Chick Lit Goddess

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Writers

“The Right Design” 1st Birthday Celebration

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Happy 1st Birthday to “The Right Design” by Isabella Louise Anderson

The_Right_Design_Cover_for_Kindle**Blurb:

In the author’s debut novel comes a story about picking up the pieces, letting go of the past, and finding love along the way–even if morals are tested!

Interior designer Carrie Newman could not have envisioned a more perfect life for herself. She had a great job doing what she loved, wonderful friends, and a close relationship with her sister and brother-in-law. Add in an amazing man who she’d hoped would soon become her husband, and her life was perfect. Until one devastating decision ruins her relationship and changes the course of her life.

Determined to make a new start, Carrie leaves Texas and heads to Palm Beach to pick up the pieces of her shattered and broken life. The last thing she expects is to find herself attracted to her first client at her new job–Brad Larson, who has proven himself time and time again to be caddish.

But there’s something beneath the surface of Brad’s arrogant exterior that keeps her craving more of him–something almost sweet that Carrie can’t seem to resist.

Is Carrie ready to take another chance on romance? And will this new design of her life prove to be the right one?

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BlueHappyBirthday**To celebrate, Isabella has put “The Right Design” on SALE for the entire month of March!

Get it now for only $0.99!

Amazon US (Kindle)   Amazon US (Paperback)

Amazon – Canada   Amazon – UK

Barnes & Noble (Paperback and Nook)

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**GIVEAWAY**

1st Birthday Gift Pirze package copy

Click HERE to enter to win “The Right Design” Birthday Prize Package, (US residents only, and no P.O. boxes, please)!

(The grand prize package contains the following: a mini-beach bag, lip gloss, ring/jewelery polisher, Scentsy “Love Story” hand lotion, bookmarks, and an 8-inch Nothing Bundt Cake–not shown).

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BioPic**About author, Isabella Louise Anderson: Isabella grew up with a book in her hand, and to this day nothing has changed. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America and has been featured on several blogs. While Isabella doesn’t blog a lot, she focuses her time on featuring other writers, along with writing and editing. Isabella Louise Anderson created Chick Lit Goddess to share the love of the following genres: Chick Lit, Contemporary Romance, Romance, and Romantic Comedies! She loves featuring authors and their books. She lives in Dallas with her husband and cat. She enjoys spicy Mexican food and drinking margaritas, and can be found spending time with family and friends, cheering on the Texas Rangers, and reading. Isabella’s short story, Meet Me Under the Mistletoe, was featured in Simon & Fig’s Christmas anthology, Merry & Bright, in November 2013. The Right Design is her first novel.

**Contact Isabella Louise Anderson:

Website   Author Facebook “Like” page   Goodreads   Pinterest   Twitter

**Chick Lit Goddess:

Chick Lit Goddess “Like” page   Twitter

Keeping An Author’s Mind Healthy

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“You get paid to make stuff up,” said my dad, over Father’s Day weekend. I laughed at his comment, but the more I thought about, the more I came to realize he was right, and that I’d never thought about it that way. No matter how little or how much, authors do get paid to make things up. (If you ask me, that’s pretty cool).

So, yesterday I stumbled upon THIS article about staying healthy in order for you to write better, and it energized me to start keeping my mind clear–you know, the one I’m paid to make stuff up with. It’s not about being physically fit, but rather keeping your mind healthy.

For a few months now, my mind has felt like it’s been in a bubble that just won’t burst, and it’s been very stressful. I’ve had all these ideas for my second draft of “Cards From Khloe’s Flower Shop,” and haven been eager to get back to it, but feeling the way I have, it’s been impossible to get any progress made. Also, some of you might also know that I’ve been experiencing vertigo, which has also been stressful, but I’m on day four of not having any dizziness, so I’m hoping it’s finally going away–YAY!

Now that I’m feeling a more like myself, I’d like to share just a few tips that I do to keep my mind healthy:

WALK/RUN ON A TREADMILL: Before I started experiencing vertigo, I was a walker. I loved being on my treadmill. Not only did it often help writer’s block disappear, it helped keep my mind energized. My mind would be clear, and I would be focused on nothing but my steady pace. However, on days where I felt really energized, I’d speed it up a bit, which made my workout even better. Not only was I burning calories, I was feeling motivated to get back to my characters.

Not only can walking rejuvenate your mind, you’ll begin to look better, too!

DRINK MORE WATER: I’ve tried to like water, and do off and on, but I’m not consistent as I should be with it. So, to spark up the taste a bit, I add drops of lemon or limes to it, which gives it a refreshing spin. You can also buy Dasani Drops, which come in all different flavors, (my favorite is the Pineapple Coconut). I try to drink at least six cups a day–yes, I know I should drink the typical 8, but I’m trying to get better at this.

Chug-a-lug!

TRY SOMETHING YOU’VE NEVER DONE BEFORE: So, today I did something I thought I’d never do. I had my first Pilates session, (yes, you read that right). My husband has been going for over a year now, and he loves it. Finally agreeing, a few weeks ago, I went to go see him during a session, and I was really impressed. He’s been telling me to at least give it a try for so long, but I’d alway find an excuse, but he was right (yes, I just wrote for the world that he was right…Shh, I hope he’s not reading this!). Anyway, for sixty minutes, I was able to relax, breathe and do the stretches/movements without focusing on sales for my book and work on a scene I’m having trouble with at the moment, and solely let my mind go. In a way, it was euphoric, and I cannot wait to go back.

By trying something new, and giving it your best, you’ll be glad you did!

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TheRightDesignBlogTourButton

**Click HERE to see all the stops**

Now…what would a blog post be without a plug of my book tour, right?!

I’m having a blast reading reviews, sharing guest posts, and interviews, and am loving the feedback I’m receiving, too! Just today, “The Right Design” received another 4-star review! Click HERE to see that review, and to learn more about me through an interview I did with Storm Goddess Reviews.

Also, if you haven’t picked up a copy of “The Right Design”, you can get your copy on SALE for only $0.99!:

Amazon   Barnes & Noble

Beth Albright

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About author, Beth Albright:  After knowing Beth Albright for just a few short seconds you are sure to learn she is from Alabama. No, its not the lilt of magnolia you can still catch in her voice, or even the way she lovingly describes her undying love for her famous alma mater’s football champions. She will tell you she loves Tuscaloosa, even after living quite literally all over the country. Though Beth has had a remarkable career, from New York City to Hollywood, and all points in between, she has never forgotten where she came from…and what she loves. That’s why when it came time to write, Beth had no choice but to write about Tuscaloosa and The University of Alabama, and all the quirky people she still calls family, though some do not actually share her bloodline!

Beth Albright has always been a storyteller. After spending nearly 15 years in talk radio, as a talk show host, playing the part of a principal character on the soap opera, DAYS OF OUR LIVES, owning her own acting school and children’s theater, and raising a son who was a nationally ranked figure skater, Beth has decided to return to her roots; storytelling. When she was in the sixth grade, her teacher gave her the floor every Friday to tell her stories. See, Beth was a talker, a future talk show host in the making, and she was telling stories so much that her teacher couldn’t teach. The teacher told 12 year old Beth if she would begin writing her stories down, she would be allowed time to share those stories with the class. And she’s been writing, AND talking ever since. Beth has interviewed Bob Hope, Oprah Winfrey, Betty White, Wolfgang Puck and George Burns live from the Chinese Theatre, as well as numerous other celebrities, and authors. Then Beth became a principal character on Days of Our Lives. But through all of the excitement of talk shows and soap operas, Beth loved telling stories to her audience the most. With a degree in Journalism from her beloved University of Alabama, She remains true to her roots and has never forgotten where she comes from. Born and raised in Tuscaloosa, “My grandfather was the play by play announcer for the Crimson Tide in the 50s!” Beth will proudly tell you.   She is a down homespun girl, although she currently lives in San Francisco with her TV producer husband and her brilliant son. But her heart is always in Alabama. She has just completed new series, The Sassy Belles.

INTERVIEW

People would be surprised to know that you…:  Were a drummer in your high school marching band!

What is the writing/editing/publishing process like for you?  I like the writing process best of the three. The editing is always hard for me. My husband has always told me I am “raw footage” So I know even in life, I give too much information, too many details. So I need editing. But it is really hard to decipher what is necessary and what isn’t. So it can be painful. The publishing part is great…I can just sit back and wait for the “BIRTHday”

Every writer must have a…: Sense of humor!  If I couldn’t laugh at myself and some of the things I write before revising, I couldn’t survive! And in the tough times, my lap kitty is an absolute necessity. Of course my family is my rock and they put up with a lot too! But seriously, with being able to laugh, it would all be impossible.

