And the Winner is . . .

TA - DA.... Wait. Before I tell you my decision, I must paint the picture...tell the convoluted story.

In my last blog I left you breathless with anticipation of what I was going to do about my extravagant indulgence. I agonized about what to do, loaded my package in the car twice to return the items, but just never quite had time, or the desire to part with my treasures...racking up 18% interest each day I held on to the little beggars.  Then two days before Christmas, a wonderful twist of fate.

As I've explained or complained, hubby is officially retired...and bored. I try to keep the sink piled with dirty dishes for him to wash in the morning and laundry piled to an impressive height to give him something to do in the afternoons. Even the dog helps out by pushing his 80 lb body through the door whenever it's carelessly cracked open larger than two inches, making a mad dash for my office and leaving a trail of large paw prints across the tile floor. But despite our efforts, hubby still manages to find large blocks of time to peruse various sites that "sell stuff." I threatened to put passwords on all the computers after he found his "sensational deal" and purchased a second Harley Davidson off Craigs List.

His latest cyber hangout...eBay.  Unfortunately, hubby isn't as "seasoned" in the bidding game and learned about the "buy it now" feature the hard way. He was eyeballing a new guitar (he's been in a rock band ever since I've known him) and happened to put in an "offer." The guitar disappeared off the site a few hours later when he got up the nerve to show me. The next morning he checked his emails and guess what? He won his guitar!

Yep. God moves in mysterious ways. Hubby was ensnared in his own trap and had to pay the piper. Guilt, remorse, and eyes begging forgiveness for his impulsive behavior stared at me. Of course being the loving, understanding spouse that I am, I consoled him while my inner goddess donned her dancing shoes. Christmas morning...I pulled out my purchases. "Santa" couldn't say anything, especially when I handed him the printout confirming his PayPal purchase and shipment date. A few chords from the Hallelujah chorus echoed in my brain when he conceded his defeat and said I could keep whichever one I wanted.

The problem still remained, however...which one? After a week of research, including several discussion forums and a membership to Consumer Reports, I made my decision.  Drum roll please...




http://http://www.amazon.com





Kindle won over iPad Mini...on the following points.  Besides the Dolby speakers and awesome HD screen - and it is beautiful... here's the differences that swayed my decision. With the latest "ice cream" software technology, the graphics on Kindle Fire HD are sharper, no glare when reading, even with the clear screen due to no layer of air between screen and tablet itself.  Apple products have "airspace." I watched a product video on the Apple site to confirm this.  Kindle Fire HD has 1G memory, iPad Mini has 516 MB of storage.  Kindle Fire HD's processor is faster - 1.5GHz vs. 1.0GHz from iPad Mini.  I experienced this with a friend's iPad Mini - had to wait for things to download and there were dead spots in the WiFi. My Kindle downloaded faster and there were no dead spots in my office with the WiFi.

The other thing that Amazon's Kindle Fire HD can do that Apple's iPad Mini cannot, is multitask. I can have my music going, a book open, along with my email and Facebook without any issue. The iPad Mini can only do one function at a time. And lastly, Apple can't support sites that use Adobeflash (which is the latest platform used). The two features that made it hard to give up the iPad Mini were the front and back camera (Kindle only has a front facing, but you can turn it around for video or buy an adapter with a rear-facing camera) and the "Facetime" feature. However, Kindle Fire HD does have Skype. I even found a way to side load my iTunes onto the Amazon Cloud and play them on my Kindle Fire. So far I've found all the apps I want and a few new ones. All my email accounts loaded effortlessly and my Netflix movies are awesome in HD.

If you are an Apple diehard, I'd wait until this fall to get your iPad Mini.  That's right.  Apple already has the iPad 5 coming out in April and an updated iPad Mini slated for September, which is supposed to have the retina display screen. Well worth the wait. I know 7 inches shouldn't make a difference, but it does. I didn't realize I'd bought the 8.9 size Kindle Fire HD until Christmas morning and I'm so glad I got the larger size. Worth the extra bucks. As far as the complaints about the advertisements, I only have one ad (picture only) on the screen when I turn it on.  There are the "recommended for you" displayed below your sections, however, under Device Settings, you can turn off that option.  Voila, no hassles - at least with my version.

Okay, I'm stepping off my Amazon soapbox. No compensation given for my blog-infomercial. Just my preference. I'm still pinching myself. For me, this was the best choice. For someone else, it might not be. I will admit the Bestbuy salesclerk had to pry the iPad Mini box from my hands. I felt like I dropped off an unwanted kitten to the pound. I hurried home and downloaded two new books, ordered a bright red cover, and uploaded the cover to Designer Genes...but that surprise will have to wait until next time.

Later friends. Thanks for stopping by!
http://www.harleybrooks.com

WACKY WEDNESDAY . . . Easy Rider - or writer?

 Anyone who knows me, knows I love motorcycles. My preferred brand is Harley Davidson. Between hubby and I, we've owned seventeen. Current sweet ride is a burgundy flake (sparkling beauty) Road King with a big old fat seat for my ... well, to cushion the ride. I've been to Sturgis, the biggest people show on earth and oh-so entertaining. The American flag can be worn so many different ways. This is also the place my virgin eyes saw, how shall I say it, body paint artistically applied to the most obvious places. One such endowed beauty had a gorgeous lion's head painted on her chest, with "eyes" that jiggled. Also, I cannot eat Bing cherries without recalling another vivid memory. Ah yes. Needless to say, I watched, but did not partake. My favorite trek is a toss up between Yellowstone Park and Durango, Colorado. My least favorite is the dry, windy ride to Laughlin, Nevada.

