Stephanie Verni's Blog, page 43

Being Tossed Aside: Trash In A Can

Another one for #Worldpoetryday

I was looking through my “collection” of poetry I’ve written and came across this poem. Some of the poetry I’ve penned makes me cringe because the poems were written with such emotion, it immediately brings me back to that moment, and sometimes I don’t want to be reminded of it. Some if it makes me cringe just because it’s so personal and I just don’t think it’s any good. We are our toughest critics.

Nevertheless, I thought I’d brave it and share this poem. Although “rhyming” poetry is not the flavor of the day, but rather more free-flowing prose seems to please in the style of Billy Collins, I still enjoy a rhyming poem now and then. I tend to write both forms.

This bitter piece makes me both laugh and cringe. It does rhyme, so be forewarned.

Anyone who has been through a break-up can relate. It’s about having…

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On World Poetry Day: A Poem

[image error]In honor of World Poetry Day…

The poem I’m sharing today was published on The Whistling Fire, which is no longer in existence, so I feel that I can post it now on this blog. It’s one of many poems that will be featured in my upcoming collection.

Let me know what you think. It’s a sestina poem, and this type of poem is tough to write because the words at the end of each line must remain the words at the end of each line throughout the poem, but in a different order for each stanza as you build the poem. As you will see, my repetitive words are as follows: sea, garden, children, direct, cherish, and beauty. There’s an order to it, and if you like to challenge yourself, I suggest you attempt a sestina.

THE THINGS HE CHERISHED

by Stephanie Verni

In my cottage by the sea,

hours spent admiring the garden,

I wait patiently for my children

to return home, direct

from the city to cherish

this place. Its specialness and beauty.

Flowers, surf, majestic beauty—

sharp, blue sky against the sea,

it reflects in my children’s eyes; I cherish

watching them work in the garden

my husband’s eyes in theirs, a direct

melding of our souls into those of our children.

My son, my daughter, walk the lane. My children

still seem so young, their beauty,

their clear sense of life’s direction,

wanting to pay homage to their father, ashes in the sea.

My tears water the garden—

this garden that he cherished.

And oh! He cherished

this home, his dream, and his children,

his handprints still fresh in the garden

his loving touches made it beautiful.

The wind, the water. How he loved the sea–

echoes of his voice saying they provided him direction.

Now heaven’s offering him direction

from above—a new view to cherish–

this diminutive cottage dwarfed by the sea.

Will he see our children?

Will he remember the beauty

he created, lovingly, tenderly in the garden?

My hands are not those of a gardener,

his passion for it—teaching the children

his tricks. How to tend to nature’s beauty,

wanting something to cherish.

Grateful for them, knowing my children

will comfort me in his cottage by the sea.

Memories alive in the vibrant garden.

We’re here. Direct sun sparkles off the sea.

He, at peace. The things he cherished.

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5 Tips To Help Your Productivity

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When I give book talks, people who know I have a full-time, demanding job as a professor—along with an active family life—often ask me when and how I find time to write.

I find that a question funny because we all have the same amount of hours in a day. Some people just use those hours more advantageously than others. I have to laugh because it’s not exactly as if I’m in a jungle in my safari hat fighting through the plants in search of time. If I were, I’d want more of it. We all would.

Hence, this statement: I don’t FIND time to write; I MAKE time to write. And, like most people in life who want to accomplish things, whether it’s schoolwork, activities, professional or personal development, volunteering, or being creative, sometimes our daily responsibilities get in the way of us finding time for the things we feel passionate about ourselves.