Tell us about your “Belles” series:  I love these women! This is a group of women who live in Tuscaloosa. They consist of Blake, our narrator, her mother Kitty, her spit-fire grandmother, Meridee, her best friend, Vivi, and her ex-step sister-arch-nemesis, Dallas. Think of this group as a “Sex and The City Meets Steel Magnolias” group! They are smart, sexy and hilarious. And as I say in The Sassy Belles. “ We take care of each other, we stand our ground, and we do it in high heels, big hair and lots of lipstick.” They love college football as does everyone in Tuscaloosa so University of Alabama football, the Crimson Tide, is a big part of the series too. Blake is an attorney and she really has her work cut out for her in the series. The main point of this series is to say ANYONE can be a Sassy Belle: any age, any size, any color. It’s all about attitude and taking care of your “sisters”.

Where is your dream place to write?  I am a romantic at heart, so I love a comfy chair and a fireplace. Anything in nature is always good too…a place with an ocean view or a lush forest view is perfect too.

What is your favorite word?  Well, my son’s name is brooks so of course that is number one! But I love the word, tapestry…because it helps us feel the layers upon which I like to write. Stardust is great too, as we all possess a little to add to the tapestry.

Hard/paperback or eBooks?  And don’t forget, audiobooks! I love them all. To me they are just different mediums in which to share my stories. Personally I like the trade paperback, perfect to stick in my purse. But I am old-fashioned and still do buy the hardbacks too.

What do you want your readers to take away from reading your books?  Fun and a major sense of sisterhood. Plus to know it’s never to late to LIVE. Meridee turns 80 at the end of book one and throws herself a Hollywood Nights themed party complete with shirtless men carrying her in on a Persian cot! Readers are telling me they are laughing out loud through the books! We need that right now. We ALWAYS need laughter.

You’ve had the pleasure of interviewing celebrities, who was your favorite and why?  Oh, what a tough question! I have so many favorites! Oprah really stands out. She makes you feel like you’ve known her and she is your new BFF! I loved the icons, George Burns, Betty White and Bob Hope. They were full of fun and advice. I interviewed all The Golden Girls and really hit it off with Rue McClanahan. There are seriously just too many to pick just one…but I did just LOVE Oprah!

How has the social media helped your career?  I seriously don’t know how anyone could make it as a writer these days without social media. I know I have my Facebook base, then my books page, then twitter to help me get the word out about blogs, reviews, and contests too. I feel it is the reason we got such a huge bounce with The Sassy Belles! It has remained an Amazon bestseller since the first week. But I did a lot of Facebook advertising and lots of tweeting too! I think it is paying off.

What is the best advice you’ve been given?  My mom always says, “Keep you eye on the ball” and that helps. I tend to be a worrier so I start thinking about everything all at once. She reminds me, one thing at a time and keep your eye on the ball. Also my mother has been wonderful as a motivator and cheerleader too. If I dreamed a big dream, she never laughed, she’d say, “Ok, what do we need to do to make that happen?” So most all my great advice comes from my mother! “If someone else can do it, then you can too”

Can you tell us about any upcoming projects?  My book is currently being packaged to pitch as a TV show! So fingers crossed, we’ll see! Also, I am busy writing a new Sassy Belle series. New Belles, and the original ones too, all taking place in Tuscaloosa at an INN the girls will open!

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GUEST POST

Songs of the Deep South

They say you write what you know and for me there is no truer statement. I know the Deep South. I have a love for it that pulses deep in my veins. My legacy is thick with my alma mater, the University of Alabama too, as my grandfather was the “voice” of the Crimson Tide in the 1950s. I am a southerner to the bone, though I have lived all over the country.

My Love Affair With Tuscaloosa Alabama

The South is like nowhere else on Earth.  I learned this lesson the hard way; by leaving. I have lived in New York City, Los Angeles California, and nearly everywhere in between. From both coasts, two of the Great Lakes, and the land locked mid-west and even the deserts of Phoenix, I have called them all home over the last 30 years. And I stay in the perpetual suspended state of HOMESICK for Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

When I was 10 years old we moved to Oklahoma. And while I loved it there and made life long friends during my four years there, I was, even then, perpetually homesick, grieving away for my familiar surroundings of the misty liquid sunsets on the Warrior River and the rich history of The University of Alabama campus. Tuscaloosa is a pre-Civil War town, with much of the architecture dating long before the War Between the States.  Old antebellum homes still stand watching over the city from one end of it to the other.

The kudzu creeps and crawls over everything standing still. Summers were miserable if you were measuring it by the humidity. With sticky skin and frizzy hair was the way I spent them.  But I wouldn’t trade them for anything.  Slow and happy and sweaty.  Red cheeks coming in from long bike rides on half paved /dirt roads, slamming screen doors and window unit air conditioners. And beauty pageants, complete with crowns and banners pinned from shoulder to hip across the front of your beaded gown, Tuscaloosa is made up of so many things, even when I’m not there I can see it, feel it, and taste it. So I wanted to be there. Writing was the way I could.

Life was easier in a small town down south. All the neighbors watch out for each other and everyone’s kids were like your own. The men are still chivalrous and the women still act like ladies, with make-up done to perfection and a string of pearls. That may be my favorite part—well next to the food!

The Deep South is special. It’s unique in all the most perfect ways.  I feel I am an authority on this because I have been able to compare it to, well, almost everywhere. I actually left my soap opera, Days of Our Lives in LA as a principle character and drove across the country, pregnant, with morning sickness that lasted all day, to make sure my only baby was born at HOME…Tuscaloosa! In typical Belle fashion, I didn’t pack light either. It took two cars! Halfway there, around El Paso, Texas, my husband actually had the nerve to say, “We really don’t HAVE to go have the baby in Alabama, do we?” I nearly burst into tears and called my mother– and a divorce lawyer—just as any southern belle in a crisis does! Luckily, I calmed down by the time we crossed The Mighty Mississippi.

And then there’s Alabama football. You have never seen anything like Game-Day in Tuscaloosa! The crowds under the largest tent city on the quad, everyone cooking out, the smell of barbequed pork in the air, the students dressed up in sundresses and bow ties. You KNOW you’re in the south! And when Sweet Home Alabama is played over the loud speakers, everyone stops in their tracks and sings along! It’s a priceless feeling.

In Tuscaloosa you can still sit out on a summer’s night and talk to your neighbors or on your front porch telling stories on a glider swing while a million lightening bugs glitter in the front yard under a gillion stars.  And when someone ” has passed” a line of traffic will form on your street of folks with covered dishes. You’ll have more pound cake and potato salad than you’ll know what to do with! And at least 30 boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts! Everyone who shows up on your doorstep to offer condolences will have a box of the delicious confections!

Tuscaloosa has it’s own special brand of Small Town America. It is in the HEART OF DIXIE, being in Alabama. It is a classy place with mostly classy people. And Southern Hospitality seems to have gotten its very definition from here.  Every “Hey Y’all,” and  “fixin’ to” is inside my spirit and when I am home it shines a little brighter.

When I come home it’s like I never left.  I am hugged and kissed and loved. I go out with my friends and see my Mother and eat like I have been starving in a desert. I have. For the SOUTH… and its way.

When it came time to write, of course, I would write about the place I love most, my hometown in the Deep South. My heart is always in Dixie.

Maybe I can always go home, because truth be told, I never really left.

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BethAlbrightPic**Contact Beth:

The Sassy Belles   Email: Beth@thesassyBelles.com   Facebook   Twitter

It’s a Happy Friday

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SmileyFaceOn yesterday’s blog post (read HERE), I announced that I’ve decided to go the self-publishing route.  I want to thank you all for the sweet comments and congratulations.  While I know there will be ups and downs on this exciting journey I’m embarking upon, I look forward to, as my dad says “pressing that button,” and sharing my books with the world.  A special thank you goes out to my Chick Lit Goddesses Facebook group.  You ladies are truly amazing and so supportive, and I love you all!

Anyway, today’s blog post is about being happy once a decision has been made.  Since deciding to self-publish, not only has my stress level gone down immensely.  For a couple of weeks, okay maybe months, I’ve been a little (or, depending who you ask, very) grumpy.  I would go out with friends and Ranger games, but I wasn’t really there.  My mind was on achieving my goal of becoming an author.  I’d try to have a relaxing evening with my hubby and again, I still wasn’t in the moment.

Finally, while at work one day, I had enough of just shuffling through life and telling people I’m still deciding which direction I’m going.  Upset with myself and feeling like I was shuffling through life in limbo, I didn’t want to wait anymore and that’s when I made up my mind.

