The Summer I was Twelve

Two Life Lessons I Learned the Summer I Was Twelve.



1) Don't ride your pony on the boardwalk.



I grew up in the Ozark Mountains, back when that was a remote place to live, similar in some ways to how the Alaska bush country is now. The nearest neighbors to our tiny house were down a fair distance down a narrow dirt road: two miles in one direction, and four miles the other way.



When I was twelve, I rode my bareback pony to the nearest town called Morrow, which was ten miles away. We went at a gallop most of the way, and when I arrived, sticky horsehair clung to my tan legs. My long hair was so tangled, my fingers got stuck when I shoved it back. I threw my shoulders back and let my bare feet swing in time with my pony's strides. I was proud of myself, ten miles was a long way to ride by myself!



The store had a marvelous boardwalk that ran the entire front it. I couldn't resist forcing my pony to climb up on it. Clompty-clomp. Back and forth. Hop off the boardwalk. Hop back on the boardwalk. Pete's hoof beats echoed with joyful magic--until Mr. Reed sprang out of his store and thumped my pony in the butt with a broom.



I stayed on Pete's back through his amazing circus pony sideways leap off the boardwalk into the middle of the street. A slow-moving car stopped short of running into us and honked, which didn't help Pete's mood. He charged into town yards, head tucked to his chest to evade the bit.



"Whoa Pete! Whoa!" He pinned his ears back and tore through grass and flowers, throwing hoof-shaped dirt clods behind him.



People yelled and shook fists at us, "Who are you! I'll call your mother!" Like I'd answer that while clinging for dear life to the back of a pissed-off pony. (Not that I'd answer at any other time, either.) It took a mile, stampeding back the way we'd come, for me to get Pete under control.



I never rode my pony on the boardwalk again, but did we ever return to town? Let's just say you can't trust a twelve-year-old girl and her pony to stay out of trouble.



2) Take care of your shoes, because your feet need them.



The summer I was twelve, I had no shoes at all. My mother, peeved at me for destroying the cheap canvas sneakers she always bought me, the only pair of shoes I owned, told me I could do without shoes that summer and learn to appreciate what her hard-earned money purchased.



This didn't seem fair. I was a country girl. I fed livestock, chased escaping pigs, rode my pony and went hunting. These activities can be hard on any kind of shoes, but three-dollar sneakers don't stand a chance.



Okay, so shoeless that summer, one day I chased a baby rabbit out into a small field that'd been brush hogged, which is how Arkansas farmers clear fields of weeds and bushes so grass can grow between the rocks.



When I was out in the middle of the field, I stopped to notice two things: the baby rabbit had disappeared and the bottoms of my feet were on fire. Dry and splintered brambles lay so thick on the ground no grass had managed to grow, to push up through the graveyard of briars. Some of the branch-sized stems were studded with barbs nearly as big as my little finger. How I'd managed to run into the middle of this field of dead thorns without excruciating pain is a mystery to this day.



The only way out was the way I'd come in.



Thorns impaled the bottoms of my feet with every step. I had new revelations concerning the suffering of Jesus Christ and his crown of thorns.



I moaned, squealed, and wept as every step reaped thorns piercing and sticking to the soles of my feet. I stood on one foot and lifted the other high to remove a harvest of briars. I must have resembled a wading crane--that cried.



After I got out, I sat for a while on the edge of the field and cradled my screaming, bleeding feet. Then walked a mile back home on bleeding feet through the woods and down the gravel road.



I learned to take off my shoes while running through mud puddles or feeding farm animals in the rain. They lasted forever, that next pair of shoes, until my big toe ate its way out the dirty canvas tip. Even my thrifty mother could see I needed a new pair before the condition of them fatally embarrassed her.



Today, I will sometimes look in my closet and count the pairs of shoes in there. And every one cost more than three dollars.

Veronica

Is Romance Writing Hazardous to Your Romance?

We all know the guy is the romantic genius in any romance worth its HEA. Our Hero, however alpha, knows his way around a florist’s shop, reads minds, and may not clean bathrooms but sure can scrub his girl’s back (among other things). But, I’m here to talk about real life. C’mon, no guy can read minds. Very few pick up flowers anywhere but Wal-Mart, if they remember the flowers at all. And if there’s a card to be had in the house, it’s been purchased by the girl.

Real women lament all the time a lack of (consistent) romance in their lives.

