a poster on my wall of James Dean. Hewas hunkered down on the seat of a motorcycle, and Marilyn Monroe was perchedbehind him with her arms wrapped around his waist, and her head resting on hisshoulder. I wanted to jump into theposter like the girl in A-Ha's Take on Mevideo and ride off into life's highway, just me and James. Together, forever.
When I became an adult and moved out on my own to attendcollege at the tender age of eighteen, I thought I had my whole world figuredout. I'd developed a slight obsessionwith Agatha Christie and knew mysteries and thrillers were the perfect genrefor me as a writer. All kinds of ideasflowed for the first novel, and I thought I was on my way. There was just one problem: I never startedwriting.
Why?
I wasn't prepared for the events that were about to takeplace in my life or how they would affect my journey. Life didn't turn out to be the dream Ithought it would be, and I struggled—a lot, and faced challenges and trialsthat at times seemed more than I could bear. My relationships didn't always work out, and all the babies I hoped tohave didn't come like I'd planned. There were times when I felt like my life waslike a shattered mirror, and I was on my hands and knees desperately searchingfor all the pieces of myself so I could glue them back together and feel wholeagain. During those times I wondered howmany other women out there in the world felt the same exact way.
Time went on and I struggled, but eventually I picked myselfback up and I healed. With a new leaseon life and a positive attitude about what I'd overcome, I thought aboutwriting again. In 2009 I wrote Black Diamond Death, the first novel inmy Sloane Monroe series. Sinnerman followed six months later andnow I'm hard at work on the third, I Havea Secret.
As I sit here and write this, I'm shocked that I am being socandid. Normally, I safeguard myfeelings. To say I'm a private person isan understatement, but I feel compelled to get this out. My message in all of this is to never losesight of your hopes and dreams. Neverforget who you are, where you came from, and what you are capable ofaccomplishing in your life. And if youhave a passion, foster it with everything you have inside you. Let it shine. Let it breathe. Let it be.
When I pondered about the dedication I would use for Sinnerman, my direction was clear and Iwrote the following:
Thisbook is dedicated to anyone who's ever had a dream. We have but one life, andone opportunity to live it. Make itlast, make it count, and make it the best it can be. Live your dreams, I know I am.
Today, I'm no longer waiting for James Dean to ride up onhis shiny black motorcycle. I've fallenfor a different kind of boy now, one who dreams of wide open spaces and asimple life. One who wants to be acowboy when he grows up. Now the posterI see in my visions is one of man hoisting me up on the back of his trustysteed while we ride away together into the Wyoming sunset.
If you asked me ten years ago if this was the life I thoughtI wanted, my answer might have been no, but if you asked me today I would sayI'm right where I'm supposed to be. Mylife isn't perfect, the challenges are still there, and I still have a lot tolearn about myself. But no matter whatthe future holds for me, I know one thing for sure: I'll never stop writing.
*******
This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 PersonalStories available on Amazonand Barnes& Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.
*******
Email: cherylbradshawbooks@yahoo.com
Web: cherylbradshaw.com
Blog forReaders: cherylbradshawbooks.blogspot.com
Blog forWriters: unearththeclues.blogspot.com
Cheryl's book's on Amazon:
Black DiamondDeath: Buy it today at Amazon
Sinnerman: Buyit today at Amazon
Whispers ofMurder (Novella): Amazon
Black Diamond Death (Sloane Monroe Series—Book One)
Sinnerman (Sloane Monroe Series—Book Two)
Whispers of Murder (A Novella)
Twitter
Facebook
Thank you Cheryl for yet another inspiring Indie Chick story.
Cheryl BradshawJust Me and James Dean…by Cheryl Bradshaw
When I was a little girl I used to make up stories atbedtime for my younger sister, Michelle. The most vivid centered on a boy and agirl who received a piece of gum for Halloween in their trick-or-treat bag, andwhen they chewed it, they were transported to a magical land where they weregranted unlimited wishes. Even at such ayoung age, the process of concocting stories was effortless. My mind revolved like the reel of a moviespinning inside my head.
I spent many hours daydreaming as a child. Back then everything was as beautiful andwhite as a freshly painted fence. Ifantasized about the day I would get married, the children I would have, thehouse I would own, and the life I would live when I was all grown up.
When I was a teenager,my mind still swirled with girlish hopes and dreams. I remember lying on my bed in my room staringat a poster on my wall of James Dean. Hewas hunkered down on the seat of a motorcycle, and Marilyn Monroe was perchedbehind him with her arms wrapped around his waist, and her head resting on hisshoulder. I wanted to jump into theposter like the girl in A-Ha's Take on Mevideo and ride off into life's highway, just me and James. Together, forever.