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It’s true. I am busy, and I do get a lot done in one week. So, what are my suggestions for being more productive? I’ve put my thoughts on paper, and this is what I’ve come up with…

Put away the social media. Honestly, it’s the biggest time suck. Since I’ve put myself on a NEW, SELF-IMPOSED PLAN for social media use, I’m hitting my stride. I just finished reading my 7th book so far in 2018 and am already pages into a new novel. I’ve also been writing a little more during the semesters (I typically have to wait until summer to do the majority of my writing, but I seem to be finding much more time for it now). Create your own plan for how much time you’ll allow yourself to spend on social media a day, and then, let it go and stick to it. It’s amazing how those minutes and hours begin to come back to you. You’ll feel like you found time in that jungle, I promise you. Also, admittedly, I’m a little happier for it. I’m still on social media, but just at a more regulated pace.
Block out time for yourself to work on your projects. One of the best pieces of advice I’ve been given is to block out time that is yours—yours alone for your projects. During this block of time, don’t answer emails, do busy work, or do anything related to being reactive; instead, set this time for yourself to be proactive. In other words, these block of time are for you to do the things you need to do for your job, your passions, or for self-improvement. It can be a challenge, but sometimes routine can help you stay in this mode.[image error]
Don’t allow the word “procrastination” to cross your lips. Honestly, as a professor, I see what procrastination can do to college students and their work. It’s not good. I have to laugh when students say to me that they wrote the paper the night before and that the assignment was easy. (Seriously–do they not understand that I can tell it was written the night before?) What I say in response to that claim is this: “Think how much better your paper might have been had you allowed more time for it.” Rarely is anything we produce at the last minute exemplary work. If I wrote a novel quickly, believe me, you would be able to tell (and I would want to hide my head in the sand). Projects need time. Give them the time they need.
Keep a list of things to accomplish—check it off each day. I remember when I worked at the Baltimore Orioles, one of the things I would do each night before I left work was to make a “to do” list for myself and set it next to my phone for when I came into the office the next morning. There was such a sense of accomplishment when I was able to check those things off that list. Now, as I write my novels on the side and have a full time job as a professor, I have to keep similar “things to accomplish” lists. It may be as simple as “grade papers,” “write the next chapter,” or “edit pages 1-15.” I won’t say I’m always successful at these lists, but they set the stage for a plan, and I sure do my best to follow them to keep me on track.
Strive to set and meet your deadlines. As an indie author who tries to publish a book every other year, I have to impose my own deadlines. As well, you may have to set your own goals or end times for your projects. Beginning something can be daunting and the process can be ongoing, yet we all need to know when time’s up. If you don’t set a goal for yourself, you could end up in perpetuity trying to finish the project—or you may give up or realize it’s going nowhere and that you wasted your time.

Hopefully, these ideas will help you chart your new course to being more productive. It’s one thing to read this list; however, it’s another thing to begin implementing the list. Give it a try, and let me know how you do.

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[image error]Stephanie Verni is a hopeless romantic, Professor of Business Communication at Stevenson University, and the author of Inn Significant,  Baseball Girl, and Beneath the Mimosa Tree. Along with her colleagues Leeanne Bell McManus and Chip Rouse, she is a co-author of Event Planning: Communicating Theory and Practice, published by Kendall-Hunt.

Friday Fiction – A Short Story WIP

[image error]For the past three years, I’ve been dabbling in short fiction here and there, in between writing novels and working. I used to love writing short stories, even going as far back as to middle school. Now, I prefer the longer form of novel writing, but I still like to practice the short form.

The short story requires writers to tell a quick story—one where you get to know the subject and characters right away—in a minimum amount of words. This is a challenge, and it’s not easy to do.

I’m sharing today a WIP – a WORK IN PROGRESS. Part One is almost done, though not refined. I still have to write Part Two, and it’s taking me some time because I have to do a little World War II research on dates and things.

Anyway, as I’m not shy to share my process and love for writing, I thought I’d post what I have so far. Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong era. I love the time period from the early 1900s up until the 1950s. I love big band music, that fashion from that era, and stories of World War II (and World War I). For Inn Significant, I had to research the Great Depression, and I enjoyed learning more about that time period so I could write Nana’s journals. So you’ll see, I have more work to do here.

But what the heck, I’ll share what I have so far. This will eventually go into my short story collection called The Postcard and Other Short Stories & Poetry. I hope to have that out sometime this year.

