My New Blog

One secret to happiness

2012-01-17T14:41:00.000-04:00

There will be many people telling you what the secret to happiness is. And most of them will be correct. But it's up to you to find your own secret. Still, we can share our own successes in that search and hope that they will help you.
Here's one.
Give it away.
"It" is this. Your smile, your extra wealth. Your good news. Your bad news. Your love. Give away your happiness. Give away congratulations. Share your jealousy....
Wait! Share jealousy? What kind of advice is that?
Let me explain by example. Your friend has just told you some good news. Something you've always wanted. And they have it. And like it or not, you can't have it, for whatever reason.
Share your jealousy. Tell him or her you're jealous. Let it go out there.
And while you're at it, look at my first bits of advice. Give them your smile, share your good news. Buy them lunch. Share your heartbreak.
Share your love for them.
And by letting go of all of this, you'll be letting go of your jealousy, too.
You see, negative things in our lives are like vampires. They suck life from us, and they really don't do well in bright light. So slay them. Expose them to light, and let them go. They'll shrivel and die away.
And while you're sharing all those wonderful things above with people around you, the negative things in your lives will drown in positive energy.
Love, live, smile.
I don't care if your face cracks. Smile. Force it out. Laugh to get it out and then laugh at yourself. Yes, you're not feeling well, but you can do it! Go for it!
Each day is a new beginning. Don't sweat yesterday. Don't sweat tomorrow. Love like there *is* no tomorrow.
And each small success, be it getting the kids down for a nap, or getting that report done on time, or even having that one neighbor smile at you, or managing to walk away only once from a temptation, they are all successes and need to be treated like the fantastic things they are.
You deserve the celebrate the good things in your life.
Find them, celebrate them, and go out to find your happiness. Then share it!

Taking advantage of free ebooks

2011-11-10T11:02:00.001-04:00

Smashwords often has free titles. Authors give Smashwords coupons. Gifts of ebooks are given through Smashwords. But you own a Kindle and hate to manually upload ebooks.

I have a solution. Set your Kindle account to receive emailed attachments from your computer. Treat the new ebook like a personal document. First, when you download the ebook from Smashwords, save it to your desktop. (This is for ease of finding the ebook. If your computer is anything like mine, it likes to hide documents and let me scream at it all day until I find the thing. They're evil like that.)

Then, you must register your email account. Do it here.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/help/customer/display.html?nodeId=200140600&#send

Once you have a kindle address, using your name and either "free.kindle" or "kindle.com"
simply open your email program, and attach your free ebook to your email to the above address. You must make sure that Kindle knows your personal email address. It's like not answering the phone when you see it's someone you don't know. Kindle likes to know who is sending it stuff.
Then all you have to do is turn on your Kindle, turn on your wireless, and it will download automatically.
Now, buy my book and try it. (Just kidding)

But, do try out some of Smashwords' other books. There are excellent indie authors out there who offer excellent reads.And sometimes they're free!

There's a refugee camp in my city!

2011-09-23T16:03:00.013-03:00

There, in the center of Moncton, New Brunswick, a refugee camp like none seen before around here.
Doctors without Borders, or better known world wide as Medicins sans Frontiers (MSF), http://www.msf.ca
has set up a display and I was privileged to see it. A nurse took us through. First we were shown the housing. Some of the very items there were taken from refugee camps to show us exactly what the accommodations were like. Corrugated steel, wood, straw, twigs, even feed bags, and in front would be home made toys, such as soccer balls made of tape and plastic, dolls from rags, and toy cars from scrap metal or pop bottles. Shoes made from old tires, even. All sitting beside the gas cooker. Needless to say, MSF see burns on children as a result of playing too close to fires, but when you have less than 10 feet by 10 feet to call home for then next 20 years, you are going to be cramped.

We moved on to the food drop display, being shown the basic fat and meal biscuits that are dropped from planes in the early days of a disaster. Nothing appetizing, but designed to fill tummies.

Moving on, we stopped at the latrines. We usually have four people to two or three bathrooms here, but a latrine in a refugee camp would be a double hole in the ground, far away from the camp, totally unsafe and designed to service about 700 people. The rubber mat and pictures are designed to show you how to use it. Some refugees have never even seen toilets or latrines.
Don't bother to ask for toilet paper. That's what your left hand is for.

We moved on to water. The average westerner will use 100-300 litres a day, but as a refugee, you will get 5. Yup. Five litres or about one gallon. If conditions improve, you may get up to 20. No wasting water here.
We stopped at a tent that talked about the psychological effects of being a displaced person, and I nearly cried at the artwork, actual drawings by children of what they'd witnessed. You think your nine year old boy draws bloodied pictures. These kids actually saw this stuff, and the dismembered bodies and butchered livestock and raining bullets will cut you to the quick. We had to quickly move on.
Next was the Cholera station. We needed to pass through disinfecting spray and into the hospital, filled with folding cots that had holes in the center to catch the waste into a bucket beneath. But Cholera kills, and needs to be treated quickly.
The tent we visited next was by far the most heartbreaking, and I thought it was the one with the pictures until I reached here.
The malnutrition centre weighed babies and measured upper arms and the nurse showed us what they do for starving babies. They're given a nut butter paste, enough to last two weeks, with instructions for mum.
But with mum going home to other starving family members, or the offer of a trade for rice that everyone can eat, or worse, to a culture that gives male children more than female children, the babies often come back the same weight. MSF called the nut paste medicine and gives incentive rewards to mums, such as blankets, if they fatten their babies up. It's a complicated issue, and when MSF asks countries and governments to allow them to go in, they know they are facing difficulties caused by a variety of issues. But to see children suffer, it was hard.

We ended the tour with a trip to the vaccination clinic. And began to learn that MSF offers hope to many displaced persons and works hard, is totally volunteer and its reward is knowing you, as a medical staff member have done what is right.
Such was the hope we were left with. And an eye-opening look at how much of the population lives. And how to be grateful for what you have.
Barbara Phinney
Souvenirs - a romantic suspense
http://www.amazon.com/Souvenirs-ebook/dp/B005AX7Z64/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1316810823&sr=1-3

Souvenirs Save 40%

2011-09-16T07:13:00.003-03:00

Souvenirs

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/71597

An inspirational romantic suspense

By Barbara Phinney

Chapter One

Anna LaBonte woke up, slipped her hand between the smooth, cold sheets beside her and found unexpected relief washing over her like high tide washed over the soft beach sand that lay beyond their rented cabin.

Her husband was gone. And she knew, without understanding how, that he was gone for good. She couldn't explain how she knew. It was as if the wind whispered to her during the night, slipping into her mind through her unconsciousness and releasing itself into her waking moments.

And all she could feel was sweet, sweet relief.

Interested?
If you are, post a comment here and I'll send you a 40% off coupon for this book!
Barbara

The Catch

2011-09-10T21:42:00.003-03:00

The Catch

Book #1 in The Twin Planets Series

Georgina Lee

Veseria, the fourth planet

Crouching, Lutus Mine parted the lush, tropical foliage to peer at their quarry. What he saw stole his breath.

With Veseria’s moons nearly full, and the twin planets still bright, Lutus could see the woman clearly. She glistened like the bright, rare coppers from the north continent. A breeze lifted her ruby hair as she tenderly set seedlings into crystal pots.

Almost immediately, his smile melted and a frown bit into his ebony features. This wasn't his hunt. He’d given it to his younger brother, Dorad. Lutus would have been content just to watch this woman, but Dorad would never agree to such foolishness.

Worse, he’d have plans for his prey that would make even Lutus shudder.

Lutus glanced through the greenery to see Dorad raise his net, all its daggerstones pointed at their quarry. Then Dorad launched it.

In that split second, the golden woman jerked up, her emerald eyes sharp with fear. Before she could leap away, the wide net dropped over her. The long daggerstones at its corners sank deep into the soft forest floor, ensnaring the shining beauty. Around Lutus, the hunters roared their thrill.

Excerpt of Souvenirs by Barbara Phinney

2011-07-31T11:13:00.002-03:00

Souvenirs

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/71597

An inspirational romantic suspense

By Barbara Phinney

Chapter One

And all she could feel was sweet, sweet relief.

But on the heels of that relief flowed out worry. Not for Serge. No, she would never be worried for him. But her callousness, the relief her ordeal with Serge was over, now that worried her. Had he also destroyed her gentle temperament?

Anna flipped back the sheets before padding barefoot out of the cabin's bedroom. Standing in the center of the living room, she stared at the empty couch. The bottle of wine Serge had bought yesterday stood unopened on the table. He would never leave wine alone, not the expensive stuff he insisted on drinking.

She hated alcohol, and all its effects. All the negative effects that turned Serge cruel.

No one saw that part of him. No one except Anna and God. But God had been turning a blind eye to her lately.

Abruptly, indignation pricked at her as she realized he’d denied her even the satisfaction of allowing her to end their relationship. All through the long, cold spring and all through his anger management counseling, she'd battled with herself until she realized she didn't need Serge and his abuse, contrary to what he was always telling her. She was strong enough to stand on her own.

And coming here to the Island had cemented that conclusion.

But Serge was gone. Really gone, her heart whispered. Gone as in dead.

Could he really be dead? Or was it merely wishful thinking? She swallowed. What a horrible thought.

The morning sun warmed her toes and she moved toward the patio door. The cabin they'd rented overlooked Murray Corner beach. To her, it was the loveliest spot in all of New Brunswick, with pristine views of the Confederation Bridge that led to Prince Edward Island. Beyond the sliding glass doors, beyond the sand and gently swaying grass and cloudless sky, the Northumberland Strait beckoned to her. All of Eastern Canada beckoned her.

She opened the door and slipped quietly onto the small deck. That wind that had somehow whispered Serge's fate to her had died overnight, but still it bled through her thin nightgown.

A good day for beachcombing, she thought, leaning over the deck. The stretch of sand was empty, the tide still receding.

Anna gripped the rail, feeling the cool morning air flutter her nightgown. Could Serge be dead? Shouldn’t she call the police? Would they believe her implausible intuition or would they suspect her of being involved?

Could she even believe her own intuition? It hadn't been around much when she'd married Serge. It was totally absent when the abuse started.

Her stomach knotted, she pushed herself from the railing and turned.

Then, she jumped.

On the deck of the all-too-close next cabin sat a man. That same soft breezes that cooled her anxious thoughts ruffled his dark hair. He sat quietly in one of the matching patio chairs, his jacket collar turned up slightly.

He wore sunglasses, but Anna felt his gaze linger on her.

Horrified, Anna ducked back into her cabin and dragged the patio door closed. Sighing, she pressed her hot cheek to the cold glass and waited for her heart to slow to a normal pace. Her breath steamed up the pane.

Pushing aside the embarrassment, she straightened up, and threw back her shoulders. That man was just another tourist, staring at her only out of curiosity. What man wouldn't, if their neighbour had just stepped out on a deck not more than fifteen feet away, dressed in a thin nightgown that barely covered her thighs?

Anna hurried into the bedroom. She'd seen that man yesterday, entering his cabin just as she and Serge were checking into theirs. Today, he wore the same lightweight jacket, zipped to the top, with the collar turned up. She’d watched him with only mild curiosity, wondering where he'd come from to consider the unseasonally warm weather cool enough for a jacket.

None of her business.

She should dress for breakfast. But just as she took a step toward the bedroom, she stopped abruptly. Serge had always insisted she be dressed with her hair and make-up done before breakfast.

No. Not anymore. Pivoting, Anna strode into the kitchen to make coffee. Alive, or even dead as her gut taunted her, Serge’s days of bullying her were over.

She deliberately made a light breakfast of coffee and the sugary cereal she had a secret penchant for, and grabbing both, she turned toward the table.

She stopped when she spied the door.

Would Serge walk in at any moment, alive and well, and insisting on fresh fruit, sweet yogurt and French press coffee?

Would she be forced to tell him their marriage was over?

Her hand started to shake, and Anna jumped when she realized she'd spilled coffee on her nightgown.

If Serge walked in right now...

No. She shut her eyes to stop the hated tears from rolling down her cheeks. Tears Serge had caused all too often.

No! Time to take back her life. And if Serge chose that moment to return from wherever he'd been, she would finally stand up for herself. It had taken ten years, but she knew now that she owed Serge nothing.

She sat down at the table, and ignoring the stain, began to eat her breakfast.

* * *

Major Brent Stirling peeled off his sunglasses and blinked. What the..?

Was that stunning woman the tiny mouse he'd seen yesterday waiting for her husband to check them in? Where was her old man now? Still asleep?

Brent shook his head, trying to dispel the image of long legs and horrified embarrassment. Poor thing, she'd nearly fainted when she caught sight of him, sitting out here. She must have thought she'd be the only person up this early.

Brent shoved his glasses back on his face and pulled his collar up further, all the while slouching deeper into the patio chair. Well, she was wrong. Not everyone wanted to lie in bed with his or her dreams.

Not when all of your dreams were the same nightmare, over and over again. Officially, the government in Ottawa did not place soldiers on the ground in North Africa. Unofficially, a half dozen men had been sent in to complete on very dangerous mission.

Brent craned his neck to one side, feeling the fresh scars tightened as he relived that last day in the desert.

Young Lieutenant Kenny had taken him aside that last morning, asking for leave. His wife needed him.

Brent had shaken his head. Leave was impossible. They'd been all through this at the first mission briefing. Kenny had said he was good to go. But that last day, the young guy had sputtered, calling him cold, heartless.

With political tensions high and an assignment that required such exactness, that one man could not be spared; Brent had lost his temper and ordered the young upstart to smarten up. They were needed to do this one mission. No one was leaving.