When I became an adult and moved out on my own to attendcollege at the tender age of eighteen, I thought I had my whole world figuredout. I'd developed a slight obsessionwith Agatha Christie and knew mysteries and thrillers were the perfect genrefor me as a writer. All kinds of ideasflowed for the first novel, and I thought I was on my way. There was just one problem: I never startedwriting.
Why?
I wasn't prepared for the events that were about to takeplace in my life or how they would affect my journey. Life didn't turn out to be the dream Ithought it would be, and I struggled—a lot, and faced challenges and trialsthat at times seemed more than I could bear. My relationships didn't always work out, and all the babies I hoped tohave didn't come like I'd planned. There were times when I felt like my life waslike a shattered mirror, and I was on my hands and knees desperately searchingfor all the pieces of myself so I could glue them back together and feel wholeagain. During those times I wondered howmany other women out there in the world felt the same exact way.
Time went on and I struggled, but eventually I picked myselfback up and I healed. With a new leaseon life and a positive attitude about what I'd overcome, I thought aboutwriting again. In 2009 I wrote Black Diamond Death, the first novel inmy Sloane Monroe series. Sinnerman followed six months later andnow I'm hard at work on the third, I Havea Secret.
As I sit here and write this, I'm shocked that I am being socandid. Normally, I safeguard myfeelings. To say I'm a private person isan understatement, but I feel compelled to get this out. My message in all of this is to never losesight of your hopes and dreams. Neverforget who you are, where you came from, and what you are capable ofaccomplishing in your life. And if youhave a passion, foster it with everything you have inside you. Let it shine. Let it breathe. Let it be.
When I pondered about the dedication I would use for Sinnerman, my direction was clear and Iwrote the following:
Thisbook is dedicated to anyone who's ever had a dream. We have but one life, andone opportunity to live it. Make itlast, make it count, and make it the best it can be. Live your dreams, I know I am.
Today, I'm no longer waiting for James Dean to ride up onhis shiny black motorcycle. I've fallenfor a different kind of boy now, one who dreams of wide open spaces and asimple life. One who wants to be acowboy when he grows up. Now the posterI see in my visions is one of man hoisting me up on the back of his trustysteed while we ride away together into the Wyoming sunset.
If you asked me ten years ago if this was the life I thoughtI wanted, my answer might have been no, but if you asked me today I would sayI'm right where I'm supposed to be. Mylife isn't perfect, the challenges are still there, and I still have a lot tolearn about myself. But no matter whatthe future holds for me, I know one thing for sure: I'll never stop writing.
*******
This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 PersonalStories available on Amazonand Barnes& Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.
*******
Email: cherylbradshawbooks@yahoo.com
Web: cherylbradshaw.com
Blog forReaders: cherylbradshawbooks.blogspot.com
Blog forWriters: unearththeclues.blogspot.com
Cheryl's book's on Amazon:
Black DiamondDeath: Buy it today at Amazon
Sinnerman: Buyit today at Amazon
Whispers ofMurder (Novella): Amazon
Black Diamond Death (Sloane Monroe Series—Book One)
Sinnerman (Sloane Monroe Series—Book Two)
Whispers of Murder (A Novella)
Thank you Cheryl for yet another inspiring Indie Chick story.
February 6, 2012
Indie Chick Dani Amore
The Indie Chicks Strike Again!
Dani Amore
WRITING FROM A FLOUR SACK
by
Dani Amore
Fact: Iwas born on a bathroom floor. Literally. My arrival into this worldwas followed seconds later by an unceremonious drop onto the cold tile of St.John's Hospital in Detroit, Michigan.
You see, I was the fifth out of six children. My mother knew my delivery would be fast, butthe nurse at the hospital insisted she go to the bathroom before the doctorarrived.
Later, after the drama and I was pronounced healthy, mymother told the doctor that the nurse should have listened to her, that she hadwarned the nurse that the baby (me) was going to arrive any second. That, having already delivered four children,she knew her body pretty well.
The doctor said, "Five kids, huh? Maybe you should tell your husband to keep itin his pants."
True story.
***
Both of my parents were born in Italy. They emigrated to the U.S. in the 1950s. My father always said the biggest differencebetween Italy and America at that time was that you could work your ass off inItaly and have nothing to show for it. If you worked hard in America, you could eventually become wealthy. He started a construction company and worked6 days a week, from dawn to dusk. Eventually, he was successful.
My mother raised six children.
She is a strong woman.
Both she and my father share a love of aphorisms.
The one I remember most? "A well-made flour sack stands on its own."
It was almost like a mantra with her.
At a key point in my writing life, that phrase came in handy.
***
So there I am. I'vegot a full-time job in advertising. I'mwriting about products that suck, working for people I can't stand, and withtwo good friends, drinking every night after work. At a little bar not far from the office. I'm averaging about five or six drinks anight. Every weeknight. More on the weekends.
But on those weekend mornings, I'm writing fiction. Just short stories that I try to picture inThe Paris Review.
