Creativity by Katherine Pym

I am a Seattleite. I wasn't born there, but when I stepped out of the airport, I knew I'd come home. In the winter, the Northwest is like a great big wine cellar, cool, damp, with grey skies from October to almost the 4th of July.

The grey skies spit water; the streets are like film-noire after WW2, and being so far north, the skies are dark most of the time. People go to work in the dark and go home in the dark. As soon as the clouds disperse, and a little sun shines, people run outside and take deep breaths. They don shorts, socks, and sandals, t-shirts; then over all this, throw on a hoodie. As the skies brighten toward summer, everyone goes out to play. The days are longer, the dawn and dusk taking their sweet time to ease into full day or night.

In the Northwest, there's not much you can do in the winter but endure. Movies, the mall, bookstores, television. When the rain drips and forms puddles in the roads, plumps up moss so that you feel as if you're slogging through a swamp, I retreat into a world of make-believe.

Praying for Creativity

This summer the Northwest was wonderful. Blue skies and long days, warm enough to rival America's warmer states. We grew bushels of tomatoes, green beans and peppers. During this time, I became distracted, couldn't keep focused. I stared at my computer screen wondering why. My work in progress slipped. It became dull, disorganized. I was getting frustrated.

My husband is a Texan. Where I can endure the Northwest, long winters, he cannot. We have a little homestead in Texas, and toward the end of September, we piled into the car and drove the nearly 2400 miles to our cabin in the woods. Rain dogged us across the nation, but once we arrived, the skies were blue, the weather warm, and the bugs were swarming. Husband was thrilled. I was still disorganized, my writing dull.

Through my disorganization, I lost touch with the story line. Stephen King says a writer should finish the first draft within a 3 month time span. I fell deeply short of that, so I decided I'd start over my work in progress. Re-read. Re-write. The skies were beautifully blue, the days warm. Idyllic. My work went slowly.

Awhile ago our local news said a hurricane from the Pacific was plowing across Mexico toward the Lone Star State. Warm, moist air from the Gulf of Mexico poured over us, and a cold front from the North would clash with all these moist airflows. Storms would ensue with thunder and lightning. High winds. The temperature would plummet from the pleasing high 70’s/mid 80’s to unseasonable cold.

OMG, a weather event! Last year, the area had such a downpour, it dropped almost 14 inches onto our roof. It swept part of our driveway into the road. Others were flooded out. My Seattle experiences held nothing to this. We prepared for the worst. Still in shorts, I put on socks and slipped my feet into sandals.

For several days, the clouds dimmed the bright sunshine. Rain fell almost nonstop, but not the gully-washer of last year. This rain was a constant heavy drizzle. Big drops from the overhead trees plopped onto my head and shoulders. Steady. The air was cool, refreshing.

Couldn't go outside and play. Had to endure. Watching the skies drip, I reflected we lived in an over-sized wine cellar, but we had no wine. It was too wet to go out and buy some. We'll wait for the skies to clear.

Still in socks and sandals, I dug out my hoodie to walk the dog. Typed on my computer one and a half chapters. Researched and wrote a blog. Offered to write two more. Then a light bulb flashed in my eyes. An Epiphany struck. OMG, the rain outside was my type of weather. Like Seattle! It sparked and fed my creativity. I found myself back in the saddle again. 

My creativity glows when the weather is dull. How cool is that?

 http://bookswelove.net/pym.php

 

The Doughy Truth - A Christmas Story by Diane Bator

The Doughy Truth

            The gingerbread dough was too dry and crumbly that year, which hadn't happened in all my years of cookie baking, at least not with my gingerbread, and it made me crazy. Every time I'd pick up a chunk to knead velvety smooth, it fell apart in my hands then litter the table with crumbs. 

            I thought I'd followed the directions explicitly just as I did every year before we'd moved two thousand miles from "home". I blended the molasses, sugar, water and shortening together before adding the flour, baking soda and spices. I worked it into a huge cracking ball of over-floured dough, which should have been my first clue there was something not quite right, before covering the dough with plastic and stashing it in the fridge overnight. Just like every other year. Filled with dread, I decided it might turn out once the dough sat for a while.

            In the morning, I worked the could dough and fretted over the crumbles falling out of my hands. I willed the dough to take on the same smooth texture as years past so the boys could make the cookies they had bugged me about for days. I didn't want to let them down now.

