Pepper Phillips – Office Space Should Lead to Creativity

A writer’s office should reflect their personality and help them create. It’s a space where you can have the books you love around you. Where you can place items that will amuse, enchant, and move you.

Here’s a glimpse of mine.

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I bought the desk and computer cabinet from an office supply store and managed to put them together myself.

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This is the night view with the lights on.  I put a sheet of glass on top, installed a light underneath so that the glass vases on top would be highlighted.  I love the look at night.  Here’s a close-up of one of the sections.

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The green picture frame holds a picture of my first son…taken a few days before he was ill and in the hospital for a month.  He received the last rites. A very scary period of my life. Thank heavens he recuperated.

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Here’s a delightful item I purchased that even has it’s own working light. She’s holding a baby bear on her lap.

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This bookcase is located to the right of my desk. The leprechaun is my ‘muse’…LOL

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This filing cabinet is also on the right hand side of the desk.  There is a door between the filing cabinet and the bookcase above.  On top is my ‘romance writer’ hat.  I have worn it in public…once.  It did get the stares.

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The forward left hand corner holds Rob…a almost life-size poster board that I managed to get at a Romantic Times Convention.  The lady who won it came by plane and auctioned it off.  I drove a car…and he’s mine.

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At the corner of my desk sits Alf, the little sofa opens up and there is a hidey hole there to hide stuff.  Unfortunately, there’s nothing there.

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I couldn’t resist this sign.

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This is my world.  I hope you enjoyed this little tour.

Mother’s Day Soon

For Mother’s Day 2008, I wrote the following post:

Today I celebrated Mother’s Day as a daughter, mother and grandmother. My son-in-law invited four generations of women to lunch: my daughter and her two little daughters (4 and 2), my son’s daughter (3) visiting from Chicago, my mother and myself.

Four Generations on Mother's Day 2008

Four Generations on Mother’s Day 2008

Lunch was lovely. We ignored the spilled glass of orange juice, the I-don’t-like-it whining, and the crumbles forming a hidden mess under the table.

It took fifteen minutes to organize the ladies for the picture of the century. Moving my mother and her walker to a strategic place, and then having her hold on the rail of the entrance stairs wasn’t too difficult, but gathering three laughing, squealing and squirming little girls and having them stand still for two seconds was an enormous challenge. But the effort was worth the pain. The children are growing too fast and we don’t know how long we will be blessed with my mother’s presence.

I hope all the mothers reading this blog had a great day today.

Sometimes Mother’s Day is a difficult time. I know it is extremely difficult for my cousin who lost her mother a week ago. For her and her family, Mother’s Day consists in a trip to the cemetery to deposit flowers on a fresh grave.

Unfortunately, time flies. My mother left us for a better world in September 2010. There isn’t a day that passed without me thinking of her. Next month, I will travel to Ohio to visit my parents’ graves and tell them I haven’t forgotten them.

I recently wrote a sweet humorous novel titled MOTHER’S DAY BABIES. No it’s not my mom’s story but I know she would have smiled and laughed while reading it. She read my first three books and loved them, unfortunately she couldn’t read the others.

Enjoy your mothers and enjoy your day as a mother.

This book is dedicated to the mothers we celebrate and those we remember with love.

WMDB MD-idowed for seven years, Barbara Ramsay lives and breathes for her five grownup daughters and their babies. She’s also used to chatting over the phone with her good friend, Lou. But why has he invited her to come to Paris with his TV Network crew?

Powerful News Director, Lou Roland is certainly not marriage material, yet he has suddenly decided he wants Barbara in his arms. Not an easy task when his pretty confidante from Kentucky proves so difficult to date—unless he follows her rules. Can the over-fifty confirmed bachelor and the widow loyal to her husband’s memory find true love and share a future?

