Tag Archives: romance

Belonging

When I started writing it was just something I did to entertain myself. My husband kept saying I should share that entertainment with the world. I’ve never been a flamboyant, “put yourself out there” kind of person, so I just ignored him. As I came nearer to finishing my first manuscript, I began to share it with a few close friends. They loved it, and in turn, urged me to “do something with it”.

My Beau started researching publishers and writers groups. He put me on to The Sunshine State Romance Authors, Inc., and the rest is history. These talented, knowledgeable women took me in and set my feet on a path to fulfillment. Watching them succeed has given me energy and hope. They truly make me feel as if I belong in this crazy, wistful, often ditzy world of writing.

Today they posted my contribution to what I lovingly call the Butt Glue Chronicles.

The Infamous Butt Glue

I knew it had to happen, sooner or later, but I had been dreading it for some time. I mean, I’ve been lucky and managed to dodge this thing for over a year!

Since it was inevitable, I thought, why not just get it over with; so at our last meeting I volunteered for the Butt Glue.

What? You’ve never heard of the infamous butt-glue? Well, it was invented by a really devious woman. A member of a group of writers who are known to have knowledge of things like lust and hope, mayhem and laughter, murder and romance, not necessarily in that order or grouping. And the sole purpose of this invention was to put one’s butt in a chair (or on a stool, or even on a chaise at poolside, so I’ve heard) and keep you there until you have birthed and recorded words. Lots and lots of words.

Well, I’ve been a little short on words lately (that’s my husband you hear choking in the background, as he rolls on the floor with tears streaming from his laughing eyes) so I did what any savvy writer would do. I volunteered for the Butt Glue.

I marched into the office this morning, firmly planted that little white bottle down beside my keyboard, and waited. And waited. And waited.

Nothing. And believe me, I recognize nothing when I see it staring back at me from that blinding white page.

I became so disillusioned by the nothingness of it all, that I lowered my head to the desktop and waited for tears.

Suddenly I felt a firm grip on my wrist and the sensation of air, first softly stirring my hair, then rushing by so fast that it began to roar. I opened my eyes and found nothing but blackness and what might have been stars. Did I mention that I am deathly afraid of heights? So I clamped those eyes of mine firmly closed and was just about to scream, when I became aware of the smell of salt air. The wind had slowed and was now playing with my long, wavy, copper tresses. What?!

I opened my eyes and found myself standing on a cliff, staring out over Sinclair Bay and behind me was the Ackergill Tower, standing majestically against the Caithness countryside. It was coming on dusk and the Northern Lights had begun to infuse the skies over Scotland with pale greens and lavenders. I turned at the sound of pounding hooves, only to see a man of magnificent proportions wrapped in nothing but a Tartan plaid. He brought the horse to a sliding halt, vaulted off and dropped to one knee in front of me. Good Lord, what a man! Eyes like polished steel, arms that had been burnished by the sun and rippled with bands of muscles, and ebony hair that set off a jawline of granite. He took my hand, looked deeply into my eyes, and said, “Och, ye bonny lass, where ha’ ye been all me life?”

At least that’s what it sounded like to me. I can’t be sure because the wind in that darn tunnel had started roaring again; my feet left the ground and all I could see was that bottle of glue pulling me into the tunnel.

When I opened my eyes again, it was to see the evening sun setting behind a wall of granite and snow topped mountains. I was standing on the front porch of a roughly-hewn log cabin, holding a metal bar in my hand and looking at a triangular dinner-bell. Unsure of what might happen, I swallowed hard and used the bar to “ring” the bell. I gave it a good hearty ring, then waited for the outcome.

I saw movement near the barn. I watched as a tall, lean but muscular and shirtless cowboy rounded the corner, wiping sweat with the bandana he removed from his neck.

As he got closer, I could see those ice-blue eyes with lines at the corners from squinting in the Colorado sun. I could see the cording across that broad chest, leading down to his narrowed waist. Those piercing eyes met mine and I lost all coherent thought. My breath was coming in short gasps. Then he spoke in a voice that rumbled up out of that sweat wet chest. “Woman, you can put supper back in the oven. Right now, all I want is a bath and you.”

I could feel a tug at my shoulder and a sharp pain across the back of my neck. I raised my head and wiped the drool from the side of my mouth as my husband said, “You silly goose, if you need a nap, go stretch out in the recliner.”

I was confused. I looked around, and the only thing I saw that registered in my sleep-fogged brain was that darn bottle of butt glue. And then in a flash of blinding light, well okay, when my husband turned on the overhead light in the office, things became clear.

I saw the lambs-wool, tartan-plaid throw, that I won at the on-line “Rogues” party from the lovely Grace Burrowes, folded neatly on the corner of my desk. On top of it lay the old, but much loved, arrowhead that my grandson brought back from a camping trip near Denver.

