More About Weddings

Ever since attending grandson's wedding, I've been thinking a lot about the weddings in my past.

Guess who? October 24, 1951 and yes, it's me and my husband. We were married in the minister's home with my mother and my husband's dad as witnesses. Afterwards, we went back to new husband's grandmother and maiden aunt's home (where he grew up) for wedding cake. My dress was blue velvet (looks purple in the photo) and I had a blue hat with a veil.

When my eldest daughter got married we didn't have the money to put on a huge wedding--but we did have a really nice wedding and reception because we did it all ourselves.

Daughter found a wedding dress pattern and some lovely satin material. She was afraid to cut the material so after she pinned the pattern I cut it out. She did a great job actually sewing it. For her bridesmaids and flower girl she found some light green material with daisy's embossed on it. She helped everyone make their dresses. Her best friend was maid of honor, a sister and another friend a bridesmaid, and her youngest sister was the flower girl and her little brother, the ring bearer. The girls carried daisy's we picked from a neighbor's yard in baskets we bought at a thrift store. Her other brother was one of the grooms' men along with the groom's friends. I made the flowers for the men from rosebuds in our garden.

The ceremony was performed by a Navy chaplain in the chapel on the base. (Hubby was still a Seabee at that time and we lived about a  block from the base.)

A neighbor made the wedding cake. We had the reception in our family room and outside in the back yard.
Guess who prepared all the food? Yep, me. I don't even remember what all I fixed, I just know it was enough to feed about 50 people.

I had practice though, I'd done the same things for this same daughter's graduation from high school that same summer.

After that I went on to make the wedding feasts for the other two girls--and for the two boys' weddings too.

When my daughter told me she was having her son's rehearsal dinner at her house I said, "Oh, you're following in my footsteps and preparing the meal." She's a really good cook.

She laughed. "Are you kidding? I'm having the meal catered."

Looking back, it amazes me that I did all that--but when you don't have any money and we sure didn't, you do what you can. I don't think any of the kids felt deprived.

When my granddaughter got married a year and a half ago--her mother-in-law to be prepared all the food for a huge crowd. Fortunately, she had lots of relatives who helped her.

So there are all different ways to do it--all I hope is that everyone's marriage last as long as mine has.

Marilyn, who promises to write about something else next time.

Make My Day

By Evelyn David

I talk a very good game. I'm the mother of four. I've given that speech about you shouldn't need outside validation to feel worthy more times than Kim Kardashian goes to the tanning salon.

I know authors, actors, musicians, all insist they don't read reviews.  Kevin Bacon was absolutely right when he said, " I don't read criticism of my stuff only because when it's bad, it's rough-and when it's good, it's not good enough."

And yet…

I obsessively check Amazon rankings and reader reviews. No question that one small note of reproof is enough to put me in a depression so deep that there isn't enough chocolate on this earth to make me happy (and believe me, I've tried). But conversely, there are times when the self-doubt as a writer is also so strong that a complete stranger taking the time to post a positive, yea, a glowing review, is enough to sustain me for at least 24 hours before the doubt creeps in again.

ZONED FOR MURDER is our newest, full-length mystery and it's not set in any of the universes we've previously created. It's a little more serious with a higher risk quotient. It's scary to create something different. Reader expectations of who you are as a writer can force you into a mold that you might be eager to break or maybe just expand. Sometimes it works. Ask Stephen King, who can pen both Carrie and On Writing, with equal brilliance. And sometimes it doesn't. Check with Arthur Conan Doyle. He had to bring back to life a character he loathed because his readers demanded it and didn't care to read anything else he wanted to write.

So the decision to try something new? Fulfilling as an author; terrifying as a writer who needs…wait for it: outside validation that she really is an artist, not just a pretender.

So forgive me for tooting my own horn, since I just finished saying that I wanted someone else to blast it, but this review of ZONED FOR MURDER, from someone I don't know, gave me, if only briefly, the courage to write again. Because fear can paralyze the creative juices.