Everything gets rejected with remarkable efficiency.
One night, probably half in the bag, I come across THE DAYOF THE JACKAL on television. Theoriginal movie is pretty campy and the remake with Bruce Willis is a pure loadof crap. But the book. The novel by Frederick Forsyth is one of myall-time favorites.
The scene on television is the best part of the movie: It's where the Jackal is sighting in hisrifle. He paints a little face on asmall melon, then blows it apart from 500 yards away.
There's no epiphany. I go to bed. But as I toss andturn, vodka fumes in a cloud around my pillow, I think about the narrativestructure of the story. I've read thebook several times. Even have acollector's edition. The chase. The tension. The violence.
When I wake up the next morning, I make an especially strongpot of coffee. I push aside my shortliterary fiction, and start a new story.
It's about a hitman and a female escort.
Later that day, during some interminable meeting whereeveryone is throwing out insidious phrases like "let's get on the same page,"and "think outside the box," I realized what I was doing.
I was writing to please others, instead of focusing on thekind of stories and books I like.
Crime fiction. Thrillers. Suspense.
I had forgotten one of my mother's cardinal rules.
A well-made flour sack stands on its own.
***
I know it sounds melodramatic. But the truth is, everything changed afterthat night. I still despised theadvertising industry, but I no longer let it bother me so much. I begged off going to the bar with myfriends, instead choosing to work out and then get some writing done in theevenings.
Eventually, I finished several crime novels. Even landed a big New York literary agent.
But a funny thing happened. My agent, and publishers, seemed to have endless debates about how tomarket me. Should I be a hardboiledcrime novelist? A thriller writer? A traditional mystery author?
There were suggestions to change this book and change thatone. Then change it back. Then change it to something else.
But now I had learned. I was smarter.
I told them thanks, but no thanks.
It was time to stand up and be the writer I wanted to be.
So I became an indie author.
And when my first book became a Top 10 Mystery on Amazon, Iknew I had made the right decision.
Never underestimate the power of an Italian mother armedwith an aphorism.
Dani's Books on Amazon:
DeathBy Sarcasm
DeadWood
TheKilling League
ToFind A Mountain
I recently read Death by Sarcasm. What a read! All I could think was I would never want to get on the wrong side of the heroine, Mary Cooper. But I sure would want her riding shot gun with me.
Barbara
To learn more about Dani, visit her at http://www.daniamore.com
Dani AmoreWRITING FROM A FLOUR SACK
by
Dani Amore
Fact: Iwas born on a bathroom floor. Literally. My arrival into this worldwas followed seconds later by an unceremonious drop onto the cold tile of St.John's Hospital in Detroit, Michigan.
You see, I was the fifth out of six children. My mother knew my delivery would be fast, butthe nurse at the hospital insisted she go to the bathroom before the doctorarrived.
Later, after the drama and I was pronounced healthy, mymother told the doctor that the nurse should have listened to her, that she hadwarned the nurse that the baby (me) was going to arrive any second. That, having already delivered four children,she knew her body pretty well.
The doctor said, "Five kids, huh? Maybe you should tell your husband to keep itin his pants."
True story.
***
Both of my parents were born in Italy. They emigrated to the U.S. in the 1950s. My father always said the biggest differencebetween Italy and America at that time was that you could work your ass off inItaly and have nothing to show for it. If you worked hard in America, you could eventually become wealthy. He started a construction company and worked6 days a week, from dawn to dusk. Eventually, he was successful.
My mother raised six children.
She is a strong woman.
Both she and my father share a love of aphorisms.
The one I remember most? "A well-made flour sack stands on its own."
It was almost like a mantra with her.
At a key point in my writing life, that phrase came in handy.
***
So there I am. I'vegot a full-time job in advertising. I'mwriting about products that suck, working for people I can't stand, and withtwo good friends, drinking every night after work. At a little bar not far from the office. I'm averaging about five or six drinks anight. Every weeknight. More on the weekends.
But on those weekend mornings, I'm writing fiction. Just short stories that I try to picture inThe Paris Review.
Everything gets rejected with remarkable efficiency.
One night, probably half in the bag, I come across THE DAYOF THE JACKAL on television. Theoriginal movie is pretty campy and the remake with Bruce Willis is a pure loadof crap. But the book. The novel by Frederick Forsyth is one of myall-time favorites.
The scene on television is the best part of the movie: It's where the Jackal is sighting in hisrifle. He paints a little face on asmall melon, then blows it apart from 500 yards away.
There's no epiphany. I go to bed. But as I toss andturn, vodka fumes in a cloud around my pillow, I think about the narrativestructure of the story. I've read thebook several times. Even have acollector's edition. The chase. The tension. The violence.
When I wake up the next morning, I make an especially strongpot of coffee. I push aside my shortliterary fiction, and start a new story.
