Robin E. Mason's Blog: Robin's Book Shelf, page 202

WELCOME to my PARTY!!! DAY TWO

The month of October is a special time for me:
my debut novel, my baby,
Tessa,

will be released IN PRINT on Halloween!
WHEEEEE!!!!!

One mother. Two daughters. One favorite. One not. Which daughter is Tessa? The favorite? Or the “not?”

Tessa is the story of Cassie Barclay, daughter of Marni Miller Barclay, phenom artist. Cassie is, “A quiet child a wall flower, who blended in to the back ground. Cassie was a beauty but went unpolished, unkempt. And unnoticed…” Why so quiet? Why unnoticed? Why, when she is so beautiful, does she not realize her own beauty?

Like her mother, Cassie is an artist. But unlike her mother, Cassie is of the impressionist persuasion. She is part owner of a gallery in the imaginary town of Kcynia, in western New York State. We learn in the prologue that she has a secret. And that someone knows what it is. Who is the mystery caller? How does he know her secret? To what purpose does he call and hang up? For that matter, what is her secret? Who is Tessa, and what is her connection to Cassie?

Tessa is married, and has two sons. And, apparently, a daughter. And apparently, she used to be called Cassie. She is tall and slim, with sleek black hair that she wears long and straight. She has unusual ice blue eyes and a pale porcelain complexion. She looks just like her sister. Near identical. And they both look uncannily like their mother. More than a close resemblance, enough to make you do a double take. Near identical.

Before she was even born, there were shadows over Cassie. Unwanted, she never knew her mother’s love. She was loved, though, for there were many around her who saw to that, who filled that need. But not from her mother. And Cassie was okay. She accepted this as her life, didn’t question, didn’t know any different. Sometime during adolescence, she set her sights on the day she would be on her own, and satisfied herself with that.

I stated earlier that Tessa is not my story. The one connection that Cassie has to me personally is the feeling of insignificance. For vastly different reasons, I grew up without the knowledge of my worth. It’s pretty devastating, lemme tell ya!

I’m not sure at what point depression set in. I don’t mean sad days. I mean the disease. Years of feeling unworthy created a despair, which gave birth to depression. I lived with this for years and didn’t realize. Only when I lifted my head enough to try to get God’s attention to help me, did I realize what it was. And yes, I know that I’ve never not had God’s full attention; I didn’t know it then. I’m free of the disease now, this monster, I am realizing my worth and beauty in God’s eyes. But it has left scars. And from those scars, I write. This is why I write what I write. This is where my stories come from. Because I didn’t want to be me. I wanted to be someone, anyone else. [blog Identity, 062714] And so, too, my characters.

Cassie did not suffer depression. But, neither did she experience fullness of life. When, in that critical moment, she was presented an unthinkable opportunity, she didn’t have time to weigh the pros and cons. She jumped into her new life, that of her sister. And that changed everything.

If you haven’t already, be sure to stop by and like my Facebook page, follow me on Twitter, on my blog! Please leave me a comment, let me know you’re here!

http://robinsnest212.wordpress.com/
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robin-...
http://www.amazon.com/Robin-E.-Mason/...
https://twitter.com/amythyst212
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...

WELCOME to my PARTY!!!

The month of October is a special time for me:
my debut novel, my baby,
Tessa,

will be released IN PRINT on Halloween!
WHEEEEE!!!!!

I’ve lots planned for this month, and will post something each day leading up to the big day. I’ve got a couple of reviews up my sleeve, some contest-y things going on, question-and-answer event at the on-line party on the day. I’m rounding up some themed prizes. I’ll post my regular blog on Fridays, with Tessa related topics, and a character interview on the day. I’m working to have my website functioning live before the end of the month (fingers crossed!) and will involve all y’all in that kick off!!! Whaddya think it’ll look like?

I’ll begin by introducing ME! I’m Robin. I started blogging in April, which got hijacked in July when I was sick; been a bear trying to get back in the groove and post regularly! Yeah, and now I’mma try to post every day! ok. I’ve more than a dozen previous posts that reveal some of who I am. The most significant item being, “Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was invisible. Or she thought she was invisible, felt that way at least. And when she felt people were staring at her, she wished she was invisible. That little girl was me. Hello, my name is Robin, and I’m a recovering invisiblet.” [Friendship, posted 050214] In this, Tessa is a characterization of me. Her story is not mine, at all, at all. But the feeling of being invisible, insignificant, is, was.