Am I still stressed?  Yeah, a little bit, but it’s more of a feeling of anxious and excitement, and I’m not nearly as grumpy…

So, tonight when I go to Ranger’s game, I tend on enjoying my night and cheering on my favorite team!

**GO RANGERS**

TexasProud

The Hole in the Middle

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**The Hole in the Middle is free download from May 17-19 only!**

Book Blurb:  I Don’t Know How She Does It for the This Is 40 generation, The Hole in the Middle introduces Sophie Whelan, a woman who has it all – including a hideous boss, a distracted husband, daycare woes, problem employees and a 40th birthday on the horizon. Precariously close to slipping off of the treadmill that is her daily grind, Sophie is startled by the reappearance of Will Shannon, the great unresolved love of her life. As she remembers the vivid drama of their college romance, Sophie confronts the choices she has made in life and in love and looks for the one answer that has always eluded her: what does she really want?

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1: MONDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2011

It’s a grey morning in the windswept parking structure across from the hospital, affectionately known as “The Baxter”.  I’m huddled in my minivan with the heat going full blast, gazing out at the unlovely view of the flat, cloudy sky and the forlorn stand of leafless maple trees lining the concrete wall opposite.  I’m not here for the view, though.  This parking spot may be short on ambience, but it has cell phone reception, and I’m surveying the voicemail landscape before venturing into the office.  I punch in my code and wait.

The disembodied voice speaks: You have nine new messages.

Nine.  That’s not so bad.

First message.  Click.  Barry, definitely.  He never leaves messages.

Next message.  Click.  Ditto.  But two hang-ups before nine-fifteen is unusual.  I feel my shoulders start to creep up with anticipatory tension.

Next message.   Message marked urgent.  Uh oh.  “Hi, Sophie.  It’s Barry. I see that you’re not in yet.  I need to speak to you about the Gala as soon as you do get in. There’s a problem and you need to get on top of it.”

Next message.  “Hi Sophie, it’s Anna from the toddler room at daycare.  Scotty is pulling on his ear and seems a little fussy.  He’s OK to stay for now, but if he gets any worse we’ll have to ask you to pick him up.  OK?  Sorry about that.  We’ll call you later with an update.”

What?  No.  I dropped him off half an hour ago and he was fine.  A little phlegm-riddled, maybe, but nothing more.  If I believed in God, I would pray.  Maybe I should anyway, just to hedge my bets.

Next message.   “Hi Sophie.  It’s Janelle Moss.”  The lead volunteer on the Gala, an event controlled by a group of very wealthy women who have intense and competing agendas that I don’t even begin to understand.  Every conversation with these people is a minefield.  Happily, managing Gala volunteers is one of the few things in the office that I’m not responsible for, and whatever the problem, I’m going to punt it right back to Justine.  “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to talk to Justine yet, but we’re looking at a little change in direction on the creative for the marketing materials.  Happy to chat once Justine has filled you in.  Bye now.”

Next message.  “Sophie, it’s Justine.  Major screw-up at the Gala meeting last night.  We need to talk urgently.  Call me.” Justine is my colleague and sometime friend, when it suits her.  She runs the Event Planning department, which means that the Gala is her problem.

Next message.  “Sophie, my dear.  It’s Lillian.  I was hoping to catch you in person.  How I hate these dreadful machines!  Do give me a call today if you can.  The issue is rather time sensitive, as you young people are fond of saying.”

Lillian Parker has been one of my favorite people on earth since my last year of university, when I lived in her rambling house, paying criminally low rent in exchange for house-sitting services during her frequent sojourns abroad.  Her annual holiday party is this weekend, and I can see the invitation in my mind’s eye now, poking out of the pile in the corner of my desk that I lovingly call my Guilt Stack.  It’s not like Lil to get worked up about RSVPs, which is why the card is still buried in the Guilt Stack, but I’ll move it up to the top of the pile and deal with it once I get into the office – or by Thursday at the latest.

Next message.    “Hi Sophie.  It’s your mother.  Look honey, I know you’re busy but we have to talk about Christmas.  It’s urgent.”

Instinctively, I check the date on my BlackBerry.  Have I lost a week somewhere?  But no, it’s only December 5th.

“First of all – dinner.  I’m going to do a turducken again this year, but did Jesse like it last year?  I know he said he did, but he didn’t have seconds, so I’m not convinced.  Your brother and Dana liked it – come to think of it, did you like it?  Anyway, if you and Jesse are OK, we’ll go with the turducken again, but I want you to be honest with me if you aren’t OK with it.  Anyway, assuming that you are, we’ll go with usual sides – mashed potatoes, turnips, that rice dish that you like and probably some creamed spinach or something.  I was going to do mini shrimp cocktails for the appetizer, but did you tell me that Jesse isn’t eating seafood these days?  If not, I could always just do a soup, maybe roasted red pepper ­– that would be nice with the turducken.  I’ve been talking to your brother about dessert – he says that he doesn’t care, but I know he prefers the pumpkin pie and you always say that you prefer the lemon meringue.  So I guess I could make both, if it’s really important to you to have lem –“

Next message.  “It’s your mother again.  The machine cut me off.  Anyway, call me about dinner.  And then I need you to think about what the kids want for Christmas.  Are you doing stockings at your house or mine?  If you are doing them at mine, I’ll need to get the old stockings out and do a few repairs – they were looking kind of threadbare last year.  And also I’ll need to know if you are bringing everything for the stockings or if I need to buy some things as well.  Are you going to stay overnight here on Christmas Eve?  Because if you are, we’ll need to make a plan for dinner on the twenty-fourth.  Beef might be nice.  Does Jamie still like those transformer robots?  Because I saw a robot kit that looked amazing.  It said it was for thirteen years and up, but Jamie is such a smart little boy, I think he’d really like it.  Maybe it’s something that he and Jesse could do together; Jesse’s been working so hard.  And for Scotty I was thinking that it’s probably time to get him playing hockey; wouldn’t Jesse love that?  Maybe some little skates and a helmet and a stick?  How cute would that be?  I’m around this morning, then out for lunch with Jennie Birkin – you must remember Jennie; you went to school with Andy Birkin.  Then I’ll be back for a couple –“

End of messages.

I feel a little warm and light-headed now, and I pull down my visor mirror for an assessment.  Every day of my thirty-nine years looks back.  Grey coat, grey suit and grey roots: I really need to get my highlights done.  More alarmingly, I can feel an aching weariness in my chest.  I’ve noticed it with some regularity lately, and it makes me nervous.  Some days it’s just a knot of anxiety, but today it feels like the hole in the middle of a donut: empty but for the wind whistling through it.  I know I shouldn’t feel this hollowed out and used up at thirty-nine, but I don’t have time for that kind of reflection today.

I rummage through my purse, and locate my triage kit to deal with the problems I can solve.  I pull out the bottle of cough suppressant and take a long swig that burns going down, and then squeeze a couple of drops of Visine into each eye.  Then I attack the area under my eyes with concealer and everything else with bronzer.  And with that, I’m ready to brave the germ screening desk.

I’ve invested considerable time and energy in my relationship with Max, the guy who has been guarding the germ desk for the past six months; I know the names of his grandchildren and their ages, and how Max developed a herniated disk last year, and that Max’s wife wants him to get a storage locker for his model trains.  And because our conversations have covered extensive areas of Max’s life and times, there has been little opportunity to explore the subject of my health, which is exactly the way I want it.

But today, Max is missing.  Nigel, according to his security tag, is sitting in Max’s chair.  And judging from the length of the line, Nigel takes his job very seriously.  When I get to the front, I consider batting my eyelashes, but I suspect that insouciance of this kind has a shelf life, and mine is getting awfully close to the expiration date.  I give him what I hope is a winning smile instead.

Nigel is clearly unmoved.  He picks up his clipboard and clears this throat.  He’s going to make me do the survey.  I can’t believe it.  Max never made me do the survey.  I wonder if that’s why Max isn’t working here anymore.

“Have you experienced any coughing in the past twenty-four hours?”

“No.”  This is absolutely true.

“Sneezing?”

“No.”  Not more than everyone sneezes when they wake up in the morning, that is.  Take Jesse, for example.  He sneezes practically every morning, sometimes eight times in a row.  It doesn’t mean that he’s sick.  I myself am not a chronic sneezer like Jesse, but there is no reason to draw any dire conclusions just because I was sneezing this morning.

“Vomiting?”

“No.”

“Fever?”

“No.”  I can’t say for sure.  I don’t have a thermometer in my portable pharmacy.  And again, there are lots of other possible explanations for the flush in my cheeks today.

“Flu-like symptoms of any kind?”