MOTHER’S DAY BABIES (99cents):  http://tinyurl.com/cz3v5a8

The Iris are blooming, so are my sinus cavities.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Spring. Spring is the most beautiful season of all. Birds sing louder and more often, because the heavens open, showers the earth and brings worms galore closer to the surface. 🙂 Sometimes it rains more often than we’d like, but that’s April and where would we be without gentle rains to wash away the pollen?

Our cars change overnight to a shade we don’t recognize. I emptied the vacuum cleaner filter, threw away the bag tinged with greenish-yellow pollen. In and out the house and leaving the door open until I can get my mom from the door to car, brought tons of pollen inside. Thank goodness for air cleaners!

A friend shipped one gorgeous white Iris bulb from North Carolina a few years ago. Now, there are probably more than fifty bulbs protruding from the small flower bed. The more I give away, the more they spread. I should sell them, but it’s much nicer to see a sweet smile on the face of an Iris bulb receiver.

Before the rain, I snapped this beautiful Iris in my yard. There’s a hint of lavendar on this perfect shaped flower.

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During a short shower I snapped the photo below of my Muscadine Grape vine. I hope you can see the sparkling rain drops. The vine is still on my deck in the pot! I haven’t had time to plant, but hope to get it into the ground in the next day or so. The skin is tougher on a Muscadine than a regular grape, but if you’ve never eaten one the flavor will knock your socks off. 🙂 My mom used them to make jelly and jam. Wow, what a delicious spread for a hot buttered biscuit.

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So…my sinus problem will go away. For now, the flowers make up for the pollen explosion we all shared.

I wish you many happy blooms and veggies from your garden.

My books are available at Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Kobo, Sony, Diesel, Apple and Smashwords.

You can find links on my website, here. http://caroldevaney.weebly.com/my-books.

What Is A Romance Novel by Joan Reeves

Scents and Sensuality by Joan Reeves

Scents and Sensuality by Joan Reeves — Available Now!

What is a romance novel?

As a reader, you may be surprised that the answer to that question frequently is under discussion by romance authors and the main organization of romance authors.

Sure, you know that the romance novel is a literary genre, and that the primary focus in this genre is the relationship – the love – between two people. Once, publishers of romance novels demanded writers end the story with a happily ever after. Now, publishers often ask for writers to end stories with an emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending.

To me, there’s a huge difference between happily ever after and emotionally satisfying and optimistic. I suppose the new romance novel standard is supposed to reflect the cynicism of contemporary times.

A Teensy History

In 1740, Samuel Richardson penned Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded. Considered the first romantic novel, Pamela had two surprising elements that were different from other novels. First, it focused almost entirely on courtship. Second, the novel was told from the viewpoint of a female protagonist.

In the next century, the remarkable Jane Austen, whose Pride and Prejudice is often considered the pinnacle of the genre, came along. She inspired Georgette Heyer – I always think of her as the twentieth century Jane Austen – who introduced historical romances in 1921.

About 10 years later, a small British company called Mills and Boon began publishing what were called category romance novels – short books with a set number of pages and standard elements. The Mills and Boon romances were resold for a North American market by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd. Harlequin marketed directly to readers and allowed mass-market merchandisers to sell the books too and the genre was off and running.

Then, in 1972, Avon published The Flame and The Flower by Kathleen Woodiwiss, the first single title romance novel to be published as a paperback original, and the modern romance genre was born.

My How You’ve Grown

From then until now, there have been a lot of romance novels published. The genre has grown and given birth to sub-genres of every possible variation. It has become the most popular genre in North America where it accounts for more than half of all paperback books sold.

Romance isn’t just a North America phenomenon. The genre is also popular in Europe, the UK, and Australia. In fact, romance novels are published in more than 90 languages.

Hey, Girls! Guess What?

For years, the romance novel was decried as being lowbrow and read by women who were out of touch with reality. We’re not out of touch with reality. We just know what we want. Sadly, many women don’t get that overwhelming love and romanticism from the men in their lives, but many women do have that.