I’ve also heard from multiple reliable sources that men whose wives read romance reap many additional benefits and are much happier in, well, all areas than the average guy. In other words, if the wife does the research, the man wins again.

Men=Mars/Women=Venus stuff aside, it’s all good. Women may whine but, secretly, we like being the keepers of the keys to perfect romance.

But (there’s always a ‘but’) notice I said the happy men belong to women who read romance. I’ve come to believe the husband/partner/SO of someone who writes romance is in a different kettle of rosebuds altogether. For him, his woman might keep all the keys to romance, but she’s using them to open some other door – usually a door on page 147 or so.

I and, by some reciprocal property, DH, had that truth driven home this week when we celebrated our 37th anniversary. Don’t get me wrong, neither of us has ever forgotten the date, but back in the days before I was a real writer I was big time into special placemats for dinner, a steak or his fave meal on the table, and always a card and a gift on the plate. I unlocked the romance door and threw it open all the way.

Now I write romance. And along came September 7, 2011. DH worked overnight on the 6th and I was happily getting my H/h cozy. At 12:02 a.m. my phone beeped and there it was—The Romantic Text: “Happy Anniversary. I love you.” Awwwww. I didn’t feel too guilty until I woke up the next morning, DH sound asleep after his graveyard shift, and I found a card on my computer keyboard. “You are the love of my life,” he’d written. And my second thought (after a double “awwwwww”) was, “Dang, dang, dang, I KNEW I forgot something.”

Sad.

I’ll jump ahead here and tell you I did get a card (a very perfect card—seriously), and I managed to disguise the fact that I’d forgotten. But that isn’t the point. The point is – writing romance is becoming hazardous to my romance health. I don’t know if that’s true for any of you. Maybe writing romance is hazardous to some other aspect of your life. I wish I had a solution for myself – and for you. I don’t – this is just my newest epiphany. I’m thinking it’ll all come down to some great truth I already know in my heart-of-hearts like: learn to prioritize or practice self-discipline. Until I figure it out the only piece of advice I have is this: find someone who, after 37 years, has seen you in so many stages he couldn’t care less whether it’s you or he who opens the romance door. After all –I guess that’s the real definition of Happily Ever After.

How ‘bout you? Does writing throw any aspect of your life outta whack? If so, what do you do? If not, I’m coming to breathe the air at your house.

Liz Selvig

GO DEEP Release

When the first book in my Wild, Alaska series came out, quite a few people wanted to know if such a place existed. A town whose cure for cabin fever is a mid-winter festival called Wild Nights, during which “anything goes, nothing counts?” Where is it? they asked. Show me on the map.

Well, sad to say, Wild is a fictional town. Wild Nights does not exist, although it’s probably similar to Mardi Gras or any given night in Las Vegas. But my version of this concept has an extra punch. After a few months of winter, trapped inside by snowdrifts, your typical Alaska resident needs a break. If the cold doesn’t get to you, the darkness probably does. Where my husband and I live it gets dark at 4:30 in the dead of winter, and light again around 10:30.

So how does one deal with the cold, the dark, the endless snow? For some it might be a trip to Hawaii. For others, a weekend of letting off steam does the trick. That’s where Wild Nights comes in.

My Wild stories always involve a turning point in someone’s life. It’s not just a wild and crazy night—there’s an emotional element to the story as well. In GO DEEP, Beth and Gavin Thomason are a married couple who love each other, but are virtual strangers sexually speaking. Here’s the blurb, and if you’d like to read an excerpt you can click here.

Go Deep comes out on September 7 from Ellora's Cave. And here in Alaska, winter’s already breathing down our necks ...

Go Deep
Juniper Bell

A standalone sequel to Go Wild.

Beth is the shy, dreamy type. No one guesses at the wild sexual thoughts she hides behind that quiet façade. She doesn’t even share her secret longings with her husband.

Gavin loves his wife, but he’s tired of living in a marriage in which neither he nor Beth reveal their true desires. When Gavin sees Beth’s response to an erotic bondage photo in her framing shop, he jumps at the opportunity to break through her barriers.

He accepts an invitation to a showcase match for the amateur hockey team he coaches during Wild Nights, the infamous winter festival during which “anything goes, nothing counts.” But he’s opened a sensual Pandora’s box—Beth has some surprises of her own. When she meets Eagle, a free-spirited Wild resident, she knows he’s the perfect man to help enact her erotic fantasies. And once they go deep, there’s no going back.