It's about a hitman and a female escort.
Later that day, during some interminable meeting whereeveryone is throwing out insidious phrases like "let's get on the same page,"and "think outside the box," I realized what I was doing.
I was writing to please others, instead of focusing on thekind of stories and books I like.
Crime fiction. Thrillers. Suspense.
I had forgotten one of my mother's cardinal rules.
A well-made flour sack stands on its own.
***
I know it sounds melodramatic. But the truth is, everything changed afterthat night. I still despised theadvertising industry, but I no longer let it bother me so much. I begged off going to the bar with myfriends, instead choosing to work out and then get some writing done in theevenings.
Eventually, I finished several crime novels. Even landed a big New York literary agent.
But a funny thing happened. My agent, and publishers, seemed to have endless debates about how tomarket me. Should I be a hardboiledcrime novelist? A thriller writer? A traditional mystery author?
There were suggestions to change this book and change thatone. Then change it back. Then change it to something else.
But now I had learned. I was smarter.
I told them thanks, but no thanks.
It was time to stand up and be the writer I wanted to be.
So I became an indie author.
And when my first book became a Top 10 Mystery on Amazon, Iknew I had made the right decision.
Never underestimate the power of an Italian mother armedwith an aphorism.
Dani's Books on Amazon:
DeathBy Sarcasm
DeadWood
TheKilling League
ToFind A Mountain
I recently read Death by Sarcasm. What a read! All I could think was I would never want to get on the wrong side of the heroine, Mary Cooper. But I sure would want her riding shot gun with me.
Barbara
To learn more about Dani, visit her at http://www.daniamore.com
January 17, 2012
The Time Heiress
On Amazon
The Time Heiress
by Georgina Young-Ellis
Brace yourself for another trip back in time. I was stunned by my journey into Jane Austen's England in Young-Ellis amazing novel, The Time Baroness. On this second adventure Dr. Cassandra Reilly agrees to return through the portal to the days preceding the Civil War. The Underground Railroad was a time of heroes and human traffickers. Young-Ellis sets her readers in the middle of the action and does not let up. The sights, sounds, and even the emotions of the time surround and engulf us. This is a book you will not easily forget. The Time Heiress is a way of looking back at how far we've come and how we traveled a portion of that dangerous journey. Highly Recommended.~Georgina Young-Ellis is the best selling author of The Time Baroness. Dr. Cassandra Reilly's first adventure in time travel. This highly acclaimed novel sets the reader in Regency England.
On Amazon
December 7, 2011
London Broil
The sequel to Wendy and the Lost Boys was released on December 6th.
Thank you to all my fans and friends! The response has been wonderful.
A little excerpt:
I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious, but when I awoke I really had to pee. My wrists were bound in front of me with plastic strips cutting into my flesh. The strips weren’t real Flex-Cuffs. They were more like flimsy garbage bag ties. The room was moving round me. When it finally slowed, I focused on the face of Dame Judi Dench and then a second Dame Judi. It was enough to make me forget about my bladder. There were two kidnappers with me, both wearing masks. One Judi wore a pinstripe brown suit and was at least fifty pounds overweight; the other wore khaki shorts and had skinny knees like a baby elephant and ears to match. I jumped to my feet shrieking at them. “Algy Green, I’d recognize you anywhere! And Nobby Seemore? Idiots! Take off the masks! Let me go you fools.” I was looking at a matched set of morons. I rubbed my face. “I must have ‘kidnap me’ stamped on my forehead, or are you all members of some eccentric kidnappers’ cult?” Algy walked toward me with his hands on his hips. “Keep it down. Nobby may look like a side of beef, but he can be lethal. So just watch your mouth, missy!” They took off their masks, powder fluming from both heads. “Is that hair thing genetic?” I asked as I nodded at the clouds around their noggins. “No… it’s just talcum powder.” Nobby grabbed me and pushed me back into the wooden kitchen chair. “We’re experienced at interrogation and will torture you if we have to. If you want to leave here with all your fingernails, you’ll tell us what you know about the Lost Boy. “My fingernails are acrylic. They pop off.” The kidnappers looked at each other. “We’ll think of something else. I’m warning you Nobby’s a sociopath.” Algy nodded his head at the tub of lard trying to look dangerous. “How do you even know what a sociopath is?” “Psychology is my hobby. I took a correspondence course. I’m rather good at it. Like I could tell from our first meeting you were attracted to me.” If my hands had been free, I’d have wrung my face, but I smiled on the inside. This was going to be easy-peasy. I checked out the surroundings. We were in a seedy flat with a pull-down bed and a tin kitchen table with three mismatched chairs. A roach scrambled across the floor. “If you don’t talk, we’ll hold you hostage until that archaeologist brings us the thirteenth Boy.” “This dump is unacceptable! Couldn’t you find a nicer place to hold me hostage? You’re in violation of the Geneva Convention.” Nobby looked around as if seeing the place for the first time. “Sorry. We rented it by the day. It was all we could afford.” “I’ve been held hostage for weeks on a super-yacht with gourmet food. This slum is the best you can do? Untie me or I’ll … well it won’t be pleasant. I have friends in high places.” I struggled with the plastic bindings that held my wrists together. The room was hot, airless, and aromatic “Wait! I smell fish ‘n’ chips!” I said jumping from my