April Aasheim's Blog, page 23
October 16, 2012
Growing up in the 70's (For Jimmy)

The first thing I remember is the simplicity of the decade. Plain clothes, straight hair, muted colors. We lived in a world of plaid and paisley but it wasn't blinding. Mustard yellow was a wardrobe staple.
We didn't spend our weekends at the Mall or the movie theatre. Going out to the Ihop was a treat. McDonalds was a luxury.
We spent our summers in the front yard running through sprinklers, zipping through neighborhoods on our bikes, or huddled under yards of sheets in makeshift forts. We had toys, but I had never seen a Toys R Us. My parents purchased my Christmas gifts at Kmart. I'm not sure where the other kids got their presents, but it must not have there because the K word, in the third grade, was a dirty word.
There were no vidoe games to keep us occupied. There was just one TV. We had three channels to choose from. Four if you were lucky and could get the clothes hanger your father installed as a makeshift antenna to work. My mother guarded our TV by day, and my stepfather took over at night. Occasionally, I was able to sneak in Mork and Mindy or Happy Days, but only because my mom found neither of those shows deplorable. She hated The Brady Bunch though, so I had to stay in the closet about that one until I came of age.

Our living room was panelled to offset the green cabinets and yellow appliances of the kitchen. My mother would say that the panelling provided warmth. It also helped hide the drawings of my budding artist brother. The adults drank coffee together, brewed in our our house, discussing music and politics as they visited at speckled tables. And they played cards. Lots and lots of cards. The days of gathering on front porches and whittling had vanished but community, conversation, and neighbors were still very important. My mother opened up her house to everyone. This didn't sit well with me. There were six kids in our family and our house was always a mess. But my mother didn't care. She was as friendly as she was undomestic and the only people who seemed to notice were her own children who teased me about it the next day at school.
The adults of the 70s were the children of the 60s and they had come to this decade with the ideals of their youth, even if they were now saddled down by 'the man'. They talked about them too, oftentimes around children. We weren't as protected from words back then. We learned about wars and sex and who was doing what with who as our parents gossiped over chocolate fondue. But we also learned about freedom, sacrifice, and what it meant to be an individual. My mother was very open with me. She told me things that would make parents today gasp. She told me about a man she knew who shot children in the Vietnam War and never came out the same. She told me about the importance of a woman having control over her own body. And she told me that it was okay to love whoever I wanted, regardless of race or gender. Maybe that was too much to tell a child, but even then, I respected that she saw me as a person, not just a kid.
Speaking of protection, our generation was probably the least protected groups of children in current times. We didn't wear helmets when biking, and there were no bark chips on our playgrounds. In our day we played on hot, metallic monkey bars and if we were dumb enough to do an aerial flip and crack our heads on the pavement below, it served us right if we walked around drooling for the rest of our lives. I was too chicken to try most of the flips and so I (and chickens like me) stayed safe. But we watched with wonder as those kids, like my brave cousin, twirled around the bar three times, flew high into the air, and landed gracefully on their feet. There were no adults telling them to be careful. We had walked to the park. Alone. If it was during school hours you might have a playground attendant blow a whistle in your ear before she waddled away, but that was about as much attention as our stunts ever received.

We were the last generation to go to Drive-In movies and one of the first generations to witness the giant, naked breasts on the screens that surrounded us. My parents may have taken us to see The Fox and the Hound but we were gawking at the half-naked women running from a masked psychopath on the screen to our left. The movies of the 70s were a feast for those who love scifi, fantasy, horror, and boobs. And at seven years old, lying on a blanket on the hood of our my car with a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, I had front row seats to a world formely privy only to adults.
We were an interesting generation, unprotected from the adult world yet somehow spared the fears of global annihilation that generations before and after knew. The Bay of Pigs and Vietnam were old news, and the threat of Russia was years away. All we had were long days of bell bottoms, great music, and Gilligan's Island reruns. Time stood still in this decade. At least when you are seven years old.
I got my first radio in 1977. It was shaped like a ladybug and when you pulled its wings out you could hear music. It picked up two channels but I can still remember the thrill of tuning in and hearing Top of the World playing on my own radio for the very first time. With music came freedom. I was no longer at the mercy of my mother's Bee Gee's albums. I was given a whole new world of music to explore (if I were patient enough to wait for the song to come on), and as I was listening, I was dreaming. I started writing my own songs. Really, really bad songs. My sister would mock me as I'd tell her, all fists and seriousness, to leave me alone because I was going to be a famous songwriter one day. Once, she even stole one of my songs to piss me off and claimed it was hers. I was sure that she would get famous for it and no one would recognize the creative genius behind it, but that never happened. It turns out a song entitled Boy Oh Boy Ardee, written by a zealous eight year old, was not destined to pop the charts. We weren't the first generation to have been inspired by music, but the mellow sounds of Bread and The Eagles, and later the harder sounds of Zeppelin and punk and early metal bands, all changed the way we thought and felt forever. Maybe I'm turning into an 'old fogie', but as I look back now I can't think of many songs as powerful and enduring as Hotel California.

The 80's arrived and I was a decade older, ready to embrace the next chapter of my life. The world became nosier as gadgets and gizmos invaded our homes. We were one of the first houses to get an Atari and a VHS player, but one of the last to get a microwave. We also got an additional TV which mom put in her bedroom. She now had two to lord over, but I became queen of the remote during those hours when she slept and I'd turn on something called music videos and sing along. Maybe I wouldn't write songs after all. Maybe I would produce music videos instead. They were the future of the industry. With more TVs and gadgets came the necessity for more money and moms started going off to work. There wasn't after school care for us then. There was the TV and the VHS player to keep us entertained until our parents came back. We were the first and only latchkey generation, raised on the wisdom of Meatballs and Fast Times at Ridgemont High. We were free. Independent. And knew how to make our own macaroni and cheese.
More access to information also meant more news. We learned about the doom and gloom of a dissipating ozone and the real possibility of a global nuclear war. The 80s brought me into the real world and it was scary. So I did what every other kid of my generation did. I listened to loud, obnoxious music, ratted my hair out, and drowned out the world in the most gaudy pieces of fabric I could drape across my body. When the movie The Day After came out in 1983, depicting the horrors of humanity after a nuclear attack, I checked out of the real world and disappeared into the fantasy of the early 80s. If simplicity hadn't saved me, then excess might.