I was taught to ride a Honda 100 dirt bike by my high school boyfriend, whom I thought the sun bowed to when it set in the West. I wanted to be the coolest girlfriend ever, so when he asked me if I wanted to learn how to ride his, I jumped at the chance. I did okay. Biffed it a couple of times, but soon rode like a pro. Then we broke up and I lost my motorcycle.

When I got married, hubby thought it would be wonderful if we each had our own. He bought me a Honda 200 street/dirt bike. Things got complicated. I had to take and pass a motorcycle driving test. Aced the written exam, but the actual test would be taken solo, without my husband around. An officer mounted a large horse and stood guard as I did my Figure 8's, stopped and started my cycle without issue, did some balancing thing for 30 seconds (which I think was more for his entertainment as I have never needed that technique), then proceeded to the "brake test." Again, I'm thinking he was bored. He pointed down a long strip in the parking lot between parked cars. Straight, narrow, and running the risk of someone backing out into me. I was to reach a certain speed, then slam on the brakes and not skid to a stop.

I scanned the parking lot, which was at the courthouse, looking for old people who wouldn't hear me, teenagers pissed off with traffic tickets who wouldn't see me, and the idiot running late for his court hearing who would pull into the parking lot as I peaked top speed. The officer waited. The horse took a dump.

I revved my engine, eased out the throttle and shifted effortlessly through each gear, mentally screaming a mantra of obscenities mixed with fervent prayer. I passed! I took a vow that I would never let my motorcycle endorsement expire whenever I renewed my license because I never, ever, wanted to take that test again. I will be a hundred years old with a motorcycle license.

Hubby beamed, proud of his tiny (no children had been born and I was barely 20) bad-ass wife in her color-coordinated purple motorcycle gear and helmet. The ride home was relaxing, all the tension gone. In fact, my legs felt rubbery. We arrived at our suburbia paradise where our newlywed love nest was located (sounds much more romantic than mobile home). Hubby was a couple of minutes ahead of me, because I had to wait for traffic before turning into the subdivision. He'd already dismounted, had his helmet off and was watering the flower pots out front.

I've just given you a "camera clue." Ever watch for those in movies? The most obvious is the car driving down the road with driver and passenger arguing, the camera giving you quick flashes of each one with a view out their side window. You're engaged in their conversation, paying no mind to the background, and then it happens. The crash! The sound of glass exploding, metal grating on metal, screams, and for the grand finale on your heart attack, blood spattering everywhere. An eerie quiet follows, usually a low cello strumming in the back ground, covered slightly by the hissing sound of steam rising. A moan. An appendage twitches, then in the distance, the wailing of sirens resonating louder as they approach.

Okay, so my next  "scene" isn't as dramatic, but traumatizing nonetheless. I pull into the driveway, grinning proudly at my betrothed heartthrob, paying no attention to the little stream of water trickling down the driveway, or the hose stretched across my path. I roll the throttle slightly to give the motorcycle enough gas to ease up the short incline to the carport. Suddenly, the bike slips sideways when the front tire and the hose fight for control. Panicked, I think I'm grabbing the brake when in reality, I grab the throttle with all my strength -- launching me into a wheelie Travis Pastrada would be proud of. My body, now operating without a brain, falls forward, pushing the front tire back onto the wet pavement, propelling me like a small rocket into the carport, narrowly missing my new Camaro, through a decorative fence once protecting floundering tomato plants, over a throw-rug size patch of grass and into the back of our neighbor's mobile home.

The bike is wedged between the skirting and the metal frame, the throttle stuck on high, and the back tire spinning on their patio. Blue smoke curls, the stench of burning rubber overpowering the smell of burgers cooking on a nearby grill. I've miraculously catapulted off the machine and am jumping up and down, possessed by poltergeists and screaming for my husband. As he passes the mentally disturbed woman he's sworn his dying breath to, he spews words void of any of the pride he gushed earlier. He shut the bike off, carefully pulled it out of the skirting and limped it across the grass back to our place on its now bald tires. The adrenaline rush finally reached my brain and I passed out.

Yes, that's how I started my "biking career." My machine stuck in sheet metal and me sprawled on wet grass. But color-coordinated. I've had a couple of other "Keystone Cops" moments, and recently, I sold my white angel bike (pictured above), deciding I make a better passenger. I'm getting too old. If something breaks now, it has to be "replaced."

I still love riding. Now, however, I get to read my Kindle and let my husband worry about the driving. I doubt we'll ever give it up. We met a couple in Cooke City, Montana on a rally one year. They were in their mid seventies. They'd "triked" their Harley, modifying the back with two wheels instead of one. We decided that would be us, only I threatened to kill my husband if he wore a leather vest and no shirt like this dude had. Gray chest hair with saggy "man-boobs" has a high gag factor.

So how does this relate to my writing career? It doesn't, other than riding my Harley is probably my best muse. The adrenalin rush I get from a motorcycle, driver or passenger, is the same as when a new story sparks in my imagination and I can't get the words out fast enough. Sometimes I get "stuck in sheet metal" but not for long. I write a superhero, not unlike the one I've been with for thirty odd years, to rescue the heroine, me...the story. Usually one with attitude, or a mouth my grandmother would shove soap into, and in the end, most likely he gets caught in his cape and needs a kick-ass heroine with sharp scissors to save him and steal his heart.

So there you have it. Another embarrassing page from my wacky life. Thanks for stopping by.

