As Lanie strolled along the tree lined pathways that meandered through the urban park, she often imagined living in one of the apartments overlooking the venue. One with a balcony where a wide array of plants in multi-colored pots competed for their place in the sun.
Of course she knew there were times when the goings on in the park might distract from her peace. The solstices, when virgins were offered up in exchange for safe passage between the seasons, would be particularly messy. Better, perhaps, to stay in her current dwelling, where the only inconvenience might be the occasional burglary.
About a week ago I realized that Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort was nearing five hundred reviews on Amazon, and I took a moment to let that soak in. When I wrote the book I never dreamed anyone other than my small group of friends and maybe a few family members might read it. Okay, maybe I dreamed others might take a chance on it, but I certainly wasn’t making any bets.
I’d really thought of Mayhem as a stand-alone novel—that explains its length. For better or worse, I wanted to get as many loose ends tied up as possible. Chalk that up to being a rookie author.
Then, lo and behold, readers I’d never even met began reading the book and asking for a sequel. Of course no miracles were involved other than a generous fellow author, Lori Roberts Herbst, taking the time to show me how to advertise on Facebook. That she retains her sanity after working with me is the true miracle. Check out her award winning cozy mysteries on Amazon.
Mayhem remains my best selling book, but its sequel, Wedding at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort is gaining traction. And I’m hoping we’ll have Reunion at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort ready to publish in time for it to qualify as a summer read. Oh, and there’s a spicy little romance, The Cowboy and the Executive, with my name on the cover, as well.
There was a brief period in my life when I was considered adorable. It began the day I was born and ended around the time I entered kindergarten. Somewhere there is photographic proof, but I’m too lazy to go through all the pictures from those long ago years. Let’s just say that any one of my school pictures from first grade through my junior year would make excellent dart board targets. Senior year photos weren’t any better, and to make it worse, featured feathers around my skinny bare shoulders. Shudder.
So, one might deduce, and correctly so, that I shy away from having my picture taken. Regardless of how much I prepare or practice or primp, my smile always seems to look slightly unhinged at its best or dour at its worst.
So when I needed a good head shot to put on the author’s website a good friend is helping me develop for my books, I was in despair. Should I pay for a professional photographer? That’s never worked for me in the past. Should I just take a selfie and be done with it? Or, should I turn to Studly Doright whose photography experience is limited to taking multiple shots of whichever motorcycle he’s currently got for sale on eBay.
I feared hearing, “Here, honey, let’s get a closer picture of your gas tank. Polish it up a little first.”
But in the end. I risked it. After all, he works for free, and he’s never once failed to find a buyer for a bike.
“Who knows,” I thought. “We might even get lucky.”
And I believe we might have. Help me choose.
12Or maybe this slightly deranged one? 3
Yes, my hair is imperfect in the first two, but that’s a given in my world. I think Studly did pretty well. And just in case these go on eBay, I get really good gas mileage.
I met him today. That epically incompetent human known as Florida Man. He was working the cash register at Walgreens and when I finally made it to the front of the line I asked him where a specific product could be found.
He shrugged.
“Can’t you look that up on an inventory list?” I asked.
“I never heard of that product. Maybe try the pharmacy.”
I walked back to the pharmacy where a very nice pharmacist waited on me. When I asked about the product she said, “Oh, yes. We have that, but it’s not with the pharmaceuticals. Let me show you.”
She left her section and walked with me to the item I was searching for. I thanked her and went back into the cashier’s line.
Florida Man looks at my item and says, “See, I told you it was in the pharmacy.”
“No sir. The nice pharmacist led me to your part of the store. It was on aisle one.”
“Hm. Well, I never stocked it.”
Now, this is where r go weird. He rang my product up, then asked, “Would you like to donate to runaway children with Alzheimer’s?”
I said, “That makes absolutely no sense. Children don’t get Alzheimer’s except in extremely rare cases of rapid premature aging.”
“That’s what it says on the box of red noses. For the benefit of runaway children with Alzheimer’s”
I looked at the box filled with red rubber clown noses. “Sir, these are given in exchange for donations to fight childhood poverty. Not for runaway children with Alzheimer’s.”