That is all in the past now. But it bears on who I am now, too. Because I know how precious it is to be valued. I don’t take for granted when my friends pay attention, verily, it still blows me away when friends go out of their way to, well, be a friend to me. I am blessed, Papa God has richly blessed me with dear friends, and mentors, brothers and sisters in Christ who lift me and encourage me in countless ways. [see also Friendship, 050214] And now, I got this whole huge circle of other authors and writers that I count as friends!

I’m an eclectic personality. Don’t do well in surveys because my answers either fall in the in-between, or “either/or” answer. For instance, I love my solitude, which truly is God time - except when I’m working, like now – but I also love being with people. Sometimes it’s a fine balance. Sometimes, kind of a tricky balance. There is much disparaging talk about electronic connectivity. And I agree. And I disagree. I have maintained certain friendships online, and garnered new friends, online. But when I’m face to face, it’s time to be face to face and put the electronics down. ‘Cause while {{{{{HUGZ}}}}} might suffice if you’re miles away, it just doesn’t have the same effect as a pair of arms literally wrapped around you.

I’ve also got more than the one career. I’ve my BFA in Interior Design, earned that just last year. Yet, here I am, on this career trail as an author. And I’ve done some teaching, which I discovered – and rather surprised me – that I truly love! There’s just something about that moment, that twinkling, when a student “gets” what I’m teaching. The day one of my fourth graders whiz-bang-zipped right through her long division, because of my help and input remains one of my favorite memories.

As a word person, I am a lover of language. #understatement! #bigduh! Not English only, though! I speak Spanish, somewhere between proficient and fluent, and am picking up some French. But I don’t stop there, I want to learn German, too. And Russian. And Greek and Hebrew. And Irish. My son once told me I would be the most useless person on the planet. To know all those languages. [He was about 14 at the time. Or maybe in his twenties, can’t remember for sure.] Methinks not. Methinks I would be highly valuable, not to mention sought after, to know multiple languages. But that’s just me.

I’m an actress too. I first stumbled on the stage in 1975, when I was a freshman in high school. [shhh, don’t tell anybody I’m that old] Our spring musical was Fiddler on the Roof, and I was a peasant. And I was hooked! As a sophomore, I earned, or rather my British accent earned me a role in Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians. I was Dr. Armstrong. I maintained my theatre career throughout high school, but life, marriage and babies, put that on hold. It’s still “on hold.” I remain an actress, though. And the accents, not British only, come out to play sometimes: there’s the Irish, and the Aussie. I can pull of a pretty mean Brooklyn. And lest it get overlooked, I can, of course, twang a right fine Southern accent.

I’m one of the curious minds that want to know. Not in a National Enquirer kind of way, though. In a research and find out kind of way. I love puzzles, I love putting pieces together. I love knowing how and why words are spelled a certain way and mean a certain thing. I love grammar. Weird, I know. But that’s me. History is such a puzzle to me, pieces that fit together. I love all things Irish, am fascinated by Irish folklore, the history. I’m an artist and I love the color purple. I am a cat fancier and have five kitty babies: Shadow is the Mama cat; she’s three. Two years ago, she birthed five babies, three of which were to be adopted out. Only one was adopted and the others remain with me. They are, in no particular order: Trinity Juniper Starr, Jasper Jupiter Mars, Jacob (Jake) Jeremiah, and her royal highness, the diva, Princess Penelope Primrose.

Tomorrow I’ll introduce Tessa to you, pique your interest in her story – and of course to induce you to buy the book! #winkwink I’ll talk about what I write about, and why. And Friday, I shall introduce my premier issue of my newsletter! By the way, future posts will be earlier than bedtime! LOL Took some doing this afternoon to get the cover finalized and submitted!

For now, here’s my online locations. Please stop by and like my Facebook page, follow me on Twitter, on my blog! Please leave me a comment, I’d love to hear from you, even to say hello!

http://robinsnest212.wordpress.com/
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robin-...
http://www.amazon.com/Robin-E.-Mason/...
https://twitter.com/amythyst212
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...