The 90s, of course, brought me back. While the 80s had taught me to Rock and Roll all night, the 90s reminded me of the frailty of human existence. The artists of this era were a wake up call, reminding my generation of the things we had tried to forget. Wearing hot pink and having hair that rivaled the height of the space needle was no longer in. The 90s meant you had to get real. I couldn't live in a pretend world anymore. The world was sticky and messy and sometimes not pleasant at all, but it was the world I lived in.
My nephew wanted to know what it was like to live in the 70s and I hope I told him. But that was my experience as a child. I knew nothing of what haunted the adults of that generation, those who had lived through wars and depressions and civil unrest. I only know that for me, it was a shelter before the storm. Maybe that's because i was a kid, and that's how it should be, in any era.
Published on October 16, 2012 08:42
October 8, 2012
Husband Helps with Laundry

I scan the living room and my eyes find my husband, lounging lazily in front of TV. He’s munching on Cheetos and cycling through a series of football games, completely unaware that our house is one mouse shy of being condemned. He has, I’ve discovered, a superpower: the complete inability to see filth.
“What’s wrong babe?” He asks. He may not notice a mess but he can always feel my disapproving eyes on him. Another superpower. When I don’t answer he extracts himself from the couch and plods towards me, offering me his bag of chips. “Anything I can do?” His gaze stays with me only for a second before sliding back to the game. Someone in a blue uniform catches a ball and my husband raises his arms in victory, launching several Cheetos in my direction.
I rarely ask my husband to help. After all, I’m the one who works from home. And since I don’t earn enough income to feed our plants, I try to make up for it by taking care of the house. But even I know when I’m licked. “I’m overwhelmed,” I admit, hoping that fuzzy thing looking at me from the corner is my daughter’s doggie slipper. “There’s just too much to do.”
“The house looks fine,” he says.
“I’m not sure why I told you.” My lip starts to tremble. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“Come on babe,” he says. “It’s not that bad. I can help. Just let me know what you need.”
“You?”
“Yes, me.”
“What do you know how to do?” I asked dubiously. To this day the only evidence I’ve seen of his domesticity is that he lives in a house.
“I can do laundry,” he says confidently. “I used to do my own laundry, you know, before I got a wife.”
“Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather do the dishes?”
“No. Laundry is perfect. Wash. Dry. Fold. Easy Peasy. And…” he says as he hustles up to the guest room where we store our dirty clothes, “I can do it all during commercial breaks.”
My husband is in the room and I hear the swish-swish of flying clothes. When he doesn’t emerge I call to him. “Need help gathering?”
“Don’t worry babe. I’m on it.”
My husband is a smart man. He wears khaki pants to work, crunches numbers, and manages people at his office. If he says he can handle the laundry, I have to believe him. I start on the dishes, wondering if we should just get a new set, when I see my husband trot down the stairs with a basket of clothes piled so high I can’t make out his face.
“I didn’t realize we had so many dirty clothes,” I say.
“There were four hampers in the guest room. I managed to fit them all into one stack.”
“You combined the clothes from the green hamper with the clothes from the red hamper?” I gasped. I had explained to him countless times that clothes in a green hamper were clean and clothes in a red hamper were dirty. Even if he hadn’t listened it should have been easy to figure out: Green - clothes were ready to GO. Red – the next STOP was the washing machine. “Now the clean and dirty clothes are mixed up.”
“Sorry babe,” my husband says, offering to do a sniff test. I tell him that it’s okay, we will just wash them all again, and I follow him down to our laundry room. When we get there he turns on the machine, dumps in half a box of detergent, and starts adding the entire contents of the basket into the washer.
“First of all,” I say, yanking out the things that appear to be mine. “That’s too many clothes. It will break the machine. Secondly, you can’t wash them all together, in the same temperature.”
“Sure I can. Saves time and money.”
“But you didn’t sort the colors from the whites.”
“No need. I was them all in cold.”
“Do you really want to wash your socks and underwear in cold water?” I ask. “That’s not hygienic.”

I groaned. Whenever he wants to win an argument he quotes Marilyn vos Savant. But I wasn’t buying this one and I googled it.
“Aha!” I say triumphantly. “Socks DO need to be washed in hot water. Otherwise you might get athlete’s foot. And who knows what you will get if you don’t wash your underwear in hot water?”
“You don’t say,” he says scratching his head. “I wonder why Marilyn said otherwise.”
The bell on the washing machine rings, letting us know the wash cycle is over. He removes the wet clothes, which have all turned the same shade of murky blue. I raise an ‘I told you so eyebrow’ and he shrugs. “I don’t mind wearing clothes that are all the same color,” he reassures me, “easier to match.”
At least I saved mine, I think. And then a terrible thought occurs to me.
“Honey…what did you do with the clothes that were in the washing machine?” He didn’t have to say a word. A buzz from the dryer confirmed my deepest fears.
“You put my clothes into the dryer!?”
“Yep. You’re welcome.”
“Oh my God. You can’t do that”
“Why?”
“Because my clothes fit just right, but if they get hit by so much as a gust of wind on a warm day, they shrink.”
I opened the dryer a load of clothing that could have fit my daughter’s Barbie Dolls tumbled out. I held up a skirt to my body. In its current state it would either make me some extra money or get me put on probation. “I can’t wear these.”
“Why not? You’ll look hot.”
“We live in the Suburbs!” I say. If I went out in this I’d be banned from schoolyards, libraries, and The Home Depot. But maybe not Lowes.
“Suit yourself,” he says. “Anyways, laundry is done. Need help with anything else?”
I look at the pile of what had once been people-sized clothing and fight back the sigh that is welling up inside me. Maybe it’s not that bad. A few short years on Slimfast and I’ll be wearing them again. I kiss him on the cheek and hand him a new bag of chips. “No, honey,” I say. “I don’t think I need any more help today. Why don’t you go and watch your game?”
“Okay, baby. But only if you’re sure.” My husband takes the chips and disappears into his mancave, and somehow I manage to do everything on my list that day. I guess all I needed was a little extra motivation.
And maybe that's his real superpower after all.
