Studly Doright, the love of my life, was out of town on business most of this week. Our cat, Gracie and I miss him when he’s gone.
He called me on his way home from Maitland, Florida, yesterday afternoon, so I had an idea of when he’d arrive. Still, I could have used a little warning. You see, he surprised me as I was applying my night cream and I poked myself in the eye. Now I look like this sans muscles and tattoos:
Perhaps spinach would help.
Peace, people!
There’s an ad for my first novel, Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, now running on Facebook. My Facebook friend and author, Lori Roberts Herbst, helped me set the ad up at extreme peril to her own sanity. Now that’s what I call a good friend.
So far the ad, in conjunction with my book now being listed on Kindle Unlimited, has increased my book’s visibility and its sales in a positive manner. I’ve been a bit obsessive in measuring the difference between ad costs and the number of pages read. According to my calculations I’ve either made a profit of around one million dollars or $15.65. Really, it’s too close to call.
Studly Doright, of course reminds me that there’s no profit until I’ve recouped the costs of editing, cover design, and the other bits that went into self-publishing a novel. Sure hoping that million dollars is closer to the right estimate.
Peace, people!
Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P76RBRD/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_glt_fabc_TP3VS136D2NK2NG2D65G
For a while now I’ve had a fantasy about buying a camper van and touring the country by myself. I’d go places. I’d drive to see my kids and grandkids in Texas and Illinois. I’d drive to California and see my Aunt Betty. I’d visit the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone and every other National Park I’ve dreamed of seeing my whole life.
I could write from anywhere. Chalk my trips up to research. Maybe I’d visit Hemphill, Texas, where Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort is set, and visit my Aunt Nedra while I’m there. And I’d take some time to drive through Amarillo, the setting for The Cowboy and the Executive, making a side trip to see my mother-in-law, Saint Helen, in Hereford.
Studly Doright could accompany me anytime he chose to, but camping isn’t his thing. Heck, I’m not sure it’s my thing, but I’d like to find out.
I won’t be able to buy a camper—unless of course my book sales take off. Maybe I could print up bumper stickers and sell them: Support a Camper—Buy a Book!
So, it’s all a pie in the sky dream, but who knows? Maybe I can make it happen. Who wants a bumper sticker?
Peace, people!
Almost every evening some question arises that neither Studly Doright nor I can answer. We’ll bicker back and forth, offering our own answers, but our good friend Google is always called on in the end to settle the matter.
Some nights the question in question revolves around the name of an actor and/or what other roles we’ve seen them in. Studly is much better at this than I am, but we always ask Google in the end.
On Sunday evening as we watched the Travelers Championship golf tournament a commercial played and I turned to Studly. “I believe that’s Bob Dylan singing in this Traveler’s insurance commercial.”
Now Studly pays little to no attention to music. He knows all the words to one song—“Happy Birthday”—but that didn’t keep him from weighing in.
He frowned. “No it’s not Dylan. The voice isn’t gravelly enough.”
We argued for a good ten minutes before I held up my phone. “We’ll see. I’m asking Google.”
Sure enough I was right. Damn, but it feels good to say that. I only wish it happened more often.
https://www.ispot.tv/ad/nlFo/travelers-a-better-tomorrow-song-by-bob-dylan
Peace, people.
For Father’s Day, Studly Doright received a gift card from our daughter for one of his favorite motorcycle accessory retailers and wasted no time in placing an order. He selected some cool looking touring gloves. Today the gloves arrived.
They came with an instruction pamphlet.
That amused me. Of course, Studly refused to read the pamphlet even though I urged him to do so. If things go awry, he can’t blame me.
Peace, people.
I have two books on the market—now, that’s a phrase I thought I’d never type. I must admit, it feels pretty good. And with summer upon us, everyone needs at least one of them to read. Both would be better, right?
One is a romance set primarily in the Texas panhandle where I was born and raised. As I was writing The Cowboy and the Executive I fell in love with my male protagonist. Barton Young is good looking, he can sing, and he likes to dance. What more could a girl want? But does D’Aun Gilman dare fall for him when doing so might cost her the job she loves? This tale is definitely on the spicy side.
My first novel, Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, follows the adventures of newly widowed, Paula Jean Arnett, and her best friend, Cassie Campbell, as they attempt to get to the bottom of why Paula’s husband bought a rundown fishing resort in East Texas from a mysterious woman who might have been more than a business partner. Part cozy mystery, part road trip, Mayhem is a lot of fun, and definitely sweet.