seat. Nobby snapped, “Shut up, Goldilocks, or I’ll stuff a sock in your mouth.” Algy and I both did a double take as Nobby tried to talk thug. I laughed. “I’ll bet you don’t own a sock.” I managed to poke his chest with one finger. “And don’t you touch me again, you bloody ape.” “That’s not very nice. You don’t know me well enough to call me names,” Nobby said. Algy’s ears flapped as he forced me back onto the chair. “You forgot to superglue your ears.” He pushed my chair over, and my head hit the slimy floor. I scrambled to stand up. I was so woozy, I almost passed out – not just from hitting my head and whatever they used to knock me out, but it was oven-hot in the tiny room. Not a fan or an open window. If it was over one hundred degrees on the street, it had to be twenty more in the flat. I took a deep breath to clear the cobwebs. “Look guys… I don’t know where the Lost Boy is. But I’m to check in with Roger at exactly… what time is it?” Nobby looked at his watch. “Ten minutes after twelve.” “Thanks. At exactly ten minutes after twelve. He is going to tell me where the Lost Boy is. Hand me my purse. I’ll call him.” They looked at each other and shrugged. Algy lifted my purse from the floor and handed it to me. “How about cutting these bracelets off so I can reach my phone?” “Nope.” Algy gave his head a quick shake, causing his ears to flap. “I’ll get your phone out.” I tugged the bag away. “Get your germy hands off!”
~
Thank you to all my fans and friends! The response has been wonderful.
A little excerpt:
I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious, but when I awoke I really had to pee. My wrists were bound in front of me with plastic strips cutting into my flesh. The strips weren’t real Flex-Cuffs. They were more like flimsy garbage bag ties. The room was moving round me. When it finally slowed, I focused on the face of Dame Judi Dench and then a second Dame Judi. It was enough to make me forget about my bladder. There were two kidnappers with me, both wearing masks. One Judi wore a pinstripe brown suit and was at least fifty pounds overweight; the other wore khaki shorts and had skinny knees like a baby elephant and ears to match. I jumped to my feet shrieking at them. “Algy Green, I’d recognize you anywhere! And Nobby Seemore? Idiots! Take off the masks! Let me go you fools.” I was looking at a matched set of morons. I rubbed my face. “I must have ‘kidnap me’ stamped on my forehead, or are you all members of some eccentric kidnappers’ cult?” Algy walked toward me with his hands on his hips. “Keep it down. Nobby may look like a side of beef, but he can be lethal. So just watch your mouth, missy!” They took off their masks, powder fluming from both heads. “Is that hair thing genetic?” I asked as I nodded at the clouds around their noggins. “No… it’s just talcum powder.” Nobby grabbed me and pushed me back into the wooden kitchen chair. “We’re experienced at interrogation and will torture you if we have to. If you want to leave here with all your fingernails, you’ll tell us what you know about the Lost Boy. “My fingernails are acrylic. They pop off.” The kidnappers looked at each other. “We’ll think of something else. I’m warning you Nobby’s a sociopath.” Algy nodded his head at the tub of lard trying to look dangerous. “How do you even know what a sociopath is?” “Psychology is my hobby. I took a correspondence course. I’m rather good at it. Like I could tell from our first meeting you were attracted to me.” If my hands had been free, I’d have wrung my face, but I smiled on the inside. This was going to be easy-peasy. I checked out the surroundings. We were in a seedy flat with a pull-down bed and a tin kitchen table with three mismatched chairs. A roach scrambled across the floor. “If you don’t talk, we’ll hold you hostage until that archaeologist brings us the thirteenth Boy.” “This dump is unacceptable! Couldn’t you find a nicer place to hold me hostage? You’re in violation of the Geneva Convention.” Nobby looked around as if seeing the place for the first time. “Sorry. We rented it by the day. It was all we could afford.” “I’ve been held hostage for weeks on a super-yacht with gourmet food. This slum is the best you can do? Untie me or I’ll … well it won’t be pleasant. I have friends in high places.” I struggled with the plastic bindings that held my wrists together. The room was hot, airless, and aromatic “Wait! I smell fish ‘n’ chips!” I said jumping from my seat. Nobby snapped, “Shut up, Goldilocks, or I’ll stuff a sock in your mouth.” Algy and I both did a double take as Nobby tried to talk thug. I laughed. “I’ll bet you don’t own a sock.” I managed to poke his chest with one finger. “And don’t you touch me again, you bloody ape.” “That’s not very nice. You don’t know me well enough to call me names,” Nobby said. Algy’s ears flapped as he forced me back onto the chair. “You forgot to superglue your ears.” He pushed my chair over, and my head hit the slimy floor. I scrambled to stand up. I was so woozy, I almost passed out – not just from hitting my head and whatever they used to knock me out, but it was oven-hot in the tiny room. Not a fan or an open window. If it was over one hundred degrees on the street, it had to be twenty more in the flat. I took a deep breath to clear the cobwebs. “Look guys… I don’t know where the Lost Boy is. But I’m to check in with Roger at exactly… what time is it?” Nobby looked at his watch. “Ten minutes after twelve.” “Thanks. At exactly ten minutes after twelve. He is going to tell me where the Lost Boy is. Hand me my purse. I’ll call him.” They looked at each other and shrugged. Algy lifted my purse from the floor and handed it to me. “How about cutting these bracelets off so I can reach my phone?” “Nope.” Algy gave his head a quick shake, causing his ears to flap. “I’ll get your phone out.” I tugged the bag away. “Get your germy hands off!”