Published on October 08, 2012 08:39
October 5, 2012
How To Come Up With Story Ideas
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You’re sitting there, staring at your computer, willing your fingers to type. There’s a story in your head somewhere, you just need to squeeze it out. Minute by minute, hour by hour, nothing comes. What some people call writer’s block, I call ‘inspirationally barren’, and when you’re a writer, nothing feels worse. So here are four ways I call upon inspiration when my imagination seems to have given up.
1. My Childhood
Though I didn’t appreciate it at the time, I now realize that I was fortunate enough to have an interesting childhood. My parents were dreamers, always moving from one town or city to the next, hoping for their big break. They traveled the carnival circuit, mined for gold, and for a short time lived in the suburbs holding down ‘respectable’ jobs. Subsequently, I was exposed to a variety of people and places that have crept, and often leapt, into my stories.
For those writers who complain that their childhood was boring and normal and nothing worth writing about, I say you haven’t looked hard enough. A run through the sprinkler on a hot summer’s day can be a nostalgic point of remembrance for the protagonist who knows she is dying. The PTA meetings your mother religiously attended may have been a front for a witch’s coven. The boy who ate the same peanut butter sandwich every day throughout Jr. High, may have really been an old man who discovered that the combination of peanuts and Wonder bread reversed the aging process. Reality? Probably not. But that’s not the point. Childhood is full of wonder and possibilities and when we think back on those experiences and examine them under the microscope of imagination, we have more stories to tell than we have years to live.
2. Public TransportationMany of my writer friends say that they find inspiration in restaurants and coffee shops. They claim that people, when nestled within the secure confines of their tables and booths, will speak as freely and inanely as they do in their own homes. I agree. I’ve gotten lots of inspiration from food court eavesdropping. I once heard a woman saying that she wanted to dye her toddler daughter’s blonde hair a dark brown so that she could compete in The Little Miss Kardashian Pageant (horrifyingly, no joke). But while restaurants are good for people listening, I find public transportation the way to go for people watching.
If you’re lucky enough to find an unclaimed spot in the corner of a bus, subway, or train, you can witness human interaction at its most real. There you will find people of all walks of life, the young and the old, the suits and the slackers, the sexy and the sexless, sharing a few minutes together before moving on to their ‘real lives’. While you can hear snippets of conversation, it’s the body language that’s really fun. The look of uncertainty on a prim woman’s face as a leather-clad man plops down beside her. The way an old woman’s eyes mist up as she watches a young mother bouncing a toddler on her knee. The way a businessman looks out the window and then at his watch repeatedly as he taps his fingers against his briefcase. Fear. Love. Lust. Loss. It’s all there for you to interpret and restructure. A traveling human zoo. Next stop, inspiration town.
3. Friends and Family.These are the people you know well: The ones you grew up with, the ones you hang out with, the ones you call at night for reassurance that you’re still pretty when your husband ogles the Dunkin Donuts girl. You know their mannerisms, their slang, their manner of dress, and their annoying habit of revealing the end of the movie while you are watching it. So why not write about them?
Friends and family are a great source of inspiration. You can learn more about the human condition by listening to those closest to you than you could by watching one-hundred hours of the evening news. What drives them? Compels them? Makes them yearn? You may know them but do you really know them? Find out why your best friend is always late to parties or why your brother compulsively collects souvenir spoons. The people of your inner circle represent the masses. Tell their story, or at least part of it.
A word of caution: Writing about people you know requires a degree of understanding and sensitivity. The goal isn’t to write a tell-all book of dirty secrets, but rather to reveal the depths that exist within the familiar.
4. The Unknown.It’s easy to get stuck in a rut. As a writer I know that I can spend days, even weeks, locked in a room with just a cup of coffee and a laptop to keep me company. And nowadays, if I’m ever really in need of socialization, I can just pop onto Facebook or Twitter, gab with the gang for a few hours, and get back to work. It’s only when I’ve eaten the last of me Lucky Charms and head out to the grocery store, blinking back the sunlight like a mole-person, that I realize I haven’t done anything new or noteworthy in days. The point: If you are really stuck for ideas, you may be stuck in your life. When was the last time you took a new route to work? Met someone new? Where did you spend your last vacation? If your mind is as a blank as your sheet of paper, perhaps it’s time to shake things up.
An example: A few years ago I found out that my brother belonged to a group of individuals that protested “work”. Who would protest work, I wondered, and I immediately wanted to meet them. My brother took me by bus (see #2) to a section of town I had never seen before. Most of the houses were boarded up and looked like they had been condemned. We found our building, a dilapidated structure with an Anarchist flag flying from the window, and gave the ‘secret knock’ to gain entrance. A thin man ushered us into a large room where everyone was gathered around a table. The leader preached about the evils of work, rules, and government, while secretary took notes and kept minutes. We were then asked who could donate books for the annual book sale. Next, we were escorted into a room for ‘chorus practice’, where we chortled along to anti-employment tunes such as the classic: “Aint gonna work no more, no more, while we sipped from a flask of whiskey. The meeting was finally closed as a tin collection plate was passed around the room, and we all emptied our pockets of the change we had gotten by somehow not working. Needless to say, that one experience provided me with enough material to tell many stories. Since then I’ve been a staunch proponent of new experiences. Embrace new experiences. If we aren’t living life, then what makes us worthy of writing about it?
(Originally written for The Indie Exchange Oct 2012 by April Aasheim http://theindieexchange.com/how-to-get-ideas-for-stories/)
1. My Childhood
Though I didn’t appreciate it at the time, I now realize that I was fortunate enough to have an interesting childhood. My parents were dreamers, always moving from one town or city to the next, hoping for their big break. They traveled the carnival circuit, mined for gold, and for a short time lived in the suburbs holding down ‘respectable’ jobs. Subsequently, I was exposed to a variety of people and places that have crept, and often leapt, into my stories.
For those writers who complain that their childhood was boring and normal and nothing worth writing about, I say you haven’t looked hard enough. A run through the sprinkler on a hot summer’s day can be a nostalgic point of remembrance for the protagonist who knows she is dying. The PTA meetings your mother religiously attended may have been a front for a witch’s coven. The boy who ate the same peanut butter sandwich every day throughout Jr. High, may have really been an old man who discovered that the combination of peanuts and Wonder bread reversed the aging process. Reality? Probably not. But that’s not the point. Childhood is full of wonder and possibilities and when we think back on those experiences and examine them under the microscope of imagination, we have more stories to tell than we have years to live.