Pearl in the Sand

Pearl in the Sand
by Tessa Afshar
a review by Robin E. Mason

I read a quote today attributed to Téa Obreht, “The best fiction stays with you and changes you.” That is this book, Pearl in the Sand. Because it is beautifully crafted and because it is a story lifted from the Word of God.
Ms. Afshar has done her homework. I looked in my Bible, and there’s barely a mention of Rahab. Well, other than her story of hiding the Hebrew spies, and that was hardly more than name dropping. She bears mention in geneology, but nothing of her personal story. This is the beauty of historical fiction; we as artists, create the story around the facts. We dig, as archeologists, to unearth what could plausibly, or even likely, have been the true story. We take the privilege and delight of adding nuance to hard fact, subtle hint to solid truth, to make an enjoyable reading experience. Ms. Afshar has done this, and with excellence.
The Scriptures noted by Ms. Afshar place Nahshon, who would become Rahab’s father in law, as the leader of the Tribe of Judah. His son, Salmone, then took this distinguished position. And he also became the husband of Rahab.
Now think about this for one minute. A member of highest esteem in the nation of Israel, a leader of the Tribe of Judah. Marries a Canaanite woman. A Canaanite woman who is – or was – a harlot. I don’t know how others read Scripture, but I think we are intended to look beyond the words, and look for the depth and meaning. The backstory, if you will.
Ms. Afshar has created this for us, and masterfully so. She has woven a tale of Salmone’s likely reaction to this pagan family coming not just into the holy nation of Israel, but into his tribe. His tribe. Which makes him responsible for them. He does not embrace this very gracefully, yet throughout the text, the truth of the Word woven so neatly into the warp and woof, Salmone comes to see that Yahweh accepts us all the same. And in her story, Ms. Afshar weaves the romance between the Israelite leader and the Canaanite harlot. For whatever their love story may have been, our loving God saw fit to allow her to become part of the most extraordinary blood line of all time.
I dog-earred several pages as I read. Little lessons to come back to. Consequences for one. Our actions might be forgiven, but the consequence remains. Or this: sometimes we ask God for a certain thing, but he answers quite differently. And only later do we see the greater benefit of His answer. His Divine perspective. Much of the story spoke very directly to me, as Rahab came embrace her new life. I won’t say more than that, lest I give too much away.
This story, crafted so beautifully, grabbed me deeply, leaving me anxious to see what her next book, Harvest of Rubies, holds. And the next, and the one after that.

The Land Uncharted

Title: The Land Uncharted
Author: Keely Brooke Keith
Release Date: October 21, 2014
Publisher: Edenbrooke Press

Summary:
Lydia Colburn is a young physician dedicated to serving her village in the Land. Day and night, she rushes by horseback to treat the ill and injured, establishing a heroic reputation as the village’s new doctor.
Naval Aviator Connor Bradshaw is flying over the South Atlantic Ocean on a mission to secure any remaining sources of fresh water in a 2025 world torn apart by war. A malfunction activates his aircraft’s ejection system, parachuting his unconscious body to the shore of a hidden land.
Lydia risks her safety to help the injured outsider despite the shock of his mysterious arrival and the disastrous implications his presence could have for her peaceful society, which has gone undetected for seven generations.
Connor searches for a way to return to his squadron, but his fascination with life in the Land makes him protective of Lydia and her peaceful homeland. And while Lydia’s attraction to Connor stirs desires she never anticipated, it also pushes an unwanted admirer to stage a dangerous attempt to win her affection.
As Connor tries to keep the Land off the radar, he learns the biggest threat to Lydia lurks in her village. But when Lydia’s greatest passion and darkest fear collide, will she look to the past or the future to find the strength to survive?


Pre-order today!

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Have your ebook of The Land Uncharted signed via Authorgraph!