~
November 15, 2011
Indie Chick - Heather Marie Adkins
It is with great delight that I introduce a fellow Indie Chick.
Heather Marie Adkins shares her personal story that led her to become an amazing author. It's an inspiring tale of recognizing the opportunities life hands you... frequently disguised as problems.
Heather Marie Adkins
Latchkey Kid
It isn’t easy being the daughter of a police officer, but it’s even more difficult to be the daughter of a female police officer. I would come to understand this early, and often, in my life.
My mom’s career has always been the whirling force of my existence.
She was sworn into the Louisville Police Department on September 10, 1990. I was five years old. For the majority of my developmental years, I bounced through a succession of caretakers—my grandmother, my father and stepmother, and a kind woman I called ‘Mama Lo’—while my mom was forging her way through her early years as a rookie officer.
I remember late nights—my mom in her uniform, her gun belt digging into my side as she bundled me into a blanket to carry me to the car. I remember mornings getting on the school bus, knowing Mom would be coming home from work just in time for me to leave. But when I remember these things, they are snippets: Only bits and pieces of the woman who is my mother. Her job was demanding and sometimes, you just have to sacrifice to make your dreams come true.
When I was ten, Mom aced the Detective test and was granted her first promotion. Suddenly, we were buying a new house in a nice neighborhood. I was in middle school, which was awkward enough, and Mom began working 4 pm to midnight.
Thus began my time as a Latchkey Kid.
I rode the bus home from school and let myself into the house around 4:30 every afternoon. Under Mom’s strict instructions, I would check to make sure all three doors of the house were locked and then I would set the alarm.
Until bedtime, I was on lockdown. No going outside—not even to the backyard. No answering the door, no looking out the windows. Just me and the dog: A tiny Shih-Tzu named Cinnamon.
I was kind of an odd child. I didn’t care much for television, though I did love to play Nintendo. I could rock on some Mario Bros. I also absolutely loved to read, particularly R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps and Ann M. Martin’s The Babysitter’s Club.
There is really only so much video gaming and reading a girl can do before she wishes she had another hobby. At least, that’s how it was for me. I was lonely. Monday through Friday, every evening alone…it sucked.
It was around this time that my daddy shared with me a novel he was writing. Daddy is a computer guru who does freelance work, but he writes for fun on the side. “Demigod” was one of the most amazing things I had ever read. Not only was I astounded that my dad had such talent, but for the first time I realized there were people behind the books I liked to read.
Armed with nothing more than spiral-bound notebooks and pencils, I began writing.
Between 10 and 16, I wrote seven full-length novels. Today, I suppose they would be considered Young Adult. Some of them were murder mysteries with strong heroines. Many of them had elements of what today is considered Paranormal Romance. Most of my early influences were from authors I enjoyed: Stine, as well as Richie Tankersley Cusick and Christopher Pike. Somewhere in the midst of all this, my mom bought me a laptop and I transferred everything to digital.
I continued to write during high school, though significantly less once I got my driver’s license. I focused mainly on short stories and built up a vast collection that I ended up losing to the nightmare of an erased floppy disk. I majored in English in high school. Earned a couple college credits. And was told multiple times by various English teachers that I had talent.
After graduation, I went away to college at Western Kentucky University. My mother had married a great man who was also a police officer. Between the two of them, I was able to go away to school and thus started several years of BAD DECISIONS. I kicked it off right, as most first-time college teens do. I drank too much and partied too hard, not making it to class, much less spending my time writing. Two years later, I came home to Louisville with my tail between my legs, no smarter than I was before.