I sometimes think a good romance novel sets the standard for the kind of love and romance a woman wants in a relationship. If a man really wants to know what a woman wants, he should read a good romance novel.

I find it heartwarming — and a bit ironic — that our beloved genre is now the most popular, best selling genre of all time. Tell that to your romance-dissing acquaintances the next time they start talking about how romance novels aren’t “real” books!

With all the changes and growth in the romance genre, I guess it’s not surprising that the happily ever after morphed into the optimistic and satisfying. But, I’m not willing to give up my happily ever after – in real life or fiction.

Maybe, it’s because the traditional ending is all about love — lasting love. Today, in the wake of so much death and destruction in the news, I find myself thinking about the importance of love. In the end, it’s the most important thing in anyone’s world.

With the romance novels I write, like my latest novel, SCENTS and SENSUALITY, I aim high. I want that happily ever after for my characters, not just an optimistic, satisfying ending.

After all, I always say my motto is: “It’s never too late to live happily ever after.” And I believe that.

Post Script

What’s your favorite kind of ending for a romance novel?

(Joan Reeves writes sassy, sexy Romance Novels. Her latest novel, indeed all her ebooks, are available at most ebook sellers, with audio editions available at Audible and iTunes. Joan publishes Writing Hacks, a free subscription newsletter for writers, and Wordplay, a free subscription newsletter for readers. Visit SlingWords, Joan’s Blog, or her Website.)

Rain, Rain, Go Away

It feels like it has been raining here for weeks. And it has, on and off. The last few days though have been relentless. The rivers near our home are flooding. Roads are closed. Farm fields are running black with sludge. And my mood reflects the weather; so gray and dim and dampening.

Most of the time I don’t mind the rain, especially when there’s intermittent sunshine tossed in to round out the day. This unrelenting rain has gotten to me. It’s hard to smile when everything is wet.

The news this week hasn’t brought any rays of sunshine either. The senselessness in Boston and the willingness to maim and kill randomly without compunction or remorse seems to be making the heavens weep. Knowing there is no cause and effect relationship doesn’t stop the writer in me from finding connections where there are none.

As I was thinking of upbeat topics to blog about, the weather and the week’s events kept circling in my head. Neither of them particularly things I want to dwell on, primarily because I can’t change them, but they’re here and there’s no escaping weather or news. (Sometimes escaping e-mail is huge victory.)

So, friends what do you do when the weather turns for too long in a dark direction or the news of the week turns destructive to your psyche in a way that has you questioning the humanity of your fellow humans?

I saw a quote from Fred Rogers on FB that said something like, and I’m paraphrasing, ‘when tragedy strikes, look for the helpers’. I love that. There are always helpers and focusing on that does help. I also look at my children and think, there are really great people in the world who make every day better just by being here.

My thoughts and prayers go out to all those who have fallen victim to senseless violence, especially those in Boston this week. Peace to you and those you hold dear. It’s time for a little sunshine in our hearts, in our actions and in our lives.

Leigh

 

My Favourite Movie Hero

Last weekend I watched Raiders of the Lost Ark, yet again. I’ve indyseen the movie (and its sequels) dozens of times, but whenever it comes on TV, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away. There’s something about Indiana Jones that I just can’t get enough of.

Indy may not be an ideal romantic lead; he appears to have commitment issues, putting off marrying his longtime love Marion until the fourth movie. But he’s not your standard action hero, either. He’s daring but still human and relatable. He may be able to outrun a giant boulder and jump from a horse onto a moving truck, but he still makes mistakes, gets battered and bruised, and loses his temper when things go wrong. Watching him, we feel we could do the same things he does were we in his situation. And, though he’s not perfect, we can love him because he’s a good man with honourable motives. He risks life and limb to recover ancient artifacts not for glory or monetary gain, but so they can be studied and appreciated by everyone.