Advance Praise for The Land Uncharted:
"I was caught up in the characters and the story line from the first pages and hated to see it end.” -Ann Ellison, Goodreads reviewer

"Not only is Keely's writing beautiful and full of vivid detail, but the story and characters are incredible! I love the way she crosses genres and how well it all blends together.” -Christina Yother, author of Reverie

"The premise is unique, the characters - realistic, the storyline - consistent and entertaining, and the language - fluent. It has just the right touch of conflict, suspense, longing and hope.”- Annalise Joy, Goodreads reviewer



Author Bio:
Keely is a bass guitarist and lives on a hilltop south of Nashville. When she isn’t writing stories or playing bass, Keely enjoys dancing, having coffee with friends, and sifting through vintage books at antique stores.

Author links:
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Facebook
Goodreads
Instagram
Pinterest

You can now add The Land Uncharted to your shelf on Goodreads, Shelfari, LibraryThing, or FictFact.

Tessa

One mother. Two daughters. One favorite. One not.

When Cassie Barclay is presented with an opportunity – or is it a curse – she runs with it. She jumps into a new life, her sister’s life, and although at first, it holds appeal and promise, she soon realizes sometimes the fairy tale is tainted.
Tessa is a story of love and trust and faith. Of lies and betrayal and deceit. An unsavory heritage, a tragic incident. Lies unravel, secrets are uncovered, and the truth - and love - prevail.

A story of three generations of women, Tessa is a tale of family, the nuances, the hierarchy, the enmity.

Tessa is Cassie’s story.


In light of my current endeavor to get my Tessa published in print (woo hoo!) I dedicate this weeks’ blog post to her. The above is my revised (and in progress) blurb. I offer you now, a few excerpts to whet your appetite. Details of the release shall be forthcoming, as well as my cover reveal and a release party contest!! All the up-to-date scoop will be on my Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robin-...
Be sure to stop by and pay me a visit, and like my page whilst you’re there! Always happy to have visitors and new friends!

“Tessa flopped onto the divan, more worn and weary in her thirty-seven years than the faded and threadbare divan in its 137 years. What will I tell the others, she moaned to herself, too weary even to weep at the events of the past thirteen days.
Two weeks ago, all was sunshine and roses, blue skies and songbirds. Then she got the first phone call.
“Mrs. Trent, I know your secret,” a tenor voice had said. Quite simply, not at all menacing or threatening. Except that he knew. Oh, God, he knew. He gave no name, and on the antique French style phone, there was no caller ID. Had he known that, she wondered idly. Had he realized that she would have no way to trace the call?
The old rotary phone jangled harshly now, shattering her stupor. Reaching to answer it, she knew it would not be him. Not anymore. He was finished with her.”


“Cassie had not been an excitable child. But at Christmastime the wonder and enchantment of the season overtook her usual unruffled demeanor. In spite of the fact that Marni played down the folderol and hoopla of the holidays, Cassie was as eager for Christmas morn as the rest of her fourth grade class.
And in spite of the fact that her mother kept her to a set schedule, Cassie was allowed to stay up past bedtime on Christmas Eve to watch for Santa’s sleigh in the sky. And in spite of the fact that she was up late, she always woke early, before the sun, anxious to get to her brightly wrapped gifts under the brightly decorated Christmas tree.
This year it was different, though. This year, Mommie was married. To Mr. Heath – Daddy, she was allowed to call him Daddy now. And this year, there was a baby coming.
Cassie padded down the hall in her silky soft pink slippers to Mommie’s room. But when she peaked in through the open door, Marni was not there.
Why didn’t they come get me? Cassie’s brow furrowed, hoping that all the gifts were not opened already.
But there was no one in the living room. Gifts unopened, they lay just as they were last night, and no sign that Santa had come either. Cassie checked the breakfast room. Still no sign of anyone.
Mrs. Dudek was in the kitchen, though, nursing a cup of coffee.
“Merry Christmas, little one!”
“Where’s Mommie?”
“They’ve gone to the hospital. The baby’s coming.”
“But what about my presents?”
“You’ll have a baby brother or sister for your Christmas present.”
Cassie tried to smile, but she wanted to open the bright red gift with her name on it. She wanted her Barbie Dream House from Santa. She wondered why he hadn’t come.”