Back at my mother and stepfather’s home, I found the situation to be stifling for the girl who had done what she wanted, when she wanted for so long. I was already rebelling—not phoning, disappearing all night—when a chance encounter on the banks of the Ohio River brought a man into my life who was not right for me in more ways than one.
Jason was an ex-con and felon. I was the daughter of two police officers. Cue ominous music.
Let’s skip the dirty parts and go to the section where I pack my things and flee into the night like a bat out of Hades. My parents change the locks, I cut off all contact, and hole up in a hovel on 3rd Street with my friend, Brent. Oh, and in the meantime, my convict boyfriend ends up back in the Slammer.
I bounced around for some time. To an apartment with my cousin, Ryan. Then to a big, fancy house outside of Nashville, Tennessee with Jason’s family. After severing ties with them, I rented a tiny studio apartment downtown. I moved a couple more times, losing money (and myself) in the process.
Not once in the years I spent chasing something, anything in Tennessee did I sit down to write.
In January 2008, I was in debt and barely hanging on to the apartment I was renting. My good-for-nothing, pot-smoking boyfriend-of-the-moment wasn’t helping with the bills because he couldn’t hold a job. My car was on the verge of repossession. I was going nowhere; the only positive thing I did have was that I was talking with my parents again.
Then the life-shattering, earth-moving event. In North Carolina, January 31st, my cousin Cory—a Marine, a firefighter, one of my best friends—was killed in a car accident. He was 25 years old.
My mom drove from Louisville to Nashville the minute she heard. She told me it was because she didn’t want me to be alone, nor did she want to tell me something so sensitive over the phone. That’s just how she is; no matter how terrible a daughter I could be, she always put me first.
Later that same night after she left, I was alone. My deadhead boyfriend wasn’t home, neither was our equally stoned roommate. I was sitting on our single mattress on the floor, looking around our bare room with its one dresser and a floor strewn with clothes. It hit me.
What are you doing? Really?
Was I just trying to prove I could do it on my own? Because I couldn’t. Obviously.
In a flash of grief and pain, I realized my life had spiraled out of control simply because I was too stubborn to admit my parents were right.
I packed my things. My dog and I climbed in the old Jeep. And we came home to Louisville.
During the upheaval of moving back, I also found something I hadn’t yet realized I had lost—my writing. Whether it was my grief over Cory or simply returning home, I don’t know—but I started writing again.
Even better…I finished the novels I had started years before and I have started (and finished) even more in the time since.
I’ve been through a lot in my life. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as some, maybe it wasn’t as rough…but it shows that a girl can make bad decisions, life-changing mistakes, and still bounce back.
My mom is a Major with the Louisville Metro Police force—the third highest ranking female on the department. She just celebrated her 21st anniversary this month. I am in a stable, committed relationship with a man who will one day be my husband. We live in a small but nice home—I’m a police dispatcher. He’s a police officer.
I was a latchkey kid and because of it, I am now a writer. I am the daughter of a female police officer, and because of that, I’m a stronger, better woman.
***
This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.
Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!
My paranormal romance novel, Abigail, is one of the novels featured.
All proceeds go to the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer.
Abigail
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Barnes & Noble
Smashwords
Heather Marie Adkins shares her personal story that led her to become an amazing author. It's an inspiring tale of recognizing the opportunities life hands you... frequently disguised as problems.
Heather Marie Adkins
Latchkey Kid
It isn’t easy being the daughter of a police officer, but it’s even more difficult to be the daughter of a female police officer. I would come to understand this early, and often, in my life.
My mom’s career has always been the whirling force of my existence.
She was sworn into the Louisville Police Department on September 10, 1990. I was five years old. For the majority of my developmental years, I bounced through a succession of caretakers—my grandmother, my father and stepmother, and a kind woman I called ‘Mama Lo’—while my mom was forging her way through her early years as a rookie officer.
I remember late nights—my mom in her uniform, her gun belt digging into my side as she bundled me into a blanket to carry me to the car. I remember mornings getting on the school bus, knowing Mom would be coming home from work just in time for me to leave. But when I remember these things, they are snippets: Only bits and pieces of the woman who is my mother. Her job was demanding and sometimes, you just have to sacrifice to make your dreams come true.
When I was ten, Mom aced the Detective test and was granted her first promotion. Suddenly, we were buying a new house in a nice neighborhood. I was in middle school, which was awkward enough, and Mom began working 4 pm to midnight.
Thus began my time as a Latchkey Kid.
I rode the bus home from school and let myself into the house around 4:30 every afternoon. Under Mom’s strict instructions, I would check to make sure all three doors of the house were locked and then I would set the alarm.
Until bedtime, I was on lockdown. No going outside—not even to the backyard. No answering the door, no looking out the windows. Just me and the dog: A tiny Shih-Tzu named Cinnamon.
I was kind of an odd child. I didn’t care much for television, though I did love to play Nintendo. I could rock on some Mario Bros. I also absolutely loved to read, particularly R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps and Ann M. Martin’s The Babysitter’s Club.