Of course much of Indy’s appeal comes from the actor portraying him. Harrison Ford has the rare talent of making every character he plays someone we instantly like and want to root for. Add a leather jacket and fedora, and you’ve got instant sexy.

Which movie hero makes your heart flutter?

Texas is abloom by Jill James

This week the husband and I visited the son and daughter-in-law in Texas for son’s birthday. He is in the army at Ft. Hood.

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Photo credited to Rob Wiltshire via freedigitalphotos.net

Texas is abloom right now with the state flower; Texas Bluebonnets. Being from California I’m used to the hills aglowing with golden poppies. In Texas the fields, hills, and any flat surface is overflowing with blue flowers. It is a pretty sight.

The weather was atrocious. If that is spring I’ll stick to Sunny California. It was windy, cold, and it seemed like a tornado was just waiting behind every black cloud. And my hair does not like humidity. LOL

But seeing the son for his birthday was priceless, and I’ll take any weather to see him. Like they say, “If you don’t like the weather, just wait a couple of hours, it will be different. 🙂

Has spring come to your neck of the woods yet?

LoveintheTimeofZombies 200x300Jill James, author of contemporary and paranormal romance.
coming soon, Love in the Time of Zombies
Booksigning – May 2nd 4-6 pm. at Romantic Times Convention, Kansas City, MO

Spring has Sprung

Spring has sprung…a leak, that is. I live in Texas. It should be sunny and in the 70’s pretty much every day right now. But we keep bouncing back and forth between very warm (80’s) and cold (40’s). Okay, not big extremes for some of you, but it’s like the world is out of sync and doesn’t quite know what to do.

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And that’s exactly how I’ve been feeling lately. Out of sync. Isolated. I don’t interact with my groups like I used to, I don’t write as much as I used to, I don’t even talk to my family like I used to. I know it’s partly depression from staying inside too much, staying home all the time, not getting any exercise or sunshine. But every time I plan to start walking again, here comes another cold front, another storm. Or hubby breaks his foot. Or any one of a hundred things that pull me back inside and back into that web of depression.

In talking with other writers, I’ve learned it’s not uncommon. We tend to be introverts to begin with. Interacting with others is difficult for most writers. And yet here comes the season of conferences where writers feel they need to see and be seen, need to get out where the readers are. But just thinking about doing that gives me the heebie-jeebies.

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I wasn’t always like this. In fact, I used to go and go all the time. I loved conferences. But then I got stuck in a job where I saw 30 families a day, 6 days a week, trying to talk them into buying portraits while they stubbornly held their ground. Now that I don’t have to do that anymore, I don’t want to see people at all. Or so I tell myself. I actually miss interacting with people, but I’ve grown self-conscious about my looks and can’t bring myself to get out there and risk the looks you get from those who’ve never had to worry about such a thing.

So how do you deal with the frustration? You write. Even when you don’t want to. Even when you’d rather have a root canal than write that scene. Even when you know you’re risking criticism from those who don’t like what you write or how you write it. You do it anyway. You also try to take better care of yourself, get some exercise, get out and see the new calves and foals, take a drive to look at the bluebonnets. You fire up the lawn mower and get behind it and push. You sit yourself down at the computer as soon as the sun goes down and you write, again.

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And slowly, as winter finally releases its hold and Spring settles in to stay for a while, you reconnect with those around you, because it’s those connections that feeds a writer’s soul.

Anyone else suffer from SAD or have to battle bouts of depression? What’s your tried and true way to boot yourself out of the doldrums?

Gemma Goes to Hollywood

I’m reading the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. Years ago I read the first one, but after having finished the second one today I think I’m in new territory. I know I stopped reading the series after my sister spoiled it for me, but for the second time this week I finished a book in tears.

 
“What is it about those books that makes you cry?” my husband asked. (He’s naturally suspicious and distrustful of anything and anyone who makes me cry.) “It’s a story about four girls.”
 
“What’s with the pants?” (Every book has a picture of a pair of pants on the cover.) “They’re magic pants,” I said. “Magic pants?” His dislike goes up a notch.
 