“Tessa’s nightmares started again, reliving the moment Connie went over. Living it as herself going over the edge, falling, perpetually falling, hitting the bottom only to fall again.
Marrying Stewart after all, being in her Chinese silk wedding gown, all bloody and ragged from falling. And always with Howie looking on.
In some of the nightmares, she pushed Connie over. In some of them, Connie pushed her over the edge.
The worst dreams, though, were that the wedding was taking place as planned. Except that Connie had become her, and was marrying Stew. She was shut out of her own wedding day, no one could see her, no one could hear her. She tried over and again to engage, to dance with her groom, her new husband. But he, this man in her dreams, only had eyes for the other her. She ran and ran, around and round the entire wedding party and festivities, the cake, the bouzouki players, her family, her friends – HER friends.
And always, she flew off the top of the mountain, her body smashing and thudding against every outcrop on the way down.”

“Marni Miller was an exotic creature. Five-foot-nine and slender. Sleek black hair that she wore long and straight. And ice blue eyes.
Now, those blue eyes were snowflakes, misted and adrift. And scared. How can I tell Pop? This will kill him.
After graduation last year, Marni had remained at home to attend Valley Community College. As an art major, she knew she was a deep disappointment to her Pop; he wanted her to go into law or medicine, a generation before her time. But law did not appeal to Marni, and medicine – there was simply too much science and biology for a free spirit such as herself.
Except that now, some of that biology would have served her well. Particularly the reproductive chapters. Marni was not naïve. She knew about sex, and knew how this had happened. She just wished she knew more about the months ahead of her. Marni wished she knew about the immediate hours ahead of her, facing her Pop, but no text book could begin to address the nuances of her relationship with her father.”

“Upwards of 200 guests gathered in Barclay Hall, clustered around the linen covered table. In the center stood a seven-tiered illusion in sugar. Marzipan zoo animals marched around each layer, with yellow and pink frosting balloons bobbing in and out. The tiny top tier held a single yellow candle, nestled in a bed of pink florettes.
Upwards of 200 guests sang out, “Happy Birthday Sweet Connie. Happy birthday to you.”
Cassie sang along because she knew she wasn’t allowed not to. She knew the cake was meant for her too. She knew that Mommie and Heath had presents for her at home. And several of the guests bade her Happy Birthday as well.
But she wanted her own party. She was eleven now, she had her own friends. Mommie had let her invite a few of them to come over after school last week and Gina had made a cake. But there were no candles on it and they didn’t sing. It wasn’t really a party.

Dressed in look-alike pinafores and smocks, Cassie stood behind Connie’s beribboned high chair and helped blow out the candle. While Connie smashed her dimpled little fingers into a yellow giraffe, Cassie stole away with her china plate, and a tea cup of lemonade. Secreted on the velvet settee under the sweeping staircase, Cassie listened to the festivities of her half-sister’s first birthday. She opened her book and escaped to Misselthwaite Manor.”



“Oh, darling, thank God you’re alive!” Cassie was still in shock, and this display of affection from Marni rippled through her in waves of numb bewilderment.
Marni continued, “I was so afraid it was you! I don’t know what I’d do if you had died and Cassie had lived.”
Cassie collapsed, the receiver clattered to the floor. The Police Constable picked it up, spoke into the phone in sketchy English while two medics lifted Cassie onto a stretcher.
“Mrs.” The Constable began. “Lady have black out. You to call later time.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you.” The phone clicked off. In New York, on U.S. soil, Marni made ready to fly to Greece to claim the body of the daughter she had never wanted. A part of her was relieved that this unwanted person was no longer a millstone around her neck, a part of her felt great guilt at that truer sentiment. But a deeper part of her mourned the loss of a child she wished she could have loved.”

Identity – Part the Second

Abram became Abraham. Sarai became Sarah. Israel was named Jacob. Simon was called Peter. Saul became Paul.

There is power in words, and what greater word do we ever hear than our own name? If there is power in what we say and hear and read, day in and day out, how much more so the name attached to us.

I hated my name growing up. Robin. It’s a beautiful name. But I hated it. And the reason is this: I hated me. I hated being me. I didn’t want to be me. Ergo, I didn’t want the name that I was tagged with. I’ve come a long journey to where I am now, to where I like me, I’m okay being me, being who I am. Who Papa God created me to be. And with that, I like my name.

