......That means there should be some dog gone blogging going on. And there will be, soon. I'm waiting for
Randy Ingermanson to dole out the secrets to Best Blogging Practices Ever
ANY MINUTE NOW so we can get this baby rolling in the right direction. No hurry, Randy. Take your time.
In the meantime, here are some things I DO know about the future of this blog. This blog will NOT include:
*photos of my family. Well, maybe one or two of the dog. Jodi's really, really ugly in a hairball, Chewbacca kind of way.
: Jodi and her favorite snack.
Left: Jodi in her favorite reading spot.
Not pictured: Jodi stealing lettuce from the bunny's pen. She has a lettuce/carrot/or anything we might give to the rabbit obsession/fetish/addiction.
*meanderings about what we found at a garage sale (Did I mention I HATE SHOPPING, INCLUDING GARAGE SALES?? I know, that cuts out about 85% of the potential EXTREME KEYBOARDING community. Hey, I'm prepared to deal with that).
Right: Although he likes garage sales, I found this priceless treasure at Wendy's in 1980. I don't know if that makes him an antique. You'd never guess to look at him.
*musings about what I saw flattened in the road today. Well, no, I take that back. We might blog about things like that if there is a profound spiritual truth to be gained from it.
*Sports of ANY kind. Except keyboarding.
I want this blog to be something you find worth as much of your time to read as it is my time to provide. Hey, we could kill 2 birds with one bird in the hand.... or one stone is worth two birds in the bush.... Okay, I didn't know I had bird issues. Whatever.
Hey, as far as issues goes.... the only thing the self-help '80s and all that theraputic whining into a journal did for me was make me even more self-absorbed. Let's re-bag the issues and carry 'em around a while. Builds muscle.
And let's have a laugh while we're growing older and forced to get a little more serious. We may end up promoting world peace while we're at it. :)
In the next issue of EXTREME KEYBOARDING: How I Survived My Daughter's First Official Date. Includes an eye-opening lesson learned the hard way on selecting a hair stylist who speaks English and understands what "up-do" means.
ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF. . . .
8 RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME:
I wrote a NOVEL (more about it at the bottom of the page . . . keep scrolling).
I've been writing stuff - an actual literary term - all my life, but now, I'm serious about being published. Or pubbed, if you like. (It's so cute how writer people have all these enigmatic little code-names for things)
I love action movies and Jane Austen. (she’s dead, I know. I found that out when I tried to get her to endorse my novel)
They let me play Bass guitar and sing in a worship band.
I can produce 4 dozen homemade cinnamon rolls in less than 2 hours for a crowd of drooling young adults.
I have a Harley A 2002 Sportster 883. Chrome, black leather. Ram Horn handles. No sissy pink stuff.
I hate shopping (Yes, I'm aware that I'm a girl)
My ringtone is the theme from "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly"(whoo-00-oo-00-oo, waa waa waa)
I speak 3 languages:
1. Sarcasm, fluent
2. Teenage ghetto-girl slang: actually, I'm just learning. It's a difficult language to grasp as it changes without warning and involves complicated neck, hip and finger snapping motions that are often dangerous for middle-aged white people.
3. My native tongue: English with an Oregon dialect, which is much more pronounced with caffeine. Just sit in any Starbucks in Portland an listen fer a while, or head tord the mountn, you'll know whudumean.
I WAS THERE:
I was there during the brief Sonny & Cher period of Modern American history. (Anybody remember? Babe---I got you Babe---) AND the Belushi-Ackroyd years of SNL.
PROFESSIONS THAT I'VE HELD PROFESSIONALLY:
I have experience (meaning actually receiving cash) in numerous professions including a Preschool Teacher, Administrator and a Church Administrative Assistant. In these, I have conducted myself in a flawlessly professional manner. Truly.
I also have over 10 years experience in the honorary profession (meaning no cash, besides the sticky coins that turn up while cleaning the crevices between the seats in the car) of stay-at-home mom.
In addition to these, I also know how to do an unbelievably large number of random, useless things. Like greasing the hubs and changing the oil in a '56 International Harvester Scout.
MY BIGGEST PET PEEVE:
Stinkin over-achievers.
MY ROOTS:
I've lived in Oregon all my life, grew up in several towns/cities including Eugene, Springfield, Reedsport, and Smith River. Which is not really a town, but a river, about 70 miles long, a tributary of the Umpqua River in southwest Oregon.
Although it's not a town, it is a community with a strong sense of pioneer history. It's cool to say you've lived there, especially if you lived there during the days when you had to take a boat to school. No joke! The old farmhouse my grandfather and my mother grew up in still stands, nestled into a narrow, pasture carpeted valley, complete with a swimmin' hole and its own 'crick'. It's going in my next novel.
As a child, I lived for a year in Gardiner, Oregon, across the road from a Weyerhauser paper mill and spent that entire year thinking the noxious odor I smelled every day was coming from my brother's bedroom. (I'm still not entirely convinced it wasn't.)
One last root worthy of mention: there's a longstanding rumor that my ancestors had some connection with the Mafia back in Sicily. I used to fantasize during school about a big black limo with tinted windows pulling up and whisking me away.
Ahhh. THAT'S why I'm having so much trouble conjugating my dangling participles now.