Two hours later, they were hit.

2011-07-24T13:54:00.003-03:00

Hop over to this blog to read David Wisehart's interview. He asks me some great questions and I tell him what I did when I was told my writing was bad.

http://kindle-author.blogspot.com/2011/07/kindle-author-interview-barbara-phinney.html

Great give away!!

2011-07-21T21:10:00.001-03:00

http://girlsgodgoodlife.blogspot.com/search/label/Win%20Free%20Stuff
Take a look at the layout you could win. Except one thing. I hope I win!

The ceiling is blurry

2011-07-18T04:52:00.004-03:00

I am the mother of the bride. My daughter is not one of those Bridezilla creatures. In fact, she's very organized, very calm. But still, at night, I find myself unable to sleep. It's not that I am worrying, but rather all kinds of details that need to be done the next day all bombard my mind tormenting it so I can't sleep. And with the wedding being held here, I have even more details to keep ironing out.
So finding myself wide away, staring at a blurry dark ceiling, I lay there, hours on end, each night.
Insomnia runs in my family, but it's hitting me hard. The stress of an upcoming wedding,things that need to be done in the course of a regular day, and me being of that time in my life, have all conspired to keep me awake at night.
And it doesn't help that my hubby is sleeping soundly next to me as though he hadn't a care in the world.
So I pray, I reorganize my upcoming day, I meditate, I do pretty much everything I can to coax sleep onto me.
That's why I am here, at 4-something typing this out, asking for help.
What do you mothers of the bride or groom insomniacs do to cope?

An excerpt from Souvenirs

2011-07-07T08:59:00.003-03:00

Souvenirs

Found at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/71597

Copyright © 2011 by Barbara Phinney
All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Anna LaBonte woke up, slipped her hand between the smooth, cold sheets beside her and found unexpected relief washing over her like high tide washed over the soft beach sand that lay beyond their rented cabin.
Her husband was gone. And she knew, without understanding how, that he was gone for good. She couldn't explain how she knew. It was as if the wind whispered to her during the night, slipping into her mind through her unconsciousness and releasing itself into her waking moments.
And all she could feel was sweet, sweet relief.
But on the heels of that relief flowed out worry. Not for Serge. No, she would never be worried for him. But her callousness, the relief her ordeal with Serge was over, now that worried her. Had he also destroyed her gentle temperament?
Anna flipped back the sheets before padding barefoot out of the cabin's bedroom. Standing in the center of the living room, she stared at the empty couch. The bottle of wine Serge had bought yesterday stood unopened on the table. He would never leave wine alone, not the expensive stuff he insisted on drinking.
She hated alcohol, and all its effects. All the negative effects that turned Serge cruel.
No one saw that part of him. No one except Anna and God. But God had been turning a blind eye to her lately.
Abruptly, indignation pricked at her as she realized he’d denied her even the satisfaction of allowing her to end their relationship. All through the long, cold spring and all through his anger management counseling, she'd battled with herself until she realized she didn't need Serge and his abuse, contrary to what he was always telling her. She was strong enough to stand on her own.
And coming here to the Island had cemented that conclusion.
But Serge was gone. Really gone, her heart whispered. Gone as in dead.
Could he really be dead? Or was it merely wishful thinking? She swallowed. What a horrible thought.
The morning sun warmed her toes and she moved toward the patio door. The cabin they'd rented overlooked Murray Corner beach. To her, it was the loveliest spot in all of New Brunswick, with pristine views of the Confederation Bridge that led to Prince Edward Island. Beyond the sliding glass doors, beyond the sand and gently swaying grass and cloudless sky, the Northumberland Strait beckoned to her. All of Eastern Canada beckoned her.
She opened the door and slipped quietly onto the small deck. That wind that had somehow whispered Serge's fate to her had died overnight, but still it bled through her thin nightgown.
A good day for beachcombing, she thought, leaning over the deck. The stretch of sand was empty, the tide still receding.
Anna gripped the rail, feeling the cool morning air flutter her nightgown. Could Serge be dead? Shouldn’t she call the police? Would they believe her implausible intuition or would they suspect her of being involved?
Could she even believe her own intuition? It hadn't been around much when she'd married Serge. It was totally absent when the abuse started.
Her stomach knotted, she pushed herself from the railing and turned.
Then, she jumped.
On the deck of the all-too-close next cabin sat a man. That same soft breezes that cooled her anxious thoughts ruffled his dark hair. He sat quietly in one of the matching patio chairs, his jacket collar turned up slightly.
He wore sunglasses, but Anna felt his gaze linger on her.
Horrified, Anna ducked back into her cabin and dragged the patio door closed. Sighing, she pressed her hot cheek to the cold glass and waited for her heart to slow to a normal pace. Her breath steamed up the pane.
Pushing aside the embarrassment, she straightened up, and threw back her shoulders. That man was just another tourist, staring at her only out of curiosity. What man wouldn't, if their neighbour had just stepped out on a deck not more than fifteen feet away, dressed in a thin nightgown that barely covered her thighs?
Anna hurried into the bedroom. She'd seen that man yesterday, entering his cabin just as she and Serge were checking into theirs. Today, he wore the same lightweight jacket, zipped to the top, with the collar turned up. She’d watched him with only mild curiosity, wondering where he'd come from to consider the unseasonally warm weather cool enough for a jacket.
None of her business.
She should dress for breakfast. But just as she took a step toward the bedroom, she stopped abruptly. Serge had always insisted she be dressed with her hair and make-up done before breakfast.
No. Not anymore. Pivoting, Anna strode into the kitchen to make coffee. Alive, or even dead as her gut taunted her, Serge’s days of bullying her were over.
She deliberately made a light breakfast of coffee and the sugary cereal she had a secret penchant for, and grabbing both, she turned toward the table.
She stopped when she spied the door.
Would Serge walk in at any moment, alive and well, and insisting on fresh fruit, sweet yogurt and French press coffee?
Would she be forced to tell him their marriage was over?
Her hand started to shake, and Anna jumped when she realized she'd spilled coffee on her nightgown.
If Serge walked in right now...
No. She shut her eyes to stop the hated tears from rolling down her cheeks. Tears Serge had caused all too often.
No! Time to take back her life. And if Serge chose that moment to return from wherever he'd been, she would finally stand up for herself. It had taken ten years, but she knew now that she owed Serge nothing.
She sat down at the table, and ignoring the stain, began to eat her breakfast.
* * *
Major Brent Stirling peeled off his sunglasses and blinked. What the..?
Was that stunning woman the tiny mouse he'd seen yesterday waiting for her husband to check them in? Where was her old man now? Still asleep?
Brent shook his head, trying to dispel the image of long legs and horrified embarrassment. Poor thing, she'd nearly fainted when she caught sight of him, sitting out here. She must have thought she'd be the only person up this early.
Brent shoved his glasses back on his face and pulled his collar up further, all the while slouching deeper into the patio chair. Well, she was wrong. Not everyone wanted to lie in bed with his or her dreams.
Not when all of your dreams were the same nightmare, over and over again. Officially, the government in Ottawa did not place soldiers on the ground in North Africa. Unofficially, a half dozen men had been sent in to complete on very dangerous mission.
Brent craned his neck to one side, feeling the fresh scars tightened as he relived that last day in the desert.
Young Lieutenant Kenny had taken him aside that last morning, asking for leave. His wife needed him.
Brent had shaken his head. Leave was impossible. They'd been all through this at the first mission briefing. Kenny had said he was good to go. But that last day, the young guy had sputtered, calling him cold, heartless.
With political tensions high and an assignment that required such exactness, that one man could not be spared; Brent had lost his temper and ordered the young upstart to smarten up. They were needed to do this one mission. No one was leaving.
Two hours later, they were hit.
Kenny had been killed instantly, his own inattentiveness drawing his focus from his task as point man. And worse, Brent's own stubbornness pushing the distracted man to do a job for which he was unfit.
The next thing Brent knew, he was waking up in an Italian military hospital, bandaged and sutured all along his right side. Kenny and the two others hadn’t survived. The only reason he had, was that several NATO soldiers on another covert mission found him before the Libyan government forces got there.
Brent swiped his hand over the scarred ridges on his neck.
Lieutenant Kenny had been right. He was cold and heartless to force a man to do a job when his mind was on family back home.
Deciding he'd had enough of the wind and surf, Brent climbed out of his chair. The row of cedar shake cabins angled down a stretch of ruddy soil and lush grass, offset in such a way that the farthest edge of his back deck almost reached the back corner of his pretty neighbour’s cabin.
He slid open the patio door and stepped over the threshold. Neat, modern and touristy, the inside of Brent's cabin welcomed him with unbiased blandness. The few knickknacks about didn't give a hoot about him.
Unzipping his jacket just enough stop to the chafing, Brent walked into the kitchen to pour another coffee. With his windows open, he could hear the rhythmic surf pound the beach, white, sea foam breaking beyond the sandbars that appeared with low tide. He should take a walk out there this morning.
Maybe it would help him to forget Kenny.
His hand shook. The coffee sloshed in the carafe he held. And slowly, before his mind's eye, he could see the attack again. The barrage of gunfire as they exited the vehicle, the explosion of that one grenade that landed too close, the flash of blinding light against which Kenny was silhouetted the second before the blast tore his insides out...
Brent slammed the mug down on the counter, drawing in a deep breath to calm himself. He went slowly through the exercises the counselor had given him.
Yeah, maybe that walk on the beach he'd been avoiding was in order.
He should, however, wait until after supper when the families were gone and the oblique sun muted the side of his neck.
By then, too, he wouldn't be risking a meeting with that lovely thing who had fled from her deck at the mere horrible sight of him.
Brent's jaw tightened as he tried again to pour coffee into his mug. It did crap for his ego to know he frightened away beautiful women.
What do you care, Stirling? It's not like you're ever going to get one, again.
When his ex-wife had shown up one day at that London hospital, he'd been surprised she could look at him at all. But Mag had always been tough. She didn't get as far as she had in her own army career from shying away from anything. She hadn't even shied away from walking out on him all those years ago.
After declining her offer to recuperate at her new house, Brent had asked her to leave. He promised to call her when he got back to Canada.
He hadn't yet, still unsure what he’d do with the rest of his career. And he knew Mag would ask that question.
Yeah, Mag was a whole lot different than that bit of a thing next door. That dark-haired beauty was probably shivering in her old man's arms right now, but that long, thin guy he'd seen signing for the cabin didn't strike Brent as the sympathetic type.
His first sip of coffee soured on his tongue. Brent threw it into the sink, deciding against breakfast until he remembered his meds needed to sit on a full stomach.
Be thankful, Major Stirling, the army doctor had advised. You might have been one of the three soldiers who didn't come back that day.
The mug slipped from his fingers, falling the few inches into the sink. Three men under his command had died and the doctor told him to be thankful? His knuckles whitened where he gripped the edge of the stainless steel sink. Thankful for what? For not listening to Kenny when was asking for help? For ignoring the fact that one soldier had not been mentally prepared to complete that covert operation?
Be thankful for surviving a horrible accident that had been his fault?
The muscles in his neck tightened enough to snap and Brent forcibly relaxed them, before shoving himself from the sink to look for something for breakfast.

You can find the rest of the book, as well as more of this excerpt at

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/71597

(I apologize for the link not working today. I can't explain it, but if you cut and past you'll be able to reach the site easily enough. Thanks for your patience!)

Thank you for stopping by!

Sharon Dunn

2011-06-29T12:56:00.002-03:00

One of my critique partners, Sharon Dunn, as a new website. Take a look at the way she keeps track of her stories.

http://sharondunnbooks.net/

Ripples and the Tidal Monkey

2011-06-14T14:00:00.000-03:00

Ripples MacLean gripped the edge of her bathroom sink and stared hard at face peering back at her. The gilded mirror could only say one thing.

She was ugly. And there was nothing she could do about it.

“Hey! I gotta go to school today, you know!”

Sighing, she opened the bathroom door and rolled her eyes. “It’s all yours, kid,” she told her younger brother, Wave.

Wave plowed in.

Ripples wrinkled her nose. “You stink! Where did you sleep, with a skunk?”

For her answer, all Ripples got was a door slammed in her face.

Shaking her head, she smoothed her new tee shirt and headed down the narrow hall of her parents’ trailer to the kitchen. Both mum and dad had already left for the day, which meant Ripples was in charge of her brother. No mean feat. Wave had been hanging out with some tough kids from Dorchester, and Ripples knew he’d been getting into no-good because of that.

And, she decided as she stared at the mess of banana and orange peels he’d left on the counter, he was getting worse.

At least he ate breakfast, she resigned to herself.

Grabbing a Popsicle from the freezer, Ripples headed out to catch the bus.

Art class was the highlight of her day. Her final project, worth 50% of her mark and a chance for an art scholarship at Mount Allison University, hinged on her collecting Popsicle sticks. Now, as she dumped the ones collected for her into her backpack, she knew she had enough.

Ripples smiled. Her airship was coming together.

That evening, while her parents were watching some stupid news show about a stolen primate, Ripples slipped out to the shed behind the trailer. She’d been building an airship and with all she’d learned in science class, she was sure the project would not only win her the scholarship, but also a patent for airship design.

But the smell! “Ugh!” she spat out as she opened the shed door. “It stinks in here.”

A screech cut through the air and Ripples jumped, her foot knocking the door behind her closed.

Then, swinging down in front of her, holding Popsicle sticks from her wrecked airship, was a horrible, stinking monkey!

She leapt back in shock and fear, her heel hitting the closed door and her hands grabbing anything to steady her.

The monkey jumped down, snatched the Popsicle sticks from her hand and swung back up to its safe place in the shed’s rafters.