"I fell in love with the characters in this book, especially Maggie. I found this book entertaining and spell binding." Then she adds, "I will recommend this books to my friends."

Not only did she like it, but that critical word-of-mouth campaign that marks the success or failure of most projects – this wonderful lady was happy to participate.

Stephen King, whose books terrify me, the Northern half, but absolutely delight the Southern half, is a wise writer. I respect him enormously. He explained why he writes, "The answer to that is fairly simple—there was nothing else I was made to do. I was made to write stories and I love to write stories. That's why I do it. I really can't imagine doing anything else and I can't imagine not doing what I do."

Ain't it the truth?

I don't know if Stephen King reads reviews. I suspect not. He also said, "If you wrote something for which someone sent you a check, if you cashed the check and it didn't bounce, and if you then paid the light bill with the money, I consider you talented." And perhaps for him, the check is validation enough.

But for me, I need more. Maybe I should work on that, but in the meantime, whether it's to an author with a new book, or to the plumber who just fixed your leaky toilet, taking a moment to compliment someone on a job well done may be just the thing that makes a stranger's day.

Marian, the Northern half

-----------

Zoned for Murder - Kindle (Exclusive at Amazon this month)

Brianna Sullivan Mysteries - e-book series
I Try Not to Drive Past Cemeteries- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
The Dog Days of Summer in Lottawatah- Kindle (Exclusive at Amazon this month)
The Holiday Spirit(s) of Lottawatah- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Undying Love in Lottawatah- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
A Haunting in Lottawatah - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Lottawatah Twister - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Missing in Lottawatah - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Good Grief in Lottawatah - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

Sullivan Investigations Mystery - e-book series
Murder Off the Books Kindle (Exclusive at Amazon this month)
Murder Takes the Cake Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Riley Come Home (short story)- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Moonlighting at the Mall (short story) - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

Romances
Love Lessons - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

They Always Ask: What Comes After THE END?

       By Laura Spinella     

It’s itchy palms and a cold sweat, a compulsive urge that a team of interventionists couldn’t thwart. That’s what I’m down to.  No, don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t quit drinking. I said compulsive not insane. But what I have done is turn in a manuscript. It leaves me with time, a gaping hole from 7 a.m. until noon. Initially, I’m dazzled by the prospect—think cats and a tinfoil ball. By living in the mainstream I can get things done, big and small.  I'll chase time until it lodges itself under my sunroom sofa, moving something like this: Instead of brushing by old newspapers and dirty toilets, I take the papers to the recycle bin, scrub the toilets until I’ve drowned the Ty-D-Bol man. I make every bed and vacuum the floor of my closet. Afterward, I’m surprised but only marginally alarmed to find that morning has two hours left.  Not a problem. I have a 30%-off Kohl’s coupon. By noon everyone has new underwear and I have half-a-dozen potential outfits for a trip that’s three months away.   On day two, dinner is a planned event.  My usual incidental dash to the microwave morphs into a Julia Child effort, one that involves béchamel sauce and a 1,000 calorie French dessert.  By day three, my real jobs are organized as if they are my goal. Newspaper stories are booked weeks in advance; my editor is dazed but delighted.  Normally, I’d segue from my WIP to my cyber-gig needing a shower and wearing pajama pants with a hole in the crotch. Not now. Now I show up in makeup and clothing that does not involve an elastic waist. Day four I surprise my son and pop in at track practice. I bring brownies for the hardworking boys. From across the field, his head pivots sharply. It’s as if he smells something repugnant in the air. I wave. He trots steadily in my direction, glancing right at a gaggle of girls who, apparently, also stopped by to watch.

            “What are you doing here? Is someone dead?”

            “I had free time. Can’t a mother watch her son practice?”

            “Seriously, why are you here? It’s track practice. I’m perfectly safe.”

I assume he’s alluding to his younger years when I tended to hyper-fret about things like child abduction. I decide it’s still plausible. “You never know who’s lurking.”

What happens if you're not careful with your javelin

              “I have a black-belt in Taekwondo and a javelin in my hand.  Go home; go write something.”  He darts across the field, taking his position. Only for a moment do I think he’s considering hurling the javelin at me.