2. Public TransportationMany of my writer friends say that they find inspiration in restaurants and coffee shops. They claim that people, when nestled within the secure confines of their tables and booths, will speak as freely and inanely as they do in their own homes. I agree. I’ve gotten lots of inspiration from food court eavesdropping. I once heard a woman saying that she wanted to dye her toddler daughter’s blonde hair a dark brown so that she could compete in The Little Miss Kardashian Pageant (horrifyingly, no joke). But while restaurants are good for people listening, I find public transportation the way to go for people watching.
If you’re lucky enough to find an unclaimed spot in the corner of a bus, subway, or train, you can witness human interaction at its most real. There you will find people of all walks of life, the young and the old, the suits and the slackers, the sexy and the sexless, sharing a few minutes together before moving on to their ‘real lives’. While you can hear snippets of conversation, it’s the body language that’s really fun. The look of uncertainty on a prim woman’s face as a leather-clad man plops down beside her. The way an old woman’s eyes mist up as she watches a young mother bouncing a toddler on her knee. The way a businessman looks out the window and then at his watch repeatedly as he taps his fingers against his briefcase. Fear. Love. Lust. Loss. It’s all there for you to interpret and restructure. A traveling human zoo. Next stop, inspiration town.
3. Friends and Family.These are the people you know well: The ones you grew up with, the ones you hang out with, the ones you call at night for reassurance that you’re still pretty when your husband ogles the Dunkin Donuts girl. You know their mannerisms, their slang, their manner of dress, and their annoying habit of revealing the end of the movie while you are watching it. So why not write about them?
Friends and family are a great source of inspiration. You can learn more about the human condition by listening to those closest to you than you could by watching one-hundred hours of the evening news. What drives them? Compels them? Makes them yearn? You may know them but do you really know them? Find out why your best friend is always late to parties or why your brother compulsively collects souvenir spoons. The people of your inner circle represent the masses. Tell their story, or at least part of it.
A word of caution: Writing about people you know requires a degree of understanding and sensitivity. The goal isn’t to write a tell-all book of dirty secrets, but rather to reveal the depths that exist within the familiar.
4. The Unknown.It’s easy to get stuck in a rut. As a writer I know that I can spend days, even weeks, locked in a room with just a cup of coffee and a laptop to keep me company. And nowadays, if I’m ever really in need of socialization, I can just pop onto Facebook or Twitter, gab with the gang for a few hours, and get back to work. It’s only when I’ve eaten the last of me Lucky Charms and head out to the grocery store, blinking back the sunlight like a mole-person, that I realize I haven’t done anything new or noteworthy in days. The point: If you are really stuck for ideas, you may be stuck in your life. When was the last time you took a new route to work? Met someone new? Where did you spend your last vacation? If your mind is as a blank as your sheet of paper, perhaps it’s time to shake things up.
An example: A few years ago I found out that my brother belonged to a group of individuals that protested “work”. Who would protest work, I wondered, and I immediately wanted to meet them. My brother took me by bus (see #2) to a section of town I had never seen before. Most of the houses were boarded up and looked like they had been condemned. We found our building, a dilapidated structure with an Anarchist flag flying from the window, and gave the ‘secret knock’ to gain entrance. A thin man ushered us into a large room where everyone was gathered around a table. The leader preached about the evils of work, rules, and government, while secretary took notes and kept minutes. We were then asked who could donate books for the annual book sale. Next, we were escorted into a room for ‘chorus practice’, where we chortled along to anti-employment tunes such as the classic: “Aint gonna work no more, no more, while we sipped from a flask of whiskey. The meeting was finally closed as a tin collection plate was passed around the room, and we all emptied our pockets of the change we had gotten by somehow not working. Needless to say, that one experience provided me with enough material to tell many stories. Since then I’ve been a staunch proponent of new experiences. Embrace new experiences. If we aren’t living life, then what makes us worthy of writing about it?
(Originally written for The Indie Exchange Oct 2012 by April Aasheim http://theindieexchange.com/how-to-get-ideas-for-stories/)
Published on October 05, 2012 12:54
September 19, 2012
Adding Books Ive Read
Im up to 200+ books that Ive added. I'm racking my brain trying to remember them all. The thing is, the ones I DO remember are all rating 4 or more stars. I think if its a book I didnt like much its either filtered out of my memory or I didnt finish it.
Im wondering how many books Ive read in my lifetime, or at least since adulthood. Every book becomes a part of me, for better or worse. There are some I wish I could 'unread' to get certain images dislodged from my brain, but most have given me fantastic memories. Too bad I can't ever really share them with anyone.
Im wondering how many books Ive read in my lifetime, or at least since adulthood. Every book becomes a part of me, for better or worse. There are some I wish I could 'unread' to get certain images dislodged from my brain, but most have given me fantastic memories. Too bad I can't ever really share them with anyone.
Published on September 19, 2012 18:05
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Tags:
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September 18, 2012
Regrets and Renewal

From: The Universe is a Very Big Place 1986
Ernest sat on the queen-sized bed, its mattress old and tired, sagging beneath his slight weight. Lanie hadn’t been particularly pleased about this motel, but it was better than sleeping in the trailer again. Times were hard. People weren’t coming to carnivals like they used to. Theme parks were all the rage and the news declared them ‘safer.’ This made Lanie indignant. In all her days on the road she had only seen two accidents. Granted, one of them had taken a man’s legs, but that was still a pretty good track record.
"We can’t keep doing this, Lanie." Ernest sighed.
Lanie tried to ignore him as she manually flipped through the channels. Almost all static. Nothing was ever fucking on!
"You’re insane," she hissed, trying not to wake the girls. Chloe and Spring lay motionless on the twin bed, spooned up together for warmth. She could hear them breathing, the deep restful inhalations of the sleeping. "You don’t just walk into a bank and take money. It’s stupid. And illegal."
Ernest smirked. "It’s a small-town bank. I’ve been there a dozen times over the last few years. The security guard is basically Don Knotts. I get the money and we run away to Mexico and live like royalty."
She looked at him, her mouth agape. One thing that TV had taught her was that criminals always get caught. "Ernest, I’ve followed you all these years, but I can’t do this. We have kids to think about. We can’t be on the lam!"