There is really only so much video gaming and reading a girl can do before she wishes she had another hobby. At least, that’s how it was for me. I was lonely. Monday through Friday, every evening alone…it sucked.
It was around this time that my daddy shared with me a novel he was writing. Daddy is a computer guru who does freelance work, but he writes for fun on the side. “Demigod” was one of the most amazing things I had ever read. Not only was I astounded that my dad had such talent, but for the first time I realized there were people behind the books I liked to read.
Armed with nothing more than spiral-bound notebooks and pencils, I began writing.
Between 10 and 16, I wrote seven full-length novels. Today, I suppose they would be considered Young Adult. Some of them were murder mysteries with strong heroines. Many of them had elements of what today is considered Paranormal Romance. Most of my early influences were from authors I enjoyed: Stine, as well as Richie Tankersley Cusick and Christopher Pike. Somewhere in the midst of all this, my mom bought me a laptop and I transferred everything to digital.
I continued to write during high school, though significantly less once I got my driver’s license. I focused mainly on short stories and built up a vast collection that I ended up losing to the nightmare of an erased floppy disk. I majored in English in high school. Earned a couple college credits. And was told multiple times by various English teachers that I had talent.
After graduation, I went away to college at Western Kentucky University. My mother had married a great man who was also a police officer. Between the two of them, I was able to go away to school and thus started several years of BAD DECISIONS. I kicked it off right, as most first-time college teens do. I drank too much and partied too hard, not making it to class, much less spending my time writing. Two years later, I came home to Louisville with my tail between my legs, no smarter than I was before.
Back at my mother and stepfather’s home, I found the situation to be stifling for the girl who had done what she wanted, when she wanted for so long. I was already rebelling—not phoning, disappearing all night—when a chance encounter on the banks of the Ohio River brought a man into my life who was not right for me in more ways than one.
Jason was an ex-con and felon. I was the daughter of two police officers. Cue ominous music.
Let’s skip the dirty parts and go to the section where I pack my things and flee into the night like a bat out of Hades. My parents change the locks, I cut off all contact, and hole up in a hovel on 3rd Street with my friend, Brent. Oh, and in the meantime, my convict boyfriend ends up back in the Slammer.
I bounced around for some time. To an apartment with my cousin, Ryan. Then to a big, fancy house outside of Nashville, Tennessee with Jason’s family. After severing ties with them, I rented a tiny studio apartment downtown. I moved a couple more times, losing money (and myself) in the process.
Not once in the years I spent chasing something, anything in Tennessee did I sit down to write.
In January 2008, I was in debt and barely hanging on to the apartment I was renting. My good-for-nothing, pot-smoking boyfriend-of-the-moment wasn’t helping with the bills because he couldn’t hold a job. My car was on the verge of repossession. I was going nowhere; the only positive thing I did have was that I was talking with my parents again.
Then the life-shattering, earth-moving event. In North Carolina, January 31st, my cousin Cory—a Marine, a firefighter, one of my best friends—was killed in a car accident. He was 25 years old.
My mom drove from Louisville to Nashville the minute she heard. She told me it was because she didn’t want me to be alone, nor did she want to tell me something so sensitive over the phone. That’s just how she is; no matter how terrible a daughter I could be, she always put me first.
Later that same night after she left, I was alone. My deadhead boyfriend wasn’t home, neither was our equally stoned roommate. I was sitting on our single mattress on the floor, looking around our bare room with its one dresser and a floor strewn with clothes. It hit me.
What are you doing? Really?
Was I just trying to prove I could do it on my own? Because I couldn’t. Obviously.
In a flash of grief and pain, I realized my life had spiraled out of control simply because I was too stubborn to admit my parents were right.
I packed my things. My dog and I climbed in the old Jeep. And we came home to Louisville.
During the upheaval of moving back, I also found something I hadn’t yet realized I had lost—my writing. Whether it was my grief over Cory or simply returning home, I don’t know—but I started writing again.
Even better…I finished the novels I had started years before and I have started (and finished) even more in the time since.
I’ve been through a lot in my life. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as some, maybe it wasn’t as rough…but it shows that a girl can make bad decisions, life-changing mistakes, and still bounce back.
My mom is a Major with the Louisville Metro Police force—the third highest ranking female on the department. She just celebrated her 21st anniversary this month. I am in a stable, committed relationship with a man who will one day be my husband. We live in a small but nice home—I’m a police dispatcher. He’s a police officer.
I was a latchkey kid and because of it, I am now a writer. I am the daughter of a female police officer, and because of that, I’m a stronger, better woman.
***
This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.
Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!
My paranormal romance novel, Abigail, is one of the novels featured.
All proceeds go to the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer.
Abigail
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Barnes & Noble
Smashwords