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War, Books and Ladybugs (working title)


A Short Story Draft by Stephanie Verni | copyright March 2018

The day her father left, Sophie cried. She stood at the end of the dirt path, her mother inside the house refusing to see him off, too resentful of what it was doing to her family to say goodbye. As the car destined for town that would have all the men board a bus that would take them to Fort Bragg arrived, her father gave a short wave and nod to her, and she waved back, fighting back the tears as hard as she could as he hoisted his sack into the vehicle and leaned inside. That’s when the tears began to flow. At twelve, Sophie was well aware of the dangers her father could face and the possibility that he may never return home safely. Plenty of her friends back home had lost their own fathers months earlier. Because of the stories she had heard and the sadness she had seen on the faces of people she knew well, she could understand her mother’s apprehension, worry, and desperation at the thought of being left to fend for herself and her child in this world.

The other end of the dirt path sat at the stone walkway to Sophie’s grandmother’s house, a grand white home with a sprawling front porch and wooden front steps perched in the lower mountains of Lynchburg. Her grandmother had taken them in while her father fought for the liberties of others. They had given up their own home four hours away up north, the one where they had lived for years, the one Sophie had called home, and the one where she had first believed in Lady Luck.

When her father had told her the news that he was called up and headed to Fort Bragg, he relayed the news that Sophie and her mother would be moving and living with Grandma. They sat on their porch together back in Maryland, as he tried desperately to comfort her.

“It’s my duty,” he had said, trying to rationalize the idea of war and tighting to a young girl. “We have to protect what we believe is right.”

Sophie looked at him with her big blue eyes, her hair knotted from playing outside, her freckles more apparent because she was in the sun so often. She swallowed hard, knowing the decision was already made and there was no turning back.

As she reached to give her father a hug, a ladybug landed on Sophie’s shoulder, then another one on her thigh. Her dad looked at them and smiled.

“Well, Sophie-Belle, looks like you just brought us some luck.”

“There are so many more this year,” Sophie said, looking at the small red and black beetle her dad had collected into the palm of his hand.

“Perhaps I won’t be gone for long after all,” her father said.

She remembered that day now, listening to the happy sounds of birds chirping in early spring, as she walked back up to the house remembering how she said goodbye to her father right here, the dirt flying off the tires of the car, as her dad disappeared down the road, off to protect his family in a different way.

She also remembered opening the door to the house and seeing her mother standing near the window staring straight ahead, a handkerchief in her hand. It was then that Sophie began to worry, and had subsequently remained worried for two full years.

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[image error]Sophie played with Casper, her uncle’s dog, and ate brunch every Sunday on the wraparound porch of her grandmother’s house. They tried desperately not to pay too much attention to news from the war. They knew her father was in Europe—in France somewhere—and that things were not going as well as they had hoped. Only three letters had arrived so far. Her uncle, Timothy, would read the letters aloud as they would gather to hear her father’s words on paper. Timothy would not be joining the fight, as he had polio, walked with a severe limp—sometimes even with a cane—despite being only twenty-one years old himself. Polio did not discriminate, and although he had a positive outlook on life most of the time, Sophie had only seen him become bitter because of his fate once or twice. For the most part, he was cheerful and supportive. Timothy and her mother, although she was years older, had a strong bond. In the heat of the summer, her uncle would take her swimming, and they would all wade in the James River, and occasionally get a ride in friend’s rowboat, where she watched fish jump and attempted to catch something with a measly stick, string, and foul piece of a chicken wing. Sophie loved listening to the sounds of the crickets as she attempted to count stars while her uncle would play his guitar and her mother would sing, her lilting, soft voice echoing in the night air. At times, Sophie found herself listening to her mother’s voice as she sang, for it sounded hollow and melancholy.

Her grandmother did her best to keep them all from dwelling on what was happening in Europe. In fact, it was her grandmother who turned off the WLVA radio broadcast one night, they’d listen to report after report and become more depressed for doing so. It had become increasingly more difficult to listen to reports about the war and Hitler and lives lost. Her hands were poised on her hips, and she uttered the words, “No more.” They all looked at her standing there in her apron, her hair tied tightly in a bun on the top of her head, the lines on her face looking just a bit deeper than they did months ago.

“I have an idea,” she said.