Love Worth Fire - a Contemporary Women's Fiction with Romance
There was a natural, familiar bond that had developed over time. A bond that, until now, Ian had thought he shared with a wise, stout, tender-hearted little spinster nearing middle-age . . .
His his mind worked frantically to reconcile the Emily he knew from the letters with this one, and to accept the fact that this woman, this very lovely young woman, had been his pen pal for the past two years . . .
All widower Ian MacLean wants is peace. And a farm in the lowlands of Scotland should be the perfect place to find it. But he's too young for the life of a recluse, and he’s constantly plagued by an obstinate, mischievous grannie, bitter regrets, mislaid faith and worst of all—an ache for something he’ll never have.
Emily Chapman is a devoted caregiver to her frail great-aunt and lives a quiet life in a remote community in central Oregon’s high desert. Emily has also suffered loss and longs for a sense of belonging, of family.
When Ian travels to the States and meets his kind ‘old’ pen pal, he is surprised to find a lovely, tenderhearted young woman who shakes up what little peace he has and stirs up something in his heart he never thought possible.
But just when Ian and Emily’s dream of a life together is within reach, Emily discovers a devastating secret that crushes their hope for a future. Ian must relive the painful nightmare that scarred him once already. Can his heart withstand a second blow?
While Ian examines the strength of his heart and his renewed faith, Emily must decide if she has the courage to face her worst fears and truly leave those she loves in God’s hands.
****************************
CHAPTER ONE
Ian MacLean nearly escaped.
He made it to the edge of the lamp-lit street with only four hard strides bridging the gap between him and his freedom: Maggie’s farm truck. Even in the pallid streetlight, his grannie’s old rattletrap never looked so good.
“That’s far enough!”
A low growl rumbled up from his throat at the sound of Claire's voice, but instead of stopping, he sprinted across the road, digging into the pocket of his jeans for the key. He reached the truck and behind him, a car spattered up rain from the pavement, blaring the horn as it passed. At Claire, no doubt. Some things never changed. He had to be the only man in Scotland whose older sister still trailed him like a bullet if she thought he wasn’t sharing. Didn’t matter what it was.
With a sigh he turned, leaned against the fender and lowered his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes, usually dark like his, flickered with bright little sparks.
“You’re not leaving until I know what happened to my husband—that’s a dead cert!”
The top of her head didn’t even reach his chin, but that made no difference to her. Never had. He folded his arms loosely, hoping to hide his growing tension.
“What . . . you’re not happy he’s back then?”
“Are you daft? Of course I’m happy!” She frowned, but her voice softened. “This is where Davy belongs.”
“Good.” Ian shoved off and reached for the door. “That’s all that matters.”
“Nnnno . . .” She shot in before he could reach it and pressed her back against the handle. “I want to know how you got him to change his mind, Ian.” Claire gave her arms a brisk rub.
To the west, the lights of Glasgow cast a golden glow against the night sky, but the warmth of the sun had long since faded. Ian’s damp clothes took in the chill, pulling heat away from his skin.
“So what did you say to him?” Claire shivered, still rubbing her arms.
He shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“Ah! How can you say that? Do you know how hard I’ve been trying to get him to come home?”
As she stood there with fists planted on her hips, Ian’s eyes fell to the spot in the middle of her belly, right about where the door handle would be. Her arms poked out on either side like the handles on one of Maggie’s blessed teapots, almost begging him to toss her out of his way.
“Nothing I’ve said has made a bit of difference, Ian. Whatever you did . . . you just saved my family.” Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice fell to a low tone. “And you don’t remember how you might have done that?”
His gaze snapped across the street to her second-storey flat, to the home she shared with four remarkable kids and one lucky, blasted fool. He had to fight back the ache that rose in his chest.
“We talked about . . . loads of things, Claire.”
“Aye. I’m listening.”
Ian sucked in a deep, cool breath. What he had said to his brother-in-law had not come easy. The words stung then, and they would sting now; swift and sharp, like a cold blade to an old wound. He searched her face, hoping for a weak spot. She didn’t flinch.
*photos of my family. Well, maybe one or two of the dog. Jodi's really, really ugly in a hairball, Chewbacca kind of way. 
5 comments:
No adventures in garage saling? You're gonna lose a huge demographic, but if you're willing to risk it...
I don't know, I just have a phobia about parking in front of a total stranger's house, walking up their driveway and looking over their personal stuff while they sit huddled together around a card table and watch you. *shudder* It just creeps me out.
I know people find great stuff that way sometimes, but I just can't do it. I challenge the garage salers to change me into someone who's heart races at the sight of a garage sale sign. :)
I look forward reading your blog once Randy has finished his discussion. Good luck!
Thank you very much for your kind words in your posting of 25 January on Randy's blog. I am in fact writing a novel in English, my second language. I'm still full of hope that it will one day be published.
Once again, thank you very much.
Daan, I do believe blogging is the first step toward world peace. That and writing a novel in a second language.
So you, my friend, are on your way to accomplishing more than all the Miss America contestants combined have ever dreamed of achieving.
All the best on your book!
Thanks SO MUCH for the recipes, Camille! I'm totally going to make both of those dishes!
Camy
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