I told him that I’m thinking of writing a New Adult series about four girls who, when they graduate from high school, bury a time capsule under a tree on their high school campus. I remind him of my daughter and her group of friends who did the same thing. For three years the girls met for lunch under a tree they named Fred and when they graduated from middle school, they made a time capsule, buried it and dug it up when they graduated from high school. I know this because I drove them to the middle school at midnight the night of middle school graduation. They ran onto the campus armed with shovels and came back in tears.
 
I remember that I wanted to tell my daughter and her friends that in teenage time, four years is forever. Acne fades, breasts grow, love sweeps in and blows away—a lot happens and people change in the four years between the onset of puberty and graduation.
 
But even more can happen and change during the college years and that’s what I want to write about. Maybe it’s because my baby daughters are about to start college in a school far from home…maybe this is my way of joining them… I don’t know, but I do know I have four girls in my head, each with a different story waiting to be told.
 
“You won’t write about magic pants, will you?” my husband asked.
“No magic pants,” I assured him.
“Good,” he said—confirming the fact that he can’t see the magic, although, if he could only remember—there really was something magical about our college years, when we met and married. 
 
Here, for your reading enjoyment, is the opening scene of my new novel, Gemma Goes to Hollywood. (Of course, I have five completed novels where you can read more than ten pages and you can find them here. http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=kristy+tate
 

GEMMA GOES TO HOLLYWOOD

Gemma shivered when Maisie pulled open the doors, not because of the cold breeze that blew into the hot and crowded gym, but because she expected an alarm to sound—if not the actual fire alarm—which was a distinct possibility—but the dreaded Mom alarm. That alarm that had no sound, was less visible and harder to trace than radar and yet, was more powerful than any force known to man…or to at least to Gemma.

            She cast a worried glance in the corner where she had last seen her mother. Couples swayed on the dance floor beneath sparkling lights. Some students, although Gemma supposed she could now call them—and herself—alumni, after all they had just graduated, hovered around the refreshment table, guzzling lemonade and munching on the cookies. Gemma spotted her mother. Maggs was busy with Marissa Lyon, a busty girl in a spaghetti strap dress who had snapped a strap. Marissa would keep her mother occupied with safety pins and if Gemma was lucky—and Marissa unlucky—a lecture on modesty, vanity clothing and the general ineptitude of spaghetti straps.

Having her mom in her orbit usually made Gemma want to crawl under the bleachers, but Maisie tugged on her hand pulled her through the high school gym doors. She sent her mother one more worried glance and met the gaze of Mr. Harmon, the hottest biology teacher to tease the girls of Twain High. It was painful enough to have to listen to a lecture on the reproductive cycle while being surrounded by sniggering football players but to have Mr. Harmon deliver said lecture made Gemma’s insides twist in uncomfortable knots. Hormonal for Harmon, Deidre called it—referring her own seventh period perpetual pink cheeks. Mr. Harmon saw them leave. Would he tell her mom? Gemma swallowed and followed Maisie.

            Up ahead, Deidre and Tessa ran through the moonlight, their shoes dangling from their fingers. Gemma and Maisie hurried to catch up, tripping across the black top, stepping over where they had once played hopscotch and passing the jungle gym, affectionately called the “big toy.”

            Gemma had to fight back a wave of nostalgia when Deidre and Tess disappeared behind Fred, the tree where they had spent every recess and every lunch break since first grade. She couldn’t remember who had first named the tree—or why—but they had been saying “meet me at Fred” for more than twelve years. Tonight could possibly be the second to the last time they would meet at Fred.

            A wind picked up and a shiver ran down Gemma’s spine. She looked at her friends and tried to return their smiles –she wouldn’t let envy spoil their last night at Twain High together. She loved her friends. She wanted them to have shiny, bright futures…she just wished that her own had more sparkle and less dirty diapers.