“No.”

Nigel peers at me over the top of the clipboard.  If Nigel wants to, he can insist on taking my temperature, and then I’ll be in deep trouble.  But as much as he wants to, he can’t find justification today.  I almost pump my fist in the air as he moves onto the next person in line. But with Max gone, I know this is only a temporary win. Nigel is cut from a different cloth entirely. Society requires people like Nigel; without them there would be no parking officials or mall cops or hall monitors, and we would live in a state of anarchy.  And it’s important to remember this, because I dislike Nigel so intensely at this moment that I’m beginning to imagine terrible events that might befall him, and prevent him from coming to work ever again.  Not death, of course, I’d never wish for that.  A debilitating injury would be quite enough.

For the record, I approve of the hospital’s infection protection measures, at least in a theoretical sense.  And I would definitely comply with them if I were providing front line health care and believed that I posed any risk whatsoever to the hundreds of sick children upstairs.  But I’m the Director of Communications for the hospital, so I spend my days reviewing press releases and dealing with media requests, ducking my boss and trying to persuade my assistant to do some work.  I’m not saving lives.  There are lots of people in this building who do, but I’m not one of them.  And if I followed the letter of the law, and kept my flu symptoms at home, I would have worked exactly thirteen out of the last forty-five days.

In the meantime, though, it’s already nine-ten and I’m late for work.

My assistant Joy is at her desk: a mixed blessing.  She raises her tweezed eyebrows at me and murmurs, “Slow start this morning?” before turning back to her computer, where she is communing with her Facebook friends, or possibly buying designer knock-offs on eBay. But I’m not ready to declare this day a complete write-off, at least not yet, so for now I’ll act as though she works for me, and that we’re both happy about it.

“Good morning, Joy,” I say.  “I need to speak to Justine right away.  Can you find her and see if she can pop by?”

She eyes me with a combination of contempt and petulance, and my request hangs, unacknowledged, between us.  “Your phone’s been lighting up all morning,” she says.  “And Barry’s been by twice looking for you.  It’s about the Gala.”

The Gala is the hospital’s major fundraiser of the year.  It is a lavish dinner-dance for two thousand of the city’s established and upwardly mobile, and it raises over a million dollars for our medical research each year.  It is organized by a committee of well-heeled volunteers, who have lots of extra time and opinions about everything from the shade of the napkins to the font on the tablecards. It is also – mercifully – not in my portfolio, except in a tangential sense, since I oversee the marketing for the event.  I’ve attended a few committee meetings, mostly as moral support for my colleague Justine, but I begged off last night to nurse my cold.

“I’ll go and see him once I’ve had an update from Justine.  So if you could get her for me that would be great.  Thanks,” I say, retreating into my office, and closing the door behind me.

I see my computer sitting innocently enough on my desk, but I’m not fooled.  Recently, I have fallen into the habit of ascribing human characteristics to my computer, and unfortunately, our relationship has taken a turn for the pathological.  This week, I’m having trouble shaking the irrational conviction that my computer is poised for an attack; each morning, I quake inwardly as I push the power button and hear, in the hum of waking machinery, a marauding army of data collecting itself and preparing to barrel over the horizon at me.

I log in, and the screen fills with email; definitely more than twenty… could it be as many as fifty?  I look away in horror. The computer seems to vibrate with a malevolent energy; like a rabid dog, I’m convinced that it senses my fear.   I back away and step out into the hallway. “And, Joy?  Could you please call everyone and postpone the staff meeting?  I’ve got to sort out this thing with Justine.”

Joy has been at the hospital for twenty-seven years.  Her seniority guarantees her a position with someone on the Executive Team, but she gets passed around like a hot potato because she has the worst attitude in the secretarial pool.  She is also not particularly competent, and it’s hard to tell if she’s bad at her job because she hates it, or if she hates it because she’s bad at it.  You could spend a lot of time on this age-old philosophical debate about chickens and eggs, but the real take-away is this: getting good secretarial help is not unlike winning at musical chairs: the people who think it has anything to do with luck are usually the ones left standing when the music stops.  Your chances are always going to improve if you’re willing to keep your elbows out, but I, against a mountain of evidence disproving it, have always clung to the belief that civility is rewarded in the end.  And even if I were prepared to sink into the fray, my bargaining power is constrained by the fact that my department, Communications, is a cost center not a profit center, which is to say that we spend money instead of bringing it in.  This is a designation that presages all kinds of large and small disappointments.  It’s the profit centers who hold the real power in any organization, and which are routinely showered with staff and budgets.  Not for the first time, I consider the merits of my career choices.

Joy actually rolls her eyes.  “They’re not going to like it, you know.  It’s the second time this week.  Erica is totally pestering me about getting some time with you.”

“I get it,” I tell her.  “I’ll meet with them today.  I just can’t do it right now.  Can you please let them know?”

Joy sighs heavily and departs.

“Thank you, Joy,” I call after her.  “I really appreciate it!”

Deep down, I suspect that the real reason that Joy works for me is that I am the only person in the office who is willing to put up with her.   As I do each morning, I remind myself that Joy is paid to show up every day and make my life easier.  The fact that she refuses to fulfill this basic requirement calls for a serious conversation with the HR department, but I would rather suffer than invest my emotional energy in a doomed attempt at performance management.  I’m just going to wait until someone with less power than I have is hired, so that I can pass Joy off and continue the cycle of dysfunction.

I should have checked my email first. I feel a little light-headed, and am taking deep calming breaths as Justine appears in my doorway.  Justine is the Director of Special Events and the only person with less actual power than I have on the senior management team.  I feel for her.  Event planning is a career for masochists.  Events can fail for almost infinite and wholly unpredictable reasons.   Providing name tags?  You’d better hope that the temp who is preparing them remembers to include the appropriate honorific after the name of the megalomaniac on the Board.  Using audio-visuals?  Pray that the AV department sends the smart guy who actually knows how to use the equipment and not the stoner who is mailing in his last few years until he can trigger his pension and still hasn’t really figured out how to work those new-fangled computers.  Serving food?  Look out for the myriad of allergies – news to you – that are likely to endanger the life of a major donor.  While you’re at it, hope that the bartender has recovered from the fight with her boyfriend and decides to show up after all.  And here’s the kicker: even if you throw the best event in the world, the volunteers will take all the credit and you’ll be left managing feedback like “Didn’t you think the vinaigrette was a little too citrusy? Can you make sure that doesn’t happen again next year?”

Justine is made from tough stuff, though.  She’s been managing events for close to fifteen years and has nerves of steel.  But today, she looks panic-stricken.

“What happened last night?” I ask.  “Barry is freaking out.  He’s practically stalking me.  What’s going on?”

Justine groans.  “It was horrible, Sophie.  You can’t imagine.”

“I don’t understand.  I thought we were just rubber-stamping approval for the art for the posters and website last night.  It was supposed to be a short meeting.”

“I know,” says Justine.  “Claudio did a great job on the art.  Very sexy – gorgeous models, loincloths, Cleopatra – everyone loved it.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Justine wrinkles her nose as though she has just tasted something bitter.  “They don’t like the theme anymore,” she says.

I’m stunned.  We have spent months trying to get the volunteers to agree on a theme for the evening.  Every single detail flows from the theme – music, entertainment, décor and most importantly from the perspective of the volunteers, wardrobe.  It was a big day when they finally settled on Walk Like An Egyptian, which the volunteers felt provided an aesthetic bridge between the retro cool of eighties girl band music and the sophisticated elegance of the wildly fashionable Halston-style goddess dresses. More importantly from my perspective, the decision allowed us to move forward with hiring an outside designer and getting the promotional materials done.  In truth, the website should have been up a month ago.  We are supposed to start selling tickets next week.

Justine shakes her head.  “Apparently, the fundamental appeal of the Egyptian theme had to do with being able to get the Bangles to perform.”

“The Bangles,” I repeat.  This is news to me.  How did this never come up?  “Didn’t they break up, like, twenty years ago?”

“Well, it turns out that they’re back together.  They’re doing a reunion tour, and Janelle saw them in L.A. last month.  But they’re committed to a long-term gig in Vegas through the spring and can’t do the Gala.”

“Can’t we just get another girl band?”

“I tried that.” Justine grits her teeth.  “Just be glad you weren’t there, Sophie.  It was a freight train.  It couldn’t be stopped.  Janelle converted every single person on the committee in the space of ten minutes.  By the end, everyone agreed that the theme was too stiff without the Bangles tying it together.”

“Stiff?  What about the male models in loincloths, the belly dancers, the palm trees and the dance party in the Pharaoh’s tomb?”  I can’t believe this is happening.

