BLOG FAVS THIS WEEK

Today's ear tickler:  "I Want All of You" from The Verve Pipe. Yes, it's a sultry little tune and inspired  many romantic moments in my stories.

Today we're pulling a lawn chair under the trees shading the corner of the yard. I invite you to kick off your shoes and let the cool grass temper the heat on the bottoms of your feet. A tall glass of water over crushed ice with a lemon wedge circling the top is as strong as I want on hot summer afternoons, but you can imagine any frosty thirst quencher you need.

As I posted on Wednesday, I've been blog touring this week to see what my comrades have to say. It's been a welcome change, reading for fun instead of stressing over my own blog. Found these fun, interesting, and inspiring posts.

If you stop by and like what you find, do the author a professional favor and "share" on your Facebook, Twitter, or email spaces. Also, sign up to "follow." I've been in two online classes this past month where the agents/publishers said if they get a query they're interested in, they check out the author's "spaces" or "places" to learn more about them, see their voice...and check out their following. If an author shows an impressive following and is receiving positive feedback from their visitors, it shows them the author already has "fans" who will likely buy their book and recommend them to others. 

This is a wonderful, but brutal business and with all the publishing options, twists and setbacks, it makes breaking through the barriers as a new author, difficult. When I hit the "send" key and post my blog each week, a state of panic swamps me. Did I make it interesting or did I sound stupid? Is my blog entertaining? Will anyone comment? Or did I "die on the vine?" I check my blog several times the first day and I get excited when I find comments. That means someone actually read it! It also proves I'm not dangling alone out there in the great cyber vastness.

Even more exciting though, is finding my number of followers consistently growing. I do have fans...ones I don't have to "pay" for! Little pop-ups come on my email telling me so-and-so has mentioned me on Twitter, or now following me there (sorry, still fluttering in the nest), and also mentioned me on Facebook. All of these little things help boost an author's confidence. I know it's a personal puff of wind beneath my wings when you stop by.

Okay, so here's what I've found. 

A.  Patricia wants to know what the best piece of advice is you've ever received. Myself? I have two. 1. You only get one chance to make a good first impression.  2.  You can only change the person you become.  If I was to give you a piece of advice I would say "Believe in something...and let that something be yourself." Check out her blog:  http://www.patriciayagerdelagrange.com/?p=224



B.  A new cyberfriend, Deborah Dale, posted wonderful blog about Harry Potter. I would never have thought about a parallel between Harry Potter and 9/11, but she's demonstrated it in a unique way - an outlet for our children who couldn't comprehend the tragedy we couldn't hide from them as adults. Check it out.
http://deboradale.com/blog1/2011/07/15/the-harry-potter-generation/




C.  Tiffany A. White's Ooo Factor. She posts Friday's FabOoolousness. This week deals with a subject that always catches my attention:  real life crime stories/mysteries. This week it was the Kiss and Kill Murder in 1961 in Odessa, Texas. Tiffany has a personal connection to the ghostly story. Curious? Stop by:
http://tiffanyawhite.wordpress.com/author/tbrat216/




D.  I'm drawn to real life mysteries - the "who-did-it-but-disappeared" or "WTF?" when a body is discovered unexpectedly. It's like playing an ongoing reality game of CLUE. Catie Rhodes posted about the possible mystery identity behind "Jack the Ripper." The story gave me the creeps, naturally, but moreso because I lived through the Ted Bundy slayings. In fact, his lone survivor and the girl who identified him, worked with me. My parents wouldn't let me even go to the grocery store without taking one of my brothers with me. An unsettling feeling to have police inside your workplace all day. They were protecting her, in case he escaped jail and during the hearing. So having had our own version of "Jack the Ripper" in our hometown, I identified with the fear the people in Texas were going through. Check it out:

http://catierhodes.com/2011/07/29/the-servant-girl-annihilator/

E.  Last, but not even close to "least" is a personal one to me. This is a dear writer friend who I met at conference last year and we just "clicked." She's recently been diagnosed with breast cancer and has undergone radical surgery and is now starting her Chemo. Her outlook on life is amazingly upbeat. She's ready to embrace "bald is beautiful" and if anyone could pull it off, it would be Jenn. The day she went in for surgery I had my own mammogram done (and yes...I want to invent the "penilgram" every time I go). My hooters slap my knees and I can read the paper through them now, but I passed another year. Please stop by her blog and show your support. All of us will be touched in some way by this horrible disease, so reach out when you can. I'm a firm (parts of me are anyway) believer in pay it forward...the good you do will come to you. Check out my friend at:  http://cancerfreekearl.blogspot.com

I checked out the links to make sure they worked, but once you hit "post" cyber gremlins can attack. I'm crossing my fingers they all work.  If you have one you'd like to brag about, please share. As always, thanks for stopping by.

Today's thought:  There's no such thing as failure...only learning experiences.

WACKY WEDNESDAY...where anything goes

Tonight's listen:  My thoughts...or the lack of.  My creative muses have laryngitis. I've barely heard them over the past couple of weeks. I yell into the "well of ideas" and my echo doesn't even come back. It's like standing in the middle of the playground with no one to play with. Lonely. Frustrating.

Could be the heat. We're spiking over 110 degrees everyday. Not the blissful summers of childhood when I spent the afternoon running through sprinklers. There were four of us who lived in a row. After lunch when the sun blistered hot, we talked our mothers into putting a sprinkler in the middle of each of our lawns. We'd race from one yard to the other, splashing in our makeshift water park until our skin pebbled from the cold. Then we plopped onto one of our driveways, prone against the cement. No towels. We liked the way the hot concrete immediately warmed our bodies.

In a moment of sheer insanity, I contemplate running through the sprinklers, but small children are outside playing. The sight of me in my "miracle suit" (refer to skinny jean blog) and my celestial white body bouncing across the yard could cost their parents thousands of dollars in therapy bills. Instead, I drive through the pack of semi-people in my air conditioned car to the nearest burger joint for lunch.

Sitting behind some woman who apparently ordered food for "the ten tribes," I wait, watching the thermometer on the dash so I'd know the exact moment to flee before the car bursts into flames from overheating. There's no turning off the car. That would mean the air conditioning will stop. Meanwhile, I watch the "people show" performing around me.

When my children were small and trapped for long periods on road trips, I made up stories about the people in the cars next to us to entertain them, including gross body sounds to hold their attention. I find myself doing this while waiting for the pimply faced kid to prepare each of the custom ordered hamburgers from the car in front of me. Making up stories that is, not gross body sounds.

Two women pass on one side, dressed in office attire, undoubtedly gossiping about a co-worker - the new girl. Young and perky. A threat. The bosses seem to like her a bit too much and ignore the fact she spends the day texting instead of doing her work - probably because she wears short skirts or tight blouses.

Ahead, a teenage girl walks in front of a women close to my age, whose voice sounds loud and annoying. I decide the young girl has spent her lunch listening to her mother inform her she is attending a family reunion this weekend instead of hooking up with her friends, and no, she can't take her boyfriend.

But the most interesting character is the guy perched on the curb, smoking a cigarette. All the supporting characters pass by and he never so much as raises a brow their direction. He studies the sky, puffing gray tendrils of curly smoke into the hot air. His ankles cross, his right foot nervously jiggling behind the left. The expression on his face appears worrisome. Perhaps the bills are piling up at home and working two jobs still doesn't bring in enough to keep above the red line. His wife just found out she is pregnant. An unexpected event, given the toddler clinging to her leg. Life keeps dealing him the ace of spades instead of the queen of hearts. They had such dreams when they fell in love, but all too soon, the fantasy bubble is pricked by reality's needle. 