            “Hurry!” Tessa called/whispered.

            Deidre held up her hands like a police man conducting traffic and Gemma and Maisie both stopped.

            “No,” Deidre used her normal speaking voice. “A time capsule cannot be hurried.”

            “What if we’re caught?” Tessa asked, bravely raising her voice to almost audible.

            Gemma thought about mentioning Mr. Harmon, but she didn’t. If they were caught, they were caught. “What can they do? Expel us—after we have already graduated?”

            She wasn’t as nearly as worried about Mr. Harmon as she was about her own mother, but she agreed with Deidre. Something as important as a time capsule shouldn’t be hurried.

            Deidre picked up the mason jar they had previously hidden in the patch of honeysuckle that grew around Fred’s trunk and shook out four pens. “Be very careful, your futures are at stake.”

            Gemma accepted the pen and slip of paper and sat down on the stone ledge. Writing something down made it real. It also made it traceable. And accountable. She had learned that the hard way back in seventh grade when Mrs. Bartlett confiscated the note she had written to Tessa during biology. She shot Tessa a glance; it was so hard to believe that Tessa, who had always been so scrawny and small, had grown up to look like Twiggy, but with boobs.

Tessa sat hunched over her paper, the pen sticking out of her mouth and her lips turned down. Gemma wondered what Tessa was worried about—her future lay before her like a golden carpet. Gemma elbowed Tessa. “Go ahead, write it down, Mrs. Teresa Donnelly.”

Tessa flushed pink, the color spreading over cheeks.

“Mrs. Jackson Donnelly—” Deidre began.

“Travels to China,” Tessa finished, putting her pen to paper.

“You’re writing that down?” Maisie asked.

“The China part—not the Mrs. Donnelly part,” Tessa said.

“Better not tell Jackson,” Maisie said.

“Of course I’m going to marry Jackson.” Tessa flipped her long golden hair over her shoulder. “Just not yet. He has to finish law school and I…have things I want to do.”

“What things?” Deidre asked. “You never mentioned things before.”

“Things like traveling to China.” Tessa straightened her spine.

“I can see you picking out China…but going to China?” Maisie shook her head.

“Why not?” Tessa wrote down China again, but this time in big capital letters. “I want to make a difference—help people.”

“In China?”

“Well—what are you writing down?” Tessa looked over at Maisie’s blank paper.

“Hot, steamy romance,” Maisie said slowly as she wrote down the three words.

Gemma laughed. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Why not?” Maisie borrowed Tessa’s phrase.

“Hot, stinking baseball cleats sounds like you,” Gemma told her, ignoring her own blank piece of paper.

“Baseball players are hot—that’s why kissing is called first base and not first in ten.”

Gemma didn’t want to argue sports sex definitions so she lifted her shoulder and hunched over her paper. She didn’t have anything to write. In fact, she didn’t have anything to look forward to except a life sentence of babysitting. All of her friends had a future waiting for them and Gemma had her mom pacing in the gym, wondering where her daughter was and how long she managed to get out from under her thumb. Gemma twisted her lips and looked over at Deidre’s paper.

“I don’t have anything to write,” Deidre admitted. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“What about the Cordon Bleu?” Gemma asked.

“That’s boring.”

“But tasty.” Gemma looked down at her own blank piece of paper. Nothing was as boring as staying in Twain, so she wrote down, “Hollywood.”

Deidre lifted the corners of her mouth. “You can’t just write down Hollywood. We can go to Hollywood in an afternoon.”

Gemma bit her lip and wrote down, “Dylan Florence.”

Maisie raised her eyebrows. “Your future is Dylan Florence?”

“And Hollywood.” Gemma copied her mother’s holier than thou tone. “Hey, if you can have a hot and steamy romance, I can Dylan Florence.”

Tessa lowered her pen. “This is supposed to be serious.”

“I am serious. I’m seriously in love with Dylan Florence.”