            And this is where dazzle turns to disaster. I’m not the mom who goes to practice. The thrill of a three-course meal can only satisfy for so long. I hate shopping and my day jobs function fine on the fly.  Twenty-four hours later, I stare at my sunroom writing chair. It’s wrapped in metaphoric yellow caution tape.  I may not enter; I have no business there.  There’s a hard rule about revisiting a manuscript that’s no longer in my possession. I’d only see a thousand missteps, unable to change anything. Rationally, I should look forward to this break. Downtime is supposed to be beneficial, an opportunity to recharge the muse. Well, clearly, my muse is an addict. I sit and write a blog, thinking it’s a quick fix.  Two paragraphs in and I find my knee bouncing like a drunk with a Dixie cup. It’s not enough. This is not to say the muse has anything remotely brilliant to relay. In fact, it’s the very reason I equate it to an addiction. A wiser person would seek help. Besides, what would I write?  The muse has a suggestion.

            “Remember that idea I spun a year ago? We were driving. Instead of the license plate game we played the what if game.  What if that girl, the one with the crummy newspaper job and the psychic gift, landed in your lap top?  Come. Sit. You know you want to.”

            “No I don’t. What I want is for you to quit delivering half-baked ideas, expecting me to fill in the blanks.”

            “Sorry, if you wanted a thorough muse your last name should have been Rowling or Roberts. I work with what they give me.”

            “Do you have any idea how much time and commitment your ideas take? Someday I’ll regret it, the endless hours I’ve wasted on you.”

            “And still, you would have spent more time sleeping. You're not getting that time back either. So come, sit. Just try it. One sentence, a character name, the way he looks at her—focus, you’ll see it.  And I haven’t even told you the best part of my idea.”

            “Ha! I’ve lived your ideas, holistic designer, rock star, a rogue man on a motorcycle.  They’re absurd.”  Yet, ruefully, I inch into the room.

“Maybe. But the motorcycle man worked out fine. I heard he’s up for a few nifty awards.  Besides, what are your options?  Plant a garden, take up golf, stalk the high school cafeteria?”

“Shut up.” But as I speak, I’m fighting temptation and gravity.  I move closer.

“That’s it. Ease your way in. We’ll go slow. We’ll talk. Hell, maybe I’ll even float you some backstory.”

My fingers move past the cautionary yellow tape. The leather chair does feel good.  It’s only been a week, but there’s dust is on the keyboard. We can’t have that.  Okay, I’ll sit—but only for a minute…  

Laura Spinella is the author of Beautiful Disaster, a 2012 RITA Finalist, Best First Book; NJRWA Winner, Best First Book; Wisconsin RWA Write Touch Finalist, Best Mainstream Novel; Desert Rose RWA Finalist, Best First Book and a Favorite Book of 2011 at SheKnows.com. Visit her at www.lauraspinella.net

         

            

"Fudging" Cooking Ability

by Amy Alessio

Thanks so much to Evelyn David and the Stiletto Gang for letting me return to guest on this blog. Evelyn told me she loves old recipes, and once started on that topic I find it hard to stop!

I love vintage cookbooks, and own over four hundred and fifty of them. I unleash them on the unsuspecting public when I give talks on themes I notice from my collection, like Jello, pies, cookies and cakes. All the food groups are represented – that is, the important ones. What I’ve learned is that most people have memories closely tied to recipes. I can’t believe how many people associate Jello recipes with certain holidays. In my family every holiday has a Jello concoction and we call it salad when it should be called dessert.

My series of short stories feature Alana O’Neill, a bookkeeper at her uncle’s antiques mall. She has a booth of kitchenalia and does not like to sell many of her cookbooks. She, like me, loves to try recipes from decades past, even if we are not good at making them. In Blast From the Past, Alana tries to make fancy chili chocolates after a professional baker makes fun of her old cookbooks. Alana is distracted when her teen son slams the door and ends up dumping way too much chili powder into the candy. Blast From the Past is one of three novellas featured in Hearts and Daggers, a collection of romantic suspense. Authors Mary Welk http://www.marywelk.com and Margot Justes http://www.mjustes.com provide the other two stories, and all of our characters connect in the stories.