“Maybe they meant autism. Runaway children with autism. That’s who the red noses benefit. Do you want to donate?”
“Oh good grief. Sure. Just read the box before you misrepresent the purpose of the red noses again.”
As I left the store, I heard him ask another customer, “Do you want to donate to runaway children with Alzheimer’s?”
For some reason, Amazon thought this would appeal to me. Me. A 65-year-old grandmother of five. I’ve sure done something to mess with their algorithms.
Sweet Pea Cafe in Tallahassee serves nothing but vegan fare. Since I’m no longer able to consume dairy, I’ve become a big fan of vegan food because I never have to worry if there’s dairy lurking within my meal, and Sweet Pea’s cuisine is really good.
I’ve become accustomed to seeing all sorts of interesting folks dining at Sweet Pea. The clientele is often what I’d call bohemian, but corporate types dine here, too. I fall somewhere in the middle.
Today, though, there was an honest-to-goodness cowboy. He’s even from Texas. Yes, I asked. He took a seat at one of the communal picnic tables and engaged in a lively discussion about languages with his fellow diners.
Is he the start of a new trend? Cowboy vegans? Or was he just here to mess with my mind? After all, I did write a book titled The Cowboy and the Executive…He could have been on the cover. I should’ve asked him to pose. Or not.
Neither Studly Doright nor I remembered to make reservations for Easter brunch, and now every place in Tallahassee is booked. Looks like the Easter bunny is going to be dining on whatever this non-cook can cook up.
Since I first realized that people were actually reading my debut novel, Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, and that additional books were in order, I began contemplating a Christmas themed addition to the series.
Now that I’ve published one sequel and the third book is in the hands of my editor, I could no longer resist the thought of Christmas at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort for book four. So…
That pitiful first paragraph has no idea what changes it will undergo.
The hard part is getting those first words on paper. Oh, and coming up with a suitable ending. That and deciding what happens in between. You know—the whole enchilada is a challenge. And I can’t stop smiling.
I’ve been thinking about my neck recently. It’s not a topic I’ve really considered until just a few weeks ago when a woman told me my neck was making me look old. Of course, she was attempting to sell me some expensive skin care cream that would work miracles if only I’d apply it multiple times between morning and night when I would then switch to the nighttime formula that contained even more expensive ingredients. All natural. Organic, even. Even so, my neck would still be a problem.
“It’s got a bit of fat beneath the chin there. I can’t do anything about that,” she said.
Up until that moment I hadn’t noticed the fat beneath my chin. Now, it’s all I can see. Except, I can’t actually see it—not the view I need anyway. I need to see it from the side, but that’s all but impossible on my own. So from now on, I’m only looking at everyone straight on. No more profile shots.
So, if everyone would kindly queue up in a line facing me and only me, I’d really appreciate it. Save me tons of money.
I spent several hours this afternoon wandering around the Word of South festival, Tallahassee’s annual celebration of music and literature. I’d planned to go yesterday, but the weather wasn’t great and I opted for warmth instead of music. Besides, I thought Rickie Lee Jones was scheduled for today and I really wanted to see her perform.
Since dates and times are my nemeses I totally screwed up everything. Got to Cascades Park a full hour before any acts were due to go on stage and then realized Rickie Lee Jones had performed the night before. I guess I’m destined to never see Chuck E’s in Love performed in person. Darn it.
But I was determined to have a good time, so I strolled around the park until I heard some music that made me smile. A quick look at my program told me the band playing was called DOUBLECAMP. Even the name made me grin. I spread out a blanket, gingerly eased this 65-year-old body to the ground and enjoyed every minute of their set.
A better music reviewer would have remembered song titles and such. All I remember is bobbing my head to every tune and savoring the sweet, clever lyrics and honest vocals.
Joe and Jordan
The band is made up of members, Joe Neary and Jordan Burmeister. They had a drummer along today, but I can’t for the life of me remember his name, so I hope he’ll forgive me if he ever happens to read this. He was really great to watch, though.
And DOUBLECAMP’s tunes? Fun. Upbeat. Pop with soul. Just what this day, and this old woman, needed. Give their song, All My Friends are Strangers, a listen. I think you’ll like it.
Praying for Eyebrowz 