Life is full of stories. In the few short minutes I waited, I'd mentally created scenes to three possible ones. As I pulled away with my cheeseburger and fries, I watch my star player crush his cigarette beneath his toe and walk along the wall of the building in front of me. Suddenly, he morphs into a younger version with a his own new story to tell. I swear he winked at me! (If you want a glimpse into my new bad boy's story, check out "Muses and Bruises.")

Everyone is a "composer," whether through a pen on a piece of paper or a note plucked on tightly wound string. Some wax dreamy and poetic, while others serve it raw and brutally honest. Like music, writing takes on several moods, each refrain or chapter created from an impression in our imagination.

Given my three act play, which characters left an impression in your imagination? Whose story would you tell?

I'm doing a little "blog touring" and gathering some favorite posts to share. This week, I found author Sandy Rowland's blog about colors and animals equating to the way we looked at ourself and others. After struggling with some tough edits, I let my guard down and a touch of self doubt tried to wiggle in. When I indulged in Sandy's fun, quick test, I discovered I viewed myself the total opposite of what I felt. This gave me a much needed push to edge past the negative thoughts trying to take over. Thanks Sandy. Check out her blogsite: www.sandylrowland.blogspot.com  She blogs on life coaching...stuff I love.

Come back to see if yours makes the list. 

As always, thanks for supporting me by stopping by, even if you were looking somewhere else. I'll blog about those crossroads later. Until then...put the shades on and be cool! 

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

I should have been a cop. One with a big ass gun. Not that I'd use it, or anything, but the affect would be awesome. Maybe if I cut the cord on my Vidal Sassoon blow dryer and point it out the car window, I could get some "respect?" My life passes before my eyes several times before I arrive at work each day, and my boss wonders why I kneel and the kiss the ground once I arrive.

My commute to work is akin to tight flight schedule. It takes me 20 minutes from my home "runway" to my first layover at the local convenience store where I load up on caffeinated beverages. My body requires a certain amount of caffeine to function properly. If denied even one ounce, I do not play well with others the rest of the day.

After takeoff, I have approximately 9.5 minutes to my final destination, work, where I slide into my office chair and login to my computer with 30-45 seconds to spare. Now I understand things can happen to upset my schedule and I allot 3.5 minutes for this, as well as 15-30 seconds of self evaluation before I detonate because of the delay. If all goes well, I use this extra time to peruse the breakfast aisle for M&M's or Hot Tamales. If not, then I'm strictly on liquid caffeine and checking my pulse by 10:00 am.

But...if something messes with my fine-tuned schedule, I become a force equivalent to the Bermuda Triangle, where anyone daring to breach the perimeter, could end up with their picture on a milk carton. Today, was almost one of those days.

Scene setup, critical to a story. I live in a small town where the "forefathers" never thought straight streets were of any benefit to their horse drawn carriages. Not a lot of rush hour traffic back then. Every street in my community "meanders." "Scenic byways" are straighter. Then there is the misappropriation of city taxes being used for anything other than street repair. The street department's idea of fixing a hole large enough to swallow a Volkswagen (which is the size mandated as "repairable") is to dump enough asphalt to form a small mountain, and let the traffic slowly over time, mush it flat to street level. 

Also, sidewalks are reserved for streets that high profile dignitaries would travel passing through, and if there are sidewalks, joggers, mothers with infants in strollers, dog walkers, and teenagers with a death wish, avoid entirely. Therefore, I'm driving through a freakin' obstacle course every morning. 

I consider myself a safe driver when my eyes are open. However, this morning I left late, allowing only 1.5 minutes for any calamities, so I've edged my speed up a notch, to fall within the questionable "5 mile over" ticket. I'm dodging the struggling bicycle enthusiast (some people should not wear spandex), barely missing "Jogging Barbie" pushing her latest offspring in an overpriced stroller. This road is barely wide enough to allow cars to pass without exchanging paint colors.