The stink of dung and rotting fruit hung around her. Ripples could do only thing.

She tore out of the shed, screaming, “Wave! You moron! Get in here!”

The monkey swung down and sailed through the air to land on her back. She screeched again, and before she knew it, neighbours were descending on her.

The police, too. That crazy guy next door, Beattie Daniels, had called them.

Her parents tried to pry the monkey free, but its grip on her hair was as tight as its grip on the Popsicle sticks.

Snapping at anyone who came near it, the monkey held her captive.

And Wave was nowhere to be found.

Thankfully, one police officer had the presence of mind to shove a baby’s toque on the monkey’s head. Disoriented, the creature released its painful grip.

“Well, that’s one mystery solved,” he said grimly.

“Oh, Ripples, how could you!” her mother wailed.

“Could what?” Ripples answered, rubbing her sore head.

“You’ve been going into that shed for weeks, now. You’ve stolen that stupid monkey, haven’t you?”

“No!”

“We would have paid your tuition if you didn’t win that scholarship. We’d have found the money somehow. I know I keep telling you how poor we are, but you don’t have to resort to stealing!”

“Stealing what?” Ripples asked.

“That monkey. It’s been all over the news. It’s a rare Apricot Monkey worth millions, and its owner says he’s received a ransom note on it.”

Shocked, Ripples could only stare at the group around her. The following hours were a blur. Her family’s ancient, (at least a year old), computer was taken as evidence. It held the ransom note in its files and worse, Ripples thought belatedly, Wave was nowhere to be found.

He was with his buddies in Dorchester, Smash and Divert Taptree, two siblings who were known for trouble ever since they emigrated here from the wilds of New Jersey.

Now, finally, back home, with Waves denying everything, Ripples sat in the shed. Thankfully, the police had released her under the care of her parents, who showed their support by ordering her to clean up the shed.

Shoulders slumped, she sank onto an old stool and sighed. Around her were the scattered remains of her Popsicle airship. The frame was still intact, but the monkey had strewn everything else. Not wanting to clean up something she didn’t mess, Ripples decided to finish her creation. She knew her parents couldn’t afford any tuition, and she had incredible faith in this airship.

Had. It was definitely past tense, here. Her airship would never be ready in time for the deadline.

Hours ticked by, until Ripples heard her mother call out to her. It was already late, and probably supper was on the table.

Ripples set down the nearly finished airship and rose, grimacing at her stiff muscles.

She stepped out of the shed, and directly into the stranger standing near the threshold.

He caught her arm to stop her from falling. Ripples looked up into his face, and found him smiling at her. His ball cap hid a straight crop of thick hair, and his summer tan shone on his youthful face.

She didn’t feel like smiling back. “Can I help you?” It was the most civil thing she could say to him.

“Ripples MacLean? I’m Trim Bronzal. Rufus is my monkey.”

Rufus? It took a minute for Ripples to connect the screeching demon from the shed with the name, but when she did, she backed up. “Are you here to charge me with kidnapping? I didn’t do it, you know.”

He smiled, and she could see he was far younger than she expected. “I know. I’m here to say thank you for finding him.”

“More like he found me. Or jumped out at me in a screeching attack.”

“That’s Rufus. Sorry.” His grin widened. “Look, your parents invited me for supper. Why don’t we go in? Then after, if you like, I can help you clean up.”

Now he was talking her language. Any help with this mess would be gratefully accepted. They walked into the trailer, and though Ripples felt a bit self-conscious about living in small quarters, she found herself relaxing. If Trim was bothered by the basic meal of Hamburger Helper and frozen peas, he didn’t show it at all. In fact, he charmed everyone from her parents to her nasty little brother. Before long, everyone was contributing to the shed clean up. Throughout, Ripples found herself telling him about her Popsicle airship design.

“I’d love to see it. I know some people who’d be able to help you perfect your design.”

“Thanks, but it’s too late. I had to have that design in by tomorrow morning in order to qualify for the scholarship competition.”

“But getting a patent would be worth more. Especially if it was bought by some company big in the aerospace industry.”

Ripples knew her eyes had lit up, but one big question remained. “But that doesn’t answer who sent you the ransom note, and how Rufus ended up in our shed.”

From the corner of her eye, Ripples spied Wave sneaking out. But her father was quicker, slamming the door shut on his son’s face. “Not so fast. Ripples has a good question and I think you have an answer for it.”

Wave shot Trim a frightened look. “It started out to be just a joke. At least that’s what Smash and Divert thought. They just needed a place to keep the thing for a day or two. But we didn’t know he was stolen or anything! Honest!”

“Stolen by whom?” Trim asked, his forehead creasing.

Wave hesitated, then blurted out, “Beattie Daniels. He’d asked us to do it!”

Ripples gasped. “I know why, too! I showed him my airship design and he was really interested. He wanted to buy it from me, but I said no. I bet he did all this so that monkey would wreck the ship.”

“More like discredit you. Then Daniels would steal your design.” Trim shoved his hands onto his hips and looked very, very angry. “Your ship is innovative and with you gone, and your family not knowing much about the design, he was free to sell it and make millions.”

“Millions?” her mother echoed.

“Yes, Mrs. MacLean. Ripples stood to earn that much if she had a good negotiating team behind her. I would have seen to that.” He smiled sheepishly. “I’d have liked to be a part of that team, too. We could help her get that engineering and design education, too.”

Ripples’ mum sank into the dusty chair nearest her. Ripples smiled at Trim, thankful that he was here with them.

“We’ll see that the police know about this,” her dad said, his hand still firm on Wave’s shoulder. “And we’re grateful to you, Mr. Bronzal.”

“Call me Trim.” He grinned broadly, right at Ripples as she blushed. “And I think you’ll be seeing more often.”

Ripples gathered up her battered airship. “Just as long as Rufus stays at home, okay?”

Trim nodded as he helped her pick up her tools. “That’s a promise. The first of many, I hope.”

As the rest of her family filed out of the shed, Ripples smiled back at Trim. “You bet!”

Coming Soon!

2011-06-13T19:40:00.003-03:00

Hold on, it's coming! I participated in a talent show to raise money to help send some teens to Tidal Impact, where I took ideas for a story.
The audience shouted out ideas and though I had to weed out a few ideas not to be described here, I am proud to say that this story will be launched tomorrow morning!
Yup, get up early folks, and be the first to read Ripples and the Tidal Monkey.
Now, to those of you who are going to Tidal Impact, dust off your printers, print out the story and ask a dollar for each copy.
Have fun, and enjoy the story!

contest re-blog!

2011-03-07T11:47:00.001-04:00

This author is fast becoming a big name. And she has a little giveaway!
http://socratesbookreviews.blogspot.com/

Merry Christmas!

2010-12-23T20:55:00.002-04:00

I offer to you the very best of Christmas. And the very best is the gift of eternal life, given to us by God. You don't need anything, to be anything, or belong to anything.
Believe. And God's gift for us is yours also.
Merry Christmas.
Barbara

far too long!

2010-10-11T19:44:00.002-03:00

It's been far too long since I posted to this blog. I don't know why I think I can do something regularly and then forget it.
I've been busy getting rejected for proposals, but the good news is I have received some great feedback from some other authors who write what I write and am looking to writing the best proposal to date.
But it's hard to get constant rejections for your work, and finding yourself scrambling deeper for the stories in you and wondering if they are really there at all. There almost comes a sense of panic and fear and you have to take a break from writing to battle that.
Some would write through it, but I chose to spend the summer doing mission work, gardening, ding things with my family and even going bridal gown shopping with my daughter.
But alas, the fall has come and I have a proposal's synopsis cooling, an historical novel's proposal waiting patiently, and a fun women's fiction story half done.
Like the summer grows the vegetables and matures the grapes, I have been healed by the sun's warmth and long days.
I'm ready to write again.

I'd forgotten about this!

2010-02-08T14:59:00.005-04:00

Years ago, when I was writing for Hardshell, I participated in an on line cookbook. It featured various authors posting recipes and excerpts and other fun stuff. I've tried a few of the recipes and they are quite good.

Check this out.http://http//www.scribd.com/doc/26545322/Cookbook

And look for my book, All For A Good Cause and a friend of mine, Norah Wilson's Haunted By Dreams.

Enjoy!

Barbara Phinney

a few first snowy Christmas shots

2009-12-29T11:29:00.004-04:00

Here are a few shots of my nieces' first white Christmas. More to come!

This year is far more blessed

2009-12-25T12:46:00.001-04:00

I'm having a wonderful Christmas with my brother and his daughters. The girls are used to a very hot Christmas in northern Australia, so Canada is by far a culture shock for them. All of us here wish you all a very merry Christmas and a happy new year!
Blessings
Barbara

Stargate Universe

2009-12-05T19:40:00.007-04:00

Okay, I'm a Stargate Universe fan. I like the show so much, I'll stay up to midnight to watch it. And if any of you know me, that's saying something because I'm definitely a morning person.

I like that they analyze the show afterward. It helps with my writing, believe it or not.

Take last night's show for instance. It was the fall finale and was excellent.

For those of you who aren't up on this show, it's a spin off from the other Stargate shows and this one has an unlikely and sometimes unlikeable humans who are on a distant planet by way of the stargate, but when the planet is under attack, they are forced to take the gate, hoping to get back to earth, but who find themselves on an ancient star ship far from earth. The mix of people is delightful, and each has both good and bad qualities.

Colonel Young, the leader, dislikes Rush, the leading scientist, because he's a bit of a know-it-all who is bitter about the loss of his wife. Eli is the nerd who can do just about anything because he's smart, but has pretty much no incentive unless his butt is on the line. There's a nurse who is struggling to be doctor to all, and there's Young's protegee, Scott who appears to love Cloe, the senator's daughter who adds a bit of class to every room, but whose virginity was lost sometime around the Clinton administration.

There are some darker characters, but what I love about the show, especially last night's episode, was how the writers are putting the pieces together slowly and tantalizingly. The space ship has a chair that appears to be able to inject all the ship's knowledge into whoever is seated in it, but could kill you in the process.

Rush refused to risk his own life, but rather was willing to risk others, much to Young's fury.

But Young isn't so perfect and justice filled, either. He's already proved that he could beat up people who act up, as he did in a previous episode.

Last night's show had one scientist, a secondary character succombing to the temptation and sitting in it. He's in a coma now. Young blames Rush, of course, because he doesn't like him.

This isn't all that's happened. A troubled soldier on board commits suicide, and Rush decides to frame Young, to get him out of the leader's seat and get Rush more freedom to experiment on the chair, something Young refuses to allow.

In the midst of that, the gate opens and allows them to check out a planet, something they need to do for food, water, etc, because so far, no replicators on this ship. The recon team finds another space ship, and Young takes Rush to investigate. But there, Young confronts Rush about his framing him for murder, then beats the snot out of the scientist.

Then leaves him on this distant planet.

Now, you may not like Young for this, and people are saying the stress of being on this space ship is getting to him, but I think he had it in him all along.

Now you may be bored stiff here, but let's look at this from a writer's POV. Young has already proved he'll do the dirty stuff if he feels like it, but we were fooled to think it was for a good reason only. He's been shown to prevent a fight by punching the aggressor, and he's already beat up a rival colonel for sleeping with his wife. All for the greater good, you think.

So this latest is a believeable act for him. Only, it's not for the greater good, at least not completely.

And because we've learned that there is another spaceship and Rush is now alone on the planet with it, we know Rush has everything he needs to get home. He's smart, motivated, and has a ship now.

But the motley crew on the ancient ship aren't without an ubersmart scientist. They have our nerd, but also that scientist who sat in the chair. Sure, he's in a coma, but they aren't up a creek without a paddle. It's amazing how the writers are piling on the problems for the people, but hope dangles in front of them. Our nerd who won't get off his butt is now motivated to step in and help. The writers have left some big carrot for us to follow.

Can we authors leave some carrots for our readers? Can we make our characters as believeable, too? Can we twist our plots around but still have them fully motivated, like they did with Colonel Young? Can we add tension and hope all at the same time?

Check out the show if you can and see for yourself how the writers are planting motives and suppositions in our minds, only to turn them around.

You'll be impressed.

Primal Obsession

2009-08-19T10:55:00.011-03:00

My summer read this past July was Primal Obsession and I loved it so much, I had to review it!

Primal Obsession by Susan Vaughan (at http://www.susanvaughan.com/) is a tense, exciting mystery set in the Maine woods. Mix the smooth, poetic prose of H. D. Thoreau with the sly suspense of Stephen King, and you have Vaughan’s masterful style.

In Primal Obsession, reporter Annie Wylde has already connected various unsolved murders together, catching the attention of the killer, who finds in her an outlet for his murderous cry for notoriety. But when she decides to scatter the ashes of her best friend, one of his victims, over a placid Maine lake, and leaves the story to a co-worker, the killer becomes enraged.

Sam Kincaid is a burned out, injured major league player whose return to his roots as a wilderness guide only punctuates his sense of defeat. Even when the innuendo-filled banter with Annie is unsuccessful and the hodgepodge mix of vacationers he must guide bicker, he knows this trip will either make or break him. But ‘The Hunter’, as Annie dubbed the serial killer, has decided Annie needs a reprimand, and if it takes killing everyone on the backwoods canoe trip to do it, so be it.

Primal Obsession has all the great story telling of a whodunit, the sophisticated suspense of a master storyteller, and enough twists and turns and surprises to keep the reader enthralled. It’s a big story, both in pages, (369 in trade paperback size), and in depth and plot and is excellent value, promising and delivering a great read. Vaughan uses her finesse at suspense to keep readers guessing up to the end. And her knowledge of the setting is perfect for anyone who enjoys man pitted against nature. Like Rainsford in ‘The Most Dangerous Game’, by Richard Connell, Sam and Annie must either fight back or become easy prey for the ruthless Hunter.