Justine’s smile turns nasty.  “Do you know what the real problem is?” she asks.  “They suddenly realized that they’d all be wearing the same dress. Not that anyone was crass enough to come out and say it.”

“Oh my god,” I say.  “There’s no way they’ll change their minds, then?”

“Nope.”

“I need to think,” I say.  “Don’t cancel anything.”  I suddenly remember Barry.  “What are we going to tell Barry?”

“I think he knows,” says Justine.  “Janelle said that she was going to tell him.”

As if on cue, Joy pops her head in the door.  “Barry wants to see you now,” she says.

“Are you coming with me?”  I ask Justine.

“Not a chance, friend,” she replies.  “My ears are still ringing from the slap down I got from him this morning.  I’m planning on staying out of his way for as long as possible.  Anyway, you can handle him.  He likes you.  More than he likes me, at least.”

“Low bar,” I say.

KateHiltonPic**Contact the author, Kate Hilton!

Email: kate@katehilton.com

Website   Facebook   Goodreads   Twitter

**Don’t forget, the book is FREE May 17th – 19th only!

Chick Lit is Alive and Kicking!

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KCARC

I’ve not written a blog post in quite a while, so thank you to my followers for being patient with me.  In the meantime, I hope you have enjoyed my posts about featured authors and books.

I’m proud to say that I am a huge fan of the Chick Lit genre.  Without the following authors, I wouldn’t have been inspired to be the Chick Lit Goddess.  For this, I say thank you to Olivia Goldsmith, Jane Green, Jennifer Weiner, Meg Cabot, Candace Bushnell, Jane Porter, and of course, Emily Giffin, for inspiring me.

Through my Chick Lit Goddesses Facebook group, I found something that really made me mad, mad being the nice way of saying it.  On Monday there was an article on The Atlantic written by Emily Matchar titled “Chick Lit Is Dead, Long Live Farm Lit.”  Stemming from the numerous comments on the FB page, I was curious, so I clicked the link and began to read.  Without explaining the article word-by-word, I’m going to share the following sentences that really had me livid.

  • Well I have news. Yes, chick lit is dead (or dying, at least). But in its place, we now have a new genre. Call it “farm lit.”
  • Thanks to the economy, picket fences and scruffy farm hands have replaced stilettos and cute i-bankers in literature aimed at women. (This was the subtitle.)
  • So many of chick lit’s tropes—stilettos! Fighting for your big break in journalism! Cute i-bankers! The hottest new nightclub in the Meatpacking District!—were part of a boomtime economy. These days, we’re mostly wearing flats, journalism is breathing its last gasps, we’d rather throw i-bankers in jail than date them, and cupcake baking seems a lot more fun (and cheaper!) than clubbing.

First off, what the hell is “farm lit?”  I even Googled it, then laughed to myself when no definition was given.  Just because a city girl runs off to a small town doesn’t make it “farm lit.”  In my third book, Somewhere Down in Texas, which I’m still writing, it is about a big city girl who goes back home to Texas, but does that make it “farm lit”?  No!  To me, it doesn’t matter where the setting is.  In Kristina Knight’s books, there are strong elements of country girls and I consider them to be Chick Lit.

Has Chick Lit changed overtime?  Yes, but that doesn’t mean the genre has disappeared.  If anything, I think it’s grown more popular because of modern times.  We want someone to relate to us, so what do we do?  Pick up a Chick Lit.  Have you ever read a Chick Lit and after finishing it, said, “Geez, that’s my life?”  I know I have!  Think how many Chick Lit books Jennifer Weiner and Emily Giffin have written.  How many times have they been at top of the charts?  Between the two of them, they’ve written 18 books, and I don’t seem them stopping soon.

After taking a long sigh, I did some research on the author of The Atlantic article.  Emily Matchar seems to be very opinionated, black and white writer, who sees no shades of grey.  On her website, it said that she went to Harvard.  Now, I’m not saying she was in a library the entire time and didn’t have fun, but the way she bashed the Chick Lit genre so bad, it seems that way.  By the title of her book, which is coming out soon, Homeward Bound seems like it would be a great fit for women in the 1950’s.  There is nothing wrong with, as the quote says on her site, the  “new domesticity” – the re-embrace of all kinds of old-fashioned domestic skills, like canning, bread-baking, knitting, chicken-raising, etc.,” but times have changed.  Women are in the workforce, so what’s wrong with taking a breath and running to the country for a getaway, or even an extended stay?  Nothing!

I want to let Emily Matchar know that Chick Lit is alive and kicking, so “farm lit,” is dead!

I’d love to hear what you have to say, so please leave a comment!

Jackie Bouchard

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Jackie&Rita-B&W

About author, Jackie Bouchard:  Jackie Bouchard used to write reports, newsletters, and presentations as part of her work as a Market Intelligence Analyst. While she loved the writing part, it was the trapped-in-the-corporate-hamster-wheel part she could do without. So she began working on a novel in her spare time. Eventually she scampered free of the hamster wheel, and now focuses on writing full time.

Her work has been published in San Diego CityBeat magazine and the San Diego Writers, Ink’s anthology, A Year in Ink, Vol. 3. Her first novel, What the Dog Ate, is a dog-friendly romantic comedy.

Jackie’s mission in writing is to bring her readers smiles, laughter, and the ability to forget about their troubles for a while, whether via her novels or her blog Pooch Smooches. She started the blog when her fifteen-month-old puppy, Abby, was diagnosed with bone cancer and had to have her leg amputated. Not an easy subject to keep light and humorous, but Abby lived on three legs with such gusto and grace for the remaining fifteen months of her life that she taught Jackie much about facing adversity and living in the moment.

Now Jackie mainly blogs about Rita, her rescue pup from Mexico. With Jackie being American, her husband a Canadian, and Rita from Mexico, they show that these NAFTA arrangements really can work out. Jackie and her husband have lived on both coasts of the U.S., Canada and Bermuda. They now live in San Diego.

INTERVIEW

Describe your writing style in five sentences:  I get a little idea (e.g. a dog eating some panties that don’t belong to his married momma) and dive in. I’m not a plotter – I like to come up with some characters and a situation and see what happens. If I know too much about where the story is going, it’s not fun for me. I like to discover where the story leads, just as the reader will. My method leads to lots of revising, but I’m one of those odd writers that enjoys revising.

When did you love for dogs begin?  Oh, gosh, it started back before I can even remember. My dad brought a beagle puppy home when I was only about two or three so, other than when I was away at college and when I lived in Bermuda, I’ve always had a dog.

Walk us through your writing/editing/publishing process:  I’m not a “write every day” gal. I sometimes take big breaks away from my writing—partly because once I start, I have a hard time stopping. Not much else gets done when I’m writing/editing because I get so sucked in to it. The bummer is that since I don’t plot, I often go off on tangents with my stories and a lot of stuff ends up on the virtual “cutting-room floor.” But I figure, it’s all good. Even the stuff that doesn’t make it in helps me work out who my characters are, back-stories, etc.

As I said before, I really like editing. I edit a lot as I go along, reading over the previous day’s work before I start writing each day. I’m actually trying to break myself of that habit, and instead just sit down and start writing new stuff first, because otherwise I can get so caught up in the search for the “perfect” words, that I often end up with nothing new written at the end of the day! Okay, I said I “like” editing – but I really love it. I get a dorky little thrill out of finding the perfect verb or cutting away any words that aren’t absolutely necessary. It’s a wonder I ever finish anything!

As for the publishing process, I have an agent, and we did try to find a traditional publisher for What the Dog Ate, but it was back in early 2009, after the market crashed. Not great timing. I tried to move on and started working on two other books, but my “first baby” was always in the back of my mind. In early 2012, I was having dinner with my agent and she suggested that I self-publish the book, so I did.

Who or what inspires you?  That’s a tough question for me, actually. There’s no one single thing or person that inspires me, but lots of people inspire me every day: my hubby, because he works so hard; my self-pubbed writer friends (especially lots of the Chick Lit Goddesses) because I see them achieving lots of great things; my dogs because they understand how to live in the present and not fret about tomorrow. And me, too! I inspire me – I want to be the best I can.

How do you come up with the titles of your books?  I don’t really have one set way. What the Dog Ate came out of a brain-storming session way back when it was just a short story I wrote for a beginning creative writing class. My agent wanted me to change it because she worried people would think it was a mystery, but we tried and couldn’t come up with anything else. What the dog ate is really what the book’s about – the whole way through.

For another book I’m working on, I thought of the title and the first line before anything else. I started writing based on those two wee tidbits. The title is a riff on a popular movie title, but I’m not ready to share it yet. **attempts to wink coyly; flubs it** [never been good at being coy.]