Ernest punched his hand into the bed, trying to put a hole in the soggy mattress. It hesitated but bounced back reluctantly. "We are already on the fucking lam, in case you haven’t noticed! Half the f’ing carnies are 'on the lam!.' I didn’t join because it was 'fun,' goddamnit. I’m tired of running. I just wanna get enough money and settle down. This is my only fucking shot. Can’t you understand that, woman?"
They had been arguing about this for a week now, and Lanie thought he would forget about it, the way he forgot about most things. But he seemed insistent. She slumped down on the bed and placed her fingers between her eyes, trying to ease the pressure that was building in her head. He was serious. He really wanted to rob a bank.
"Ernest," she said. "I love you and I want you to be happy. If you aren’t happy here you need to go and find what gives your life meaning. I had always hoped it was me and the girls, but I see now it’s not. I love you and wish you well, but I can’t be any part of this." Lanie looked at her husband, absorbing him, knowing this might be the last time she ever saw him. He said nothing in response as he grabbed his duffle bag, already packed. He walked to the girls' bed and blew them each a kiss and then made his way to the door. He was really going. He smiled at her, opened the door, and left.
That was the last she heard from him, until a few weeks later when he made headlines in a local newspaper for attempted robbery. He was now serving many years in state prison.
When the girls awoke that next morning she told them their father had gone to see a sick relative, but when Spring saw her father on the newspaper as well, she turned to Lanie with a look that said she hated her. And it was three months before Spring said another word to Lanie, or anyone, for that matter. #
Lanie lay naked on the top of her bed, three fans blasting air over her body. She had always looked forward to this time of life, the transition from motherhood to crone-dom. But her ascent into sage-hood wasn’t going as smoothly as she had hoped. Besides the hot flashes and the strange cravings and the weird fluctuations in libido (she would never admit this to a single soul but one day she had even found Sam appealing as he was stirring something in a bowl), there lay a nagging feeling deep down inside of her.
She didn’t feel like a woman anymore. Her eggs were hatched. She was on the other side now, beyond the line that separated the fertile from the unfertile, those who could produce and those whose time had passed. She would never have another baby again. Ever.
She willed up memories of Chloe and Spring when they were infants, tiny bundles of pink flesh, wrapped up like flower bouquets in knitted blankets. They smelled so good. Well, most of the time. And they looked up at her with something akin to godliness as they suckled her, wrapping small fingers around her own. Even her grandchildren did not show her that much love. No one had ever shown her that much love––the love of a child in its first years of life.
She squinted, trying to wring out the few memories of her own mother, but like a dried up lemon, nothing was there to juice. She had left Lanie in foster care when she was six and Lanie must have purposely destroyed any images she had of the woman. Either that, or she was getting senile.
"It all changes when they grow up," she said, returning her attention to Spring and Chloe. "All that admiration, gone in the wink of an eye the first time you forget a holiday." Lanie rolled onto her side, letting the fans beat against her back. The air hit a mole (that must be new) and created a peculiar pulsing sensation. "...We’re all judge and jury of our parents."
An image of Spring’s face in the dark beside her, asking if she had really been a bad kid.
There was a knot in her stomach, a memory knocking, wanting to be let in. Lanie tried to clear her mind and practice her meditation, but this one was insistent.
"Your father couldn’t handle you, and neither can I." She had said this once, when Spring was in the throes of adolescent rebellion. She hadn’t meant it, of course. Hadn’t even remembered it until Spring had asked about their father earlier. The problem with words was once you said them you couldn’t take them back. They hung in the Universe forever like wet sheets that never quite dried.
The real truth was that she wasn’t able to cope with raising two daughters on her own. And the fact that their father was never, ever coming back, and she might be alone for the rest of her life. For all her hellraising about women’s lib in the 60s, she hated to admit that being without a man was the scariest thing she could ever imagine.
"What I’d give for a do-over, learn a real trade, set a good example for the girls." Lanie gritted her teeth. The mole on her back danced in the wind. Maybe she should get it looked at. "I’m too old to cry over spilt milk now," she said, reaching out to stroke her pig. His plastic, hairless body gave her some odd comfort. It wasn’t a baby, or even real, but it was...something.
It was going to be a long night. She wished she had more of Jason’s insomnia medicine, but it was gone the first day he had dropped it by. She needed sleep.
She was about to shut her eyes and give it a try when a flicker of pale light in the window caught her gaze. At first she almost ignored it, thinking it was just a ghost. But this ghost had an awfully big head. She squinted in the dark to make it out, and then her eyes grew large as saucers.
Published on September 18, 2012 09:10
September 6, 2012
Diary of an Indie Writer - Step 1

I can’t recall the exact moment when my view on self-publishing changed. I do know that it wasn’t a quick lightning strike to the psyche that awakened me, but a gradual slide in my decade-long publishing consciousness. It began when a good friend of mine – who had been trying to land a publishing deal for years – finally got fed up with the whole system. She was a great writer but her books were too different from what was currently being published. They weren’t quite sci-fi enough, romancey enough, vampirey enough. They were too…unique, and therefore, too risky.
She didn’t let this get her down and I watched, sometimes with one hand over my eyes, as she took the self-publishing leap. She placed her books on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords. I marveled that somehow, the wheels that move the literary world kept turning. She wasn’t mocked, teased, or forced to testify on Judge Judy. In fact, in the vast internet universe she found her audience and they not only accepted her uniqueness, they appreciated it. She’s a cult hero now, at least in some segments of the world. And I hear they have erected some three-headed idol of her somewhere in the South Pacific.
My second paradigm shift occurred at a writer’s conference last summer. It is an annual event and just two years ago I had pitched my manuscript to several agents who were in attendance. I had some success and several of the agents agreed to represent me, contingent upon a few, small, necessary changes in the novel. Deepen the characters. Remove twenty thousand words. Add thirty thousand words. Take all the pages, throw them up in the air, see how they land, and leave them in that order. Every suggestion differed from the last, and though I tried to incorporate many of them (and admittedly some did improve my book) I started to feel like the main theme– finding love twice in one lifetime – had been lost.
It took a good deal of time and distance to find my way back to my original story, and when I felt like I had, I presented it to the agent who had been my biggest supporter. “I don’t take on clients anymore,” she said, as I shoved my sparkling new manuscript in her direction, “I only advise people on how to independently publish now.” She let me know that ‘everybody is doing it’ and left me staring open-mouthed as she sauntered down the corridor to present to a standing room only audience on the joys of formatting mobi files.