She told Sophie, Timothy, and Sophie’s mother to all pile into the car and snatched the keys to her vehicle. The smell of autumn was in the air, despite that it was only September. The smell of the outdoors awakened Sophie’s senses. It was dusk, and her Grandmother put the keys into the ignition and began the drive down the roads lit only by the headlights and the early moonlight.

“Where are we going, Grandma?” Sophie asked, still unsure as to what her grandmother’s great idea might be.

“You will see soon,” she said.

After several minutes, Sophie could see buildings take form in front of her, and she knew they had reached downtown Lynchburg. What was going on this evening, she wondered. Where was her grandmother taking them at this hour?

When they rounded the corner, Sophie could see a grand building with a rotunda roof rising up in front of them. It was one of Lynchburg’s landmarks, and Sophie knew it immediately. Her grandmother—very much in control of her red Packard station wagon, a veritable renegade whom Sophie always admired for her positive attitude and spunk—pulled over and parked on the street in front of the Jones Memorial Library.

“We are going to the Library, Mother?” Sophie’s mother said aloud in an incredulous tone.

“We are.”

“But what on Earth for?”

“To take our minds off the news…the war. Let me show you what’s inside.”

Sophie’s grandmother had been working for many years at the library. She was one of three main librarians there.

After struggling to get the key in the door as the library had been closed for a couple of hours, her grandmother finally gained entrance. Sophie loved the smell of the place—the smell of hardback covers and a mustiness that she couldn’t quite describe. Sophie’s grandmother turned on the dim lights, and the four of them stood in the middle and looked around. Libraries are typically a quiet place, but tonight, this one felt cathartic. There was something peaceful about it.

“Come to the back storage room,” her grandmother said, not in a whisper voice, but rather a regular talking voice. “I want to show you something.”

She opened the door to the storage room, Sophie right behind her, and they looked. There were hundreds of books scattered all over the place—on the floor, on the tables, and stacked up on chairs.

“What is all this?” Sophie asked.

“These are the books that we can no longer use,” her grandmother said. “They are either too old, falling apart, or we have so many extra copies we don’t know what to do with them. The head librarian gave us permission to get what we want first, and then we will have a little library sale and make a little extra money. So, as you can see, there are many. I will make a donation to the library, and we will have first choice, as I was approved to do so. I suggest we all pick three or four books to take home. I even cleared off a couple of shelves so we can have a begin to create our own home library. Or, we can just borrow from this library. But I want us reading and sharing—I’ve always wanted to do that. Does that sound like fun? Does it sound like something we could do to take our minds off the news reports?”

Sophie watched her mother intently, waiting to see her reply. Her mother was one to keep everything locked down deep inside and not share anything—not her feelings, her concerns, her worry, or her desire to be distracted by something. Sophie kept a keen eye on her to see how she would respond to her mother’s idea.

“I think it’s an ingenious idea, Mother,” Sophie’s mother said aloud to all of them. “I like it very much. I’d like to get lost in a good book and escape. And I’d like to get Sophie reading more.”

“Then it’s settled. If you want to purchase a few books, let’s do it. If you want to borrow some books, let’s do it. So here are the rules: we each pick three or four books we like to begin and that will make 12 books for our initial run at this thing. We can share what we are reading and how we like the books when we have dinner at night. Then, if we like the stories, we can exchange them and talk about them. But let’s sink our teeth into something other than these war stories that leave us depressed.”

And so they began to shuffle through the abundance of books in the back room. Sophie likened it to Christmas morning when they would open their presents, although there had been few the last few years. Books made a wonderful companion to the long winter’s nights that would lay before them as the weather would soon be changing, and so Sophie plowed right in, searching for just the right ones to start off with on this new reading adventure. Sophie found a couple of Nancy Drew mysteries and The Hundred Dresses; her mother decided upon Dale Carnegie’s How to Stop Worrying and Start Living and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn; her grandmother scooped up The Portable Dorothy Parker and Agatha Christie’s Death Comes As The End; and her uncle spotted The Fountainhead and The Ministry of Fear.