            Despite the technical difficulties, three smiling faces perched around the our glass-topped table to happily cut snowmen, teddy bears and Christmas trees. The dry, cracking cookie dough did little to dampened their determination or their enthusiasm.

            I shook my head, amazed at their reaction then realized it wasn't the dough that made this the fun activity and I'd worried all night for nothing. The dough was merely the magnet that drew us all together. My three boys were just as happy with crusty, stubborn dough as they would have been if it was as velvety smooth as usual.

            They were baking cookies with me.

            Of course, the fact we'd all ended up covered in flour and gingerbread crumbs only made things that much more festive. Their laughter and cheer came from knowing most of their creations would be given to friends and teachers. Each cookie, no matter how imperfect, was filled with our love and the gratitude of being blessed for all that we have. Each other.

            While we are thousands of miles from our families each Christmas, we are constantly surrounded by people who love us and who have become as close as family over the years. Those same people who receive our cookies and homemade treats in their packages will know they were made by hands and hearts that care and are grateful for their presence in our lives.

            They are truly the greatest gifts we could ever receive.

Merry Christmas to All....

FRONTIER LIFE - AUSTRALIA AND AMERICA - MARGARET TANNER

FRONTIER LIFE – AUSTRALIA AND AMERICA

 Life on the American and Australian frontiers has a strikingly similar history. For example, take the The American Homestead Act, and the Australian Act of Selection.

 

America: The original Homestead Act was signed into law by President Abraham Lincoln on May 20^th, 1862. It gave applicants freehold title to up to 160 acres of undeveloped federal land west of the Mississippi River. The law required only three steps from the applicant - file an application, improve the land, then file for a deed of title. Anyone who had never taken up arms against the U.S. government, including freed slaves, could file a claim on the provisions that they were over the age of twenty one and had lived on the land for five years.

The Homestead Act's lenient terms proved to be ill-fated for many settlers. Claimants didn’t have to own farming implements or even to have had any farming experience. The allocated tracts of land may have been adequate in humid regions, but were not large enough to support plains settlers where lack of water reduced yields. Speculators often got control of homestead land by hiring phony claimants or buying up abandoned farms.

Most of us visualise the frontier home as a rustic log cabin nestled in a peaceful mountain valley or on a sweeping green plain. But in reality, the "little house on the prairie" was often not much more than a shack or a hastily scratched out hole in the ground. In the treeless lands of the plains and prairies, log cabins were out of the question so  homesteaders turned to the ground beneath their feet for shelter. The sod house, or "soddy," was one of the most common dwellings in the frontier west. The long, tough grasses of the plains had tight, intricate root systems, and the earth in which they were contained could be cut into flexible, yet strong, bricks.

Ground soaked by rains or melting snow was ideal for starting sod house construction. When the earth was soft and moist, homesteaders would break the soil with an ox- or horse-drawn sod cutter, which was an instrument similar to a farming plough. Sod cutters produced long, narrow strips of sod, which could then be chopped into bricks with an axe. These two- to three-foot square, four-inch thick sod bricks were then stacked to form the walls of the sod house. Soddy roofs were constructed by creating a thin layer of interlacing twigs, thin branches, and hay, which were then covered over with another layer of sod. To save time many sod houses were built into the sides of hills or banks. Some settlers gouged a hole in a hill side, so they only had to build a front wall and roof.
As a result of their extremely thick walls, soddies were cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Soddies were also extremely cheap to build. Of course, there were drawbacks to sod-house living. As the house was built of dirt and grass, it was constantly infested with bugs, mice and snakes. The sod roofs often leaked, which turned the dirt floor into a quagmire. Wet roofs took days to dry out and the enormous weight of the wet earth often caused roof cave-ins. Even in the very best weather, sod houses were plagued with problems. When the sod roof became extremely dry, dirt and grass continually rained down on the occupants of the house.

A typical American log cabin measured about ten by twenty feet, regardless of the number of inhabitants. Settlers often built lofts across the cabin roof or lean-tos across the rear of the cabin to give the family more space. Typically, frontier cabins featured only one room, which served as kitchen, dining room, living room, workroom, and bedroom.