WACKY WEDNESDAY....Selling your wares.

 Current listen: "When We Stand Together" courtesy of Nickelback

Isn't she pretty? I borrowed her from Brooke London's Facebook page. My "Dreamweaver." It's a reflection of how I see myself...lost in dreams and whimsical fantasies...far away from reality. This also seems to be the way I function most of the time--lost in a daydream. Slightly disconnected from the world, elusive.

Or maybe the hormones are just out of whack again. I was really  this thin once, too. Again... damn hormones, or I should say "the lack thereof."

I consider myself a passionate person--one who doesn't back away from a good fight, whether right or wrong, usually saying the wrong thing at inopportune moments (size 9 mouth) and not checking my parachute before jumping. I try to alternate sides of my face when I "land" to keep things even. 

This weekend I joined in a heated debate on one of writing loops about self promotion, ending with a less than professional statement. Kind of like going for the dramatic exit after an argument with your teenager, slamming the door for effect and catching your finger in the doorjamb. Yes, this is a real life experience, costing me the tip of my finger and payback via 4 nerve shots between my fingers. Not my most shining moment. Once my hand numbed, I apologized for "shapeshifting" and thanked the priest for coming to perform the exorcism. I still slam doors in frustration, only I'm more careful. Half a lesson learned.

When I logged on to my email Monday morning, I felt much the same way. The loop had quieted after the public stoning and beheading ended and an awkward resolve had formed among the ashes. The issue still loomed as if a grenade minus the pin, but no one picked it up. We just cautiously moved around it, hoping it didn't detonate.

Numbers play an important part of boosting you up the publishing ladder. No one pays attention to the bright orange water ski flag waving in a sea of self publishers. I liken it to the floor of the stock exchange right before the bell sounds, closing the market. Brokers frantically punch the numbers, computer screens humming, fingers pointing, voices shouting...all wanting to be heard, their transaction concluded before it's too late.

Right now, e-publishing is EXPLODING. For those of  you who are not writers but happened by because you typed in "Harley Davidson" in your Google search, publishing a book the old fashioned way, which really only means a year or two ago, by submitting your work to an agent, who, in turn, offers you a contract--sells your story to a publisher--hands you over to an editor who polishes (or completely changes) your work--a cover artist (which you have no say in your book cover)--then eight to twelve months later, prints your book, is next to impossible for a new author. The days of agents/editors arranging book signing tours or spending a chunk of change on promoting you and your book have also vanished.

Authors are expected to do their own promoting--sell their own "wares." Authors spend their own money placing ads in publishing magazines and make the round of phone calls, hoping to get a date to set up a book signing table in a local bookstore, Costco, or Barnes and Noble. We become professional "street urchins," shaking our cyber tin cups shouting "Hey! Over here! Come buy my book." Our colleagues host book blog tours to acquaint us with their followers, hoping to land us a few coins in the cup. This advertising cycle applies to both traditionally published and indie or self-published authors.

Have you ever gone to a street fair or festival and walked through endless corridors of booths containing someone selling something? Sometimes, there's booths next or across from each other selling similar items. What makes you go into one booth, but not the other? Do you have a tendency to choose a booth crowded with potential customers, versus one with no one, even if the products are the same? Why?

Curiosity. Since we were small, we always wanted to know what others found fascinating. If classmates circled around something in the hall, we had to join. Our fear of being left out of something turns to instinct. Must find out. It's not that one merchant's product is better, but everyone is in their booth so you have to know why.

This tactic works with selling books, too. If you're browsing a bookstore and several books are stacked on a table, all the same title, we are drawn to the table...to pick up the book...study the cover...read the back. But what about the book across the aisle? Same subject, say "romance." But there's only a few of the same book and its stacked with a bunch of others. It doesn't have 'the numbers'...it's own table. Which book are you going to buy? Same thing in the electronic bookstore. Say you're in Amazon, perusing for a new read. You type in romance and a list (usually based on your past purchases) cascades down the screen...top selling first. Do we scroll to the end of the list first to see what that book is about? No. We look at the first one. The one everyone else is buying. The "crowded booth."


So how do you get the numbers up fast? A couple of my writing colleagues have discovered a trick. A "book bomb." When you set up your table in Costco, you tell your friends and bribe your family to be there at a certain time and gather around you, spiking the curiosity of those passing by to want to see what you're selling. If you don't use this tactic, switch. The "crowded booth." Same thing when you're indie publishing. Host a 'virtual' book signing--a "book bomb." Everyone gathers at Amazon at a certain time, their fingers ready to "whispernet" your product at the same time. It's amazing to see how you're thrust to the top of the selling list when everyone buys at once..."crowds" your booth. Maybe you'll fall a little in the days following, just the same as the second or third day after the festival's opening day, but when someone types in "romance" for a books search...you'll be at or close to the top. If you see your numbers slipping fast, have a "sale." Everyone loves a bargain, and some customers shop the last day of the festival to get the best deals.

Insert here. Check out Kristen Lamb's blog today:  http://warriorwriters.wordpress.com/2012/01/25/whats-the-problem-with-free/  She has an important take on giving away your hard work for "free." She touched on some issues I'd never thought of before and gave me pause in my own publishing quandry.

Now for a word of caution to be passed on here. Back to the heated debate. If you belong to a large non-profit organization (I'm thinking RWA or SCBWI), there are rules set in place by the IRS to insure they retain their non-profit status. As with everything in the government, the lines drawn in the sand are real blurry and subject to interpretation as to how the issue of self-promotion should be handled on an individual chapter level. So before you go shouting "book bomb" or send a mass email that could be construed as putting pressure on your fellow members to buy your book, check your chapter guidelines. I'm just sayin'.