Thanks for reading!

Juniper

JuniperBell.com

"Leeky Friday"

Just Another Leeky Friday Morning

“What the stinky lint and abandoned food particles trapped in the deep dark recesses of the belly-button of a naky ogress trollop trying ta entice a group of poor, unsuspecting halflings into her lair, do ya make of the week I've had?
“She's impossible ta live with, I tell ya! I think she's finally lost her mind. What little she had left that is. Maxine Mansfield has been spending her days lately, stumbling from room to room mumbling in what can only be described as, an edit induced trance.
“Just keeps repeating over and over to herself and the bird who now keeps his head down and shivers at the back of his cage, 'I will not use the same word twice in the same chapter, let alone the same sentence. I will start to no longer be a passive writer. I started to begin my sentences and paragraphs with the words start, started, began, begin, as if to, but I now know better. I will, no longer treat comma's, as my personal, slaves. I will insert action into my dialogues, and dialogue into my action, and I will use the word insert, only once in my sex scenes. I will not be so sick of my hero and heroine that I hope they die horribly gruesome deaths, and I (Will) meet my deadline.'
“Gotta admit, I'm kinda scared for her, and I'm usually fearless. Is there perhaps a writers intervention hotline I can call?”
Leeky Shortz!

Tharz Gold in Them Thar Hills... The Value of On-site Research

I completely understand the proverbial statement: you don’t have to jump off a bridge to know it will hurt when you hit the water. Like everyone, I’ve jumped off some very high bridges in my life knowing full well there would be consequences but just defiant enough to jump despite the warning. Those jumps were not futile attempts at self-inflicting pain. What I learned from those experiences is that you do sometime have to jump to be able to differentiate the quality of the experience. You can watch someone jump and say to yourself, “Holy crap, that’s gonna hurt.” But if you jump yourself, you gain an entirely different perspective on the way down! Your experience is totally encompassing beginning with the roots of understanding the process and consequences then radiating through your entire body, mind and soul. Assuming, of course, you survive, you carry the experience with you through life in cognitive memory, emotional memory and muscle memory. So what is this all leading to? An epiphiny of sorts.

Last year I had the opportunity to visit Ireland for 15 days. I presented a woman’s self defense class in the wild northern hills near Kylemore Abby, but the rest was pleasure, pure, unadulterated pleasure! I jumped... Now, I have to mention up front that traveling through Ireland was the first time I ever felt as if I walked (and drove) in a world in which I truly belonged. It was a world where almost everyone looked like me – fair skin, some freckles, green eyes and varying shades of auburn hair. Seeing the country and meeting the people stirred in me a creativity that I have not felt before and did not expect.

The stories just rolled out, splashing from my mind so rapidly that I would often pull to the side of the road and scribble some new idea or sketch a character. And trust me, pulling to the side of the road in Ireland is an adventure all its own! My mind was filled with thoughts of the wee folk, fairies, gnomes and strong women who fought for their families and people carrying on in the face of daunting odds. As I walked the chambers of Knowth and Dowth lightly touching the ancient carvings, visions of a civilization dead

some 4,000 years played with my senses and tickled my imagination. Climbing the tight circular staircases of dilapidated castles pressed upon me the reality of life in an age most people can’t even comprehend. Standing on the Cliffs of Mohr feeling the sea breeze beat against my face reddening my cheeks like those of the children who ran past chasing sea gulls that rode on the wind. They could have been children in my own family or from a family centuries ago. Spending time in a small crystal-cutting workshop on the Dingle peninsula with the hands of a master cutter wrapped around mine, I created a pattern in lead crystal that amazed us both. You can put those feelings into words without having been there and done it, but the richness these experiences have lent my writing is incalculable.