Homesteaders could often build a log cabin in a matter of days, using only an axe and auger. No nails were required for the task. The first step in construction was to build a stone or rock foundation, to keep the logs off the ground and prevent rot. Once the foundation was laid, settlers would cut down trees and square off the logs. These logs were then "notched" in the top and bottom of each end then stacked to form walls. The notched logs fitted snugly together at the corners of the cabin, and held the walls in place. After the logs were stacked, gaps remained in the walls. Settlers had to jam sticks and wood chips into the gaps, then they filled in the remaining gaps with cement made out of earth, sand, and water. Fireplaces were built of stone, and often had stick-and-mud chimneys. Most cabins had dirt or gravel floors, which had to be raked daily to preserve their evenness.

Australia: In the colony of Victoria the 1860 Land Act allowed free selection of crown land.  This included land already occupied by the squatters, (wealthy land owners) who had managed to circumvent the law for years and keep land that they did not legally own.

The Act allowed selectors access to the squatters’ land, and they could purchase between 40 and 320 acres of crown land, but after that, the authorities left them to fend for themselves. Not an easy task against the wealthy, often ruthless squatters who were incensed at what they thought was theft of their land.

In 1861 the Act of Selection was intended to encourage closer settlement, based on intensive agriculture. Selectors often came into conflict with squatters, who already occupied land and were prepared to fight to keep it. The bitterness ran deep for many years, often erupting into violence.

The first permanent homesteads on the Australian frontier were constructed using posts and split timber slabs. The posts were set into the ground, about three feet apart, according to the desired layout. Slabs of timber were then dropped into the slots. A sapling or similar, straight piece of timber ran across the top of the posts, which allowed them to be tied together so they could support the roof. Clay was often plugged in between the joins and splits of the cladding to stop draughts. The internal walls were sometimes plastered with clay and straw, lined with hessian/calico, white washed or simply left as split timber. Roofs were pitched using saplings straight from the bush and often clad with bark. Early settlers learnt from the aborigines that large sheets of bark could be cut and peeled off a variety of trees and used as sheets to clad the roof.

So, it can be seen that there is not much difference between the Australian Act of Selection and  the American Homestead Act. In both countries frontier life was tough, and only the strong and resilient survived.

Margaret Tanner writes historical romance set in Australia. 

http://www.bookswelove.net/tanner.php

 

 

 

STARRY, STARRY NIGHT (or, Is Anyone Out there?) by Shirley Martin

     Of all the physical sciences, none seems to defy logic and understanding as does astronomy. Or so it seems to me. The numbers alone challenge understanding. For example, when astronomers state that the universe was created in one billionth of a second, the time element seems incomprehensible. Yet that's the time span given for the Big Bang--a cosmic explosion of an intensely hot fireball that resulted in the creation of the universe, about twenty-billion years ago. 

    To better understand the time span from the creation of the universe to man's appearance on Earth, think of a twenty-four hour clock. Man appears in the last few seconds before midnight.

    The universe is so vast that its size, too, defies understanding. More than one-billion stars comprise our galaxy, the Milky Way galaxy. And there are millions of galaxies in the universe. Does that give you an idea of its immense size? Furthermore, the universe is expanding at a tremendous rate. That means that stars, planets, and all heavenly bodies are moving away from each other. The more remote the body, the faster it's moving. This expansion of the universe is called "the red shift."

    If you can get away from city lights and look up at the night sky, you'll see a countless number of stars shining in the heavens. With all of these stars in the night sky--millions and millions--the night sky should be a blinding sheet of light. Yet it isn't. The night sky is dark. The darkness of the night sky presented a paradox to astronomers in the past. (Many may not know it, but Edgar Allan Poe was a skilled astronomer. The dark night sky puzzled him, too.)

    The puzzle was eventually resolved in the deliverance of time. Stars don't shine forever. They shine for millions or billions of years, and then they burn out. The first stars began shining about fifteen-billion years ago. So why is the night sky dark? When we look far out in space, we are looking back in time. We see the light of the stars, but they are no longer there. They died out years ago, but their light is just now reaching us. The farther out in the sky we look, the farther we are looking back in time. It has taken millions of years for their light to reach us, even though they died out eons ago. The sky is an image of the past.

    The astronomers' term for this relationship between time and space is referred to as "lookback time." It was Albert Einstein who proved that space and time are interwoven.

    I used to wonder what the edge of the universe looked like. If the universe is finite--if it has an end--then what lies beyond it? Now astronomers state that there are many universes, going on and on.