Currently, my writing group's emails regarding announcements are relayed in creative "code," steering clear of the grenade in the midde of the room. Lots of "barbeques" being hosted. Personally, when I decide to "bomb" my book, I'll send out a message to visit my blog, possibly containing a threat of bodily injury if one doesn't pop over, and here is where I'll announce my "release bash" or as I put it in one of my debate replies, "a book 'bong' - a cheap $1.99 high." However I do it, be sure you'll all be invited to attend. It will be a B.O.B. affair, with preferred attire being jammies and bunny slippers so you can spread out over my floor while I tell you about my story.

I'm also sad to say, I'm shelving "Wacky Wednesdays" unless something really wacky happens. I have several author friends who have released some fantastic books and I want to have them over to help me clean windows and tell you about their books and themselves. Winter has us hunkered indoors and summer finds us lounging lazily by the pool or on the beach (ahhh...just the thought), but either way, I want to introduce you to some fun reads to add to your library so you're never caught without a good story. I also need the blinds cleaned.

Until then...have a wonderful Wednesday, and thanks for dropping in. You can go back to the Harley Davidson page now.

WACKY WEDNESDAY....Proms and other parental nightmares

Tonight's listen:  "Midnight Romeo" courtesy of Push Play

"...tonight's a big night so let's make history"....."tonight your dinner's free - what's in it for me?"

Any parent break out in a cold sweat over those lyrics? 

Fall brings leaves tumbling to the ground, school bells ringing, football games and dances on the weekends. Homecoming parades roll down Main Street with floats holding boys in Letterman jackets and cheerleaders shaking pom-poms. (If you missed my post a couple of weeks ago about my embarrassing attempt to become a "pom-pom" shaker on my guest blog at www.christinawolfer.blogspot.com I'll have to repost it sometime for kicks *ha!* Right up there with my old post on most embarrassing dates.)

The season also kicks off the dance season for the teens and another wallet draining event for parents. Just as you get the school fees paid, the clothes paid for, and the "rules" reinforced again, along comes the invitation to "prom," usually in some creative or outrageous form. One year, one of my twins froze their answer to a girl's request for a prom date (my how times have changed) in the middle of a block of ice, then left it on her doorstop to melt. However, beyond the formals, the corsages, pictures and fancy dinners, follows the true anticipation behind prom night. I went to dinner with friends the other night and the idea for this blog presented itself, all wrapped up in satin ruffles and penguin suits.

  PROM NIGHT.

Girls spend weeks preparing. Shopping for just the right dress, matching shoes, trying out different hairstyles and hitting the tanning beds for that all over "golden glow." A minimum of three hours is needed to get ready. Phone calls or text messages bombard the airways with pictures awaiting valued opinions of those going through the same transition process.

Boys, on the other hand, concentrate their efforts on the "mode of transportation" versus the human. The car is washed, waxed, and the wheels shined to glint off light bright enough to rival the noonday sun. But the inside of the car is where acute attention is delivered. Floor mats and seats are vacuumed, the dash wiped, and the instrument panel polished to a high sheen. And, last but most important, the right air freshener is chosen. The one to set the mood.

That's right. The mood. A boy's car is his "lair." While he's cleaning the seats he's picturing it reclined with his date hopefully receptive to all the moves he's been calculating and discussing with his buds over the past week. Girls primp to catch the eye of their beau while the boys primp their lair.

Thirty to forty-five minutes is spent showering, shaving, "smelling the pits" before buttoning up the shirt and shrugging into the tux jacket. A once over to make sure the hair swings the right way and a crooked smirk to the reflection in the mirror with a pep talk. "Oh, yeah. She's gonna want you tonight." A slap of aftershave on the neck, the corsage from the fridge (the one Mom picked out, because face it, guys could care less), and a few annoying pictures, then he's out the door. The night is his. The seduction starts the moment the engine starts.

As we sat at dinner with our friends, we watched the long table next to us, bustling with "prom dates." Talk about an entertaining evening and the best research for this young adult fiction writer on watching the body language, listening to the chatter, and taking a few moments to walk down memory lane. We talked about our own prom experiences, laughing at the disastrous ones, but all agreeing…the expectation of Prom night was the real buzz. Not the dance. Filled with so much anticipation, the air crackled with it. Just as it did tonight.

We watched the girls chatter noisily, fussing with their dresses, and the boys with their arms draped lazily over their dates shoulders, catching glimpses of cleavage thinking no one noticed. Talk about hilarious and sweet at the same time. We waited along the wall outside the restaurant, watching the couples emerge to see if the personalities matched the cars. Hubby wanted to see how many had their own and who drove "Daddy's" rig. Proof that the "car"…the "lair" still takes priority in the male mind, even umpteen years later.

Out of the ten couples who entertained us through dinner, we figured two of those couples were on first dates, walking awkwardly together, the girl hanging back a step or two. Another four couples held hands, but remained stiff in their body language. A kiss goodnight was all "stud" was going to get, regardless of how many air fresheners hung from the cigarette lighter.

But, there were two or three couples who out "peacocked" the rest. The girls flounced just so, never allowing more than a couple of inches of air space to flow between their bodies and their dates. The boys lopsided grins tipped to match a wicked glimmer in their eyes, their hands never leaving the body of the girl…placed at the small of the back, snugging a waistline, or their fingers twisting in the locks of hair cascading down their dates back while she giggled with a girlfriend. All "signs of seduction" hubby pointed out.