Primal Obsession is an edge-of-your-seat story you won’t want to miss. Vaughan’s characters are realistic people to root for and worry for, right up to the exciting, satisfying conclusion.

Blog 5 of 5!

2009-07-24T01:00:00.001-03:00

PLEASE NOTE! This series is about to end. Feel free to pass it along to anyone who needs a good laugh and is considered a conference for the first time.

Now, before I tell you about my experience at pitching to an unknown editor, let me tell you about the Harlequin Ball the night before. Each year, my publisher puts on a ball. They go all out, and this year, it’s extra special because Harlequin is 60 years old. And it’s always held at the Grand Ballroom of the Ritz Charlton. A bunch of us authors climbed into a cab and off we went. Excitement was as high as the heels and nerves were as weak as our bladders. A stop in the restroom was in order.
Whoa. Stop. Pause. Hold on to the moment. The restroom was the fanciest I’d ever been in. They even had towels instead of paper, with which to dry your hands. I asked a fellow author to take my picture.
“Would you like it on the throne?” she quipped.
“No, but this Queen Anne chair in front of the marble make up table and gilded mirror would do just fine.”
Pictures were taken, and we went off into the ballroom. Some incredibly talented and inventive person had chosen the decades theme, with each small bar featuring a bevy of fancy cocktails from that decade. Beside them was a selection of famous desserts from that time period. I had tapioca pudding from the fifties, chocolate fountain from the eighties, and crème brulée from the nineties.
One gal sat down at our table, a long red drink in her manicured hand. “It’s a Singapore Sling! I haven’t had one of these since grad night!”

(Those of you concerned for my well being please note that I did NOT drink any of those that night.)
We danced, sang, “Fame, I want to live forever,” yakked and talked and had a fabulous time.
But at midnight, and each of us being our own Cinderella, we were finally kicked out of the room. I danced my way into the cab, and up to my room, waking up those patient roomies of mine as I sang out “It’s raining men!”, until they shoved me into my jammies and into my bed.
The next day brought a definite need for coffee. I had that editor appointment for which I had been so well prepared. Now, just to find that piece of paper and head off into the bowels of the hotel.
And I mean bowels. It had a row of loading docks, and the first day, we’d all been down there for the literacy signing. Remember me mentioning that? Two thousand plus romance writers, about a third signing books, and line ups for the likes of Nora Roberts and Debbie Macomber rivaling Russian lines for soup shortly after the war.
But today, tables upon tables, each a few feet apart, covered in snowy tablecloths, with two chairs. At the near end, the parade marshal trying to keep order. We were to line up, five rows, ten minutes before our appointments, and marched down the side of the echoing room, the sergeant major keeping time. One author, not a retired soldier like me, likened it to a cattle call. I can see that. But I know my army husband would have loved it, despite the fact he told me he’d rather watch paint dry than attend a romance writers’ conference.
I met the editor, a nice man young enough to be my son.
I pitched four projects.
I got four rejections.
Oh, well. It wasn’t for lack of preparation. Or maybe it was. Who knows? I didn’t mind, and was kind of secretly glad that part of the conference as over and done with. Mind you, there wasn’t much of the conference left. The grand finale, the awards night went nicely, with more glitter and sparkle than the Oscars. Heck, even the old ladies polished up their walkers for this one.
But remember I mentioned that rich food, and my simple system’s reaction to it?
It caught up with me. Big Time. Heartburn hotter than all those feet shoved into sling back heels for several hours. I had to escape as soon as the evening ended, but found myself stuck behind some glittery lady whose walker wouldn’t allow much more speed than the thickening crowd would allow.
Upstairs at the reception, the food needed better access, and many authors got nothing for their patience. I however, found the buttered shrimp and Beef Wellington hidden behind a large support pole, but the heartburn won out. I had to return to my room.
And apparently, so did my roomies. And their friends. So, clad in jammies, I sat and chatted and schmoozed some more, until everyone was tired.
Then I checked out. Yup, checking out at one a.m. beats fighting the crowds at seven, in order to catch my ride to the airport, generously supplied by another author and her gentleman husband.
My first conference was over. I thought I was schmoozed out, until I met some other authors at the airport. But I did learn a lot, one good thing being how the lovely southern ladies, “Bless your heart,” and what it really means. Thank you, Lenora!
But most importantly, thank you, roomies, who shall remain nameless at their own requests, because of that big foot of mine heading for my mouth at the worst possible moments. I loved it. I loved Washington, and I loved meeting all those gals I’d only talked to on line.
Thank you all of you, for making this newb’s memories so delightful.

My First Conference, Blog 4 of 5

2009-07-23T01:20:00.001-03:00

WARNING! Deer in the headlights crossing ahead!

By this time in my life, I should be way more observant than I am. I wish I had a dime for each time my roomie poked me and said, “Don’t you know who that is?”
I’d give her a blank look, and again she’d patiently tell me it was some famous agent or author or editor. I have a confession to make, though. The names usually went over my head. I’m pretty sheltered, I guess. My own doing, I imagine. I’ve been too lazy for too long and have rarely bothered to learn the names and faces of all the people with whom I should be schmoozing.
I did meet a very nice, good-looking man from amazon.com. He used to be an editor and I innocently asked him why the switch. Apparently, it’s practically a promotion. I don’t know. He must own amazon.com or something, because I didn’t figure it would be moving up in the world. Regardless, he was uber nice, so my early foray into schmoozing must have been a success.
In fact, my schmoozing went pretty well throughout the conference. I met agents and authors, chatted with veterans and new recruits. I ate rich food, drank good wine, and recharged my batteries each morning with sharp and strong coffee.
Then came the day of my meeting with the editor. Okay, I’d been too busy with my life beforehand to bother with the pitch. As expected, my roomie insisted I write something legible down. She practised her marvelous pitch on me, and I scribbled down a few words in a notebook with an old pen. I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t anything but wide-eyed with extra caffeine, fighting cronic heartburn from all the chocolate, and right after lunch, at a workshop, I sat down in a warm room, filled with other romance writers, a panel of editors and veterans, all soft spoken, discussing the pros and cons of inspirational writing, and bang, it came.
The noise. At soft snore, followed by my forehead hitting the back of the chair in front of me.
I had fallen asleep.
I threw up my head, meeting the eyes of the editor. She could probably hear the crack and see the growing welt on my forehead. I did manage to stay awake the rest of the workshop, thankful that they were all being recorded and I could purchase them in the front foyer for a nominal fee. They take all major credit cards.
One great thing about the conference, like I mentioned before, was meeting some pretty cool people. I met a gentile Hungarian woman, ZsuZsa Simandy http://zsuzsasimandy.com/index.htm, whose life was so interesting she’d written her memoirs, so delightfully entitled, Gathering Roses, Thorns and All. And she was also impressed with me. She was to have an interview with my old editor, and I wished her the best. It turned out that she dropped some names at her interview, mine, of all people, and received an invitation to submit. Whoa, she dropped my name, as if I was someone special. How cool is that? Now, I’m really rooting for her. To the right is me with my roomie, and Zsu Zsa. Roomie Lina Gardiner is in the centre. Oops, cat's out of the bag, my roomie's been disclosed!
Back to the conference. But I still had to print out my pitch for the editor. I headed up to the business office, only to discover the printer was broken. It turned out to be a good thing, as the cost of using the computer was a mere $25 an hour. In fact, the quality hotel was getting infamous for charging for every small convenience. Thank goodness those of us on the sixth floor could pick up the McDonald’s wifi for free.

Tomorrow, the conclusion of my blog series.

My First Conference! Blog 3 of 5

2009-07-22T01:30:00.002-03:00

CAUTION! Pictures of many romance-loving ladies ahead. All men should be prepared to be overwhelmed.

I’d registered, slipped the conference lanyard around my neck, and toured the Goodie Room, a place where promo items are given away. A gal can’t have too many bookmarks, right? My conference tote was designed by Harlequin, and featured an old Harlequin, back when men wrote the adventure stories of that time. The cover featured boasted a scintillating title. “You never know with women.”
How true. And this being my first conference, well, I didn’t know. Women of all shape and size were there, all styles, and all talent. And I learned you can fit 2500 romance writers in a basement loading area of the Marriott.

I did learn something else pretty quick. The more famous you are, the thinner you are. Nora Roberts is a size double zero, I figure. If she sells another book, she’ll disappear. Me? I’m a size fourteen, so I have a lot more books to sell, I see.
I wanted to go to the Newbie’s meeting, (or Newb’s meeting, as my teen son would have called it) but was told I wasn’t a newbie, that I knew the ropes, so I took their word for it. And, surprisingly, I did know more than I thought. Not being a shy person, I simply walked up, sat down beside and met many people just by shoving out my hand and introducing myself.
And I discovered that many people know me. Mostly editors, which begs the question on how they know me. Hmm. My brilliant, clear, concise prose?
Or my obsessive nervousness that pretty much seeps into my emails and phone calls? I guess I’ll never know.
My roomies were impressed, saying it was my writing. As I was up for a Daphne award, we went to the Death by Chocolate party. Okay, everyone. I like chocolate as much as the next person, but to be frank, am I supposed to eat that much? I am a little out of practice, here. But the stalwart soldier that I am, I gave it the old college try. I didn’t win a Daphne, but met an agent to whom I had spoke years ago. I joked about a bomb back then, and she remembered me. (Remember my roomie poking me when I shoved my foot into my mouth? She was at another table.)
Well, I didn’t win the award for which I had been nominated. But I eat a ton of fresh fruit, including black raspberries the size of large strawberries, and little cheesecakes drizzled in chocolate. I couldn’t leave without smothering my sorrows in sugar. Okay, there wasn’t any sorrow, but I gave it the old college try, remember?
The next day there was a breakfast, and I learned that you have to get to the food before all the other starving artists got there. Coffee is exceptionally valuable. I’d brought my own meal replacement bars, but with a complimentary continental breakfast, which included cheese and those giant raspberries again, those bars got shoved into my suitcase.
And I was discovering something else. My tummy isn’t used to rich food. It better adjust quickly, though. I’d paid for three more rich meals.
Well, it didn’t quite turn out the way I wanted it to…

Tune in tomorrow for the next installment!

My First Conference Blog 2 0f 5

2009-07-21T01:50:00.002-03:00

WARNING! Moments of Country Mouse in the City ahead. No laughing at my expense allowed.

Day two dawned bright and sunny. My writers’ group was unable to get the White House Tour, so I decided to do something even more exciting. My all time favourite painting in the world is Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party. And it was just down the road from where I was staying. With a free subway pass in hand, I hopped the Metro and trotted up to the small gallery called The Phillips House.
It was closed til 9, forty-five minutes from there. I decided to walk around the neighbourhood, admiring the variety of old money townhouses and embassies, not realizing until then that my knowledge of foreign flags was sadly lacking. But it was cool just the same.
Needing to practice my schmoozing, I started up a conversation with a young gal who was also waiting for the gallery to open. She was a British art student, splitting her time between DC and London and who was as friendly and charming as I knew the British could be. But too soon the gallery opened and I flew in, preparing myself to finally view the Luncheon of the Boating Party.
It was there, all right, its own lighting, bench and room. Gorgeous. I can tell you honestly that the postcard, prints and such don’t do the colours justice. And big, one of the biggest paintings I’d ever seen. A coup for the Phillips Collection, indeed. I’d finally completed a life long dream.
It was on to the next one. A wander around the Smithsonian. It even had its own Metro stop.
Speaking of the Metro, it’s hot down there. And the escalators were the longest I’d even seen. I took a picture of them, being the country mouse I am. But the trains are clean, and everyone appears to behave themselves. Or maybe they were on edge because of a recent train collision on their red line.
I exited the Metro at my stop, and found myself on the Mall. Okay, it’s not the mall I visit back up in Canada, and the lawn was being reworked, but how many malls have you been to that have an Egyptian obelisk named for George Washington, at one end, and the Capitol building at the other? Why, not even the Champlain Mall in Moncton can boast that much.
Pictures were in order. I didn’t see the reflecting pool, and still don’t know where it is, in relation to where I was, but pics were still needed. And after the appropriate snaps, I was off. Smithsonian forgotten, I wanted to see the White House. And according to my map, it wasn’t far away.
I pity the poor cops on Pennsylvania Avenue duty. Standing in the middle of the barricaded section of street. One bicycle cop was checking his email on his smart phone. I still got a couple of good photos, despite the tourists, cops and cement barricades. Enough to say I was there.
With tummy rumbling and guessing that the hotel food would be expensive, I noticed a Subway restaurant icon on my map. I was off down the street to the Ronald Reagan building for lunch. I figured I arrived at his airport, so I may as well eat at his building. Then I could tell everyone I had lunch on Penn Ave. It ended up being a wrap from Great Wraps, but who needs to know that?

Tune in Tomorrow for my official start to the conference.

My first conference! Blog 1 of 5

2009-07-20T09:40:00.004-03:00

WARNING! May contain moments of lapsed memory, proof of conference head, and symptoms of chocolate withdrawal. Reader discretion advised.

I’m going to attempt to blog about my trip to Washington, DC this past week. I went there to attend the Romance Writers of America’s national conference, and I must say the experience was well worth it. First up, I got a terrific deal on the flight, and then I finaled in Daphne, a contest showcasing excellence in mystery and suspense. How cool is that? It was accompanied by a Death by Chocolate party. Well, if you can’t die peacefully in your sleep at age 100, death by chocolate would be a great alternative.