    Now considering our own universe, with its billions and billions of stars, one might wonder if there is intelligent life beyond our planet. Can there be an Earthlike planet, with just the right ingredients for intelligent life? Scientists refer to this as the Goldilocks criteria, not too hot and not too cold. SETI--The Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence--has been seeking intelligent life elsewhere for years. But even if there is intelligent life elsewhere, how could we reach them, or how could they reach us? Distance appears to be an insurmountable problem. According to the laws of physics, nothing travels faster than the speed of light. It could take men on earth thousands, even millions of years to reach a habitable planet, a self-defeating pursuit. Wormholes, if they exist, can be dangerous. So how could we travel to outer space?  All you Trekkies, do you have an answer?

    I can't conclude this discussion without saying something about the Christmas Star, or the Star of Bethlehem. Scientists now know that the Star of Bethlehem wasn't a star but a planet--most likely Venus, or a conjunction of Venus and Jupiter--shining brightly over the town of Bethlehem.  

    For those who want to read more about the universe, "The Red Limit" by Timothy Ferris is a good place to start.

    If fiction is more your cup of tea, may I suggest my own books with Books We Love. You can find them here at http://bookswelove.net/martin.php and at Amazon. I write historical, paranormal, and fantasy romance, so you have a varied selection to choose from. 

I'll Never Leave Your Pizza Burning: An examination of misheard words, phrases and lyrics, by Kathy Fischer-Brown

The English language is rich with idioms, odd turns of phrase, and regional colloquialisms. For a foreigner trying to learn English (whether it be of the American, British, or other variety), it can be a daunting task...even tricky…to say the least. Same with children just starting to talk. How we hear and interpret these words and phrases can often have a lasting effect on how we speak them.

Which brings me to one of most entertaining…and even amusing... of these curiosities of warped perception, the “mondegreen."

Coined in “The Death of Lady Mondegreen,” a November 1954 essay published in Harper’s Magazine, the mondegreen was writer Sylvia Wright’s explanation for misheard words in a favorite poem of her childhood. The Bonnie Earl o'Moray from Thomas Percy’s “Relics of Ancient English Poetry” contains the following:

Ye Hielands and ye Lowlands,
O, whaur hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl o' Moray,
And laid him on the green.

To Ms. Wright’s young ears, the words sounded like this:

Ye Hielands and ye Lowlands,
O, whaur hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl Amurray,
And Lady Mondegreen.

To quote the author, "The point about what I shall hereafter call mondegreens, since no one else has thought up a word for them, is that they are better than the original."

Better? Judge for yourself.  How many of you, having listened to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon,” misheard a certain lyric as I did? (“There’s a bathroom on the right”—surely useful information.) The Beatles were masters of creating mondegreens. For example: “The girl with colitis goes by,” "She's got a chicken to ride," and “All my luggage...” The Rolling Stones in "Beast of Burden" promise, “I’ll never leave your pizza burning” (I'd have no other guy). Annie Lennox had it right when she  promised, "Sweet dreams are made of cheese." And what about that cute, cuddly critter, “Gladly, the Cross-eyed Bear"? National anthems are not immune, and in this instance, more than true: “O, Canada, I stand on cars and freeze.” For all you Boomers, did you know that Davey Crockett was “killed in a bar when he was only three”? Let’s not forget The Young Rascals and their loving threesome, “You and me and Leslie.” But the most famous of all has to be Jimi Hendrix with his “Excuse me while I kiss this guy.” I could go on.... But I'm sure we all have our own personal mondegreens.

I first became acquainted with mondegreens in a hilarious 1978 article in The New York Times Sunday Magazine, titled “I Led the Pigeons to the Flag,” in which William Safire, tongue in cheek, stated that some guy named Richard Stans was the most saluted man in America. Despite his politics, I was a big fan of  Safire's "On Language" column, reading it religiously every week. This one, in which he tackles the "misheard," was arguably one of his best. He called the misinterpretation of words and phrases “false homonyms,” or “The Guylum Bardo Syndrome.” He presented a lovely thesis on how some misheard words and phrases have actually found permanence in our lexicon. He cited a few etymologies, such as the evolution of “spit 'n’ image”—often spelled now as “spitting image”—and how “kit and caboodle” is sometimes written “kitten caboodle,” which he described as “a good name for a satchel in which to carry a cat.”