My mind traveled through a time warp, remembering those "signs" and the magic they worked. No, I didn't lose my virginity to a "prom king," but I remember the pimped out lairs now and I laugh out loud, thinking of the disappointed dates I left behind. Of course back in the day (when dinosaurs still roamed the earth) my formals were massive layers of ruffles and strapless gowns were unheard of (my dad would never have let me out of the house in one anyway) so when I sat inside a car I was pretty much protected inside a fluffy pouf that filled the front (or back) seat.

As hubby and friend tallied the "lucky ones" when the last couple left the parking lot, he turned to me and whispered, "So…'Prom Night'? Am I going to get 'lucky'?" I looked at the Harley Davidson, chromed to the max and gleaming in the moonlight. Talk about the perfect "lair"…

No confessions, please, but is there a favorite Prom Night that sticks in your head? A disastrous one that makes you laugh? How about all the "lairs" you rode in (or still are) during your dating years? Face it girls, the "car" got your attention. Guys knew what they were doing.

Hope I didn't worry too many parents out there. Yes, my mind also flashed to a couple of prom dresses my daughter talked me into buying and the way my boys pimped out their own "lairs" for dances. I tried not to linger on those thoughts for long. Yikes! But I hope you had fun walking through a couple memories. Come back next week where I'll blog about the reasons we (or at least I did) fall for guys and how many more times than not, it has nothing to do with the guy! 

As always, thanks for making the pit stop on your way to Thursday.  Joelene (I lost Harley Brooks to the first heartthrob driving a souped-up "lair!" A Camaro, I believe.....)

Today's thought:  Stop looking over your shoulder as you walk through life, watching the "what could have been." You might walk off a cliff and miss the "what could be" all together.

Traversing Through Colorado

Tonight's listen:  "Right Here With You" courtesy of David Cook

This week I've been riding my "iron horse" through one of my favorite places on Earth -- Durango, Colorado. Yesterday, hubby and I drove our favorite loop to Silverton then over to Ouray. Pine scented air whipped my face, but the bright sun peaking between cottony puffs floating in a cornflower blue sky, tempered the chill over Molas Pass, leaving me with a red beacon for a nose. Dropping into Silverton, we spied the Durango Silverton narrow gauge train rounding the bend, the smoke trail suspended on the cool air, marking the trek from the canyon into town.

 Walking wood plank sidewalks downtown, you're transported to another time when life was richer, harder, and exciting. When visions of striking it rich on the next big vein of ore running through the red mountains, brought dreamers who either saw their daydreams come to fruition or lost it all, some sacrificing their lives in the process.


Regardless of how many times we've rounded the sharp switchback turns of Colorado's Million Dollar Highway over Red Mountain Pass, my breath always catches at the wonder and beauty of the striped red mountains. Peaks of rock washed in streaks of orange, gold, purple, and red, as if God handed a child a paintbrush and a box of water colors and said "paint my mountains." Even the stream beds and waterfalls flow yellow from all the ore in the ground. When shafts of sunlight spread over the cascading water, it transforms to glistening liquid gold.

On the trip back, my muse came alive as I pondered the days when the mining industry sustained the economy of this corner of the world. When men and the women who loved them, gave up everything to follow the dream. A wilder past where rules were made at sunrise and broken by sundown. Preachers who dared to cast lessons of hellfire and brimstone, generally found their congregation taking comfort in the arms of "ladies of the night" or from the neck of a bottle, rather than in "the word of God." Faith and prayer were only used at the end of a pick, chipping away at the mountain walls, or words uttered clumsily or silently when the last shovel of dirt was thrown over a miner who'd cashed in on life and personally conversed with his Maker. Respect would be cast aside on the final amen and a brawl ensue for ownership of the "dearly departed's" claim. Mail order brides arrived with the rations for those holding onto their last thread of decency and desperately needing female companionship for the long winter months ahead...and someone who could cook, sew, mend, and split wood. If she was a hair prettier than the purchaser, all the better.

I smiled as we rounded the haunting silhouettes of wooden mine shafts where a boomtown once stood, because, of course, my hero already started telling the story long before I crested the summit.

Wyatt Miller has spent seven months mining the red mountains with his partner Martin Smith, and is now on his way back to Silverton to surprise his wife by arriving a week earlier than expected. However, his return will be bittersweet. While his arms will be full once again with the young bride he left behind, Martin's wife's will be empty. His boots, tattered hat, and wedding ring will be all that returns to Silverton. Wyatt hopes the bag of gold holding Martin's share of the claim before their vein ran dry, will be enough to soften her pending grief. Wyatt slips into town the back way to keep his arrival secret. One night loving the girl he's pined and dreamed in anguish over the past few months is all he wants. Tomorrow, he'll deal with sadness. Tonight, only joy, and well, lustful satisfaction is what he needs. However, Wyatt isn't the only one full of surprises. Maggie Miller has one of her own.

Check out Muses and Bruises above for my flash fiction short and see whose surprise is best. Oh, and did I mention the gypsy? 'Night all. Tomorrow -- Wolf Creek Pass...

WACKY WEDNESDAY...What's Your Sign?

