Handbag and Book with #author Sandra Tilley: My purse is my lifeline #readromance #accessories #fashion

All Purses Are Not Created Equal A purse is a handbag is a pocketbook? Whatever you call yours, I maintain that it is more than a mere receptacle or even a fashion statement. My purse is my lifeline. Along with my iPhone which is always inside my purse… in addition to wallet, credit cards, business cards, checkbook, writing paraphernalia, cosmetics, medication, hand sanitizer, snacks, dental floss, and sometimes my favorite beverage–a Diet Coke. I carry my purse wherever I go. Maybe not as close to the body as Queen Elizabeth. But then, I prefer a shoulder strap to handles. Inside my purse is the essence of Sandra Tilley. And I don't leave my purse behind. Ever. All purses, however, are not created equal. Recently I attended a college football game, and in keeping with the school's tight security policy, I was strongly encouraged to carry a small, see-through handbag. Although my husband suggested a zip-lock bag, I purchased a small, tacky plastic purse, opting for a shoulder bag instead of a clutch. I set aside the things I could function without for a few hours, and then I crammed in as many of my necessities as the transparent substitute could hold. I slung the strap over my shoulder and headed out the door, tossing a quick glance into the foyer mirror. I sucked in a breath and stopped cold. Gripping my purse to my body, I stared at my reflection. The clear, plastic handbag revealed the uncensored and unplugged version of the person that is uniquely me. I felt naked. I'd exposed my character and inclinations to the world! Everyone could see the tiny bottle of Excedrin wedged in place by lip gloss and hand sanitizer. A comb, as important as my wallet, squeezed in next to a notebook and pen. And behind orange-flavored Tic-Tacs, lay my adolescent obsession: Hubba Bubba bubblegum. To anyone with eyes, my vanity, my concern with germs, my fear of bad breath and pain, not to mention my love of not just any bubble gum but Hubba Bubba, were not only showcased for the world to see, but glowed like a beacon of embarrassment. The see-through handbag was like a window into my psyche, revealing the real me that I hide inside leather. Sometimes expensive and usually black leather. I love designer handbags, and nothing is as sweet as swinging my black leather Coach bag on my shoulder. Wittingly or not, we writers infuse bits of ourselves (and our purses?) into our writing. In my debut novel The Ghost and Mrs. Miller , the word purse is mentioned 26 times. And my favorite black Coach handbag plays a major part in a scene in my current WIP Live Bait.    His rank breath reached me before his slurred words. “Let’s dance.” Mid-stroke of applying lip gloss to my bottom lip, he yanked my arm. I toppled off the bar stool and smashed against his slim body. Nicotine laced with alcohol reeked from his clothes and skin. I flinched and backed out of his aroma range. I hopped back onto my stool and wiped lip gloss from my cheek. “No thanks.” I grabbed my purse from the bar and deposited my lip gloss. He cocked his head, and long blond strands swooped to the side.  “You think you’re too good to dance with me?”   I turned my back and flipped my hair. “I don’t think I’m too good. I think I’m too sober.” Steely fingers gripped my shoulder and whirled me around.  He leaned in close. Close enough to see jagged red lines in his blood-shot eyes. “Don’t turn your back on me, bitch.”  His voice, measured and low, rang of raw, controlled fury. I clutched my purse to my chest. Trapped between rage and the solid oak bar, I searched for an exit. The last thing I wanted was to make a scene. If he were sober, I might be able to negotiate. But he hadn't seen sober in a while. “Don’t touch me again.” Fear steeped my words in bravado. “Furthermore, you don’t know me well enough to call me a bitch.” His hand zipped past my face and slapped the bar. I recoiled. And then in one smooth motion, I drew back my purse as far as I could and swung my Coach bag with both hands. The leather rocket caught him under the chin. I squeezed into a ball and braced for retaliation.  Nothing.Cautiously, I opened one eye. On the floor, the drunk lay in a heap.My nurse instincts kicked in. Still clutching my purse, I leapt from my bar stool and knelt down. I put my ear to the drunk’s face to make sure he was breathing. One of the many FloraBama’s security guys crouched beside me. “Want me to call the cops?”A crowd gathered around us. The security guy wore a red t-shirt with the FloraBama logo Do it on the Line stretched across his swoon-worthy chest. A manic giggle escaped my lips. I wondered if the drunk was lying on the Florida or the Alabama side of the line.Concentrate. The man on the floor needed me. "No need to call the cops." I tossed my purse aside and lifted his eyelids. They were dilated equally—a good sign.The security guard spread his arms wide to the gawkers. “Back up folks.” My victim's eyelids flickered, and someone in the crowd shouted, “He’s coming around.” The drunk put his hand to his chin. “What’d you slug me with?”“Just my purse.” I held it up for him to see.“What you got in that thing? A brick?”“Don’t be ridiculous.” I pulled a can from my bag. “Just a Diet Coke.” 
Thank you, Vicki, for allowing me to share my love of purses and showing how I use them in my writing. Don't think I'll ever find the opportunity to write about my heroine using a see-through, plastic purse. But never say never. 
Find THE GHOST AND MRS. MILLER  on:  Amazon          Find Sandra Tilley at:   Website   Sandra, I'm impressed with your little handbag. I've never had a clear one. I did go to an event and we were told only to carry a six x eight inch bag. That was tiny!