Sophie could feel her spirits lifting as she perused the books. She liked reading, but she did not read enough, despite that her grandmother worked at the library. She was intrigued by the idea of reading and sharing; it gave her something to look forward to. Maybe she would read them all. She was turning into a young lady now, and perhaps she could attempt to read more sophisticated literature.

As they finished selecting their books, Sophie heard her mother say, “Do you think I could work here, too? Do they need any extra help?”

Sophie could not hear her grandmother’s reply, but she understood why her mother was asking. The library was certainly a place where one could get lost and forget all her problems.

They made their ride home in silence, each one of them pensive, thinking of their books, each one doing his or her best not to mention the word ‘war.’

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When Sophie’s father’s letter finally arrived, it looked worn and beaten, as if it had been through a few tough passages itself. It was a Saturday morning, and the sun was rising high in the crisp November air. Sophie had read two books so far in addition to managing her own schoolwork and chores around the house. Her grandmother’s property needed a lot of upkeep, and with her grandmother working at the Library, in addition to her mother taking on a job at a factory in town, it was more important than ever for Sophie to do her part at home while others did their part elsewhere. And her uncle helped as he could, and had taken on the role of writing to soldiers as he could.

“Grandma,” Sophie said, as she ran into the kitchen, “it’s a letter from Dad.”

“Well, then you must open it and read it to me,” Grandma said, relieved that there was at least a letter in their hands.

Dearest Sophie, Addie, Mom, and Timothy,

I am writing to you from a small town in France, though I don’t think we’ll be here long enough for it to amount to anything firm and I’m not supposed to disclose our whereabouts. As you are probably getting reports from the radio, it’s not good here. We have lost a lot of men, and the fighting continues, although something inside of me is hopeful that it will not last much longer. I have heard the men talk of things happening, though I’m not sure when or where or how. Please know that I keep all of you in my heart and when I’m feeling particularly low or sad or overwhelmed by fear, I picture your faces in my head. I’m sorry that this is only the third letter you have received from me, but pen and paper are rare, and when we do find it, we all scribble things and try to get something sent back home because we know you are probably worried sick. It won’t be a long letter, but know that I love you all more than life itself, and that I will fight for us, and that I long to be home to see your smiling faces again. I will dream of hugging you all tightly,

Until then, much love,

John (or Dad)

Sophie sat and scratched her head as she looked out the window, her eyes becoming misty.

“He sounds so sad,” Sophie said.

“He just misses us tremendously,” her grandmother said.

“When he returns, we will have to lift his spirits and get him to join our reading club,” Sophie said.

“I think he’d like that very much,” Grandma said, as she turned her back to Sophie and sniffled. “He always was a good reader.”

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Sophie’s mother called the meeting to order in the town’s library.

“Well, y’all, it’s the first Friday of the month, and I call this meeting to order,” her mother said, as she stood, trying to get the group that had assembled in order.

“As we have done for the last two months, we will take turns giving a two-minute overview of the book we have each read over the last few weeks. I hope everyone has finished their books.”

As word spread about the Sophie’s family’s reading club, it had quickly grown to a group of twenty. People wanted to join. The library had offered to remain open late one evening every month, as the meeting was to begin promptly at 7 p.m. after the last factory shift had ended.

“Let’s start with you, Mrs. Bates,” Sophie’s mother said, and turned the program over to Mrs. Bates, who stood by the window in the living room, held the book in her hand, and removed the kerchief from her head.

“Good evening, fellow readers,” Mrs. Bates said. “I’m here to tell you about the book I read, which I liked very much indeed and would recommend to you all. It is called Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, and it’s about a woman who falls in love with a widower who owns a tremendous country estate called Manderlay, but his recent dead wife seems to haunt the place. And then there’s a woman, Mrs. Danvers, the housekeeper, who doesn’t much like the second wife and raised Rebecca and protects her memory. It’s a mystery, and I couldn’t stop reading it. And it’s set in Monte Carlo.” Sophie’s mother wrote the name of the book on the adjacent blackboard and gave it a check, which meant Mrs. Bates liked it.