For my next release, I’ve been using the working title Just Only Jane, but I’m still trying other titles on for size. (In fact, I just attempted a brain-storming session today… but nothing grabbed me). Just Only Jane is a riff on one of my favorite books from when I was a kid, Just Only John. Since Jane is such a loner, I thought it fit, but… I’m still searching for something that might be more perfect.

What are you reading right now?  I’m reading The Love Dog by Elsa Watson, (if you like Chick Lit and dogs, check out Elsa’s books), and I’m also reading Save the Cat! (Funny – just realized I’m reading a cat and a dog book at the same time. I do love cats, even though I’m a certified dog person, but I’m allergic to them!) Anyway, Save the Cat! is technically for screenwriters, but it’s helpful for novelists too.

How did you celebrate when your first book was published?  Showered. Put some makeup on. I think I even washed my hair! No seriously – this is pretty boring, but What the Dog Ate was published just before my birthday, so the “hooray, I’m published” celebrations got rolled into the usual birthday celebrations: a lunch date with cocktails and cake with my sisters, lunch with my girlfriends, a nice dinner with the hubs.

Hard/paperbacks or eBooks?  I love a “real” book, but I read tons more books on my iPad now. For one thing, my hubs likes to sleep in on the weekends, so when I wake up early, I can hang out in bed with my iPad and read without turning the light on and bugging him. I used to love to own books. I had tons of them and would buy them all the time. But we live in Southern California where there’s fire danger pretty much every year. One year we had to prepare to evacuate (although luckily we never did actually evacuate!) and I realized how little of my “stuff” I really cared about. After that I stopped buying a lot of hard-copy books. Now, if we ever have to evacuate, the iPad will be one of the first things in the car!

You knew you were a writer when…?  I used to write very bad poetry as a kid, and I was very into all the arts. But as I grew up, I realized I was also a very practical person. I wanted to have a good job that would pay the bills. Since I liked numbers (yes, I like words and numbers, both!) I ended up majoring in Accounting. I liked my career(s) for a while, but eventually ended up feeling like a creative person trapped in a practical person’s body. I didn’t seriously start to write until about seven years ago, and even then I was just looking for something to do at night to keep busy because my hub’s work is very demanding and he works late most nights. Because I wasn’t clutching a pen from a young age, and because I don’t write every day, and because I’m not traditionally published, I often had a hard time thinking of myself as a “true” writer…until I came across this quote from Pulitzer Prize winner Junot Diaz a few years ago and realized, hey I am a writer!

“…in my view a writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway.” ~ Junot Diaz

Where is your favorite place to write?  I need quiet to write, so I do most of my work at home at my desk. I have a lovely view out my window and it’s very calm and peaceful. (Except for when my neighbor is standing on his roof naked – but luckily that only happened once!)

What’s the best advice you’ve been given?  This is the moral from Just Only John, the book I mentioned above, which I still own – and it works for writing as well as life in general: “Be yourself, because somebody has to and you’re the closest.”

Can you tell us about any of your upcoming projects?  I mentioned Just Only Jane above. The manuscript is “finished” (are they ever really finished??) and my agent is reading it at the moment. **reaches for bottle of whiskey; chews at fingernails**

I’ve already sent it out to my betas, and my sis is copy-editing it for me right now (she’s awesome!). However, I still haven’t managed to write a decent blurb for it, so bear with me while I try to say what it’s about it under 2000 words!

It’s the story of Jane, a 38-year-old loner, who’s just lost both her husband and her dog to cancer. She’s sadder about the dog though… but no one knows. She’d been about to tell her husband that she wanted a divorce, but then he got sick. Now, she’s free to move from Philly, where he dragged her six years ago, back to her home town of San Diego, where she dreams of picking up her old routine with her two life-long best friends. But, with no job to return to, she’s roped in to helping at her uncle’s B&B in small town Prescott, Arizona for a few months. On her way there, she finds a stray dog at a rest area, but she’s determined not to let this mutt creep into her heart. Can Jane keep her sanity while trying to get back to San Diego? Or will she lose it with the “annoying ass-hats” (a.k.a. guests) at the B&B? Maybe a little of both…

**Contact Jackie:  Website   Facebook   Twitter   Email: jackie@jackiebouchard.com

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**Buy Jackie’s book, “What the Dog Ate”, on Amazon!

Tall, Dark and Kilted

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TallDarkandKilted

Book Blurb of “Tall, Dark and Kilted”

Fliss Bagshawe longs for a passport out of Pimlico where she works as a holistic therapist. After attending a party in Notting Hill she loses her job and with it the dream of being her own boss. She’s offered the chance to take over a failing therapy centre, but there’s a catch. The centre lies five hundred miles north in Wester Ross, Scotland.

Fliss’s romantic view of the highlands populated by Men in Kilts is shattered when she has an upclose and personal encounter with the Laird of Kinloch Mara, Ruairi Urquhart. He’s determined to pull the plug on the business, bring his eccentric family to heel and eject undesirables from his estate – starting with Fliss. Facing the dole queue once more Fliss resolves to make sexy, infuriating Ruairi revise his unflattering opinion of her, turn the therapy centre around and sort out his dysfunctional family.

Can Fliss tame the Monarch of the Glen and find the happiness she deserves? Read Tall, Dark and Kilted and find out !

Chapter One

The music hit Fliss as she rounded the corner of Elgin Crescent, Notting Hill. The sugared almond pink and yellow houses were almost vibrating in the late May evening as I Predict a Riot blasted out from an open window half way down the street. Her stomach flipped over with a mixture of excitement and nerves as she acknowledged the Kaiser Chiefs were bang on message.

It was going to be that kind of night. That kind of party.

She gazed wide-eyed at the grand houses and the expensive cars parked in front of them. It wasn’t every day she was invited to this exclusive postcode. In fact, she was more likely to be found passively inhaling her friends’ cigarette smoke over shared laughter, gossip and Mojitos outside her favourite pub in Pimlico than hanging with the Notting Hill set.

But, tonight was different. If she read Isla Urquhart’s invitation correctly, she was about to be made an offer she couldn’t refuse. One which would whisk her away from her poorly paid job at Pimlico Pamperers therapy centre and propel her towards . . . well, if not stardom exactly, then something more promising than the long hours and low wages which were currently her lot.

She drew near the Urquharts’ house where Isla was holding court at the top of the stone steps. Ranged below her on the pavement were two Police Community Support Officers and a group of angry neighbours. The butterflies, which had been performing loop the loops in her stomach all the way up from the station, slipped on black opaque tights and hard shoes and broke into Riverdance.

‘We won’t ask you again Miss, turn that music down.’

Isla insolently flicked cigarette ash in the PCSO’s direction, but in spite of her defiant stance she looked openly relieved to see Fliss coming along the street. ‘You tell them Fliss. They won’t listen to me.’

‘Tell them what exactly?’ Sensing a Mexican standoff developing, Fliss readied herself to push through the cordon of police and neighbours, bundle Isla indoors and get down to the serious matter of discussing the proposal Isla had mentioned a couple of days earlier.

‘About Mumma – Being – In – India.’ Isla enunciated slowly, putting an exaggerated stress on each word.

Quickly realising what was required of her, Fliss said smoothly, ‘She’s at an ashram in India, officer – Jaipur to be precise – having her chakras freed. Won’t be home for weeks. Would you like the number?’ With all the aplomb of an Oscar winning actress she slipped easily into role, scrolling through her mobile phone and then pausing. ‘But, with the time difference and various treatments I really can’t see her coming to the phone.’

Clearly, she’d said the right thing because she was summoned to stand on the top step. And for a moment she felt chosen, special and it didn’t seem to matter that she was a poorly paid holistic therapist and Isla a Notting Hill trustafarian with money to burn. They were friends, in this together and that’s all that mattered.

‘She’s probably posted a notice on Facebook. The Crescent will be swamped with rioters and the gardens trashed by hoodies,’ one neighbour persisted, clearly underwhelmed by the PCSO’s performance.

At that moment, the Ministry of Sound medley blaring through the open window ended and a blissful silence descended on Elgin Crescent. Everyone drew breath, the policemen and neighbours made as if to walk away – then the music resumed and Johnny Rotten informed everyone he was an anarchist.

This, apparently, was a groove too far for Isla’s neighbour.

‘That’s it; I’m calling your brother . . .’

For a moment, Isla’s poise wavered and the colour drained from her cheeks. Fliss wondered what kind of man had the power to dent the thick armour of her self-belief where a visit from the police had no effect. But she wasn’t allowed time for further reflection because Isla was back with a vengeance.