What finally sold me on self-publishing, however, was that as I continued to search for agents and publishers I began to notice that they expected the authors they represented, especially new authors, to do a majority of the work themselves. While they may take my manuscript, turn it into a beautiful book, and get it into book stores, they expected me to do most of the PR alone. Many even have a form you fill out on their website prior to submitting: Do you tweet? Facebook? Have a website? Can you pimp yourself out to the media? No? Well, move along, nothing to publish here.
Heck, I thought. Finding someone to represent my work was a lot like looking for someone to have a one night stand with: too much work for something I could just as easily do myself (at home). I had a revelation. I didn’t need anyone. I could publish the type of book I wanted to publish, the way I wanted to publish it, find it an audience, and a home. If everybody really was doing it, why not me?
And so I made the decision to do it alone. But as I discovered, I wasn’t alone. There were whole communities out there, talented people who were making a go of it themselves, and I met some amazing people who helped me every step of the way.
I forgot to mention one other reason I did it, and it may be the biggest reason of all. Why? Because it appeals to my big, writer’s ego. It’s not called self-publishing anymore. It’s called Indie publishing. How cool is that? It makes me want to put on a leather jacket, some dark glasses, and go find a coffee house somewhere I can churn out more novels. Yeah. I’m cool. I’m an Indie Writer. You got a problem with that?
originally published at Theindieexchange.comhttp://theindieexchange.com/my-journey-as-an-indie-writer-step-1-the-decision/
Published on September 06, 2012 22:10
August 29, 2012
The Next Big Thing (What I'm Working On)

What is the working title of your book?
Right now I'm torn between Maggie Magick and The Witches of Dark Root. My husband says that Maggie Magick sounds like a book for an eight-year-old so...that may be the deciding factor.
Where did the idea come from for the book?
The two things I love to write about are magic and family dynamics. So one day, while daydreaming, I thought about what it would be like to really combine the two into one book. I was pretty excited!
What genre does your book fall under?
Hmm...I'm guessing fantasy. But it's also really grounded in realism. It was important to me to let the magical parts of the book be secondary to the real world setting. I never wanted to go over the top with this project.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
I like the girl from The Hunger Games. Think I can get her? :)
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Maggie is a young woman with magical powers who left home to get away from her 'witchy' upbringing, but now she has to return to her hometown of Dark Root, Oregon to set things right with her family and learn the true nature of her gift.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
Unsure at this point. I think every story needs a home. I will find it a home one way or another.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
I am still about 15,000 words from finishing the first draft, but the end is in sight. It took me almost a year, but that wasn't straight writing. A lot of the time was spent thinking about the characters and the plot line. Its more intricate than the other books I've written. I should be done with the first draft in two weeks.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
The only other book that I know of is Practical Magic. The blending of realism with witchcraft, along with the sibling relationships, is pretty comparable.
Who or What inspired you to write this book?
My childhood. I've always been fascinated by family dynamics. I was the second oldest of six children and we had our own mini-political system in the family. Any time I get to explore that I am happy. We also had somewhat of a magical upbringing. My mother possessed some unusual, if not downright spooky powers at times. It intrigued me.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
Well, there are no shades of grey in the book, but there are some blurry lines between light and dark. Maggie has to learn how to use magic effectively, tapping into the good stuff, without straying into the bad.
If you like books about witches, sisters, small towns, and mysterious backgrounds, you might really enjoy this one.
Thanks JC Andrijeski for tagging me! http://jcandrijeski.blogspot.in/2012/08/the-next-big-thing-war-allies-war-book.html#links
Rules***Answer the ten questions about your current WIP (Work In Progress) ***
Tag five other writers/bloggers and add their links so we can hop over and meet them. It’s that simple.
Ten Interview Questions for The Next Big ThingWhat is the working title of your book?Where did the idea come from for the book?What genre does your book fall under?Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?Who or What inspired you to write this book?What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
Published on August 29, 2012 08:53
August 10, 2012
Swinging for Success

http://theindieexchange.com/flashfivefriday-1-success/
I’ve been watching the Olympics Gymnastics competition this week, and it got me thinking about success.
Success can come suddenly.Gabby Douglas, the new Women’s All Around Gold Medalist, wasn’t favored to win. In fact, it was a surprise that she was even in the games at all. But as Gabby lept onto the uneven bars and swung like a monkey on Ritalin - she suddenly caught the attention of the world and became America’s new sweetheart.
Success can end just as suddenly. While Gabby Douglas was in, with a few bad moves, the favored woman, Jordyn Wieber, was out. Meanwhile, the hunky American Men’s Team was touted at being the next wave of gymnastics golden boys, but somehow tumbled out of our hearts as one after another succumbed to the mighty pummel horse. It was almost painful to watch.
Sometimes, a near success isn’t good enough. American McKayla Maroney looked like she had bitten off her tongue when she earned silver instead of gold. And those Russian gals, they literally wept when they learned that they had come in second instead of first. They cried so much I was actually worried about what would happen to them when they returned home? Did Russia ship off silver medalists to work camps? Or worse, make them work the Starbucks Drive through window in Moscow? I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to smuggle a few of them back to the states because the looks in their eyes said their next few days with coach were going to be really, really bad.
Success is something we all want, strive for, sacrifice for, and once attained, do everything in our power to keep. It’s in our DNA. From the moment we enter grade school and start chanting “We’re number one, cuz number two won’t do,” we strive for nothing less than perfection. When the Great Britain team, a team who had never won a medal, suddenly secured the Silver, the crowd went wild. Only minutes later, however, the Japanese team, who had won second in 2008 and weren’t happy about being pushed out of medal contention, actually paid the judges to revisit the scores. The newly tallied scores put them back into Silver status, knocking the Brits to bronze. The London crowd, who would have been happy to win any medal only moments before, sat scratching their heads, dazed and morose. The same look my twenty-something friends had when they realized the Twilight movies were coming to an end.
When someone succeeds, someone else loses. Above all I ponder this. Why do we want to win so badly? Does being Number One mean we are better, more loved, and more important than the person next to us? And as viewers, why are we so heavily invested in our teams? Not only in gymnastics but in any sport. I know adults who let a loss by their favorite team ruin their weekends. If Aly Raisman hadn’t medaled, I’m not sure how her parents would have gotten through the week. My guess is with a lot of alcohol and some Sylvia Path poetry.