I arrived unable to meet up with a friend to catch a shuttle to the hotel, but decided to brave the subway. How hard can it be?

I’m proud to say it wasn’t hard at all. The biggest problem was trying to figure out the vending machine that spits out subway tickets if you manage to decode the instructions. Just as I was feeling a bit like Tom Hanks on an adventure to save humanity, a very nice couple walked up and offered me a pair of tickets, good anytime until Thursday. I snatched them out of their hands in a flash, and was off. I actually met up with some fellow writers and we traveled to the hotel together. I’d begun my conference!

You see, I went there for the schmoozing. I roomed with a pair of veteran conference goers and wow, they really know what to do. One gal, and she knows who she is, took me under her wing. Because she knows me, she told me she’d nudge me when I was in danger of putting my foot into my mouth.

I’m bruised all along the left side of my body now. But I did manage to shove that size 9 into my mouth one time, telling a strange man waiting for the elevator beside me that he looked terrible. Oh, well, nobody’s perfect, right?

Of course, too late did I realize that I could be telling the man with whom I had an editor appointment that he looked awful, but I have to live dangerously once in a while.

We stayed at the Marriott near the zoo. One roomie did her research and discovered the older part of the hotel was the best deal. It sure was. On the sixth floor, you could pick up the local McDonald’s wifi, which was more than others could do.

I personally don’t think that a hotel of the Marriott’s caliber needs to charge for wifi in their standard rooms. The room was lovely, with a dressing room and spacious bathroom, and yet, oddly, two three-quarter beds instead of double. And you can’t tell me that’s the US double beds are smaller than in Canada. You Americans aren’t any smaller than us Canucks, and being from the Great White North, we need to cuddle in the night to keep warm, so if anything, we’d take the three-quarter beds, not you down in sweltering DC.

Tune in tomorrow when I begin my first full day in the US capital.

dog days of summer

2009-06-30T15:15:00.002-03:00

Many of you get dog days of summer. But where I live, a hot day is something over 20 degrees celsius. That's room temperature. We did get it this weekend past, but alas, Monday came and our perfectly hot and humid weekend was over.

But that didn't stop us from doing everything summer, like attend our son's soccer game. Here's me bundled up against the rain and cold watching my poor son deal with a soggy field. You wouldn't know it by my smile that they lost.

fill 'er up!

2009-05-01T09:38:00.001-03:00

Sometimes a writer has to ‘fill up’. It can be forced on them through a writer’s block, or it can be taken gently through a time between deadlines.

I’ve been on vacation this past week. I forced myself to finish my manuscript so that I could mail it from the States where it would be cheaper, right at the beginning of the holiday. Then I was free, and surprisingly, I didn’t feel like writing until today, a week later.

This need to ‘fill up’ is hard to describe for those whose work or recreation doesn’t include any creativity. I’m not being pretentious here. As a soldier in the military for many years, my job wasn’t creative. A fellow soldier said once that we could train apes to do our job. It didn’t require creativity, that’s all, and unless we had a hobby that did, ‘filling up’ time was a hard concept to grasp.

It’s kind of like a holiday for the brain. We all need a holiday but this is something more. It’s a pushing away of any creative thoughts. It’s denying the urge to write. It’s absorbing the world around you without analyzing what’s going on. Some writers don’t experience this need, and that’s great. They have the creative stamina to keep working. But I do, occasionally.

And I’m glad it’s happening somewhere sunny and warm.

Technology saves the Day!!

2009-02-11T11:28:00.001-04:00

I gave my kids cell phones because I wanted them to be reachable. But I told my son to use the house phone when he was at home to save our minutes. Yesterday, he was talking to his girlfriend on our house phone. I needed to remind him of something, so I texted him using my computer. Our service provider allows that. I don't have the brain capacity to learn such a high tech computation.He answered, adding that he was going to bed soon, as he felt 'garbagey'. New word, but rather apt, I suppose. He was a bit under the weather. I'd noticed that much when I went downstairs to the inner sanctum of the basement's TV room to tell him to clean that pig sty up.Well, this morning, my husband flicked on his bedroom light and told him to get up. It was what we do every school day.I added my voice to that order when I got up.Nothing happened, which in itself is the norm. He's a teen. Jumping out of bed early on a school day is against their personal code of honour.Finally, his older sister came downstairs."What's with Alex?""He's not up yet," I answered."He's sick.""How do you know?"She shrugged. "He texted me."Oh. He texted her across the house. Hmm. I went into his bedroom, and found him peeking out of his blankets. "I'm sick," he whispered hoarsely. "And you and Dad don't care.""Why didn't you tell us?""Too sick to talk."He was warm, and a bug had been flying around his school, so this wasn't unexpected. I told him to go back to sleep, I'd deal with him later.When I returned to the kitchen, I asked my daughter what her brother had said in his text."He wrote, 'I'm sick. Help. Save me.'"So, I pondered, technology has saved the day. We would have kept yelling at him until someone got mad and it set the whole house on edge, especially since I had to drive my daughter to her university classes within the hour."So the cell phones earned their keep," I commented. "Don't you think that's nice?"My daugther gave me one of those unsympathetic, older sister looks. "He's faking it."Technological changes may be new and exciting, and we're grateful for them, but there are some things that never change.

Desserts!

2009-01-16T12:37:00.002-04:00

I'm going to round out this healthy eating series with desserts.
Many times, I don't make desserts. I want my family to eat healthy foods and often send them back for more vegetables if they are still hungry. But some desserts are both healthy and economical and I'm not talking about fruit here.
Not being a great fruit fan, I was never one to offer it as a dessert.
But having said that, my daughter often cuts up a pear, then adds a few slices of cheese and is quite happy with that and a cup of herbal tea.
But even dark chocolate can be a nice dessert in moderation.
An important thing to note is that if you're eating a bit of chocolate for your dessert, take a small piece, put the rest away in the freezer, and eat the chocolate with a hot drink. The warmth from the drink helps to smooth out the flavour over your tongue as you savour it. You'll get maximum flavour from the small piece.
Another good dessert is rice pudding. The traditional rice pudding we ate in England has only three ingredients. Milk, rice and sugar.
Mix 4 cups of skim milk, 1/2 cup rice, 1/2 cup sugar in a large, deep casserole dish. Bake for one hour at 300 degrees, or until rice is tender and the top is brown.
This is economical in that you make it only when the oven is turned on. My mother used to make a roast beef dinner every Sunday and cooked the rice pudding in the oven, maximizing the heat. I have one in my oven right now, because I decided to bake bread and a casserole for my sister in law who has hurt her knee. The rice pudding is forgiving about the temperature, so don't worry if your other dish needs 350 degrees.
If you're into making muffins, throw in some shredded carrot or zuchinni for extra nutrition.
I have grown zuchinni in my front flowerbeds because it's such a decorative plant that loves full sun, and then shredded the zuchinni and frozen it in 1 cup baggies. Bring it out in January, thaw and drain it. You can add it to a muffin mix, or even a chocolate cake mix. You can do the same for apples, especially those that don't live up to your children's high standards of quality for lunch. I've always asked my children to return the food they don't eat back home, not just to see what they have eaten, but also to not waste expensive fruit or other snacks. I don't mind them giving some of their lunches away, as they have when other kids forgot theirs, or say they forgot theirs, it's just that I don't want perfectly good food to end up in the garbage, and if you've ever been to a school cafeteria, you know what I mean.
If you like fruit, and ice cream, especially bananas, consider buying the cheaper over ripe bananas, peel them and freeze them. Later on, put two or three into a food processor while still frozen, and puree them. They taste like the best ice cream ever. Top with thawed fruit for a really healthy dessert.
And remember that over ripe bananas are really just ripe ones. We've just got so used to eating green bananas, that we don't realize a good ripe one when we see it.
So you've got a few good ideas on how to save money and how to eat healthily. Enjoy! And don't forget to leave a comment.

Real Healthy cinnamon

2009-01-13T19:20:00.000-04:00

Cinnamon
The name conjures up toast, buns, sweets of all kind. Now it’s also beginning to give hope for triglycerides, blood sugar problems and digestion.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cinnamon has a great article on it, but often we just don’t realize that the cinnamon at our stores is not true cinnamon at all, and worse, it’s about 50% fillers.
It’s cassia. Cassia is like a cousin to true cinnamon, and stronger in flavour, hence the use of all the fillers, but with less of the health benefits, I’ve been told. And worse, it’s the only cinnamon generally available in North America. Yes, there’s some question as to which cinnamon is being tested, as these two articles used different kinds of cinnamon, http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/10641152?dopt=Abstract
And this study which used cassia,
http://care.diabetesjournals.org/cgi/content/full/26/12/3215
but most articles I’ve read insist it’s Cinnamomum verum that matters, the real stuff. Still the jury seems still out on this matter, so I’ll let you know as I learn more.
This begs the question, where can we get true cinnamon? Some sites say they can import it for you, but before you rip out your credit card, why not check around in some unlikely sources?
You see, I’ve found true cinnamon at our local apothecary. We have one in Moncton New Brunswick that dispenses the real stuff in both capsule and powdered form. For 450 grams, or half a pound, approximately 2 cups, I paid $15.00. So if we are to compare it with the spices in the grocery store, it’s a pretty good value, and better still, it’s 98% pure. The pharmacist told me that it’s only true cinnamon that has the benefits for type 2 diabetes.
I’ve been told that one quarter of a teaspoon three times a day is a good measure of what I should be taking. (My own triglycerides are up) and I’ve sprinkled it on toast, mixed it with plain or sweetened yogurt, and even put it in curry dishes or on porridge.
I haven’t been for my annual bloodwork yet, (I’m due) so we have to wait to see if there is any health benefit to taking this stuff. But it’s certainly a tasty and benign way to help your body, plus it’s cheaper than I expected, and forces me to eat yogurt every day, which we all know is good for us.
So consider searching out real cinnamon in your area, and try some for your health.

Chicken fried rice that's full of veggies

2009-01-10T20:48:00.003-04:00

In this recipe, you get a full meal. I usually throw in some frozen veggies because my son wouldn't eat that many unless he's forced. If you don't have chicken, consider any leftover meat, or sliced sausages from breakfast, or cubed tofu that has been dipped in soy sauce.
Also, remember my previous post on cooking chicken thighs? I hope you saved the broth, because here you can use both the thighs and the broth.
Want less salt? Use low sodium soy sauce, and refuse to put the salt shaker on the table. Increase the spices instead for extra kick.

2 tsp olive oil
3 chicken breasts, cooked, or 6 boneless chicken thighs, cooked, and chopped coarsely
1 onion finely chopped
1 stalk celery, chopped
½ cup frozen peas and carrots
½ cup frozen corn
1 finely chopped clove of garlic
1/8 tsp ground ginger
2 cups of the broth you saved from cooking the chicken thighs
1 cup long grain rice
Dash soy sauce
1 thinly sliced green onion
Preheat frying pan over med. high heat, then add oil, onion, celery, garlic. Sauté until onions are transparent, then add chicken and cook until browned.
Reduce heat to med., then add water, bouillon and rice.
Simmer until rice is cooked, stir in soy sauce and green onion.
Makes 5 1 ¼ cup servings. Each serving is only 350 cal, 5 g fat, 45 g carbs, 4 g fibre.

Next time, I'm going to talk about cinnamon and what I've started to do with it.
Enjoy!

chicken thighs

2009-01-08T07:43:00.003-04:00

Chicken thighs. They're cheaper, tastier, and two little ones can be substituted for one breast. They can give you more value for your money, and can be used in low calorie recipes just as easily as the breasts.

Boil them until just cooked. Remove skin and fat and gently pry meat off bones. The meat is an excellent and flavourful alternative to more expensive and drier chicken breasts.
Take the bones and skin and boil them in the water you cooked the thighs in for about 10-15, and then cool in fridge. Chip off the fat that has set on the top and you have a great chicken stock for soups and casseroles. You can flavour to taste with either herbs and garlic, or salt and pepper, or one teaspoon of chicken bouillon per two cups of stock.
Freeze in ice cup trays. One cube equals about ¼ cup of stock.
Next, we'll look at some recipes in which you can use chicken thighs.
And of course, the broth you made, too!

a few great recipes!

2009-01-06T20:10:00.002-04:00

Here is a really fast, yet hearty recipe. You can even do this in the slow cooker all afternoon, then puree and add the cream just before you're ready to serve it.

Cream of carrot soup
Cook until tender in lots of boiling water, about 2-3 cups of winter carrots and one onion.
(The more vegetables, the thicker the soup)
When done, transfer into a 3-4 cups of preferably homemade chicken stock, or Campbells’ low sodium chicken stock.
Heat until warm. Puree or mash vegetables thoroughly.
Cool slightly, add ¼ cup cream and ½ tsp dried parsley. Add ¼ tsp cumin, pinch of nutmeg, coriander and chili. Or, as as an alternative, ½ to 1 tsp curry or garam masala.
Stir and serve. Makes about 5 servings.

Garam Masala is a mix of curry-like spices usually found in Indian food. It comes in small boxes and can be bought in most grocery stores in the international foods section. It's mild enough for most children to appreciate.
For a lower fat variety, substitute 1/4 cream with lower fat 1/4 cup evaporated milk.
Not enough carrots? Try mixing carrots with squash, pumpkin, parsnip, or potatoes.