Tonight's ear tease: Made for You courtesy of One Republic

From the corner of your eye you spy him walking across the room. Quickly, you drop your eyes to the drink in front of you, literally counting bubbles and hating your girlfriend's sudden need to check out the restroom facilities. Your heart pushes against your ribs. Surely, he'll walk past. But, he doesn't. He eases a hip onto the bar stool next to you...not the empty one next to it, or the next one. You exchange menial pleasantries while he orders whatever you're having, so cliche, but you smile when the surprise pucker forms on his lips. Ginger ale with a lemon twist. Once he's over the shock of nothing alcoholic flowing through his veins, he strikes up light conversation. You exchange names, giving him your girlfriend's instead. After all, it's only fair after she abandoned you. Besides, his name is probably fake, too.

After a few minutes you relax, twisting a lock of hair around your index finger and laughing around the straw you now provocatively stroke with your lips. You scope his fingers for ring indentations or tan lines, then turn your gaze to mesmerizing eyes that seem to darken and twinkle at the same time. Just as you're mentally picking the colors of your monogrammed sheets, he asks you the ultimate question. Okay, well not the ultimate, but the one that decides whether you're going to have to tell him your real name before succumbing to moral debauchery. The words flow effortlessly over the lips you've been imagining locked on yours for the past ten minutes, each one enunciated on a low, breathy timbre. "What's your sign?" You're suddenly thrust into a time warp, landing you somewhere in the mid nineties.

But is it really a cheesy pick-up line, or a sincere question, asked for the purpose of getting to know a deeper layer of your true personality?

I'm an "Astrology junkie." Before I've open my second eye and just after my first decadent sip of coffee, I peruse one of my four horoscope pages (yes, I'm "star searching" for which one tells me the "future" I want to hear).  But more times than not, all four will have the same message, and usually spot on for what's going on in my life. True, sometimes they can be generic:  "you won't turn purple today," but sometimes they carry an ominous message, creating a few butterflies.

So how does the Zodiac universe play into my flash fiction above? When you're creating a character, you have to find out who they are. You write their basics: hair and eye color; height; race; etc. But have you ever considered when they were born. Give your characters a birthday. Then, check out their "sign." Study the personality traits associated with their "sign" and see if this doesn't help you in developing the character. If you've already created a character but didn't give them a birthday, think about what "date" you would assign. First one that comes to your mind: Month and day.  Check out the zodiac sign for the date and see how close you came to writing the character to their astrological personality.

In Designer Genes, I had my heroine a Gemini, but when her personality started taking shape, I found her birthday needed to be moved a week ahead. She was a "Cancer" through and through. My hero (and his twin brother) are Sagittariuses. They fit the profile perfectly from page one. But are they compatible? If you're having trouble getting the spark between your characters, they may not be compatible astrologically.

The best matches found in the zodiac are those that balance each other. Not only do you have a "sign," but you also have an "element." There are four elements: Fire, Earth, Air, and Water.  Those within the same element group share common traits that make for great business partnerships, friendships and marriages. Those who "compliment" each other also work, but those who are opposites? Well, you've got some great fireworks coming. Your "conflict" begins with your characters' personalities. Check your characters (and yourself) against the elements, once you know your sign. If you're in a relationship, are you compatible with your significant other? How about your other relationships? Your boss, coworkers, even your BFF. Can you see why you react, or how someone else reacts to you, based on their "sign" and "element."

Fire Signs:  Aries, Sagittarius and Leo. They are energetic and active, passionate, outgoing, and impulsive. 

Earth Signs:  Taurus, Capricorn and Virgo. They are practical, patient, stable and industrious.

Air Signs:  Gemini, Aquarius and Libra. They are expressive, intelligent, rational and broad-minded. 

Water Signs:  Cancer, Pisces and Scorpio. They are intuitive and emotional, empathetic, creative, and imaginative.

My element is Fire, (again, OMG - didn't see that one coming!). My personality traits under the sign of the Ram are: Born to lead (I only follow through spook alleys), stubborn (extremely), passionate (ahem...), courageous (debatable), and playful (I try not to take life too seriously).



Hubby is a Gemini, his "element" Air: Witty, charming, talkative (my husband can't have short conversations), and they tire easily of the same things (hubby is on his 16th Harley Davidson - color gets boring I guess). His nickname at work is "Buy, Sell, Trade" which fits perfectly. But are we compatible? Based on our "elements," his "Air" feeds my "Fire." I have a tendency to be quick tempered. His inability to "let go" or be "sharp tongued" pushes the wrong buttons at times, which can flare my anger fast. Lucky for him, I'm forgiving, but then again, Geminis have "selective memory" so he never thinks he's wrong.

See how it works? Make your hero and heroine opposites in the astrological realm and you've got some great scenes to weave into your story.

Next time someone wants to know your "sign," they may be trying to find out who you really are. So, are you compatible with those you live with? Are your characters compatible or will their relationship feel contrived because they're really not? Have them ask each other "what's your sign?" and see what you discover.

Your challenge this week? Research your zodiac personality and the element it carries. You may find out something "new" about your "old" self.  A couple of sites to check: 

http://www.astrology.com 
http://DailyHoroscope.com  
http://www.mydailymoment.com  

As always, I appreciate you stopping by.

 

WACKY WEDNESDAY...Where Anything Goes

Today's subject:  SKINNY JEANS...when you're not

Just so you know, it's 6:00 in the morning and already a balmy 82 degrees. By the time I leave for work, it will be 90 and by the time the noon whistle blows (this really existed a one point in time), it will be around 105 degrees. Summer has found my little "neck in the woods." And, its just begun.

I invested in a pair of "skinny jeans" ... the latest, greatest designer flair with pockets that say "touch me here," and a price tag that ensures my family is on an involuntary diet until my next paycheck. Time to start cracking the wheat in the food storage and call that dehydrated mystery meat "delicious" because the cupboards are going to be bare...but I am going to look fantabulous, baby!