So, take your pick. Or make me really happy and pick both. Now excuse me, I’m going to go drool over Barton—just don’t tell my husband, Studly Doright.
Peace, people!
Tuesday didn’t start out being flat. I woke up early, fed and played with the cat, then went straight to working on Wedding at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort. I’d had a couple of ideas during the night and wanted to get them down before I forgot them.
Once I’d made the additions/changes, I did my 20 minute funky disco dance exercise routine and then took a shower. I had an appointment with a tarot card reader—research for a scene in Wedding, but not until 2 p.m.
I had a lovely lunch at Sweet Pea Cafe in Tallahassee where a young woman, waiting for her name to be called, stepped into the shade of the trees and danced like a fairy princess, totally oblivious to those of us watching.
After lunch it was still too early to drive to my tarot reading, so I went to a consignment shop and wandered about for an hour. When I left there I hadn’t driven but a mile when my car flashed a warning that one of my tires was low. Dangerously low. I pulled into a service station and with the help of a nice man aired it up. There was just one problem—I could see the bolt that I must have run over. It was huge and I knew the tire wouldn’t hold air long.
Now I had a decision to make: Keep the appointment or go directly to a tire shop and have my tire fixed. I called Studly Doright for advice.
“Fix the tire.”
Alrighty then.
The tire pressure dropped two pounds as I was talking to him. I googled the nearest tire shop—three miles away. Slowly I made my way to Mavis Tires. By the time I arrived I was down to twenty-two pounds in the wounded tire.
Mavis Tires took care of me. I was a damsel in distress and they were my knights in shining armor. They patched my tire while I chatted with others in their clean waiting room. I sold at least one copy of Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort while we waited.
Mavis fixed my tire and didn’t charge me a penny, so my tire might’ve been flat, but the day ended well. Except I still need to have my cards read. Maybe tomorrow will be fluffy instead of flat,
Peace, people!
I arrived home from my whirlwind trip to Bartlesville, Oklahoma, late on Sunday. Studly Doright had cooked dinner for me in honor of Mother’s Day and then after dinner brought out the gifts my children sent me.
My favorite gifts by far were the framed senior pictures of my grandson, Garrett, and my granddaughter, Dominique. It’s hard to believe they’ll be graduating from their respective high schools in just a few weeks, and starting college in the fall, but the pictures can be used as evidence.
Where did the time go?
Peace, people!
There was a time in my life when Sunday evenings were fraught with angst. The weekend so close to ending. A new school week or work week impending. Now, as a self-employed writer I have more ambiguous feelings about a Sunday evening. The angst is gone because my time belongs to me.
I write all through the week, taking breaks when I feel the need, and I often forget what day it is. If Studly Doright weren’t still employed full time I’d likely forget the days altogether.
Speaking of Studly Doright, he still has the Sunday evening angst. Two more years and he too can forget what day it is.
Where are you on the continuum? Still dreading Monday morning or blissfully unaware? The Mamas & The Papas had some thoughts on that.
Peace, people!
My sequel to my debut novel, Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, is coming along nicely. I’m about 65,000 words in and the penultimate scene is staring me right in the face. I went to bed last night feeling pretty good about my efforts. Then around two a.m. I woke up thinking, It all feels a little Nancy Drewish at best or a grown up version of The Little Rascals at worst.
Somehow I managed to go back to sleep hoping my subconscious mind could find a solution. When Studly kissed me before he left for work around 5:30 I told him my early morning thoughts.
“Easy fix,” he said. “More cleavage. Cleavage in every scene.”
I laughed and laughed.
Later, at my typewriter: Paula leaned over the counter, treating Mark to a view of her well-defined cleavage. In his mind’s eye he replayed all the cleavage he’d ever been privileged to see. “In all my years I’ve never encountered cleavage as perfect as yours, Paula.”
Bolstered by his compliment, Paula exposed even more of her bosom. “Thank you. I do special cleavage-enhancing exercises.”
Mark smiled. “I apologize for ever confusing you with Nancy Drew. Her cleavage is nothing compared to yours.”
Paula winked. “I know. I sabotaged her efforts to have nice cleavage in the book, Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Missing Cleavage.
Of course I promptly deleted all that.
Today I shall attempt to fix my work in progress with little to no mention of cleavage.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 