“Whom you have never, and most likely, never will, meet.”

Gemma tried to will the secret away, but it sat at the edge of her lips, bursting to be said out loud. It killed her that she couldn’t tell her friends that Dylan Florence was actually much closer than Hollywood—which really wasn’t so far away, either—but her parents would kill her if she shared. She pressed her lips together, took a deep breath and said, “It’s a very one side and one dimensional sort of relationship.”

Tessa nodded. “Sometimes those are the best kind.”

Gemma stared at her paper. She was serious. She would spend the rest of her life watching Dylan Florence on TV, even though he was almost within kissing distance, and occasionally driving into Hollywood whenever her grandfather snapped his fingers. Deidre would go to cooking school, Maisie would go to UCI on an athletic scholarship, and Tessa would shop for China with Jackson. If her friends could have futures—then it was only fair that she could have Dylan Florence.

Even if she had to share him with millions of fans.

Deidre searched the honeysuckle until she found the trowel they had hid with the Mason jar. She held up the garden tool like a scepter. “Remember, by writing down our dreams, we’ve made them real. We have sent our predictions into the Universe. What we visualize we will realize.”

Gemma imagined Dylan Florence like a hologram, wavering before her eyes. Folding her slip of paper, she put it in the jar and imagined Dylan Florence, as tangible as the smoke of a magic genie, floating into the jar as well. She watched her friends place their futures into the jar. Tessa kissed her paper before she dropped it in. Deidre held the jar up so it caught a ray of moonlight. An unfamiliar wave of reverence swept over Gemma as Deidre handed the trowel to Maisie. 

After a moment of digging, Maisie stood. “It’s finished.”

The girls stared at the hole next to Fred, it looked like a tiny grave. Gemma wanted to be happy, but she felt like she was burying all her hopes and dreams, even though she hadn’t even written down her real dreams. She’d been mocking, joking—making light of her dim future.

Deidre placed the jar in the hole and Maisie tapped the dirt back in place. Tessa rearranged the honeysuckle so that no one would even be able to tell that they had ever even been there.

“Until 2020,” Deidre said.

“2020,” the girls echoed.

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Moving on…Up?

1918 Republic Trucks Moving Van

1918 Republic Trucks Moving Van (Photo credit: aldenjewell)

This week, along with being calendared for a blog post here on Main Street, I am moving. Sigh! Is there anything worse?

While my best buddy and all around awesome kid is on spring break and road tripping with family, I’m packing and moving! This may be my least favorite thing, in the world, to do. I doubt many people enjoy it, because it really is grueling. There is the packing, the finding things you thought you got rid of in the 90’s, the dust bunnies you swear you don’t get and of course the backache you will inevitably have. My bright side thought is that this might be exceptional motivation to succeed at my craft or at the very least maybe I will be able to work up a story about hot moving guys! 🙂

The one good thing about moving, is the fresh start in a new space. I get to plan new furniture layouts, I get to put things up on the walls and find new ways and places to store things. I will locate a favorite spot in the house. These things will be fun. The new place has more light

The bad thing about moving, it usually breaks either your back or your bank, sometimes both. I will have at least two days where I cannot locate the one thing I absolutely must have that day. And then there is the whole being EXHAUSTED thing.

And yet there is a part of me that is ready for the change, ready to go and start again, excited to find my new favorite spot, in my new home. It’s spring cleaning to the max. Oh and did I mention I will finally have an office area for my writing. 🙂 Big Bright Side!

So, I am going to get through the a couple of days of being tired and irritated with life and then wait for the moment when it’s all settled and I can sigh….but this time because I am once again content.

Late Spring cleaning

Late Spring cleaning (Photo credit: storebukkebruse)

For a good sigh from a great book, take a peek at our Authors Tab and Our Books Tab above and find a new book and/or a new author to love and rave about at your next lunch with friends. We thank you as always for stopping by today and checking out Main Street.

Kindly,
Kelly