Next, I'll be giving you some substitutes that are not only better tasting, but also money saving, as well.

eating smart in the new year

2009-01-03T12:55:00.002-04:00

The new year always brings about challenges, and usually, we find ourselves sick of our December eating habits. We want to change them, but we know how difficult keeping long term dietary goals alive can be.
We need to implement smaller changes, the type that don't feel like harsh diets or denying ourselves things. We need to change our attitudes and think healthier.
My sister-in-law has asked me to give her some ideas that her brother, my husband, and I have used regularly. She's the typical mother. She works outside the home, has two kids, one a teen, her husband works odd hours and she often comes home too tired to do too much. Add to that checking in on her parents, and housework, she's left with precious little time to cook up healthy meals.
So, in the next few blogs, I'm going to put together some ideas we can all use in order to make healthy choices.
Do you have any? Feel free to comment on mine, and offer your own.
Okay, the first one:
When making your own pizza, which is just as easy as buying one nowadays with the bread machine, try these simple tips:
Cut down on the mozzarella cheese by one half, and sprinkle on about 1 tbsp to 1/4 of parmasen cheese. This adds flavour, while cutting fat.
Instead of pizza sauce, use ground tomatoes. Many brands of canned tomatoes are offered in pureed or ground tomatoes. Smear the tomatoes on, then sprinkle with powdered garlic, dried oregano, basil and pepper. Avoid the salt, as the canned tomatoes usually have enough. This change will often cut out sugar, as many sauces have sugar and adulterates in them.
Do you like pepperoni on your pizza? Try a meatless version, available in the deli section of most grocery stores. They are often less fatty, and have less chemicals. The strong flavours in your pizza often compensate for the usually milder meatless pepperoni, and many people don't notice the difference.
if you make your own crust, substitute 1/4 of the flour for whole wheat flour. Do this for a few months then increase the amount of whole wheat flour slowly, weaning your family off the white flour.
While the pizza is cooking, offer a salad, or raw veggies or hot tomato juice that has had a few drops of worchestershire sauce or hot sauce added. This will help to fill your family up (with good stuff) so they don't eat as much pizza.
Next, we'll talk about trying different dishes that can be very low fat, but high in flavour. A few small changes like these aren't as intimidating as full blown diets that are hard to stick to.
See you later, and eat right!
Barbara

where has the time gone!

2008-12-29T08:18:00.002-04:00

Like my title says, where has the time gone? I've spent the last few months getting a proposal for some books done up and the day after I sent them, my editor called to offer me a one book contract! It's part of a series coming out starting January 2010, and my book will be May 2010. It's called Fatal Secrets, and I've decided I like writing to a title, and a basic synopsis. At least, with the editors writing up the synopsis, they can't rip it apart on me!

But now Christmas has come and gone and our family has seen some big ups and downs. An uncle died, my father in law had a heart attack, and yet, in the midst of that, my daughter got engaged.

Still, I will soldier on, as they say. I'm used to the idea of my daughter getting married some day in the future, and we've visited my father in law, who is still in the hospital. We attended a tough funeral for a well liked man.

My writing continues, as does life in general. Nothing stays the same, my mother in law says, and all we can do is go with the flow.

And in the meantime, I must write and edit and coordinate with the other writers in the series, a joy and good experience to be sure, but worrisome when you think of the editor and what she may say.

So, in that vein, I thank you for stopping by.

An Artful Question

2008-09-24T08:32:00.002-03:00

This post can also be found at
http://loveinspiredauthors.blogspot.com/

This blog may not agree with some of you out there. I'm usually the kind of person who likes warm, fuzzy blogs, but today this one isn't going to be like that. So read on at your own peril.
Both the United States and Canada are facing national elections, but here in Canada, one of our issues is arts funding. I live near an excellent university and because of that, I have ample opportunity to enjoy their arts' programs. I love them.
In some ways, I, too, am an artist, a writer who is blessed enough to get paid for her work. But here in Canada, we have people saying more funding must go into our arts and culture program.
Stop a moment. We also have gun violence in Toronto, an Arctic in crisis, and the working poor whose children are going hungry. We have natives who struggle to survive, and a country with a wildly growing dependence on fossil fuels.
Canada also has a global conscience, seeing the poor of other countries, the oppressed and those suffering under terrorist regimes. Canada has a responsibility to support those countries who want to end the global crises.
How can I sit in a comfortable seat in an auditorium enjoying the arts when this is happening? How can I justify saying that my government should support these programs when the burden of helping our own Canadians and the poor around the world is so great?
Some people may say that this is our culture, to have quality music, fine visual arts, and incredible talent.
No. When our poor and our native populations and environment are in crisis, this becomes our culture.
Our culture is our poor, and oppressed, and how we deal with them.
How we deal with the less fortunate is the true measure of ourselves. How are we dealing with them? It's not just a nationally elected body's responsibility, but an individual responsibility, too. How am I helping the poor, the environment, our supply of fresh drinking water?
How are you? What are you, personally, doing to change the culture that has been thrust upon us in the world's eyes? What am I doing?
Let us be able to watch that symphonic band's newest recital with clear consciences.

brutal, but good

2008-09-03T14:07:00.005-03:00

Hey, I'm not talking about anything you shouldn't be thinking of, okay?

I'm talking about Mount Katahdin in Maine. Sure, it's only 5,000 feet or so, but it's brutal to climb. I read somewhere it was the most difficult climb east of the Rockies, and now, a week after the dirty deed, I can still fully agree.

I volunteered with my church's youth group. I'd been halfway up it once, and loved the view. And thinking like a brand new marathoner, I was thinking, hey, I can climb halfway, so the rest should be just as easy, right?

Take a look at the pic to the right. See those little people in the centre? Yup, they're people, and yup, those are the size of the boulders one must climb.

I'm not going to sugar coat this climb. It was brutal. It made me hurt. It pushed me to the absolute limit of my endurance. I suffer from a fear of heights and wear bifocals. Placing a foot down or climbing up on a rock at the top of a mountain where you can't judge its distance, and trusting the blue paint that says this is the way to go, is just something I don't do everyday.

But I did it.

And the trip down scared me. I couldn't see over the edge, and the boulders felt as though they were progressively getting bigger and bigger. My knees shook, and the only way I could confirm they'd hold me up was for me to lock them.

Our youth pastor, Robin, commiserated with me, and we encouraged each other to keep going. She ached as much as I did.

I must also mention the time I got my backside wedged between two enormous hunks of granite, and our trusty guide, AKA our senior pastor, Vernon, had long disappeared over the edge of the trail down to Chimney Pond. Only the fear of needing to be rescued was greater than the pain clamping down on my hips. Humiliation helped me unwedge myself.

We ran out of water, too. Thankfully, we discovered a massive wall of granite with clear spring water streaming from it. Makes one appreciate the basics of life, it does.

We made it down, all of us. By now, I'd twisted both ankles, bent back a finger and scraped my knees, but I was glad I did it.

And equally glad that Robin was thinking of a more benign summer trip next year. A walk around the swan pond, anyone?

Danger Danger!

2008-07-14T12:53:00.002-03:00

There’s a new technology out and it’s not the Iphone. It’s a refrigerator that will order your groceries for you.
Okay, I’m a bit skeptical here. How does it know what you’re eating? I’m betting you have to tell it.
That’s all okay if you like the extra work, but what it should be doing is scanning you to see what exactly you’re eating. I mean, I have a teenaged boy. With lots of friends. I rarely have enough milk in the house and sugary cereals are an endangered species here. And I know my son. He’ll be opening this new fridge door and saying to it, "I’m taking a carrot now. We have only three left."
Meanwhile, he’s helping himself to the last half of pie. And I mean a whole half. That's good writing, isn't it?) I’d be inundated with carrots before the week’s out, if this fridge believes my son and calls in an order of carrots to the local Co-op. Talk about naive.
What the refrigerator should do is scan the kid using one of those beams we see on Star Trek and then yell out in a loud voice, or better still, announce it on an in-house PA, "You are not taking a carrot. You are eating all the pie. Back away from the refrigerator. I say again, back away from the refrigerator."
Or wave its arms around yelling, "Danger, Will Robinson, danger! All the pie is being eaten! Danger! Danger!" Then grab the offending teenaged boy (because it’s not necessarily going to be my own), and hold on until an adult can come and pry the pie out of his hands.
You know, this could work for dieters, too. You simply program into the fridge what you should eat and it simply won’t let you reach for pie, but rather grab you with those flex hose pipe arms and not let go. Why, you could work up a nice cardio routine fighting it off, and speed and agility too, trying to get the pie out of the fridge before it grabbed you.
Of course, your teenaged boy and his friends would consider the whole food grab a challenge. They do, after all, have a computer game experience, like one of those death matches with the evil minions of planet Thrombosis.
Or they could just reprogram the fridge.
You’d catch on pretty quickly though, when you opened the fridge for supper’s nutritious salad and it said something cheeky to you like, "Enter password within five seconds or this refrigerator will self-destruct."
Oh, yes, self-replenishing refrigerators are fine, but those scientists should be working on getting teenagers to eat three meals a day, all nutritious, with no snacking. Now, that’s technology worth buying.

A Whale of a moment

2008-07-11T14:06:00.003-03:00

We're usually too busy to go driving around, and with the price of gas, it happens even more rarely. But when a dead fin whale washed up on shore about an hour's drive from us, we had to see it.

And this one's not that big for them, but you can see the sheer size of it.

What you can't enjoy was the smell.

What else can happen?

2008-07-02T11:22:00.002-03:00

(This post can also be seen at http://loveinspiredauthors.blogspot.com/)
Twenty-four hours can hold an awful lot
This time yesterday, I was deep in my writing. I had to get some synopses done for my editor and was determined to do just that.
But we’d planned some fun activities for later. Being Canada Day, we were going to take in the fireworks in the nearest town, but at supper, I finally had some down time and watched the news.
A whale had died and been washed in with the tide, down in Slacks Cove, near Rockport, New Brunswick. Since this wasn’t far from us, we decided to check it out.
So did half the town, too. It was big, but by far, the smell was more intimidating. I touched it, and found it smooth, rubbery, and very cold. It had been a bit battered after it had died, and I tried to identify it. A small fin whale or a sei whale, maybe. I’m not up on my whales, I’m afraid. But there didn’t appear to be anything I could see that may have killed it. Perhaps, we can hope, it was just old age.
It’s amazing to see how the tide had washed it in. At 12 metres long, it would take some doing, a testament to the power of the sea. Which was now returning. Time to leave.
Then of course, came the fireworks we’d looked forward to seeing all day. My hubby had packed some snacks for us, and when we got there, we stayed in our car until dark. And until we discovered my son, being the one in the far back seat and closest to the cooler, had eaten the huge chocolate bar his dad had slipped into the cooler for later. So all we had was water and popcorn. Good for the diet I had put us both on, I suppose. The fireworks were wonderful and we even got out of the parking lot without delay.
Then we came home to find we’d left the garage door open, and four stray kittens had decided to make it home for the night. I didn’t want them in there, so my daughter and I had to chase them out. Not an easy task. Corralling kittens in a messy garage is much like trying to hold a child who wants to be put down. Simply impossible and not unlike the fireworks we’d just seen. We did our best and thinking the kittens were gone, closed it up and went inside. I did, however, peek out to see the kittens chasing one of those huge lunar moths. Unfortunately for the moth, the mum caught it and dashed off. She returned a few minutes later licking her lips. I'd seen enough, so I went to bed.
This morning, after my husband and my daughter had left for work, I saw two of the kittens curled up in the middle of the driveway. Feeling compassion, I mixed up a slurry of warm cat food, kibble, and homemade unsalted chicken broth, and took it out to them.
And the gang of regular adult cats came running to help these little darlings eat the food. Feeling a bit piqued, I glanced around.
And saw a gopher. Not a big one, but one curious enough to waddle out from under the trailer. It wasn’t until I heard the neighbor start up his lawn tractor that I realized that it was the one from under his shed, and he’d been temporarily evicted. I guess it wasn’t my delicious concoction of mixed cat foods that lured him out.
My morning of housework wasn’t happening, and wasn’t soon to happen, as I walked past the garage, and heard a faint meowing.
I opened the door and discovered yet another kitten inside. One I was sure I’d chased out last night. And as one would expect, he wasn’t ready to escape out the door yet. Under the pile of junk in the corner was much safer. I refuse to feed it. I don’t want it to become comfortable in my garage. I put garbage out there, and don’t want to clean that up every morning. I’d have to wait for my son to rise in order to get even attempt to get this one out.
But look what had happened to us in the last day. A trip to see, and smell, a whale up close, fireworks, in town and in our garage, and one curious, not to mention miffed gopher. We’d seen it all.
What on earth could today bring?

the summer has started

2008-06-26T12:55:00.002-03:00

Okay folks, we're into summer now. I hope everyone can take some time to recharge their batteries. It's funny that summer is the only time we can do it. What's happening all the rest of the time? We're working, raising kids, doing life, and attending countless meetings for things we've volunteered for.
We need summer.
And yet, we really only get a few weeks, if that, of summer. My brother in law is self employed, so any holidays he takes are at the expense of income. My sister in law finds summer to be incredibly busy with her job at the rec centre. She takes whatever time she can to relax by her pool.
But we need to time to relax, take a break and do nothing. It can even just be an hour one or two days a week. Sit outside on the deck, balcony, back yard, or whatever. Don't drive half an hour to your fave park. Just force yourself to rest at home. Ignore the housework, the ever growing lawn, and the garden, just for an hour.
You need to remind your body that you need to rest, and reflect, and it must be done right where you can always find work. -- at home.
This is your home, for good or bad, ugly or magazine beautiful, dirty or clean, it's still your home.
And you must take the time to rest. The world will still be there.
Enjoy your summer, folks, and pick up a book or two to read, okay?
Barbara Phinney

Countdown to my book

2008-05-27T19:32:00.000-03:00

Or as I should title this, testing to see if I can add a picture to my blog!