I looked back at the bottle of butt glue and knew the truth. The glue works in a different way for each of us. My need was for inspiration. The glue had taken some of the many “themes” of inspiration that were right under my nose and “cemented” them in my unconscious mind.

My work-in-progress still needs words, but my notebook of “possibilities” is bulging with new ideas!

Thanks, Butt Glue, and may you do for others what you’ve done for me.

You can check out all the Butt Glue blogs at Sunshine State Romance Authors, Inc.

Facebooktwitterpinterest
Facebooktwitterpinterest

Writing & Self Medication

We, as a nation, have become so at ease with the technology of communication devices that I don’t think many of us would survive if we had to return to the day of, say Shakespeare.

images

Remember the scene from Shakespeare In Love, when Shakespeare was frantically putting pen to paper, trying to get all his thoughts down before they eluded him? And his fingers were so ink stained that they looked just a little gross? Could you write a book with nothing but a quill and ink? The dedication of our historical writers puts me to shame. I whine when I lose power and don’t have access to my computer!

And remember the scene when they all went to the inn for a pint after working so hard? Okay that is a little more relatable. Almost daily I see references of drinking and writing and I can understand that, since writing is such a stressful, often painful thing.

First, you are pouring out your inner most thoughts for the world to judge. Then there is that painful period where you search (and pray) for a publisher who loves your “baby” as much as you do. Then, when you have found that wonderful, intelligent publisher, they want you to slice and dice your baby to make it more marketable.

No wonder so many writers turn to drink, or food, or whatever it is that soothes the individual’s nerves.

article-1239507-07BAC864000005DC-721_468x298

It would be wonderful if we all turned to exercise, but even Hemingway said “An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools.”

Whatever it is that soothes your jangled nerves after hours spent “bleeding” words from your soul, take it in moderation. Now, if you would pardon me, while I go rummage through the kitchen for anything chocolate to soothe my jangled nerves.

ChocoRaspberry-Tart

Facebooktwitterpinterest
Facebooktwitterpinterest

Fashion – Today’s, Yesterday’s ?

For me, it’s yesterday’s! I just think women looked more like women in the good old days. I can remember watching my Mom get ready to go out for the evening and it was just beautiful. The shoes and bags always matched, and while the gloves were probably a pain to keep up with, they looked so sweet. And don’t even get me started on the hats!

So, naturally when I started writing A Heart Made For Love, there had to be clothing descriptions.

“It was a deep rose taffeta with an almost, off the shoulder neckline. Mae had tried it on for Eleanor to pin for the last fitting and it had rustled like dry leaves when she moved.”

Can you see the color, hear the rustling as she moved across the floor? Good. Now wouldn’t you just love a dress like that?

Facebooktwitterpinterest
Facebooktwitterpinterest

Domestic Violence…sad but true.

The word violence alone is enough to conjure up images of brutality, but to combine that word with domestic should make everyone’s blood run cold.

After all, who could you possibly be more safe with than a husband or wife or mother or father? Did you know the first recorded instance of domestic violence was between Cain and Able? Brothers.

There have been laws in place reference physical attacks for at least a hundred years in some states, however, most police agencies shied away from recognizing what would be considered a “family” problem. After all, what went on behind closed doors was no one’s business, right?

In the early 1980’s some smart folks in Minneapolis decided to run an experiment. They developed a pool of domestic violence offenders for whom there was probable cause for arrest and then randomly selected one third for arrest, and one third for counseling, and one third to be separated from the domestic partner. The result had an unprecedented impact on the then current police practices. It would lead to numerous states and law enforcement agencies enacting mandatory warrantless arrests for domestic violence IF probable cause existed.

The greatest burden for law enforcement is accountability. Say the only thing you have to go on is his or her accusation, the old he-said/she-said? Let’s say you don’t make an arrest and during the night one of them kills the other. Guess who is blamed and quite often held financially responsible thru law suits? Yep, law enforcement.

So, is there a good answer to this problem? My theory is shine some bright light on the subject. Don’t cover that black eye with make-up. Let the world see it. And if they get embarrassed, so be it. Maybe he/she will think twice before they swing again.

And that leads to the next theory. Do you give him/her another opportunity? And before some of you pass judgment on my take on the subject, twenty years of crime scene work has shown me just about every brutal thing one human being can do to another. So, do you stay, or do you go? Your life could depend on that decision.

And the next issue? Women easily fall into repeat behavior. The psychological ramifications of domestic violence are endless. My mother divorced my father, an angry drinker with bad temper, and later married a man who beat her savagely. I, on the other hand, married a man who drank, a lot, but never raised a hand to me. And my second marriage was to a man who verbally savaged me.

Where does it end? Good question. My theory is it won’t stop until we each take responsibility for our own lives. We teach people how to treat us. Have this discussion with a possible partner to-be. If the two of you are not on the same page, then don’t open that book.

Facebooktwitterpinterest
Facebooktwitterpinterest