Ahead of me, smoothing out the freshly filled potholes, bounces a low-rider "rust-test-in-progress." He's not moving over. I start my morning calisthenics, flexing my middle finger so its ready to demonstrate my salutations at the jumbling rent-a-wreck aiming for me. We're close enough now, I can count 3 "special beings" occupying the front seat, barely old enough to drive and possibly still in "pull-ups."

I roll down my window, immediately swamped with the choking smell of fresh cut hay, which triggers a coughing fit. My bladder is being tested mightily. The truck is close enough I can feel the vibration from the bass speakers traveling the pavement and competing with the soundtrack to Mamma Mia playing over my stock stereo system. I can barely make out the words to "Supertrooper" and I'm getting pissed. 

Hit pause.

I failed to mention this quaint, but beautiful place I live in is consumed with "snowbirds" or as I affectionately refer to them, "Q-tips", because they're just little tufts of white heads peaking through their oversized steering wheels, while driving automobiles still manufactured with 8 foot hoods. They arrive shortly before the pumpkins are carved and start dissipating sometime after Memorial Day. A few die while they're here, lessening the crowd, but some stay and buy real estate...and drive their monster-mobiles at the most inopportune times of day. Like rush hour.

I've come to the conclusion the post office offers free coffee and doughnuts to anyone over 80 with a valid drivers license, if they arrive between 7:45 and 8:15 am on weekdays.

Hit play.

The three munchkins in their booster seats barreling down the country road are ill equipped to handle "Q-tip intervention," but I see the red caddy easing to the intersection. However, the "Lance Armstrong wanna-be" I passed a few moments ago, picked up speed on the downward incline and is checking himself out in my right side mirror. I can't watch him, the "three amigos" and "Gramps" all at the same time, and still maintain warp speed to be to work on time. Something's got to give.

Out of the corner of the eye not twitching, I spy "robo-cop" with his "blowdryer" aimed at the menagerie in motion. Which one of us will cross the finish line first and get to autograph his notebook, taking home our paper prize? Not me. I back off, nearly causing my cycling athlete to crash into the ditch, no longer being propelled by the vast wind speed of my Mazda3. However, the 3 stooges and grandpa are duking it out for the intersection, neither aware they are on "camera." But Q-tips or "floating islands" are famous for surprises. Gramps sails through the stop sign, the baby geniuses slam on the brakes (which I'm surprised worked), and a "slow speed" chase ensues, complete with lights and sirens.

An acknowledgement of respect that we both dodged a bullet, passes between our smirks as I roll by the pickup truck. My triathlete in training? Checking out his spandex shorts. I'm guessing something is amiss by Barbie's turned up nose when she passes.

I slide into my seat, Diet Coke, coffee, and M-and-M's intact, with 10 seconds to spare. Its a good day.

**Since I shot myself in the foot and signed up for two online classes at the same time, my weekend blog shall remain silent. I know, you're heartbroken. Hopefully, I'll be back on track for Wacky Wednesday next week. Till then, stay out of trouble, or don't get caught.**

WACKY WEDNESDAYS...Where Anything Goes

Today's wacky topic:  "What the Hell?" Moments.

My life is a series of "what the hell?" Yes, I could say something else, but that's a word I write, not use...well rarely use. I admit, there may have been a time or two when I "short-circuited" and frick could have rhymed more with truck. I'm only human...for the most part.


Today, I decided to start exercising...again. This is a ritual I ceremoniously indulge in every two or three months, when I brave the bathroom scales. Mind you, this is after I have appropriately prepared myself by downing water pills, undergoing colonic cleansing treatments, and consuming no food for a period of three days. If I still have strength to step up the half inch incline, I remove all clothing, jewelry, and metal dental work, hold my breath and stand firmly on the jiggly platform. I feel like the wicked witch in Snow White, minus her clothes, standing before the magic mirror (obviously an "R-rated" version, if not a horror flick) .

Scales, scales, on the floor...

Could I be smaller than before?

The dial spins wildly like a roulette wheel until it finds the mystery number. Somewhere inside the techological wonder my imaginary tiny body rests upon, lives a mean and vicious troll. Laughter resonates through the thick callouses of my flattened feet.