"Mondegreen" turned out to be Safire’s preferred label for this phenomenon of substituting perfectly reasonable words where the actual ones are ripe for misinterpretation. It also lends support to Wright's assertion that modegreens are, in many cases, better than the actual rendition. This is especially apparent as it applies to the poor Earl o’Moray.

Safire closed his brilliant piece by expressing how much more romantic and appropriate it is that, instead of simply being “laid on the green” to die a cold and lonely death, the earl had company. Perhaps he even held the hand of the beautiful Lady Mondegreen, “both bleeding profusely, but faithful unto death.”

Yes, I will agree with Sylvia Wright. Some mondegreens are infinitely better than the original.

 

Links to Sites Featuring Mondegreens

(Not by any means comprehensive)

The Phrase Finder

Senior Times

Kiss This Guy

Kathy Fischer-Brown is an author of historical fiction, whose novels are published by BWL Publishing, Inc. Find her at: http://bwlpublishing.ca/authors/fischer-brown-kathy/
or
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004BMAG7U

IN THANKSGIVING

SIMPLE GIFTS-~WATER
by

Juliet Waldron

 

http://www.bookswelove.net/julietwaldron.php

Today, I was in the kitchen hand-washing mugs and scrubbing pots. Hot water came from the tap and a nice container of blue Dawn (c) sat by the sink. As I washed, I felt slightly put out. Always some darn mess to clear up! If you cook at home, you clean-up at home, and because we are mostly stay-at-home eaters. That's our daily reality.

The water was hot, the sponge was clean. (I've got a thing about laundering sponges every other day so they don't inadvertently become hosts for exactly the bugs you're trying to wash away.)  The task was not really unpleasant. I'd already cleared away the grease from a frying pan with a paper towel and put that into the trash.

I've a habit of turning the water off and then turning it back on again as I repeat the cycle of wash and rinse. I reached to close the faucet with one hand, and, with the other, set a clean pot to drain in the rack.

As I did this, I abruptly realized how lucky I am that this clean--potable, actually--water just emerges from the faucet simply because I turn the handle.  I can ask that it arrive ready heated to the temperature I desire. If I drink from the cold tap, it won't taste that terrific and probably isn't, long term, that good for my gut, but even without filtering, it's not going to give me cholera or dysentery. I live in one of the places on this planet that provides this luxury, this despite the fact that in my well-to-do town, we're  considred pretty much po ' folks.

Thinking over the images I've seen of women and girls trudging hot, dusty miles every day lugging heavy sloshing pots in order to supply the bare minimum need, I thanked my stars that I was washing dishes in a fine stainless steel sink with plenty of hot water issuing from the tap.  And although I've been washing up since I was a little kid--in this life, it appears that "doing the dishes" is an unvarying part of my destiny--for the first time, I felt a real change of heart, an attitude adjustment at a deep level.

From now on, I'll give thanks for the good fortune I enjoy, while I--ever so effortlessly--wash those daily dishes.

 

~Juliet Waldron

http://www.julietwaldron.com

Historical Novels ~
Mozart's Wife ~ 18th C Vienna
Roan Rose ~ Wars of Roses
Genesee ~ American Revolution
Black Magic ~ Paranormal

and many others

Research or Over-Research – Where Does a Writer Draw the Line?

Every writer knows even when writing a nonfiction novel: making it up requires research.

Like storytelling, the mind of the writer to research never stops. Isaac Asimov once said he was writing every minute he was in the shower; in the shower, he was only thinking about his writing. In the same way, research for my novels has become a part of me.

Romantic Suspense requires its writers to be reliable witnesses. Contemporary Romance requires its writers to pay special attention to details which enhance the emotional connection. Biting humor/chick lit requires the writers to take contemporary events and spin them off kilter.  While young adult/tween fiction requires a lighter touch-- with a connection to the teachable psyche and the future of humanity.

Most writers try to strike a happy medium when conducting research, leaving enough wiggle room with reality to spin a good yarn. Yet research has a cumulative effect. Once you start, you don’t stop.

You can already where I fall on the research graph: once I start, it’s difficult, if not impossible, for me to stop conducting my research.

So, here are few of my research questions (Gumbo Ya Ya: for women who like romance Cajun & men Hot & Spicy):  can a true gypsy (real medium/fortuneteller type) foretell her own future? What does a television producer do during the course of her day—when she’s key suspect in a murder investigation? What does it feel like to be on a pirate ship during the 1600s? Does time travel hurt? Bachelor Auction--what goes on during a Bachelor Auction? How does one concoct an accidental love potion? And, lastly, from my next “Fun and Sassy Fantasy” series: do gargoyles really know how to fly?