When Mrs. Bates finished, everyone clapped. And that’s how it went for the better part of forty-five minutes as thirteen of the folks assembled shared what they were reading. Some were new members and this was their first time. Afterwards there was punch served, and Mrs. Conway brought her savory chocolate chip oatmeal cookies; Sophie talked with her friend, Beatrice, as the rest of the bunch mingled.

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Sophie’s mother was wearing a blue dress and was off to work at the factory that day. Her face seemed brighter than it had been months ago. The job at the factory had helped her mood, that much Sophie could see. Her sense of humor had returned as well, and she said funny things to Sophie all the time.

It was May, and horrible, rainy, wet April was done. Sophie longed for the flowers to bloom and to feel the sunshine on her face, to wade in the river and to be done with school, and to stretch out on the grass on her favorite blanket and read a book.

Sophie’s mother kissed her on the forehead.

“Have a good day today at school, and don’t let that boy pull your hair anymore or I will have to speak to his mother.”

She winked at her daughter because she knew Johnny Doyle liked Sophie, which was why he was trying to get her attention. But Sophie wanted none of it. She was not interested in boys—well, at least not that one.

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End Part One.

Part Two Next Week…

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[image error]Stephanie Verni is a hopeless romantic, Professor of Business Communication at Stevenson University, and the author of Inn Significant,  Baseball Girl, and Beneath the Mimosa Tree. Along with her colleagues Leeanne Bell McManus and Chip Rouse, she is a co-author of Event Planning: Communicating Theory and Practice, published by Kendall-Hunt.

 

What Every Novelist Needs

Just a few thoughts…

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Compare Yourself to a Hopeless Romantic

[image error]Do you believe this?

This is the prompt I got handed today.

COMPARE YOURSELF TO A HOPELESS ROMANTIC.

But I AM a bloody hopeless romantic, so I can’t compare myself to myself!

Look—some people know they are certain ways. For example, someone who’s a realist looks at the world through that lens—the lens of realism. He won’t allow any mushiness or extremely flowery notions seep into his pores. He just puts all his marbles into things that are real, nothing too touchy-feely, nothing too fantastical, nothing too intangible. Period. End of sentence. Have you ever tried to argue with a realist when you’re not one? You know it’s hard. Don’t ever say, “Well, but I FEEL this way.”

He might tell you feelings are not facts.

Nevertheless, I’ve found it to be a losing game.

Realists will tell hopeless romantics that they’re living in a dreamworld, in a magazine, in a fantasy land.

If you are wondering if you are a hopeless romantic, see if you have a tendency toward any of the following…

1. You can find the beauty or magical aspect of things. If you believe things will work out, that life truly is beautiful, that things come together for a reason, that we love who we love because our heart tells us to, you are a hopeless romantic.

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2. You understand others and can imagine what it feels like to be them. The word for this is empathy-that we have the ability to feel empathy for others. We can comprehend what they’re going through even though it’s not happening to us. People with empathy are hopeless romantics, because they have sense of understanding. I know plenty of people who think they are hopeless romantics, but the bottom line is, they are not. They don’t have the capacity to feel another’s pleasures or pains.

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3. You are spirited and have a mad sense of passion. Passion comes in all forms…for your family, your career, your friends, your hobbies, your children, and so on. If you come wired with passion, you are, indeed, a hopeless romantic.

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4. You cry not just at Hallmark movies but at Hallmark commercials. You actually become weepy.

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5. You believe that love conquers all. That there is nothing that compares to love. If this is so, you are someone who loves to be in love with love.

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I believe all those five things above, and I make no bones about it. Do you?

When people say to me, “Oh, you’re just a hopeless romantic!” I say, “Why, thank you!”

I need a shirt that says, “Proud Hopeless Romantic.”

You see, I would wear it proudly.

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[image error]Stephanie Verni is a hopeless romantic, Professor of Business Communication at Stevenson University, and the author of Inn Significant,  Baseball Girl, and Beneath the Mimosa Tree. Along with her colleagues Leeanne Bell McManus and Chip Rouse, she is a co-author of Event Planning: Communicating Theory and Practice, published by Kendall-Hunt.