I also included over twenty recipes with my story, though none are for chili chocolates. They are from my collection of handwritten recipe boxes. I do have a few from my own family, and I want to share some with you today.

Here is my Grandma Curtin’s Fudge Recipe. This was handwritten, and lacks some key steps.

5 cups sugar (How can you go wrong with a recipe that begins with this?)¼ lb. butter1 large can Pet Condensed Milk3 pkg. Chocolate Chips (Nestles 6 oz.)1 jar Marshmallow FluffAbout 1 cup walnuts, chopped

Combine sugar, butter & milk. Bring to boil, let boil for 9-10 minutes low. Pour this mixture over choc. Chips & fluff. Beat until smooth. Add nuts, pour into greased pan and refrigerate. Cut in about 1 hour.

Then there’s my Mother’s clipping for Chocolate Marshmallow Fudge. I was intrigued by the note that it “Makes 5 pounds.” Perhaps that is what is gained on your scale after eating this one.

½ cup butter, or margarine2 pounds (4 ½ cups) sugar1 can (14 ½ oz.) evaporated milk½ pound marshmallows2 oz. unsweetened chocolate2 packages (6 oz. each) semi-sweet chocolate pieces3 packages (4 oz. each) sweet chocolate2 cups chopped pecans, walnuts, or other nuts1 tablespoon vanilla

In a large heavy saucepan mix butter, sugar, and evaporated milk. Stir over medium heat until sugar dissolves. Cook to boiling, cover, and boil for 5 minutes. Add marshmallows; stir until melted. Add chocolate, one kind at a time, stirring until melted. Stir in nuts and vanilla. Pour into buttered 15-by-10-inch jelly roll pan. Cool until firm before cutting fudge into 1-inch squares. If desired, press pecan half into each square. Fudge freezes well.

Get out your defibrillator. Notice I don’t do shows on “Healthy Vintage Recipes,” as it would not last more than about five minutes.

Do you have a favorite family recipe? Comment with your email address or email me at amyalessio.com and I will send you some Jello recipes.

Amy Alessio is a teen librarian and an author. She is also an adventurous and unskilled cook who is trying to train her young sons to cook dinner. She is obsessed with Vintage Cookbooks and Crafts and you can share that obsession by reading her blog at http://www.amyalessio.com .

Traveling in the Spicoli Way

by Bethany Maines

Next week I will be making, what is turning out to be an annual pilgrimage to New York City to visit my editor and watch a friend graduate from Columbia (Goooo… Lions?). When I started this whole writing thing I specifically targeted LA agents because I thought it would be a heck of a lot easier to fly from the Evergreen State to the Golden State. I was absolutely correct, of course – travel out to the Empire State (that’s your nickname New York, seriously?) kind of bites, particularly since some dude invented the shoe bomb. Or the Underwear Bomb.  Next thing you know there’ll be the Hair Bomber and we’ll all have to shave. And I swear the 3oz liquid debacle is fully sponsored by the water vendors on the other side of security, but that is beside the point.

The point is that I didn’t want an agent in New York, but Fate, as per its usual modus operandi, had other plans and now mocks me with every trip to the East Coast. Which isn’t to say I don’t heart my agent with big googly eyes (little hearts going pwap! over my head), and I’m not extremely grateful to be able to visit NYC, because I am. I just keep thinking that maybe this year my vacation will be someplace more palm tree oriented than the Big Apple. I miss palm tree vacations – they come with coconuts and beaches and sometimes giant turtles (See the picture? That turtle swam right by me!).

But there are benefits to visiting a place repeatedly. For one thing, you know when it’s being faked on television. OK, maybe that’s not the primary benefit, but it is a good one (Don’t think I don’t remember you Ally McBeal and all your fake Boston sets). Traveling is always a window onto another place and by visiting it repeatedly you start to really understand the cultural ecosystem of that town and how far that ecosystem spreads.