‘Ruairi’s too busy to bother himself with the likes of you. Anyway, chillax – we’re moving into the communal gardens.’ She waved a queenly hand at them.

‘Those gardens are for residents!’ a second neighbour spluttered.

‘And the Urquharts have lived here longer than any of you,’ she said, looking down her aristocratic nose at them. The police officers exchanged a let’s-get-this-over-with look and moved in.

‘Right. That’s enough! You,’ the elder officer addressed Fliss, ‘take her indoors. Close the window and turn down the music. Or this party will be over quicker than you can say: injunction.’

Seizing the Get Out of Jail Free card, Fliss dragged Isla over the threshold and slammed the front door behind her. She stood with her back pressed against its reassuring solidity as Isla, predictably without a word of thanks, sauntered off towards the back of the house where – judging by the noise, the party was in full swing.

At that moment, Fliss remembered her best friend and fellow therapist at Pimlico Pamperers had nicknamed Isla and her sister Cat: The Spawn of Satan, and resolved to proceed with caution. Longing for a quiet place to marshal her thoughts and make some sense of why she’d been invited here tonight, Fliss made her way towards the cloakroom.

As she did so, the motto on a t-shirt she’d seen at Camden Locks Market flashed into mind: If you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch. Maybe that was the point of her being here – to determine if she was poodle or Rottweiler; worthy of inclusion in Isla’s posse, or not. She knew Isla collected friends irrespective of class or upbringing, provided they were amusing – or, as she suspected was more likely in her case – could be of use to her.

Although just what service she could render the honourable Miss Isla Urquhart wasn’t immediately obvious.

She tried to shake off the feeling of disquiet, of being out of her comfort zone that accompanied her along the shadowy hallway. How could she fit into Cat and Isla’s world? They had a trust fund to smooth their path and make life pleasant, whereas all she had to look forward to for the next forty years was work, work, and more work.

The very thought made her head ache.

But just for tonight, she was going to allow herself to imagine what might happen if Fate – maybe in the unlikely form of Isla Urquhart – intervened and sent some good karma her way. She pulled a face and took a reality check – there was little hope of that happening. Hard work would get her out of her rented flat in Pimlico; not Fate, karma or a knight in shining Armani. And, for the record, knights in armour – designer or otherwise – had been thin on the ground of late.

She headed towards a door screened by a thick curtain embroidered with appliquéd elephants and tiny, tarnished silver mirrors. She tried the door, but it was locked. One of Isla’s friends was probably in there snorting illegal substances, she thought annoyed, while she was standing cross-legged, desperate to use the loo. She gave the door a kick and rapped on it with her knuckles in an attempt to hurry up the occupant.

‘Give us a minute, will ya?’ came back a voice that was more Chelmsford than Chelsea.

This was followed by a thump, the sound of breaking glass and hyena-like laughter. The key turned, the curtain was pulled back and peering round the door with a broken mirror in her hand and looking guilty as hell, was her best friend Becky Casterton.

LizzieLamb2**Contact Lizzie:  Website   Blog   Facebook – Lizzie Lamb   Facebook – New Romantics   Twitter – Lizzie Lamb   Twitter – The New Romantics 4

**Click HERE to buy “Tall, Dark and Kilted”!

**Additional comments by Lizzie:  After an inspiring talk by a well published author I decided to form my own publishing group The New Romantics 4 with three other writers and we self published our books autumn 2012. It’s been hard work but we’ve never looked back. Read more about us and our route to publication on our blog (above).

BongoManinKiltHere’s a picture of Lizzy’s husband wearing a kilt and holding her book!

Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

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About author, Carolyn Ridder Aspenson:  Rarely can you find Carolyn without a book, or her Nook with her. Reading for her has always been an escape, a way of discovering a world different than her own. Throughout her education, her teachers encouraged her to nourish her muse and she did, often to the neglect of her mathematical genius, which clearly left and found another human before long division in fourth grade. Her math skills still suffer today. She traveled the journalism route in college but never felt the connection and finally opted out of writing as a career in general. Carolyn never gave up writing for fun. She wrote to express herself, to understand her feelings and to let the muse have her say. The invention of the Internet allowed Carolyn and her muse to write things others could read and with that, she eventually began freelance writing through various avenues. She currently writes for several local papers and magazines in the Atlanta area and finally took the dive into self-publishing with her debut novel, Unfinished Business An Angela Panther Novel. Carolyn wrote her first novel to honor her mother – she felt the need to let her mother’s voice live on and wrote the book as a way to handle her grief. Her first novel has only been out for a week and she hopes someone other than friends will buy it. Carolyn is already working on the second book of the series. Carolyn is a mother of three with a husband she refers to as her ‘hottie hubby’, two dogs and a cat who thinks she’s the queen of the house.  Carolyn, however, disagrees.

INTERVIEW

Describe your writing style in five words:  Can I phone a friend?

When did you know you were a writer?  That’s a tough one. I thought I was a writer when I started writing for a website about ABC soap operas, (here’s a plug) http://www.allmywriters.com. Then I thought I was a writer when I started to get paid for doing marketing pieces for a promotion company. Once I started freelancing for the papers here in Atlanta and saw my first front-page article, I decided I was a real writer but when I published my book, I thought I was a writer too. Looking back, I think being a writer isn’t determined by someone purchasing your work or by the fact that you’re paid to write something specific. I think being a writer is something you finally feel inside, it comes with the accomplishment of something important in your own world…in your own opinion of yourself. For me, I’m not entirely sure that’s happened. I am overly critical of myself and my own accomplishments and in that drive to improve, I think I feel I’m never good enough or just out of reach of my goal, because my goal keeps changing. A psychiatrist would have a field day with me.

Who is your favorite author?  I have a few. My favorite author is Robert Parker, who passed a few years ago. He is the author of the Spenser series. Some might remember the TV show Spenser For Hire (I’m dating myself here, I know!) Close seconds are Harlan Coben and Robert Crais.

Walk us through your writing/editing/publishing process:  Oh boy. My writing process is still ‘undecided’. Some days I don’t write at all and some days I spend the entire day writing. With my book, I was so critical and unsure of myself I wrote and rewrote for six months and then one day I stopped and didn’t start up again for almost a year. The restart lasted about three months and throughout the entire process I re-read and edited almost daily. I’m hoping to NOT do that as much with the second book. I did hire a professional editor for the clean up and she told me she should have given me a discount because there wasn’t much to clean. I suspect my second book will be messier. I published through a great program that distributes the book to other outlets and it was easier than I expected. I’m still searching for a publisher or agent who will think I’m worth a shot.

If you’re not reading or writing, then you’re probably…:  at my son’s lacrosse game or practice or sadly, cleaning. I’m OCD about cleaning. It’s a curse.

Where do you get your ideas?  The ideas in my first book come from my personal experience of losing my mother and what I would ‘like’ things to be like for me now. I also researched teenager issues because I didn’t want to use anything about my kids issues (they all have them!) and have them whine at me about it. I also have some great friends who have wonderful senses of humor to bounce ideas off of, who added a lot of fun to my story.

What is your favorite word?  Probably. I love that it’s almost committing but not quite. My second favorite word is ‘duck’ and that’s because when I text, my phone always autocorrects a very inappropriate swear word to it. I know use it instead of the real swear word and it instantly makes me feel better. Probably I should use it more in my writing, too.

How did you come up with the title of your book, “Unfinished Business”?  I used an Italian phrase in my book and it means “Unfinished Business” and it clicked for me. Apparently it’s clicked for other writers also because it’s the name of several books, so I added the “An Angela Panther Novel” to it just in case.

Hard/paperbacks or eBooks?  I have a paperback on Amazon however I’m rethinking how I got it there because I’m not comfortable with the process costs.

Where do you want to be five years from now?  On the top of the NY Best Seller list. If that means I have to stand on a paper with the printed list on it, then that’s what I’ll do, but I’d prefer my name actually BE on the list. At the top.

What is the best advice you’ve been given?  “Finish the book.” During my hiatus, (which was actually more of a “duck, it. I give up” time, really) I had a dream that my mother and I were sitting in her old kitchen, drinking coffee. She looked at me and said, “You need to finish the book before you move out of your house.” I took that two ways – finish the book and repair the crap that needs repair in your house because you’re going to move soon. I’m still working on repairing the crap, but so far we have no plans to move. She might know something different, however.

Can you tell us about any of your upcoming projects?  I’m already working on book two of the series and hope to have it done in a timely matter, by the end of the year.  In the first book, Angela’s life changes in a huge way. In book two, it changes again and she works to change it back. She’s also working to help her best friend find proof that her husband is cheating on her. To do that, she’s got to enlist the help of her mother, who by the way is dead.