 

Wednesday Wisdom for Parents Based on Two Relatable Quotes

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I love both of these quotes about raising kids, by far, the hardest job in the world. Each day you thank your lucky stars that you’ve been blessed with some good ones, but there’s always that parental gene that makes you want to encourage them to grow as people in a positive way in addition continuing to build strong relationships with them.

These relationships formed when they were little, but their trust and their ability to confide in you continues to grow into their teenage years. Having them trust you and your advice and decision-making is important to mutually beneficial relationships.

On the advice of both my husband and me, both of our kids secured jobs while in high school. These jobs have done wonders for their sense of responsibility. They know people count on them to do their jobs, get there on time, perform well, and rely on them to work well with others. These things help build character. We could not be happier or prouder of their ability to balance work, school, and activities, and we are hopeful this will help set them up for success as they move through life.

Likewise, the ability to keep that open dialogue with your children so that they know they can confide in you about certain things makes for special relationships that can continue to grow and flourish. We’ve had our bumpy roads for sure, but our kids know they can count on us for anything, and that the advice we give will only ever be for their benefit.

For these reasons, I’m sharing two terrific quotes today for Wednesday Wisdom about parenting…two I like a lot.

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[image error]Stephanie Verni is Professor of Business Communication at Stevenson University and is the author of Inn Significant,  Baseball Girl, and Beneath the Mimosa Tree. Along with her colleagues Leeanne Bell McManus and Chip Rouse, she is a co-author of Event Planning: Communicating Theory and Practice, published by Kendall-Hunt.

Talking Fashion at the Women of Resilience, Tenacity and Humility Event

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Today, I had the privilege of addressing a group of leaders (some of them pictured above) at Stevenson University at the second annual professional conference for the Women of Resilience, Tenacity and Humility (W.O.R.T.H.). It was a great day of professional development for our future leaders, whereby they got career tips from networking to branding to professional dress and makeup. I facilitated five sessions about “Building a Professional Wardrobe” and we discussed work attire, body types, colors, cut and proportion when shopping for your beginning “capsule” wardrobe. These young women were excited to learn from professionals in their fields, asked great questions, and networked during the lunch break.

Certified as an EIS-fashion consultant many years ago, I got the opportunity to talk fashion (how much fun, right?) with these young people and coached them on how to assemble their first professional wardrobe. Below you will find some of the slides I presented to them. I love talking about fashion, as it’s one of my passions, and anytime I can help someone with advice, I am happy to do so! As a full-time professor, I take what I wear seriously, and try to always present a professional image (okay…sometimes I do wear jeans), but for the most part, you will find me in business or business casual clothing. These slides that are attached were some of the things we talked about today.

If you have any questions, please feel free to post your questions in the comments area, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

Special thanks to Claudia and the women of W.O.R.T.H for inviting me to come speak today.

[image error]This is called a capsule “starter” wardrobe for professionals. The first nine pieces will yield 36 outfits; the professional, black dress, which I believe everyone should have in their closet, is an additional piece. Likewise, two nice pairs of shoes and a bag will start a woman on her career path. As you add to your basic starter wardrobe, make sure any piece you buy goes with at least three things in your closet. If it doesn’t, you can pass on it and move on to something else better suited to your professional wardrobe.

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Steph’s Scribe’s Style Tips

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*** Foundational Checklist for Fall/Winter Wardrobe***

[image error]Event Planning: Communicating Theory and Practice, published by Kendall-Hunt.

#Worldbookday – Help Support Indie Authors

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As it is March 1st, and it is #WORLDBOOKDAY, I thought I’d share my three new promo pieces I created for today.

My fellow independent authors and I are always thinking of ways to help promote and market our books. Creating promotional book teasers, ads, and social media posts helps us in our endeavors, but guess what are the two best ways to get people to read our books?

1-Recommend them (either by word-of-mouth or on social media)

and

2-Write a review on Amazon or Barnes & Noble

As #WORLDBOOKDAY is meant to spread the love of books and promote reading, I like to think of myself as a strong ambassador of the cause. As a teacher, there is a direct correlation between how well someone writes to how well someone reads. The best readers are strong writers.