It wasn’t until my second visit to New York that I understood just how very New York Sesame Street was. From Oscar’s crappy garbage can, to the street sign, to the Brown Stone houses, the main street in every toddlers life is a New York street.  Or the bizarre rubber boot fetish that currently holds sway in fashion. The that makes a lot more sense when you realize that even in the summer, New York City is home to a billion disgusting, fetid puddles waiting to envelop sandal clad feet. Each visit reveals some further facet of how New York is different, but also how it’s connected to me.  And while it may not have a lot of palm trees, the mai tais still taste good, and as Fast Times at Ridgemont High pointed out – “Wherever you are, that’s the place to be.”

Anyone can sing. Trust me!

by: Joelle Charbonneau

Anyone can sing.  Yeah, I can hear a lot of you shaking your head in my direction and thinking about whatever family member can’t carry a tune.  Trust me on this, though.  I’m a voice teacher and a stage performer, so I’m supposed to know these things.  If you don’t have a paralyzed vocal chord or you aren’t tone deaf – you can sing.  I’m not talking about becoming the next Broadway star or American Idol.   But if you have trouble carrying a tune and think you can’t do it – you can.  Keep reading because I’m going to tell you how.

When you sing, your brain tells your vocal chords to stretch to the perfect length and width to create the note you want.  Cool, right?  If you want to see a demonstration of the different sizes and widths required to make specific notes, go look inside a piano.  Each wire, different in length and width, creates a specific note.  The only different between the piano and the voice is you.  Yes – you.  When you play the piano, the piano is the instrument.  A key is pressed and a little hammer inside hits the right string and the correct note is played.  When you sing there is nothing to hide behind.  The instrument is you.  Your brain tells your vocal chords to create the right size for the note you want and they do it.  Or they should.  If they don’t there is a reason why and the reason is – yep, you guessed it - you.

One thing most people lack when singing is confidence.  They worry that they aren’t going to sound good or might hit the wrong note.  And guess what?  Once you think you aren’t going to hit the note – you won’t.  Your brain will send mixed signals to your vocal chords and more often than not, you won’t be thrilled with the outcome.  However, if you try the same thing again with confidence, I’m certain you will appreciate the difference.  Sure there are things like breathing and vocal placement and all that jazz that make a singer more polished and a tone more beautiful.  But those things don’t add up to much if there isn’t any confidence.  If you tell yourself you can do it – you can.  Maybe not the first time or the second, but I bet if you keep trying you’ll hear the difference. 

Confidence is an amazing thing.  It can move mountains or in this case help you carry a tune.  Of course, that begs the question – if simply acting with confidence can help you sing, what else can it help you accomplish?  As a writer, I’ve learned that confidence helps me get from page to page – chapter to chapter.  If I doubt the story I am telling – the story never has a chance.  I get hung up revising the opening or I agonize over little details that don’t matter in my first draft.  So I pretend that I know what I’m doing and go for it.  Yeah, I’ve learned lots of important techniques to telling a story, but, like singing, confidence pulls those things together and makes them work.

So today, I challenge everyone to sing.  Sing loud.  Sing as if you belonged on the Metropolitan Opera or American Idol stage.  And then look around and see what else you can achieve if only you believe you can. 

What song are you going to sing today?

Good Grief in Lottawatah

Excerpt from
Good Grief in Lottawatah
Vol 8
Brianna Sullivan Mysteries series

Chapter 1 -
"The Dead Make a lot of Noise."

In case you missed the front page story in Friday's Lottawatah Herald or didn't visit the Shear Artistry Hair Salon on Saturday or failed to listen to local radio host Mutt Jeffrey's call-in segment this morning, let me tell you the big news that has this small Oklahoma town abuzz – I'm engaged to Lottawatah Police Detective Cooper Jackson.