Remember research is not story. Trivial facts gathered from a variety of experiences can change the course of a future narrative.

Growing up in a career naval family gave me an almost inherent knowledge of the sea and maritime history. While residing in San Diego, California I visited the “Star of India” (16^th century sailing vessel) moored at the harbor. My husband, being from Louisiana, made Cajun country and New Orleans frequent vacation destinations, and gave me ‘instant atmosphere’ for my setting. While I reside within driving distance of Hollywood, Universal Studios in the like, aside from a short internship in theater makeup technique, I am not a ‘go-to-person’ in all things Hollywood.

What am I to do?

I went to a local Starbucks, ordered a tall Pikes blend (1 Equal, nonfat milk), selected a table by the window and plopped down my iPad, pulled a chair near my table and conducted a Google search. Alas, Google is not the Oracle of Delphi. My next step was to log on to the local library Web site where I selected related research materials and reserved them for front desk pickup.  This I knew, would not quench my search of knowledge.  

With a heavy sign (knowing what weekday traffic was like) I decided to participate in a SoCal tourist day at Universal Studio (tour and City Walk).  I paid careful attention to all things visible during the freeway drive, my impression of the back lot and studio history.  I also interviewed employees and tour guides, and park visitors. Later, while grabbing a quick snack and the “Hard Rock Café” I spied the red carpet being set-up for a movie premier.  

Yay, pay dirt! 

A few more questions, observations, and a few interesting true stories (no names mentioned) told in passing, and I was good to go.

Will everything I discovered end up in my Anthology?  Most likely not.  Have I completed my research on the above mentioned topics?   Since my husband frequently asks if my office is a satellite branch of the public library, I know if I’m not researching this topic I will find another point of interest.

Reading isn’t a spectator event. 

You experience life.  The more knowledge you have, the better-equipped you are to tackle any challenge you’ll ever face.

No matter know much stress you have at work, in your personal relationships, or daily life, it all just slips away when you lose yourself in a great story.

May your holiday season be filled with joy, peace, and love.

Connie Vines

http://www.novelsbyconnievines.com

http://bookswelove.net/connievines.php

Giving Thanks as an Author - by Vijaya Schartz

Jasmine, the calico who sits on my pages and steps on the keyboard

You could say we authors are not quite like other humans. For many, Thanksgiving is about family, the great stuffing controversy, who's going to win the game, and they are grateful for health, shelter, and company.

Of course I am celebrating with friends (since my family is in France). But unlike most people, we, authors, see the world in terms of stories and characters... and while we strive on human emotions, we often seem aloof, as we take a step back to observe and notice the details of all life surrounding us, true or imagined.

So, let me tell you about an author's thanksgiving.

As an author, I am grateful for the freedom to write the stories in my heart. Despite all the upheavals in this ever-changing industry, I am thankful to have a publisher daring enough to publish what I write, and smart enough to ride the crest of this drastic revolution, constantly exploring new avenues for the benefit of their authors.

I also want to thank my supportive fellow authors, always generous with a kind word. I find your chatter comforting and often enlightening. No matter how much your family loves you, they do not understand the twisted worries and strange concerns we have for our characters.

I am thankful for internet research, providing bountiful fodder to spark my imagination. I should also thank my kindle for holding all my favorite books in one very small package, ready to travel anytime.

I'm thankful for the calico cat snoozing on my lap while I write, or stepping on the keyboard to remind me it's dark out, and way past feeding time.

I am thankful for the joy of a new release, for the first look at that new cover, for the exhilarating smell of fresh ink on paper and the comfortable weight of that book in my hands.

But most of all, I'm thankful for my readers, those who push me to write yet another book in their favorite series, those who stay late at night, turning the pages. They are the ones who perk me up and keep me going whenever I'm down, the ones whose voices urge me on to write. And when they share their love of my books, or tell me they enjoyed the last one, my heart warms up, and I experience this fuzzy comfortable happy feeling only equaled by love.

I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving.

Vijaya Schartz
Blasters, Swords, Romance with a Kick
http://www.vijayaschartz.com
http://bookswelove.net/vijayaschartz.php