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And as an added bonus, the best readers are often the most empathic people you can meet.

So, on WORLD BOOK DAY, let’s celebrate reading and help spread the love of books.

 

Stephanie Verni | Books on Amazon

 

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Why I Write ‘feel good’ Novels…A Kid Off to College…and Two Queens

WHY I WRITE ‘FEEL GOOD’ NOVELS

[image error]Yesterday, when author and television personality Rick Steves spoke to students about the passion he has for his job, he mentioned the word positivity–that he considers himself a positive person, and his approach to life is that of a positive person.

He and I are alike in that regard.

Despite a small snippet of time during my 52-years of life when I took a little bit of an Eyeore-ish turn, I like to think that I look at the world through a lens that is mostly positive. No one is perfect, however, and I have to catch myself every now and then when I feel I am slipping down a slope that is not going to be productive.

And that brings me to novel writing. I’m working on two things presently: the sequel to Inn Significant and fine-tuning my collection of short stories that I would like to release as a collection. Because there are so many things in life that can get us down and make us angry or hurt or compelled to be negative, I’ve decided that when I write fiction, I don’t want to travel down that path. Most of my stories involved people “rising above” turmoil, tragedy, or mistakes, and it’s something I enjoy sharing with readers. I have no interest in writing something upsetting or overly tragic or maddening.

Why?

Because I believe there is more good in people than there is bad; I believe that mistakes can be overcome; I believe that forgiveness does find its way into life and relationships; and I believe that love does have the power to conquer all.

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I may sound a little naive where this is concerned, but I’ve seen it in people I am close to as well as heard about from acquaintances and strangers.

And that’s why I write books that will make you happy to read during Spring Break, on the beach, or just when you need a little reminder that love is, indeed, a healing spirit.

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ODDS & ENDS

We are in the throes of deciding which university my son will attend in the fall. Let me tell you, I am just in awe of how fast times flies (hence why I am reading Mitch Albom’s The Time Keeper.) It’s a great book that forces you to think about time and how it is spent…and how fast it can go…and how if we’re not careful, we can spend our short time on this planet worrying about the most ridiculous things. If you haven’t read this book, you should. Albom is a terrific storyteller, and can tell a story as succinctly and beautifully as possible. I love his style.

Anyway, it’s only a matter of months before my oldest is off to college.

Eighteen years have passed in a flash.

If you have young children, cherish every moment. I was lucky enough to work part-time and stay home with my children, but I still think I missed out on some things I wish I didn’t. You will not regret the time you spend with those you love the most.

WRITE DOWN YOUR FAMILY STORIES

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I’ve blogged about this a lot, but I want to reiterate it again. Be sure to write down your family stories and keep them someplace sacred. You will want to remember the little details and sometimes a photograph doesn’t tell the whole story. I’ve written about some of the funny things my daughter has said over the years here, but I wish I had done more.

Here are a few links to those funny things Ellie has said during the years.

SHENANIGANS – a story

BREAKFAST WITH MICHAEL BUBLE – a story

CONVERSATIONS WITH MY DAUGHTER

THE CROWN & VICTORIA

One final thing for today: if you haven’t watch The Crown on Netflix, you are missing a fantastic series that is based on the life of current Queen Elizabeth. Claire Foy plays Queen Elizabeth, and I adore her acting and portrayal of Elizabeth.

[image error]Claire Foy as Queen Elizabeth

Additionally, if you’re not tapped into Victoria on PBS, again, I urge you to watch this well-done show about Queen Victoria and Albert set in the Victorian era. I love Jenna Coleman in the role of Victoria. She is beautiful and perfectly suited for the role. And Rufus Sewell played the perfect Lord Melbourne.

[image error]Jenna Coleman and Rufus Sewell as Queen Victoria and Lord “M”

Until next time, then…

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[image error]Stephanie Verni is Professor of Business Communication at Stevenson University and is the author of Inn Significant,  Baseball Girl, and Beneath the Mimosa Tree. Along with her colleagues Leeanne Bell McManus and Chip Rouse, she is a co-author of Event Planning: Communicating Theory and Practice, published by Kendall-Hunt.