This is my next book, due out June 8th.

Hunter Gordon had pleaded guilty to a crime he hadn't committed. And served ten long years in prison. All to save the family who had taken him in: beautiful Rae Benton and her father. But right before Rae's father died, he revealed his daughter was in danger. Hunter had to keep her safe. How was he supposed to get close? Rae didn't know the truth and blamed him for the loss of all she held dear. Hunter would have to earn Rae's trust—without ever telling her what really happened a decade ago.

Excerpt:

Rae Benton could not believe who had just walked into the mortuary chapel. The man who'd killed her father had the gall to attend his victim's funeral.

With hands clenched as tightly as her jaw, she lifted her gaze from the inexpensive casket, up Hunter Gordon's lean frame to meet his eyes. In the muted light, she couldn't see the vivid blue, just the intensity that carried both empathy and wariness. She could buy the wariness; after all, he couldn't expect to be welcomed here. But empathy? Hunter might not have pulled a trigger, but he was responsible for her father's untimely death. He had no right to show any compassion.

He came to stand near her. "I'm sorry, Rae." His voice had deepened during his years in prison, yet she could barely hear it in the quiet chapel. His words were obviously meant for her alone. "I wish I could have been here sooner."

"Because you've just been released?" she muttered. "How did you get here so fast? Dorchester Penitentiary is a two-hour drive from here. They don't release inmates at dawn."

"I hitched a ride with a guard coming off duty."

"Who told you Dad had died?"

His compassionate expression faltered slightly, but his voice stayed calm. "We stopped for gas up the road. The clerk told me. I came straight here."

Edith Waterbrook owned the only gas station in the small New Brunswick village of Green Valley. Which meant if she'd recognized Hunter after ten years, everyone would soon know he'd been released. And had headed straight to the funeral.

Rae found herself fighting back the conflicting urges to smack him, and to feel again the comforting embrace he'd given her that day a decade ago when her family's shop had burned to the ground.

Correction. The day Hunter had burned the workshop to the ground and destroyed Benton Woodworking, a livelihood the family had relied on for nearly a century. The day the police had arrested him for arson.

Tried and True recipes

2008-05-25T15:56:00.000-03:00

I decided to make a seafood soup yesterday. I wanted one with a tomato base, so I dug through my Time Life cookbooks to find a suitable recipe.
I found one, and typically, just scanned the list of ingredients, saw I had everything and decided to go ahead.
That’s when I ran into trouble. But it’s also the start of an epiphany for me. You see, I ‘know’ things, but sometimes I really have to learn them again to truly ‘know’ thing.
I started by sautéing onions and garlic. While they are caramelizing gently in olive oil, I needed to assemble the stock. A can of tomatoes, two tablespoons of fresh basil, two cups of red wine...
What? Two cups? Are they nuts? Even if I had two cups of red wine, I wouldn’t be putting that much into a soup recipe I’d never tried before.
Oops, I tell a lie. I do have two cups of red wine. Years ago, my husband took a tour of Dieppe, France, while still in the military. As a souvenir, he brought home a bottle of a Grand Cru de Bordeaux, for which he paid a hefty sum. We decided to age in the basement, and it’s been there ever since. So I do have two cups of red wine, but of a Grand Cru de Bordeaux wasn’t going into this soup. But, I did have about two tablespoons of red wine on my counter, something I kept to deglaze my next fabulous pot roast should that ever come. So into my soup it went.
The next thing on the list is one whole lemon, thinly sliced. Well, I did have a quarter of one that my daughter had for her Perrier water. But lemon? In a soup? Going on faith, here, after all, this is a Time Life cookbook, I thinly sliced it and tossed it in.
I took a sniff. Phew! It smelled like a university dorm after a win at homecoming. Talk about awful. After dumping the seafood and onions in, I slapped on the lid and let it simmer. Surely, the Time Life chefs made a mistake here, but I would try it. It’d have to simmer for a while, anyway, if we were to eat that lemon. I mean, wouldn’t it take a few hours to soften lemon rind?
Not wanting to lift the lid again, I let it go for the full two hours. Then, I finally screwed up my courage...
It smelled wonderful! Amazing! The alcohol had long since burned off, leaving whatever gets left behind when wine is simmered, and the lemon and garlic had mellowed into something smooth and delicious. I took a taste and found it a flavorful blend of sweet and tart and rich and satisfying. I loved it!
The Time Life guys do know what they were doing. And you know something else? God knows what he’s doing, too. He can mix people in the strangest combinations, either in a marriage or a small group or a church body. He can put oddball characteristics together in one person and in His time, the result is amazing.
We just have to trust Him, like I trusted those chefs. Then we have to set the lid on our judgements, keep the heat just right, and not rush the results.
My husband and I enjoyed that soup very much, and if I remember this lesson, I’ll enjoy all the people I have in my life, in my small group, and in my church. God knows the end results. His are tried and true recipes.

The Tim Phinney Memorial

2008-05-12T07:41:00.000-03:00

Something extraordinary happened this past weekend. Besides all the busyness that comes with this time of year, as we wind down schoolwork, and gear up for the summer, the Phinney family decided to get together. You see, we lost a brother last year, and one of my husband’s other brother suggested a get together to honour their brother’s birthday, May 10th.
A barbeque with family after a long day of volunteering for two fundraisers sounded like a good plan. As soon as we arrived, my good brother-in-law produced a bowl of names. Pick out a name, set up a round robin tournament.
Or washers. You know that game, a square box with a short tube in the middle. You throw heavy-duty washers into and hope you’re better than you know you are after a long winter.
You hope in vain. Up here in New Brunswick, it’s still cold. And Saturday saw rain and wind. No one, not even the diehard washers experts, wanted to brave a backyard that looks out at the Bay of Fundy on a cold May evening. Brr.
My brother in law knew we needed a bit of incentive.
"I’ve got a prize for the winner."
Personally the prize would have to include tickets to somewhere warm to interest me. But we all looked up from around the kitchen table.
He produced a large trophy. Below the winged victory on the top, an engraved title plate.
The Tim Phinney Memorial Champions.
Who could bow out now? The sweet gesture stirred the family on. Okay, it’s not plane tickets to Florida, but the heart is in the right place here for all of us. Tim would be touched.
So we braved the wind and cold. My partner is my husband. He complained he was going uphill while I said the wind was against me. We were playing a pair who hadn’t played washers before. They beat us, pummeled us, whomped us. We were out of the running, but so were other teams who realized the cold winter had dulled their washer skills. In fact, we all decided the wind and cold and yes, even the slope of the land just wasn’t good for the game. It couldn’t be our skills or lack thereof.
Regardless, the tournament went on until the final game, outside, in the dark, with no lights, and washers now taking on the colour of the night.
The game literally came down to the wire. With all the tension of a Stanley Cup final game, we watched the nail-biting action. Then my daughter, with great finesse, threw the final washer…
…into the wooden box.
We all jumped to our feet, screamed enough to be thankful for no neighbours, and poured ourselves onto the playing field like team members onto the ice.
My brother in law and my daughter had won the championship game.
Camera flashes blinded us. (all right, it was only one small camera, and it was mostly because I’d asked my niece to snap a few shots of me for my website, but that’s another story).
Anyway, my niece did take a few pics of my mother in law doing the honours of presenting the trophy, but just a few, as apparently I used up most of her megabites.
But the evening, in the words of my sister in law, was one of those moments we will all remember.
Tim would be proud. Just not proud of our washer skills.

Very Much Fat

2008-04-05T09:22:00.000-03:00

I have bought a pedometer. Our treadmill is on its last legs and I can't stand the noise the motor is making. The pedometer was on sale, and since I work in a school, I always wanted to know just how many steps/miles/kilometres/calories I took/used up/burned. So I attached it to my belt and headed into the classroom.
I also told the kids that if they acted up, all I had to do was touch one button and they were zapped into another universe.
One kid believed me, and one said I'd been watching too much Star Trek.
Oh well.
But this pedometer was a bit different. It measures fat too.

Okay, here goes. After several hours of tinkering with it, trying to take the alarm off, that I had accidentally set on, I was ready to press my thumbs to the sides, hold my breath, and pray the thing had even an ounce of mercy in it.
The stupid thing doesn't.
It regisitered me as not just fat, but in its Chinese-interpreted English, it said I was 'very much fat'.
Immediately, I returned to the instruction book, hoping to discover how I had accidentally done something wrong. Apparently, it uses some kind of electrical impulse through your arms, across your chest etc.
Well, there's the problem! Every woman knows how much fat she has across her chest. This needs to be done with the toes, just for a more accurate reading.
Besides the fact that it's extremely hard to press your toes down on the sides of the pedometer in order to get the proper reading.

Still the same stupid, idiotic number.
Oops. I just remembered something.
The electrical impulse gets sent through the chest when using the thumbs. So where does it meet when using the toes?
You betcha. The rear end. The largest part on most women.
Flustered, I sat down, suddenly too pouty, and obviously too fat to move anywhere.
I flipped the pedometer over.
Made In China.
Well, that's the problem! Where I live there is a large Asian population, and most Asian women are small-boned, petite, thin and delicate.
I must look like Zena's older, fatter sister (or aunt) to them, an Amazonian whose build exceeded even Anna Swan's in her heyday.
Of course, I'm 'very much fat' compared to them. Which means there is no way I can get a true reading of my body fat. Nor can I ever reach those unattainable goals.
Mind you, what I can do is get off my pouty, disappointed butt and actually do something just for me. I paid $3.99 for this pedometer, and I am not going to waste it.
And for those of you interested, I walked 2.8 miles, used 218 calories, and took 6670 steps yesterday in school.
Though I am still very much fat.
Barbara Phinney
author of Love Inspired Suspense books that feature normal woman with fat in all the proper places.

A tribute to Flora Kidd

2008-03-21T20:12:00.000-03:00

It's been a while since I posted, so forgive me, but this post is all about a writing pioneer who has just passed away.
Flora (Betty) Kidd published 64 romance novels, plus historical fiction, and anyone who read romance in the 1970's cut their teeth on her great books. She was inspiring to many writers, but especially those of us in New Brunswick who could always find kindness, sensibility and honesty in her. She loved life, doing more than just writing. She was a teacher, a mother, a wife, a painter, who sailed, loved history and all good literature and arts, and always had a kind word for aspiring writers.
Flora wrote of the Scottish highlands, of Canada, of England, and her love of travel and people flourished in her stories.
Flora will be sadly missed by her family and friends, and also by those of us who write romance here in New Brunswick. She was a pioneer in the world of romance, though she loved all books, and like her contemporaries of the seventies, she helped pave the way for all of us who write now.

Flora Kidd

1926-2008

http://http://www.fundyfuneralhome.com/Obit_detail.asp?ID=915

The price for a bit of extra safety?

2008-01-18T18:24:00.000-04:00

We're booked for a trip to Cuba. Here in eastern Canada, many of us escape winter by flying down south, either to DR or Cuba. They're inexpensive, all inclusive, and warm. Everything my hubby wants in a vacation.
So, the airline we're booked on emailed me to offer a prebooking of our seats, to, as they put it, save time.
Sure, why not?
I surfed over to the site, but couldn't go any farther without the file number, so I emailed my travel agent. She replied quickly, saying she'd be happy to do it, and which credit card should she bill it to?
Credit card? Bill it?
It turns out that if we want to choose our seats, we will be charged anywhere from $15 to $25, depending on where you want to sit. It seems that right by the emergency exit is the most expensive.
Now, you may argue that it's the leg room, but I want to counter that. Not every plane has that extra leg room by the emergency exit.
I say it's because of the perceived notion that you'll be safer near the exit, and be able to get out sooner should the plane crash. Except....
as a friend of mine pointed out, you'll also be trambled to death by others, if you in any way hesitate.
I told my husband, who, like I said before, like inexpensive vacations, said to me, 'Forget it. I don't care where I sit.'
But it got me thinking. The airlines are cashing in on people's paranoia. People want that extra bit of peace of mind, and sitting by an emergency exit will do it. Sure, you get to sit with loved ones, but frankly, I've not been on a plane where you couldn't get a seat close to a loved one. People don't mind moving around. And I don't buy that notion that you need to pay extra to sit by your loved one. Where the heck is your loved one going whilst flying in a plane? And frankly, having raised two kids, I would only be too happy to put my darlings next to some stranger, especially if they refuse my request to change seats.
Sure, mister, sit by my son. You'll never refuse a seat exchange request again, once you get a whiff of his cologne, (he's 15 and loves to bathe in Axe) and he loves to share his music with all those in earshot. It's been techno geek music lately.
But what burns me is the fact that airlines are just trying to get more money out of us. They're basically saying, 'You want to think you'll be safer by that emergency exit? You'll have to pay for it.'
What's next? 'Oh, ma'am, you want a life jacket? That'll be an extra $50. The ones that come with the plane only inflate halfway.'
Barbara, who will still enjoy her trip.