Bless the sweet salesgirl, she found a pair to "fit" me. Now I love shopping for clothes, but having designer jeans "fit" means I have not eaten all day, taken a water pill or two, and have on several layers of lycra. Almost as bad as shoe shopping, only I can forgo the standing on my head for thirty minutes to make sure my ankles have shrunk and I can wiggle my toes. I have a twenty minute window after that to find the shoes that feel like they will be somewhat comfortable when my feet swell to normal again.

I wriggle into the denim, containing just enough stretch to allow my thighs entrance. Granted, I can suck furniture across the room when I hold my stomach in to zip them up, and the "muffin top" is hardly noticeable...when worn with a parachute. I admire my reflection, thinking I am one hot mama, and will have no trouble losing 5 pounds before actually wearing them in public. I didn't want to stress out my sales person by asking for a size bigger, because her eyes went wild when I told her to find me a pair in the first place and she took inventory of my lower regions. "No problem," was her confident statement when she staggered to the back room. I thought her breath held a hint of alcohol when she came back, but she had my size (or the one I was fitting into come hell or high waters). 

I proudly strutted in my skinny jeans several times before the inevitable happened. I washed them. 

Note:  It is a scientific phenomena that something unexplainable happens when clothing is laundered. It shrinks. The label can promise you anything, but it's going to happen. Unless its underwear. That "grows." Shrinkage in the washer follows the same mystery as missing socks. Put two in, one comes out. The other has sought freedom in "sockland."

I don't dry my fabulouso denim wonders to insure only the minuscule of shrinkage. I wait for what seems like "forty days and forty nights" for those embellished pockets to dry, then excitedly slide, or tried to anyway, my jeans on. Something happens part way up my leg. The denim fuses to my skin, refusing to budge. Well hell. 

I tug, jump, and go through various stages of my old ballet routine,fist position, squat, plie, squat deeper, lift one leg and yank, lift second leg and yank. Finally, over the knee caps. I'm almost there! Feeling triumphant and exhausted, I drop to my stool to gather strength. We are going up the thighs! At this point I decide in the future, to put jeans on "wet" and let them dry on my body.  After several minutes of repeating my new calisthenics program and checking for a pulse, not to mention needing to towel off from working up a sweat, I'm ready to lay flat on the floor and zip the jeans shut. I lay there for several minutes, pulling oxygen back into my flattened lungs, before deciding to sit up. I feel my internal organs readjust at that point. Somewhere near my shoulder is my spleen.

But I'm back in my skinny jeans! Granted, I need to wear them around the house for a while until I can walk upright and those pockets that say "touch me here" are back on my derriere instead of behind my knees, but they are plastered on my body by damn! I search my closet for a top that will strategically cover my backside "smile" and billow slightly to make my thunder thighs appear smaller. My mirror has that little warning label in the corner..."all objects are actually bigger than they appear." 

I pay particular attention to my makeup so my beauty will distract from the fact I'm walking like something is terribly wrong, even applying a touch of glitter around my eyes to make sure whoever I talk to will keep eye contact, if for no other reason than to say, "really? glitter?" Out of the five pairs of new shoes I purchased, I'm down to two that last longer than an hour on my feet, which I slip on and head out the door.

Later that night, when I peel the denim off my legs, rub the red indentation out of my waist and pry my shoes off my swollen feet, I decide to soak my abused body in my hot tub. The temperature is a perfect 102 degrees, the light set at a soft lavender hue under the swirling bubbles, and a candle is lit to insure ultimate relaxation. I pull my swimsuit out to put on.

My new "miracle suit." You with me? That's right. It's six inches by six inches, but guaranteed to make me look like a Victoria Secret Angel. Fitting into my skinny jeans is a walk in the park, compared to inching my way into industrial strength lycra, only to have my torso appear slim and trim...however...the "excess" has to go somewhere. Hello mega legs and arms...I think my eyes are bulging out of the sockets and my lips have disappeared into my new puffy cheeks. I am definitely a "secret angel" .... one to be kept hidden!

How about you? Got a "skinny jean" story? Ever try to fit into something that's really not you. Become someone you're not? A "secret angel?" We all have different faces we try on depending on circumstance. Just remember, if it's not you, it's not going to fit comfortably. Here's to elastic waistbands and being "real."

Thanks for stopping by and sharing a laugh. Still keeping the skinny jeans. Still dieting. Just looking for a different mirror!  See you on the weekend!

WACKY WEDNESDAY....Where Anything Goes

Today: Taking Risks - Living Dangerously (or basically, driving to work during rush hour.)

Miss me? Remember, I have that big ass Vidal Sassoon weapon! (new meaning to "blow you away). 

Still have one class wrapping up, one in which my bluff and dazzle routine at writing a show piece blurb and query letter has been shredded (and rightfully so). I'm in the corner cowering right now, licking my wounds. But now I see things from a perspective I hadn't before, so the lesson learned is worth the risk of putting myself out there.

Jump into your time traveling machines, buckle you seatbelt and set your instrument panel to take you back to your teenage years, some a short blimp - barely rounding a corner, others will need to pack a cooler of food and make a few potty stops, and even a few may need an overnight stay at a docking station until you get there. In particular, I want you to zero in on the ages 15-17, when your brains were sucked out - your parents were idiots, having no clue about "real life" and you...had "no fear" of real life.