It’s a journey of identity, really. Aren’t we all on that journey? Identity? Who am I? Why am I here? Even deeper, who loves me? What is my worth? What is my value, my purpose? What is my identity? And for all my self-acceptance and self-approval, all the growth and learning to love ME in recent years, there has been an awareness most recently of identity. Mine. His. My identity in Him.

A name has greater significance than a label. Or, maybe not. Millions of dollars are spent on branding and logos. Think of a logo, any logo. I could post some pics here of logos, and we’d all recognize them instantly. And copyright over names, and spelling of names. A brand name carries ownership. We associate value – or lack thereof – with certain name brands. And no one else can use it.

There are millions of people in the world named Robin. But my name with my journey has in effect, that unique combination, branded me who I am. No one else has had the same life experience, the same journey, as I. No one else named Robin, in essence, is “branded” exactly the same. Conversely, I would not be who I am if I had been named something other than Robin. No other name would have fit, no other name would have worked for me, for who Papa God created me to be.

But then…

Then Papa God whispers. He says to Abram, “You will be called Abraham.” And to Sarai, “You shall be Sarah.”

And to this Robin, He says, “You are Brigid.” Now, if you know me at all, at all, ye know I’ve a fondness for all things Irish. And with just that phrase, I’m now thinking – and typing - with me lovely Irish brogue. So, ye see, the name I’m especially fond of it right off, I am. But then – then I go and I look up the meaning, I do. Now, mind ye, I didna do a great and in-depth archeological dig for etymology of this beautiful name. I availed meself of Wikipedia, and what they gave me for my name, I’m liking. A lot. It says that, “Bridget or Brigid is a Celtic/Irish female name derived from the noun brígh, meaning power, strength, vigor, virtue.” That’s my identity now, power, strength, vigor, virtue. I can live with that. The Celtic goddess of agriculture and healing, and possibly poetry and fire, was called Brigid. Agriculture – I love to be outside, I love to work in the yard, in a garden. And healing? Yes, that fits. Poetry? D’ya think? And fire? Oh, yes, one of her epithets was “Brigid of the Holy Fire.” Holy Spirit Fire, I’ll take that. I’ll take anything the Holy Spirit want to share with me! YES and AMEN!!!

But Papa didn’t stop there. He tossed “Rachel” in the mix, “… root meaning, to journey, a good traveler.” So I guess I’m going to be traveling! Guess I’d better get me some luggage!! You know, so I can go to Ireland!!

The thing is, though, Papa didn’t change my name. He didn’t take away my Robin identity; he added to it; He supplemented it, augmented it. My mother told me she named me Robin because of a dream she had while she was pregnant with me. I like to believe that dream was Papa’s voice, speaking to her about me, about my future, about my identity. My middle name was her name, Elizabeth. In my quest for identity, I discovered that, “Elizabeth is a feminine given name derived from the Greek Elisavet (Greek: Ελισάβετ), which is a form of the Hebrew name Elisheva ( אֱלִישֶׁבַע ), meaning "My God is an oath" or "My God is abundance.” No explanation necessary.

And Robin? What of my dream-name? The name Papa whispered to me mum before I was born? What is its meaning, you ask. Bright fame. My name means bright fame.

Get ready world! I’m powerful, strong, vigorous, virtuous, and I’m a’travelling.

#identity
#oath
#abundance
#brightfame
#travel
#powerstrengthvigorvirtue
#logo

On Not Writing, in other words, An Accidental Sabatical

When you’ve been knocked out of the proverbial saddle - saddle being writing a blog – it’s not so easy to get back in the groove. Not sure why that is. That’s not true, I do know. Sort of. Like developing any new habit, or maintaining an established habit even, to break the stride or rhythm creates a disturbance of epic proportions. Think “disturbance in the Force” proportions.

For three weeks I had legitimate excuse, er, uh reason: two of those weeks I was sick, and the third week, I was making up for time lost while I was sick the first two weeks. Follow all that? But what of the missing weeks? Four of them.

They crept up on me. Let me explain. (I do this a lot, a LOT!)
I like to write my blog ahead of time. Don’t always pull it off, but I do at least have an idea, even a vague notion, what I will write about early in the week, to post on Friday.