Boxing Day Blowout or How to Spend More Money After Christmas

2007-12-28T09:29:00.000-04:00

Here in this area of the world, Boxing Day is a required holiday, and we're lucky if the local gas station is open. But while that may make a few avid shoppers' skin crawl, it probably is an attempt to temper the anxiety of not being able to shop one day of the year, that is Christmas Day.
But that kind of backfires, too.
My kids got money for Christmas, and my son got an MP 3 player that according to him, only plays a few songs and he needed one with quadruple the memory. So, even with a Nor'easter on the way, we hopped into the little car and drove to the mall. I decided on the little car because I wasn't sure how good the parking would be and taking the SUV might make parking a nightmare. Of course, I ignored the fact a storm was coming and taking the SUV would have been a more sensible precaution. Thankfully, the storm held off until we were done fighting the crowds by then.
My son steered me to the electronic games store. EB something or other. We stood dutifully in line, waiting to get in. I hate waiting in a line to give my money away. There's something inherently wrong with that. But my son was quiet and so was I.
Then I realized his motives. It wasn't for a new MP 3 Player. It was for a Wii. I had made the mistake earlier of saying that I was interested in getting one, only because it would get my son more active, and now I was discovering that we were standing in line to get one.
Finally, we were allowed the special privilege of entering the store. I felt honoured and touched and slightly in awe. Actually, I felt none of those things. I was hot in my winter jacket and feeling a bit claustraphobic. But once in the store, we patiently waited in line again. Only after the thirteen pre-teen kids in front of me had spent all their money on violent games, was I able to face the poor cashier.
"Have you got any Wiis?"
"No."
"When do you plan to get them in?"
"Probably January 25th."
"Are you taking names for them?"
"Only if you pay in advance."
"How long is the list?"
"I'm not allowed to tell you."
"So, it's like some national secret?"
"Yeah."
"Can I get a refund even before the Wii comes in?"
"Yeah."
"How much is it?"
"$269 plus tax."
I paused. The big moment. Up until that time, I had used the excuse of there not being any Wiis available, but now I had my son behind me, who didn't get too much for Christmas this year, and the only thing he wanted didn't hold enough songs because I was stupid in not reading and understanding what 512 mb is. Apparently, it's the equiviant of having a computer that still runs on DOS, but frankly, I'm going to tell you that the computer I had with DOS never crashed.
Finally, I took the plunge. A Wii will get my son moving this winter, and allow us to play some games and stay active. With a bit of remorse at the growing debt, I handed over my credit card.
We left shortly after that, and I allowed my son to pick out some MP 3 player that had video capability. He bought it himself.
Then we went looking for boots for him, but strangely enough, there were none he liked.
I left him to drag myself to the nearest coffee kiosk and ordered a caramel coco-mocha latte with extra whipped cream, caramel drizzles and chocolate sprinkles.
I'd just finished it and the chapter of the book I was reading when my daughter and her boyfriend appeared. She'd dragged the poor boy along to carry her parcels. Ahh, young love.
We met up with some family, helped a young niece develop her own personal style, and then realized my son had not returned to the rendevous point. So we scouted out all the usual suspect shops, but didn't find him.
That's when I spotted the perfect birthday gift for my daughter. And felt my credit card burning again in my pocket. It was perfect. It was also expensive. And it was packed in another big box for my future son-in-law to carry.
It was a dressmaker's mannequin. On sale. Still expensive and remembering that I couldn't just buy a Wii for my son and ignore my daughter.
So I bought it. Note to self. Intercept the credit card bill before husband sees it.
We returned home, and I checked my email. What a delight! The travel agent with whom we had booked our March Break Trip to Cuba had written to tell us she'd posted the balance of our bill onto our credit card.
Ahh, but isn't that what Boxing Day is all about? Spending money you haven't earned yet, while appeasing your guilty conscience?

I know blogging isn't as cool as MySpace or ...

2007-12-24T14:45:00.000-04:00

Now blogging like this isn't as cool as other things like MySpace or Facebook or like kind, but this is easiest for a dinosaur like me.
I wanted to write this blog to wish you Merry Christmas and remind you that even those who aren't Christian by faith are generally completely cool with wishing you a Merry Christmas, and not that generic and stupid Happy Holidays. So go ahead and don't feel bad. Well, maybe I will say something later about that, but in the meantime, I want you, all what 2 of you probably, to know that I like blogging. I don't do it daily, as quite frankly, I'd bore both of you to death and since you're my only readers, that's not good business to kill your readers. Darlings in stories are fair game.
So please keep reading, keep wishing everyone Merry Christmas, and remember that sometimes those sites like MySpace are good for pics and such, but they're mostly just window dressing, as opposed to the meat in my blog.
All right, so there's not so much meat in my blog. But I like to sometimes share with the world my little corner of it.
Saturday I went snowshoeing and it nearly killed me. The snow had a crust on it that wasn't thick enough to hold our weight, even with snowshoes, and when I picked my feet up out of it, the tip of the snowshoe got caught in the crust and I'd fall flat on my face. But I got a good workout.
I'm ready for Christmas. Presents bought, cantata over and done with, turkey in the oven, and I've written enough of my story to last over Christmas Day.
If you have some time, check out
http://www.alittlegoodnewstoday.org/
It'll lift your spirits over the holidays, if you're getting tired of hearing Happy Holidays.
Merry Christmas, and may the blessings of Christmas, this is love joy and peace, be upon you.
Barbara Phinney

I'm supposed to be nice...

2007-12-07T14:53:00.000-04:00

Okay, I'm supposed to be nice. All the older ladies in my church think I'm nice. Here's a little secret. I'm not, at least not all the time.
I've been sick this week, and last week, with two of the three writing deadlines I had still hanging over my head, I wasn't planning to be nice this week.
And why mess up a good plan?
So, this week, my deadlines done, and no more sleepless nights, I am supposed to be nice.
But I'm not.
Still sick, I was up in the night last night, sipping ginger beer to settle my stomach, and turned on the TV. Some survivor guy was living out in the Sahara, and showed me how to eat a live scorpion. No thank you.
And we had a huge snowstorm this week, only to discover the snowblower had a gas leak, and my husband kept tracking in gasoline. I hate the smell.
Then, my pastor's wife told me how she wasn't able to get in to the hospital for her surgery because of the storm and how the taxis were telling her she had to wait. She was so kind and polite. Much more than I'd have been!!! They kept telling her a twenty minute wait, until she missed her appointment, while I would have been telling the dispatcher that I was needed at the hospital right now! (I told you all I wasn't nice) Of course, it may have been like shooting myself in the foot, but you have to be honest with yourself.
Then, today, it had come to a head. I receive the Romance Writers Report and often read how these young upstart writers are selling stories to electronic publishers after only a few years, (It took me 11) and now they're down to months!! PULEEAASSSE!
What's next? Signing the a contract for three books when you've never written a sentence? What's wrong with paying your dues?
Oh, sure, some of you say it's just sour grapes, and you're probably right, but a part of me is just expressing what most of us have actually thought at some time or another. Right?
Don't look away. Look me in the eye. And know that, like you all, I'm not always the nicest person around.

deep down in the deadline

2007-12-02T20:32:00.000-04:00

I have two deadlines. I've dreamt of this time, of facing deadlines feeling fresh from a good night's sleep, full of imagination and creativity.
Well, I have neither. I actually spent all my creativity decorating the church vestry. I redid the Guardians of Hope bulletin board, putting two velvet stockings under it with Guardians of Hope booklets in each one. That's it. And considering I make flatbread roll ups for the snack meant there simply isn't any creativity left.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

No more sunshine

2007-11-22T16:19:00.001-04:00

It's hard to be cheerful this time of year. If it's not snowing, it's raining. If it's not raining, it's cloudy, and if it's not cloudy, it's nighttime. One bright spot, and a small one at that, was that I managed to see the Comet Holmes. But it's hardly bright and only seen through binos and green to boot.
I think I have SAD. Seasonal affective disorder. I am exhausted, headachey and want to do nothing but sleep. So today, after a bout of headaches and nausea, I came home, found the plant grow light and hooked it up on top of the fluorescent bulb David Suzuki is raving about and sat down to my lunch. Then I took the whole gizmo downstairs and forced myself to walk on the treadmill for twenty minutes, with this bright light killing my retinas.
I think I'm sprouting leaves.
Still, I'm trying to be positive. Only another month of lessening sunlight and the days get longer. Colder mind you, but longer. And I did get my copy edits done for my next book, Keeping Her Safe, (due out June 2008), and I did finish reading a hilarious book called Murder By Mushroom, by Ginny Aiken. If you go to church and know quirky characters, then they're probably described in this book.
And in the meantime, I'm still struggling to write a book set in the summer. My editor should authorize a trip for me to the Carribean.

The snow has started

2007-11-13T14:17:00.000-04:00

Winter is insidiously creeping into our lives. Slowly, until it can strike with full, unmerciful force.
I hate winter. We plan to go south for a vacation early next year, but in the meantime, I have to contend with it now. I had to scrape car windows yesterday until my arms ached and were permenantly stuck in that ghoulish way you see in cheap horror movies.
I put an extra blanket on my bed, too. I'm the kind of sleeper who lives in flannel pygamas, sleeps in her socks with an eye mask, and ear plugs. The ear plugs are because I snore and wake myself up.
In my latest novel, it's summer. And since I'm too cheap to put up the heat to give the impression of warmth, just to help with my writing, it's getting hard to capture the feeling.
And daylight is getting weaker. I want to hibernate. I want to suffer from SAD so much so I only want to sleep.
In jammies, socks and under that extra blanket.

A royalty watch

2007-11-06T14:15:00.000-04:00

When I first heard this, I naively thought that it was someone who'd spotted the Queen herself. And this was after being in the writing business for years.
Actually, this is watching the mailbox for royalty statements/cheques. I don't expect any money this time around, as I haven't had a book out in a few years. But with one out this past Sept. next statement may be encouraging.
Regardless, when I saw the red flag up on my neighbour's mailbox, (ours got busted off years ago during a snow storm) I was hopeful.
Well, it was good news, sort of. I got an offer from Tena personal products for a nice carry all and restaurant card. Hey, you got to take your victories when they come.
So in the meantime, I write. I have to polish up three chapters and a synopsis. And the story is determined not to follow what I wrote down.
One Love Inspired writer wanted to shoot all her characters and be done with it.
Some days, that's my sentiment.
Back to writing. Back to life. Back to watching the flag on my neighbour's mailbox.

Christmas shopping all done!

2007-10-29T16:18:00.000-03:00

I went to the United States this past weekend. With the Canadian dollar doing so well, I had to go. There were bargains to be had, and I needed to get away. So, with two friends, and one new one I met, we jumped into a large SUV and drove to Maine. We immediately stopped to shop in Calais, and then on to Bangor. We then stopped to shop and then finally went to our hotel. (We had our priorities right) and then went out to eat. It was wonderful to eat at different restaurants, and shop at different stores.
So we shopped, ate, slept (a bit) , and in the morning did it all over again. Then the next day did it all over again. By the time we left the US, we had filled the SUV to capacity, packed in some extra stuff, and paid our GST on the stuff we had over our limit.
It was midnight when I got home, and though I would prefer to leave earlier, I had a terrific time. I needed time with the girls, needed to do a bit of research for an upcoming book, and needed new clothes, and Christmas presents.
Now I need some sleep.

everything is supposed to get back to normal

2007-10-25T07:48:00.000-03:00

After this past week, my brother in law's funeral, our lives are supposed to get back to normal. It's hard. And yet, you can see the coping skills of each of us. My father in law deals with difficulties by diving into doing mindless, but necessary tasks. My mother in law by keeping the rest of her family close, and my husband by keeping busy and not thinking too much of it.
And so our lives go on. This week, our local newspaper published his death notice, complete with the picture from the funeral bulletin, (not the best photo of him, I thought) and it was hard to read it. Timmy had always picked up the paper for his mother, and my husband had just bought her a year's subscription, so now she has to go to the post office box to get it herself. That's going to hurt.
And driving by the barber shop bothers me too. It was always full of life and busy, and now the homemade sign I scribbled out there on the night he died is still there.
Now his son has no place to hang out. His son's mother asked us to keep their boy always included in family activities, but lately, they've been a bit sombre.
And in the midst of this, my writing continues. I'm wondering if my prose will have a sombre tone as well. Time will tell and time will heal.

a terrible loss

2007-10-21T13:16:00.000-03:00

This week we have lost a family member. My husband's brother passed away. He'd been sick, but it never fully prepares you for death. I feel as though I've been in a fog all week. And I ache when I think of the young sons he left behind, and his parents, who hurt so badly. We got to bring home a flower arrangement and the house is filled with its scents, bringing me back to the funeral home and memorial service.
All I could do was just pour my emotions into my writing. It seemed like a balm, though I wasn't necessarily writing about him, or family or anything. I just wrote. It helped.
Today I had to get up in church and thank all our church members for their prayers, the food they provided, and the pastor for officiating a difficult memorial service. My brother in law didn't attend church, and our pastor didn't know him well, which makes for a difficult service all round.
Seeing my in laws, especially my mother in law, and my nephews suffering, just broke my heart. What can anyone do? I lost my parents early in my life and can remember getting mad at the people around me at my mother's funeral. I'd lost the most important person in my life at that time. I hated it. All I could say this past week was that I understood. But it's never enough, and would understand it if I got snapped at back with the words, "you don't!"
All I can do is hope that time will help to heal them. I wish they would come to church and see how much it can help, but it's not easy to convince them that it really does help.

Welcome!

2007-10-05T13:47:00.001-03:00

I changed my email address, and now I can't get at my old post! Never mind. I've been too busy to deal with that anyway.
With the kids back to school, and myself having a deadline, I haven't put too much into any but writing. But last night, I got to attend a dinner theatre where it was literally a mix of live acting and taped characters. And the story was wonderful.
The theatre group is called Seedlings and they are missionaries of sorts, but the story they told was fabulous and what I want to tell about today. It's called The Prodigal Missionary. A prodigal son type gets marooned on an island near Fiji, and the only way off the island is on a drug runner's boat. But those same drug runners are killing the children of those who saved our hero's life. At a crossroads, our hero is forced to face his past, deal with the present, and find the strength to look forward to the future.

Live theatre is tough enough, but this crew deal with interaction with videotaped performances, not to mention setting up and tearing down their huge sets everyday!