What were the some of the most stupid, dangerous, stunts you pulled (and you all did - so don't give me any crap about being the "best child ever born")? Now of course, to start our tour down memory lane and have to face the numbskull we once were, I'll go first. (I know, how can I top the first date?) I performed several asinine (being the only word to describe said behavior) stunts. However, to keep anyone just waiting for the opportunity to have me locked away and throw away the key, I will only divulge one.

First, we must have a sense of the geography of where I grew up. Hills. Lots of steep hills that led to huge mountains. The "big city" sitting a few miles from my sleepy town was full of "ups and downs," literally. Nice steep streets for the green teenage driver to test the durability of the braking system on the family car. Sometimes, I wondered if my dad worried that the brakes would stop him at the end of the driveway after I'd had the car out the night before (which, I'm telling you "my driveway" qualifies for a blog all on its own, and anyone reading who knows me from those early years, is breaking into a cold sweat right about now).

There was one street in particular that qualified as the "death slide." A popular thrill ride. E Street. Started just below the Capitol building and was a straight shot to the lake, I swear. Now enter from stage left, three darling girls with big eyes, curvy shapes and great hair - but no brains. Zip. You could shine a flashlight through my ears. Whisper in one and there was an echo. But I had a valid drivers license and a car. Grant it, back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth, cars were built of real metal, had hoods big enough a family of ten could sit comfortably on, and bumpers that were strong enough to push a building off its foundation. My car was a station wagon (yeah, go google that one!) - putrid green, inside and out, but the only car my family had (did I mention the dinosaurs?)

When the "trio of stupidity" went looking for a thrill, we followed the Friday night crowd to the top of E Street. Several side streets branch off of E Street, but E Street only had two stop signs. One at the top, and one at the bottom. When it was our turn, we'd put the car in park, take our shoes off and put our feet on the dash (I had to keep the car clean or I'd be grounded from it if I brought it back dirty. Of course Dad never discussed punishment if I crashed the car, but I assumed if I did, I would just ask the officer to shoot me and end my life to save my Dad from having to do the task). 

I (or whoever was the thrill ride operator for the night) would put the car in drive and we'd let the car go....all the way to the bottom....without touching the brakes until we hit the bottom of E Street (granted, we didn't touch the gas either but centrifugal force pretty much took care of accelerating the vehicle far beyond "safe") . Can you hear the screeching sound of metal rubbing against metal (not fancy disc brakes - again, T-Rex was my neighbor's pet) in an effort to stop the hundreds of pounds of metal rolling on four rubber tires (probably "retreads")? Smell the stench of burned rubber wafting through the billows of blue smoke? Of course being inside the car, we missed the whole "sparks" flying from beneath. Don't ask me why we had a smidgen of common sense to not drive back to the top and do it again, but we only did it once. Each night. Maybe it was our guardian angels "bitch slapping" us on the way down that our "need for speed" was satisfied.

Time out. I have to hurl my lunch. Just the memory has breakfast begging for exit as well.

And I was considered a model teenager. Studious, good grades, picked up my little brother on the way home from school from the babysitter, had my homework done and dinner cooking by the time my parents arrived home. Perhaps after 5 days of being "good" I needed a thrill. Or maybe I wanted to "fit in" with my peers, or wanted to impress them by not letting them know I had "fear cells" in my body. Whatever my excuse, I abandoned common sense at inopportune times, and of course, with friends.

Would I have the guts to do something like that alone? Oh hell no! When "flying solo," my brain drizzled back through my ears and filled the vacant cavity. I became "smart" again. I had good friends. No one was a bad influence, either. But in groups, kids think differently.

I did other stupid things, too, some probably considered felonies by today's standards (toilet papering someone's house is now a Class B misdemeanor), but this one sticks in my mind whenever I think of dangerous stunts that could have gotten me and my friends killed. A car could have pulled out of any of those side streets and we'd never have known what hit us. But those watching would. The trauma would stay with them, influencing their futures - something making their world spin a different direction. Luckily, no one was ever hurt, and after a few weekends, the thrill was gone, at least for my small entourage. We took up dragging State Street for boys after that.  Not sure which one turned out to be the most dangerous....

The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree either. My kids are thrill seekers. They love repelling cliffs, motocross racing, and snowboarding deep powder off the backs of mountains instead of groomed trails. I'm certain they performed their share of dangerous antics, which I hope I never discover, although in cleaning one of my tag-team's room, I found a picture someone took of him on his motorcycle....suspended in air....several feet above his truck, between two cliffs.

Am I still a risk taker? Yes. Every time I get on my Harley I take a risk (refer to last Wacky Wednesday). That's the real reason for "loud pipes." If not seen, heard works. Deciding to become a writer and throw myself in the wild publishing world is a huge personal risk. My biggest risk, however, was becoming a parent. Talk about dangerous, unpredictable, and thrilling. The ride's still going. I'm just keeping my arms inside until it comes to a stop. If ever.

The point to this blog, while not as jovial, is that kids do dumb things. Be prepared. Teach them everything safe you can, then hug them when they walk out the door. A friend's 15 yr old granddaughter was killed by a commuter train when she and her cousin decided to slip under the safety arms and cross the tracks. Wonderful girls who made a stupid decision. One made it, but watched in horror when the other didn't. Her world stopped the same time and will never be the same. We can't put them in bubbles, or we'd be arrested for child abuse because they would be considered "imprisoned." We can't make them grow up safe. All we can do is hope their guardian angels bitch slap them when we're not around.

Thanks for walking through a memory. Hope your "thrill zone" is safe and your guardian angel nearby.



Joelene