Note the post entitled, “No Idea,” dated 30 May. It started with the statement, “It’s 2:30 in the afternoon, less than ten hours left in the day, Blog Day, and I’ve no idea what I’m writing / posting about today. [BLANK]

Well, it’s nearly that same time now, and I’m winging it.
My ideal, however, is to have my topic in mind, and at least start the process on Monday or Tuesday. Don’t think I’ve pulled this off, I think the earliest I’ve really gotten into it was Wednesday of the week. Maybe oncet or twicet on the Tuesday.

So, those four elusive weeks? Fridays crept up on me, or passed me by altogether, with no brilliant ideas for writing. So I didn’t. And I’m calling it a Sabbatical of Accidental Proportions.

I have not been idle, however, as an author, in the meantime. I am working my “presence” as an author. Refer to my first blog, “Drowning” way back in April. And my friend, Brian’s blog that I shared, “Surf the Tsunami.” Pretty much the same sentiment. HELP! But, that’s what I’ve been doing.

I started my Facebook Author page last November, when I realized I’m going to be serious
about this writing thing. Didn’t do much with it, posted pics of my artwork and design work, and some excerpts from my baby, i.e. my debut novel, Tessa. Then of course, when she was published, I posted and shared about that. Not much action there, though, definitely no interaction. Seventeen days ago, something clicked on in my brain. One of those forest for the trees moments, so obvious and yet I missed it all these weeks and months.

I started sharing posts by other authors and writerly pages. Oh, I’ve been following other authors for a while, and writer-type pages. But then a light went on and I thought to share their posts on MY author page. Brilliant, isn’t it? And traffic has jumped! Lots of comments in 2 ½ weeks, and few “likes” for my page, too.

So, I’ve not been idle in my absence. I’ve worked on some small projects, plugging away at my new manuscript, life.dot.com, and the ever elusive marketing for Tessa. And, so, for the record, here are the links to my web-presence:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robin-...
http://www.amazon.com/Robin-E.-Mason/...
@amythyst212
http://robinsnest212.wordpress.com/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...

and of course, the all-important link to my baby, Tessa:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IPZ5JEE.

Next week, I’ll be back in the saddle with a “proper” topical blog!

all about Spanish

Still no new wonderful witty words this week.

The sinus crud is lingering, but that’s not the reason.

his week I’m all about Spanish.

As in, writing a curriculum for a workshop I’m teaching.

Saturday.

This Saturday.

Two days hence.

The aforementioned sinus crud interfered in no small measure

my ability to write the curriculum in a timely fashion,

and I have,

therefore,

cranked it out in the past week.

I did, oh-so-thankfully,

have the structure laid out,

the road map of what I want to convey

Also, oh-so-thankfully,

it is a four-hour workshop on

basics and fundamentals,

not a full blown “we gonna be fluent today” crash course.

It has,

as with all things I ever put my hands to,

turned out much grander than originally concepted.

And that’s okay, ’cause that’s how I roll.

So for now,

hasta la semana proxima!!

[Til next week.]

#wespeakinspanish

#allaboutwriting

#iloveteaching

Not So Much - Take 2

to all my adoring fans: the head cold of last week went from bad to badder, in the form of sinus infection, compounded by lack of sleep, two weeks of lack of sleep – I don’t got nothing, I got less than nothing. on the bright side, I had a delightful (yes, even feeling like crud) week with my granddaughters!!! can’t beat that!!
#sinusinfection
#insomniasucketh
#granddaughterlove

Not So Much

Not so much this week.
Owing to the fact of me being sick.
yuck
Just a head cold,
that started to settle into a chest cold.
It didn’t,
but I spent my week
utterly drained.
And not writing so much.
So, no dazzling blog this week.

I will, however, give tribute and honor
to our Great Nation,

Happy Birthday
to the U.S. of A.
Two hundred and thirty-eight years young.
The the land of the free
and
home of the brave.

I don’t guess we can have any idea
what it was like to live under a controlling monarch,
with no rights, no recourse.
However twisted and contorted and abused our nation is today,
we still have our rights, however shredded or thin they may be.
We don’t know what these men and women escaped from.
We cannot imagine the sense of freedom they felt.
And we cannot know the depth of the words they penned,
in poem, hymn, constitution, declaration.
We can, however, take their words and keep them,
know them and own them.
We can preserve our great nation.