Only a miracle can mask the truth,

Sorry to say, there's "more" of you.

So I removed the laundry hanging off my NordicTrac and lowered the rubber road to nowhere. I placed my Kindle on its perch, changing the size of text so I could read it, resulting in only three words per page. My earbuds rest tightly in the only small orifices on my body, my inner ears, and I crank my workout tunes, starting with Fireworks by Katy Perry. I set the speed at a brisk 2.0, feeling my heart pound against my ribs shortly thereafter. Thirty minutes is my goal. Five minutes into my "no sweat" workout, and I'm ready to get serious. I crank the incline to .5 (I know, risky) and edge the speed to 3.0 (beyond dangerous...for a toddler).

I start to run...large heavy thumps from my oh-so-not coordinated steps. (Reasons why I do not run outside where someone could see me. I run like a knock-kneed chicken.) My ponytail is swishing back and forth, my boobs coming dangerously close to blinding me, but I'm running! I can feel the weight melting off, my breaths somewhat forced, but no foam has formed in the corners of my mouth yet. Air blows out my nostrils sounding like a bull charging the streets of Barcelona. My heart pushes harder, the rate on the monitor increasing. I notice the minutes cranking by. Two minutes and I'm pushing a stroke! But I keep going. Then it happens. My "what the hell" moment. Pause the frame.


I get distracted easily. I don't have to actually see a shiny object to lose concentration, I just have to think about the possibility one might exist.


Confession time. I have tried many "how to lose a 100 lbs in 30 minutes" exercise gimmicks. All they do is make me hungry afterward. One of my most comical, and could probably win the $10,000 prize on America's Funniest Home Videos, is my short stint with the "kettle ball." Picture the squat, heels pressed to the floor, and me flinging a weight between my legs and up to my chin, several times. I've had four children, two as a "tag-team." Internal organs were re-arranged with each "blessed event." After about eight "squat -thrusts" (sorry, there just wasn't another way to say it), the "weightloss idea" behind the kettle ball routine becomes obvious, and my twenty-minute workout is cut short.


Another attempt at reshaping my body, or performing a miracle, whichever way you want to look at it, was my attempt at Yoga. I consider "sit-ups" a contortionist act, so Yoga, with all its wonderful stretches, twists and flamingo poses (which never worked for me sober) turned out to be a flop. But I still have the mat.

Fastforward again. My Yoga mat I keep rolled up and tucked between the wall and my NordicTrack platform. However, somehow, through another one of God's need-for-humor-at-Joelene's-expense moments, I forgot to move it, and kicked the mat loose. Without knowing. So I'm jogging my way to death, almost at the five minute mark, when the purple rubber "roll of death" breaks free from the front of my treadmill, and shoots between my feet...which are moving...sort of.


Now God loves me enough to give me a hint of warning before his joke is cast (some call it "common sense"). Because I feared I'd faint at any given moment, I had reached out and was holding the side rails just before the corrugated rubber headed my direction (it is coming lenthwise mind you, without unrolling, just like a large log). However, back to the "shiny object" lesson, the lanyard was not attached to me. I cannot stress the importance of following this simple rule - attach the lanyard to your body! Alas, I had not.

My feet twisted into the rubber mass, my arms snapped into unnatural angles, trying to hold onto my body attempting to wrench itself at the armpits, and my knees crossed somewhere behind me. All in a split second dance to Engrique's Iglesias's new tune Dirty Dancing. Somehow, I grabbed the dangling lifeline and pulled the lanyard off the machine. Why I thought the constant moving ground beneath me would just calmly, slowly ease to a stop is still a mystery. Everything came to an abrupt halt, except my feet, still trying to run a marathon and push my Yoga mat away. It shot off the end of the treadmill and slammed the nightstand. I became a suspended human pretzel.