Is being the best really showing what human beings are capable of or just another way to say nanny nanny boo boo? We can’t really live through athletes, nor should we try. We should enjoy the games, celebrate the successes, appreciate and learn from the losses, and move on with our lives. In the Olympics, the NFL, or the Fourth Grade Spelling Bee. There’s no dishonor in being second, or even tenth. There’s only dishonor in not trying.
We are each given gifts, but too often we are afraid to let that gift shine because Billy down the street can do it a teensy bit better. So we sit on the sidelines because society has taught us that being number one is the only number that counts. That’s sad. Life isn’t about being the best. The Best is a fleeting place to be, a chapter in our story. But it isn’t our whole story. Our real story is about coming together, learning from each other, and honoring one another. And that’s what the Olympians, or any contestant of any event, should truly celebrate.
Published on August 10, 2012 12:26
August 7, 2012
Downward Dogging for Dummies

“Great class," said a guy who had been seated next to me. I looked him over in the light. He was classically beautiful, bronze and sculpted, like one of those guys on the cover of romance novels. I imagined his name was Duke, or Jake, or Pierce. Or Steel.
"Sure was," I agreed as we filed out of the room. Though I had only been taking classes for a few weeks, I was really beginning to enjoy my sessions. In fact, I was enjoying them so much that I was in danger of becoming one of ‘those people’, that annoying group of gym-goers who continuously reminded others of how out of shape they are and how exercise could save their lives. Only yesterday I hadcaught myself explaining to an unsuspecting woman at the grocery store how Downward Dog could help with both unwanted back fat, sciatica, and possibly herpes (though the jury was still out on that one). I would have to check myself.
I wasn't always the Yoga Goddess I now claim to be. I’m not an exercise enthusiast by nature. In fact, I hate working out. But as my short frame is always one Snickers Bar away from hobbit town, I’m forced to move it. Thus, if there’s a shortcut to getting in shape, I’ll take it. The Thigh Master and The Shaker Weight will always hold a special place in my heart.
It seemed natural that a slacker like me would eventually stumble onto Yoga, and then one day while picking up my husband from the gym, it happened. As I was scanning the room I happened to see a group of fit, relaxed looking people emerging from a classroom. They had muscular arms, braided hair, and casually discussing chimichangas. They all carried mats like the kind you see Kindergartners nap on. Best of all, at least half the group was wearing Flip-Flops.
“Who are they?” I asked my husband when I had finally located him. I had never seen people like this in the gym before. If it wasn’t for their toned legs and tight abs, I would have thought it was a special class, kind of like a ‘take your couch potato to workout day’.
“Oh, the Granola Group,” he said, dabbing his forehead. He had just run an hour on the treadmill and was in danger of melting.

"The yogis."
“What do they do?” I watched as a woman unloosened her braided hair and it floated out around her. It was so long I could almost climb it. “I think they bend and stuff.” My husband answered. “Supposed to be good for you.”
"Do you ever do it?"
"Me?" My husband's chest puffed out with manly pride and I regretted my question.
The next day, sure that I had found my mother ship, I headed in, new purple mat tucked under my arm. My first lesson in Yoga was that mats weren’t cheap, especially the cute ones. I spread my mat near the back of the room,with the other yoga newbies that somehow wandered in. We all looked dazed and amused, like we had just wandered into a high school class that was famous for giving out passing grades even if you didn't do your homework. In front of us, I later learned, were The Middlers, they were the drama geeks of the group, trying to pass themselves off as yogis, but not quite cutting it. And at the top of the ranks were The Front Row Yoga Divas, the popular group whose bodies seemed to be made from limp spaghetti. If you got in with them, you were golden.
The class started out well enough, lights out, relaxing music. We spent the first minutes sitting cross-legged, palms up, breathing in and out to the sound of Gregorian Monks, and I tried to play "Name That Chant". Our instructor informed us that this relaxation technique this was helping our bodies to do good stuff: repair cells, lengthen muscles, and align chakras (I wasn’t sure what a Chakra was but it sounded delicious). For fifteen minutes we slowly stretched our shoulders, our neck, our sides and our legs. Our instructor gave us permission to block out the worries of the day. This direction left me a bit anxious. Without my worries, I wasn’t sure I was me.
When I had finally found my rhythm of breathing and stretching, things changed. Our instructor had suddenly transformed from Gandhi to G.I. Jane. “Okay, people,” She bellowed, walking the floor with her hands laced behind her back, “now its time to work. And I mean work.” She forced us from our comfy position on the floor into a position known as plank. In plank position you sit at the top of a push up, but you don't go down. You just hover there. Indefinitely. I’m pretty sure it originated during the inquisition to get witches to confess. I wasn't sure how holding one position without moving could hurt so much, but it did. Sweat beaded across my forehead, and my arms began to tremble. I was going down.
The instructor must have spotted my weakness. She moved towards me like a lion on a zebra. She placed her bare foot under my hovering body and warned me not to let my body lower onto hers. Somehow I held strong, wondering if I could crush the bones in my arms with the weight of my own body.
“Hold for five more breaths,” she said. I could feel myself whimpering. Then, mercifully, she had us change position.
“Downward Dog.” The whole class shifted into a new formation. We were still on our hands and feet, but instead of being parallel to the ground, our butts rose high into the air. Downward Dog was plank on crack. “This,” she said, “is our resting pose. Come back here whenever you get tired.”
For thirty minutes our instructor pushed us into positions that not only seemed bendi-logically impossible, but that also worked muscles I forgot I owned. At every new pose: Warrior 1, Warrior 2, Side Plank, Triangle, I thought my body was going to dissolve. I could already see my tombstone: April Aasheim. Survived giving birth, her husband’s driving, and late night Denny's runs. Was eventually done in by Downward Facing Dog.
Yoga, I learned, wasn’t a workout for slackers,. Yoga hurt. And that ‘chimichanga’ thing I heard people talking about wasn’t a yummy deep-fried burrito. It was actually called a Chaturanga, a sinister pose where you lowered your entire body near the ground and just sat there, an inch or two above the ground. Just another method of torture in my instructor’s ever growing arsenal. I had made a horrible mistake.