BOOK FEATURE

Unfinished BusinessBook blurb “Unfinished Business; An Angela Panther Novel”

When Angela’s mother Fran dies and comes back as a ghost, Angela’s ordinary life turns into a carnival show, starring both Angela and her nosy, dead mother.

It seems Fran’s got some unfinished business on earth and she’s determined to get it done, no matter what.

When Fran returned, she reignited her daughter’s long suppressed psychic gift, one she neglected to mention to Angela, and now Angela sees ghosts everywhere. And they won’t leave her alone.

Fran can’t help but stick her transparent nose where it doesn’t belong, making Angela’s life even crazier.

Now Angela has to find a way to keep her old life in tact and help the dead with their unfinished business, all while trying to keep her dead mother out of trouble.

And it’s a lot for one woman to handle.

**Click on the links below to watch trailers of “Unfinished Business; An Angela Panther Novel”

Trailer one and Trailer two

CHAPTER ONE

The air in the room felt frigid and sent an icy chill deep into my bones. Searching for comfort, I lay on the rented hospice bed, closed my eyes, and snuggled under Ma’s floral print quilt. I breathed in her scent, a mixture of Dove soap, Calvin Klein Eternity perfume and stale cigarettes. The stench of death lingered in the air, trying hard to take over my senses, but I refused to let it in. Death may have taken my mother, but not her smell. Not yet.

“You little thief, I know what you did now.”

I opened my eyes and searched the room, but other than my Pit Bull, Grey Hound mix Gracie, and me, it was empty. Gracie sensed my ever-so-slight movement, looked up from her spot next to the bed, sniffed the air, and laid her head back down. I saw my breath, which wouldn’t have been a big deal except it was May, in Georgia. I closed my eyes again.

“I know you can hear me, Angela. Don’t you ignore me.”

I opened my eyes again. “Ma?”

Floating next to the bed, in the same blue nightgown she had on when she died, was my mother, or more likely, some grief-induced image of her.

“Ma,” I said, and then laughed out loud. “What am I saying? It’s not you. You’re dead.”

The grief-induced image spoke. “Of course I’m dead, Angela, but I told you if I could, I’d come back. And I can so, ta-da, here I am.”

The image floated up in the air, twirled around in a few circles and floated back down.

I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to right my brain or maybe shake loose the crazy, but it was pointless because when I opened my eyes again, the talking image of my mother was still there.

“Oh good grief, stop it. It’s not your head messing with you, Angela. It’s me, your Ma. Now sit up and listen to me. This is important.”

As children we’re conditioned to respond to our parents when they speak to us. We forget it as teenagers, but somewhere between twenty and the birth of our first child, we start acknowledging them again, maybe even believing some of what they tell us. Apparently it was no different when you imagined their ghost speaking to you, too. Crazy maybe, but no different.

I rubbed my eyes. “This is a dream, so I might as well go with it,” I said.

I sat up, straightened my back, plastered a big ol’ smile on my face – because it was a dream and I could be happy the day my mom died, in a dream – and said, “Hi Ma, how are you?”

“You ate my damn Hershey bars,” she said.

“Hershey bars? I dream about my dead mother and she talks about Hersey bars. What is that?”

“Don’t you act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Angela,” she said.

“But I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ma.” I shook my head again and thought for sure I was bonkers, talking to an imaginary Ma.

“Oh for the love of God, Angela, my Hershey bars. The ones I hid in the back of my closet.”

Oh. Those Hershey bars, from like, twenty years ago, at least. The ones I did eat.

“How do you know it was me that ate your Hershey bars? That was over twenty years ago.”

The apparition smirked. “I don’t know how I know, actually. I just do. I know about all of the stuff you did, and your brothers too. It’s all in here now,” she said with a smirk, and pointed to her slightly transparent head.

She floated up to the ceiling, spun in a circle, and slowly floated back down. “And look, I’m floating. Bet you wish you could do that, don’t you, Angela? You know, I’d sit but I tried that before and fell right through to the damn basement. And let me tell you, that was not fun. It was creepy, and it scared the crap outta me. And oh, Madone, the dust between your two floors! Good Lord, it was nasty. You need to clean that. No wonder Emily’s always got a snotty nose. She’s allergic.”

“Emily does not always have a snotty nose,” I said, even though she did.

The apparition started to say something, then looked at the bed. “Ah, Madone, that mattress. That was the most uncomfortable thing I ever slept on, but don’t get me started on that. That’s a conversation for another time.”

Another time?

“And,” she continued, “I hated that chair,” she said while pointing to the chair next to the bed. “You should have brought my chair up here instead. I was dying and you wanted me to sit in that chair? What with that uncomfortable bed and ugly chair, my back was killing me.” She smiled at her own joke, but I sat there stunned, and watched the apparition’s lips move, my own mouth gaping, as I tried to get my mind and my eyes to agree on what floated in front of me.

“Ah, Madone. Stop looking at me like that, Angela Frances Palanca. You act like you’ve never seen a ghost.”

“Ma, I haven’t ever seen a ghost, and my name is Angela Panther, not Palanca. You know that.” My mother always called me Angela Palanca, and it drove both my father and me batty. She said I was the closest thing to a true Italian she could create, and felt I deserved the honor of an Italian last name. She never liked Richter, my maiden name, because she said it was too damned German.

“And that recliner of yours was falling apart. I was afraid you’d hurt yourself in it. Besides, it was ugly, and I was sort of embarrassed to put it in the dining room.” I shook my head again. “And you’re not real, you’re in my head. I watched them take your body away, and I know for a fact you weren’t breathing, because I checked.”

Realizing that I was actually having a discussion with someone who could not possibly be real, I pinched myself to wake up from what was clearly some kind of whacked-out dream.

“Stop that, you know you bruise easily. You don’t want to look like a battered wife at my funeral, do you?”

Funeral? I had no intention of talking about my mother’s funeral with a figment of my imagination. I sat for a minute, speechless, which for me, was a huge challenge.

“They almost dropped you on the driveway, you know.” I giggled, and then realized what I was doing, and immediately felt guilty – for a second.

Ma scrunched her eyebrows and frowned. “I know. I saw that. You’d think they’d be more careful with my body, what with you standing there and all. There you were, my daughter, watching them take away my lifeless, battered body, and I almost went flying off that cart. I wanted to give them a what for, and believe me, I tried, but I felt strange, all dizzy and lightheaded. Sort of like that time I had those lemon drop drinks at your brother’s wedding. You know, the ones in those little glasses? Ah, that was a fun night. I haven’t danced like that in years. I could have done without the throwing up the next day, though, that’s for sure.”

Lifeless, battered body? What a dramatic apparition I’d imagined.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes and considered pinching myself again, but decided the figment was right, I didn’t want to be all bruised for the funeral.

There I sat, in the middle of the night, feeling wide awake, but clearly dreaming. I considered telling her to stay on topic, seeing as dreams don’t last very long, and maybe my subconscious needed my dream to process her death, but instead said, “This is just a dream,” because I was trying to convince myself this apparition wasn’t real.

She threw her hands up in the air. “Again with the dreaming. It’s not a dream, Angela. You’re awake, and I’m here, in the flesh.” She held her transparent hand up and looked at it. “Okay, so not exactly in the flesh, but you know what I mean.”

This wasn’t my mother, I knew this, because my mother died today, in my house, in this bed, in a dining room turned bedroom. I was there. I watched it happen. She had lung cancer, or, as she liked to call it, the big C. And today, as her body slowly shut down, and her mind floated in and out of consciousness, I talked to her. I told her everything I lacked the courage to say before, when she could talk back and acknowledge my fear of losing her. And I kept talking as I watched her chest rise and fall, slower and slower, until it finally stilled. I talked to her as she died, and because I still had so much more to say, I kept talking for hours after her body shut down. I told her how much I loved her, how much she impacted my life. I told her how much she drove me absolutely crazy, and yet I couldn’t imagine my life without her.

So this wasn’t Ma, couldn’t possibly be. “You’re dead.”

The figment of my imagination shook her head and frowned, then moved closer, and looked me straight in the eye. I could see through her to the candelabra on the wall. Wow, it looked dusty. When was it last dusted?

“Of course I’m dead, Angela. I’m a ghost.”

I shook my head, trying hard not to believe her, but I just didn’t feel like I was sleeping, so God help me, I did.

My name is Angela Panther and I see dead people. Well, one dead person, that is, and frankly, one was enough.

**Contact Carolyn:  Website   Email:  carolynridderaspenson@gmail.com   Facebook   Twitter