Remember the game Twister you played at parties? That was me without the colored spots or the cute boy tangled up with me. Now mix that in with my earlier side story about the kettle ball, and there you have it. My "what the hell" moment.

Here's to always being able to laugh at yourself. Check back Saturday night when I'll blog about the ingredients needed for a story recipe, and share a favorite of my own for the Memorial Day barbeque. 

Joelene, or another version of "snap, crackle, pop!"

WHERE DID THAT IDEA COME FROM?

Current Listen:  Falling In courtesy of Lifehouse

I belong to several writing groups. SCBWI and Romance Writers of America (RWA) being the hub, with "spokes" Young Adult RWA, Future Fantasy & Paranormal RWA, and my local Utah RWA chapter. All help roll my stories along from the throes of creation, to the oh so scary time to expose them to the harsh, cruel world of finding an agent and publisher. The latter two will serve as the final spokes in my custom crafted wheel, pushing my tales to places where they can be shared.

Being a part of these wonderful organizations has opened up endless doors and windows for me as a new writer. One of the well traveled highways I use on my journey for knowledge, are the many blogs and websites of my fellow writers. I am fascinated by the individuality of each cyber page these creative minds have constructed, and the information they offer.  No two are alike, and I'm not just referring to the visual display. The content is unique to each individual owner. Two blogs or websites can focus on the same subject, but the perspective will be totally different.

The same holds true to stories. Ideas are not original, but the stories told are unique to each author. The game "Gossip" runs parallel to this concept. An idea is whispered into one person's ear, who in turn, whispers the idea to the next, and the next, and so on. The last person being told reveals the secret and nine times out of ten, it's completely different from the original spoken idea. Each person was given the idea, but when they shared the idea with someone else, they added their own individual spin.

The book MATCHED came out recently, and I panicked when I read the short synopsis. "...futuristic...dystopian (government controlled basis)...matched mates." Several sleepless nights ensued. I bruised my best friends' sympathetic ears with my paranoia. 

DESIGNER GENES ...futuristic...dystopian...matched mates. Someone stole my idea! And published!

So many emotions ran rampant inside me. Once I found my lost mind and dialed up my maturity level a few notches, I downloaded a sample to my Kindle. I had to know. Not just for myself, but now that something similar is out there in my genre, I have to be able to say why mine is not like MATCHED.

The story is totally different. Same concept - different spin. I've locked my jealous green monster back in its cage, bolstered the locks and taken away the daily feeding of paranoia and self doubt. Two very powerful and self destructive snacks.

I've now downloaded the entire book and am invested in the story. Do I like mine better? Silly question. Is mine better? Even in my humblest of opinions, I can't or won't answer that one. To me, every story written is good. Someone has put their heart and soul into sharing a written piece of their imagination. I've been in awe long before I took up the mighty pen (or keyboard) of those who are brave enough to write and finish a book. I bow to those who are published, in any format. You're out there!

My idea was never really mine. To this day I could not tell you where it came from, but the story created from the idea, is all mine. Its a part of my crazy imagination now immortalized in written form. Do I wish I'd got it out there sooner? Hell yes! Funny thing is, "Matched" was one of the titles I played with using.

Good luck Ally Condie! What a wonderful imagination. Visit her website:  www.matched-book.com 

To those of you starting out as writers, I cannot stress the importance of joining a writing group. If I could set fireworks off the attract you to RWA, I would. It is a wonderful organization to belong to, and the branches reaching out from its base are equally invaluable to join. SCBWI is a must if you are writing anything related to children and young adults. Joining one of these powerhouse organizations is like belonging to an online university, specialized for your talent. The online classes are phenomenal, and the members blogs and websites are endless sources of information and fun. Check out my list to the left. I've added some more I've found helpful and enjoyable.

Again, thanks for stopping by! Leave me a comment. If you've read MATCHED, let me know. Just finishing HALO (love the cover!). Another's idea with a twist.  Later cyber friends!  Joelene, the sensible side of Harley Brooks