Yes, engaged to be married. I know, you never thought I'd make such a big commitment. Frankly, I'm a bit stunned myself. And before you can ask, no I'm not pregnant. Cooper proposed to me while I was in the hospital in Tulsa, recovering from a gunshot wound I received in early November. Granted I was on heavy drugs at the time and the memory of actually saying yes to his offer of marriage is still a little fuzzy, but I'm sure this is the right decision. I'm almost positive.

"Brianna? Is that you? Come on back to my office, I'm on hold with a casket supplier."

I realized I was standing just inside the Myers Funeral Home, the door chime still ringing. Today was the first day of my new job. Doc Joseph Myers, mortician, fisherman, and as needed, coroner was my new boss. I had no clue what my employment entailed. Of course I've spent most of my life without a clue. I'm Brianna Sullivan and I'm a psychic. And yes, I should have a clue. And no, that's psychic spelled with an "ic" not an "o."

***

It's noon now. I've been on the job four hours. Okay, three-and-a-half since I was late. Cooper dropped me off at his friend Denny's garage. My vintage Mustang convertible was road worthy–barely. Denny had been working on the car off-and-on for almost a year. The good citizens of Lottawatah had finally chipped in and paid my outstanding balance at the garage as sort of a reward for my actions in finding a missing child or maybe as a reward for exposing a murderer in their mist. Either way, I was happy to have a second set of wheels to drive around town. My other mode of transportation is Matilda, my 30-foot motor home. I love Matilda but I don't like driving her around Lottawatah. Right now she's parked out at Lake Eufaula and I stay there when I'm not keeping Cooper company at his apartment in town.

Doc Myers, who said he had already made a house call (yes, that's what you think it is),  showed me around the funeral home before he left for his regular Monday lunch at Tiny's with his Lodge buddies. I'm not sure which Lodge or even if there really is a Lodge anymore since I think this lunch has probably been happening since before I was born.

But back to my job-I was given a nice desk, a chair on rollers that spins, a phone with two lines, and a desktop computer that I haven't yet figured out how to turn on.

Doc told me my title was director of sales and public outreach. As far as I can tell that means I answer the telephone, take messages, and serve coffee and Kleenex to family members when they come in to pick out caskets and make funeral arrangements.

"Good Morning, Myers Funeral Home. How can I help you?"

"Are you going to the apartment during your lunch hour to walk Leon?"

"Hello to you too, sweetheart. Is the magic already gone?"

"Brianna, I'm at the scene of a three-car pileup with a fuel spill. I don't have time for magic."

"Yet you took the time to worry about Leon's bladder. I'm touched." Leon was the bulldog I had inadvertently inherited. He has a grumpy disposition, a sensitive digestive tract, a penchant for chewing on leather couches, and I was devoted to him. Cooper less so.

"Right. Just take care of your dog. I don't want any more accidents to clean up," Cooper said. "And don't forget to call my mother and set up a dinner."

I hadn't forgotten. I was hoping something would happen to prevent me making that call. Maybe a natural disaster. Hey, we get a lot of those in Oklahoma. Last year there were two ice storms, a blizzard, a flood, three tornadoes, a drought, and then 60 one-hundred degree days in a row. Just when I thought I'd experienced all that Oklahoma had to offer; last month there was an earthquake that knocked down an old brick tower in the Miner's Memorial Park, located in the center of Lottawatah. Odds were that something else would happen if I could just delay making that call.

"Cooper, there's a lot of static on the line. I didn't hear that last part. See you tonight!"

"Brianna, call–"

Okay, yes, I admit it. I hung up on him. He doesn't understand that my relationship with his mother is unpredictable. A couple of months ago, she really hated me. Then hate sort of morphed into grudging tolerance. When I was in the hospital, she was very kind. I thought we were really bonding. Then the engagement happened and Sassy Jackson chilled up fast.

"Could I get a moment of your time?"

Startled, I glanced up. The elderly man in front of me was polite, but not alive.

"Do you have an appointment?" Okay, I knew the answer to that question before I asked it but really, I was going to have to set some boundaries or the walk-ins would run me ragged. And of course there was Leon's bladder to consider.