During Standing Splits I decided I couldn't take anymore. I knew when I was licked. The moment my instructor looked away I would sneak out of class, mat tucked between my legs, and tell my husband that I couldn't take yoga because it would interfere with the existential meditation courses I had pretended to sign up for. But before I could make the break, something wonderful happened. Our instructor called for the final pose: Shavasana. I heard a collective sigh from around the room and watched as everyone flopped onto their backs, legs stretched, arms splayed, and eyes closed. They all looked dead. Finally, something I could do.
Our instructor turned on Johny Mayer's Gravity and I decided to join them. She had us breathe deeply, focusing on each muscle in our body, tightening it, and releasing it. When I was fully immersed in the nothingness she spoke, her voice soft and gentle again, as she read from The Book of Wisdom. She said to imagine what it would be like to live in a world where everyone loved everyone and there was no judgment, only peace and cooperation. It sounded lovely and I began to imagine such a place, much like the little Sims town I had built a few weeks before. She then prompted us to sit up and bow, and she thanked us for sharing our hour with her. I stretched and rubbed my eyes, realizing that I was doing something I had never done in a gym before. I was smiling.
I started attending class regularly and before long I was doing things I never thought I was capable of doing: back bends, lunges, and one-legged balance poses. I was also holding Plank for more than thirty seconds without puking. My shoulders began to get rounder, my abs began to firm, and the waddle under my arms that I’ve had since I was a fetus, began to vanish.
I’m as surprised as anyone about how much I now love Yoga. It’s a harder workout then I had realized, but I leave each class relaxed, and smiling, and ready to take on the world. While I have not quite joined the ranks of the Front Row Yoga Divas, I have inched my mat up towards the Middlers. From this position, I can look ahead to what I will be capable of one day, and behind to those foolish newbies who, like me, wandered in hoping for an easy A.

Published on August 07, 2012 16:50
August 5, 2012
Sam's Rules for Sex

Sam walked over to the sofa and flopped down. Picking up the remote control he scanned the channels, settling on the Shark Week Marathon on the Discovery Channel. He smiled and folded his arms behind his head.
"I could make it up to you," Spring said. She walked towards Sam, obscuring his view of the TV She rolled her hips and touched her lips with her fingertip the way the lady did in that movie Lanie had her watch last evening.
"Pookie, you are in the way," Sam whined, straining his neck to look around her. Spring took a sudden step forward and snatched the remote control from his lap. With one quick click, the shark and scuba man disappeared. "They were about to eat the guy in the wetsuit," Sam moaned.
"You know Sam, call me crazy. But isn’t it strange to you that we never have sex?"
"We have sex. Remember Easter?"
How could she forget? He had come to bed dressed in bunny ears and a cottontail, fastened to his bottom with safety pins.
"Sam, I can count on my two hands how many times we’ve had sex over the past year. Nine times. That’s less than once a month. Doesn’t it bother you at all?"
Sam looked around, his eyes widening. "Shhh. Lanie and the boys will hear. Do you want that?"
"Lanie is the one who brought it up to me, if you want to know the truth. She wonders why she never hears anything coming from our bedroom. I tried to ignore her, but she is right."
Sam stood his ground. "Damn it, Spring. There are a million other more pressing matters in the world than food and sex...the only two things you seem to care about." Sam surveyed her waist as if to point out that her vices were beginning to show.
Spring gaped. Sam’s face softened and he patted the couch beside him, beckoning for her to join him. When she crawled up beside him he tenderly pushed the damp hair from her face.
"Sweetie, listen. We need to talk," he said reassuringly, as she sipped on the diet soda Lanie had left on the coffee table. "Lately, I’m getting the feeling that the only reason you are with me is for my body."
Spring, choked, spitting soda all over herself and Sam. "I’m sorry you feel that way," Spring said, holding back the laugh. Sex, even at its best, was lukewarm with Sam. He was so fussy about the way it was executed and he had so many rules.
Rule 1: One must always wear a condom, maybe even two. They did not even have to be the good condoms, such as those that were lubricated or ribbed for her pleasure. In fact, the less money spent on the quality of condoms, the more money that could be spent on important things like mochas and books.
Rule 2: Foreplay is a myth created by a matriarchal society to enslave men. Those days have passed. Get used to it.
Rule 3: One must never kiss one’s partner anywhere below the neck. Ever. You could touch someone below the neck, if you must, but your hands must not linger on any one body part for more than say, 30 seconds. You were being timed.
Rule 4: The missionary position is your friend. Learn to love it. Experimentation is bad. Woman on top is heretical. God might come and smite us right in the midst of lovemaking for even thinking of this maneuver.
Rule 5: The bed only. Enough said. Refer to rule 4.
Rule 6: Forget any semblance of after-play either. Or snuggling. Immediately after sex the male must rise, steal the blanket, and shower profusely until all evidence of physical intercourse has been washed away. Then the male deposits blanket back down on the bed for the female, and sneaks quietly into the study to read before going to sleep.
"Spring, honey, are you understanding what I’m trying to say?" Sam was waving his hand before her eyes, trying to bring her back. Her eyes had glazed over. She had gone to that place she went whenever he was trying to explain anything important to her.
Spring nodded.
"What did I say, then?" He quizzed her.
Spring knew the answer by heart, even if she hadn’t heard the speech today. "That lately you think I just want you for sex. And that makes you feel dirty and disgusting and demeaned. That I should be focusing my energies on more important matters. That sex is trivial and only for people with no will power and no ambition. And should only be used for procreation." Spring tilted her head and looked at him for confirmation.
Sam tightened his lips and smiled. It was strained. "Well, most of what you are saying is true Spring, although I may have said it differently. The Lord wants us to have sex but only when we are married, and we are not married yet. If you do not have sex within the sanctity of marriage then you are saying to God that He did not know what is best for us when He laid down the laws of marriage."
Spring thought for a moment. "Do you think there’s any chance that God might be a She, Sam?"
Sam seemed taken aback as if she had said the most blasphemous words that had ever been uttered. Then, slowly he smiled. "You are so funny, Pooks! You almost had me. Give me a hug!" He took her in his arms and patted her head reassuringly. "There, there, it will be okay. We will get married soon. I have a date picked out now: July 21. Then you can use my body whenever you want!"
(Excerpt from: The Universe is a Very Big Place. http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-universe-is-a-very-big-place-april-aasheim/1112331870?ean=2940014945189)
Published on August 05, 2012 09:49