"My viewing is tonight and I wanted to warn you that my wife and my brother will probably get into a shouting match if you don't keep them separated. He thinks she only married me for my money."

"How long have you been married?" I was guessing he'd married a younger woman and his family hadn't approved.

"Fifty years come June," he answered, sitting down uninvited on the chair in front of my desk. "But my brother isn't one to change his mind. He's been waiting for Emma to leave me, so he could say I told you so."

Fifty years was a long time. I don't know if I could conceive of living with Cooper for fifty years. What would we find to talk about after all that time?

"I'll make a note for Doc."

Before I even finished my sentence he was gone.

I grabbed my purse and the set of keys that Doc Myers had given me. I had an hour for lunch and about a dozen personal errands to run. I didn't have to be psychic to understand that having an 8-5 office job was going to interfere with my normal routine.

Just before I walked out the front door, I stuck my head in the three viewing rooms and let everyone know that I'd be back by one.

According to Doc, the viewings were generally set from 3 to 7 pm. Doc assured me that he'd handle the after-5 stuff. People in Lottawatah ate early and liked to be home in front of their television or in bed before it got dark. So the evening visitors were few and far between.

Today, although it was barely noon, there was already quite a crowd gathering in one room. I could try to run them off, but these visitors didn't pay much attention to clocks, policies, or locked doors.

Not only the living attend funerals.

__________________

Zoned for Murder - Kindle (Exclusive at Amazon this month)

Brianna Sullivan Mysteries - e-book series
I Try Not to Drive Past Cemeteries- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
The Dog Days of Summer in Lottawatah- Kindle (Exclusive at Amazon this month)
The Holiday Spirit(s) of Lottawatah- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Undying Love in Lottawatah- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
A Haunting in Lottawatah - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Lottawatah Twister - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Missing in Lottawatah - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Good Grief in Lottawatah - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

Sullivan Investigations Mystery - e-book series
Murder Off the Books Kindle (Exclusive at Amazon this month)
Murder Takes the Cake Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Riley Come Home (short story)- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Moonlighting at the Mall (short story) - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

Romances
Love Lessons - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

Oh, the Places She's Gone!

by Susan McBride

I was thinking today about all the places I've gone with Emily already, and she hasn't even been born. And I don't just mean trips taken, though she and I will be heading to Kansas City this weekend where I'll speak at that Komen affiliate's Pink Promise Brunch.

No, Emily hasn't been to Paris or even Disney World in my belly (although I went to the World's Fair in New York when I was in the womb, and my mother still likes to tell me how being pregnant allowed her to cut in front of everyone in lines--see, I was helpful even before birth!).

But Emily has been in a hyperbaric chamber (that was in February after our old furnace leaked carbon monoxide into our house)....

     

She's been on TV (she already loves the folks at "Great Day St. Louis," I can tell)....

She helped me teach a workshop at the Missouri Writers' Guild's conference and got to meet bestselling author Claire Cook (Emily's secretly hoping Claire will write a sequel to Must Love Dogs called Must Love Cats)....

 

She was with me when I spoke at the Maplewood Library (and she received two knitted baby hats from Mary Garrett, one with a Blue Note on it and another that looks like the top of a little red apple)....

And when I received the "Survivor of the Year" award from the St. Louis chapter of Susan G. Komen for the Cure (pink is Emily's favorite color)....

 Then she was feted with gifts at a baby shower ("Oh, Mom!" she sighed as I took a bite of a teething ring, just to check it out)....

I just hope she's having fun, doing all these things before her due date. As much as she kicks, I'd say she's having a ball. Or maybe she's trying to tell me, "Quit talking so much and moving around so much, Mom!  I'm trying to get a little rest here!"

So long as she's not annoyed by the clickety-clack of my keyboard since I've got revisions still to finish, a nonfiction e-book for HarperCollins to write about my breast cancer experience, and a rewrite of my young adult mystery for Random House. All due this year. Kind of like Emily (who should be making her grand entrance in about eight weeks...although she could show up in as soon as five weeks, said my doctor yesterday!).