The first travel I have done solely for myself since I began writing in earnest, I now know that there is no substitute for taking that leap, for seeing something with your own eyes, feeling the real thing beneath your fingertips and literally soaking up the ambiance of being in the presence of a story come to life. There is just no alternative as enriching or stimulating. The stories that rolled from my mind drenched the pages of one travel journal, then another and a third was filled by the end of my journey. In 15 days! Sitting behind a computer researching facts, descriptions and characters on the Internet or in an encyclopedia can not compare to what I gained in those few days I drove the length and breadth of the Emerald Isle. Granted sitting behind a computer is cheaper and less dangerous considering the Irish drive on the left side of trails they call roads, but dodging tourist busses and lories is just one of the many adventures that make it all real. Real is important to an author and critical for our readers. Lying on a damp rug, bent over backwards kissing the Blarney Stone I came to the realization that, had I never been there I would not have known that the rock I was kissing used to be a drain for - yep, sewage and rainwater! Now that's a "holy crap!" moment. And there were many moments that ignited a passion within me. I found my renewed imagination and desire to write surprising and totally encompassing. It was a challenge to cram everything into my brain before it was time to leave.

So here is my humble recommendation for all writers: whatever the challenge is, do it. Whatever the food might be, eat it! I ate blood pudding and guess what? It’s a kind of sausage. I drank Guinness with bitters. It was horrible but I can definitely describe it now! I cut a pattern in crystal with my own hands on a wheel in a tiny village in western Ireland. I felt it. I carried it all the way home in my shoulder bag in a towel I swiped from a hotel! Okay… don’t steal it, but take away every experience you can, like it is a valuable jewel in your author’s crown. If you have an opportunity to stretch your wings and meet new people, conquer your American inhibitions and grab at the chance! Stretch your comfort level and go for it. What I do know is one thing leads to another and soon your feet walk a path you could never have imagined from a chair behind a computer. The jewels you gather will definitely twinkle in your manuscripts catching the eyes of those how venture past the covers.

If I could have met a real leprechan on my wanderings, I would have asked for this wish; that my sister writers seek out and treasure all of life’s experiences blown their way by the gales on cliff’s upon which they have the opportunity to stand. I did and now I have a burning desire not only to return to Ireland but to return to everywhere I have never yet been. I have a scalding desire to take those half a dozen stories that beg to be written bouncing about in my brain banging on my imagination out of me and put them on paper. But I will never again write from behind a computer. I think one of the wee folk lit a fire under my chair that makes me jump up and run for the hills where I not only find gold, but diamonds, and emeralds and crystal! More jewels that will eventually find their way into my manuscripts.

Happy spilunking.

Miriam Matthews.

Chickens and Writing

How many of you have ever correlated writing with chickens? Well, I’ve discovered that having and housing chickens is a lot like writing your first novel. First there is a desire that grows until you decide to take action. You investigate the types of chickens and what you would like to end up with. As an example, you could choose a breed that will be showy pets, or meat producers, egg layers or a multi-purpose breed. Next, you look at plans and pictures of housing facilities (coops) that have been built before you. An idea of what you would like gets mulled around in your mind until you are satisfied you will end up with something that will be of use.



Now you build your frame work. This seems to go up rather quickly and as you sit back and admire your work you think that this could be easier than you thought. Confidence builds. You start enclosing the coop and paying attention to details like nesting boxes, a feeding station, water, window and lights, the human door and the access door for the chickens to go in and out to their run. Whew, that was work, and it takes longer than you think, but you still have the determination and confidence that you can do this . . . yes you can, so you move on to the next step. The chicken run. The first run contains the chickens, and all is well. You even planned ahead and made sure the neighborhood fox couldn’t dig under the fence by using large timbers to line around the bottom of the run. That was easier than you thought it would be, you are almost done. Finally, or so you think, you take the last step, purchase chickens and bring them home. All is well, the chickens are happy, you are happy, and even your husband is happy because he loves the fresh eggs. Life is good.



Now for a more painful phase, the learning phase. The chicken run was built to keep the chickens in and the fox out, and that works. The run was even built near the house in a treed area giving cover from prying, or should I say, preying eyes above. That also works, at least for the first year. The second winter brings in a hunter from above, a hawk. The hawk had a very tasty last meal and that took care of that.



Now things are going along without much change and you feel the need to expand, learn and even create. You know what that means? That’s right, hatching chicks. It gives you some much needed enthusiasm for the never ending and mundane chores you have to do, the cleaning, feeding, watering. It all gets a little easier as you expectantly wait for some new additions to the flock. Then the little peepers start popping out one by one. They are adorable, you smile as you watch them run around mimicking mom. You have to take in some sadness as you learn that not all of the eggs hatch, and you lose a chick or two for some unknown reason, but all in all things go well, until . . . those tiny little chicks decide it is time to go exploring and the holes in the chicken wire are too large to keep in such tiny creatures. The fox was pretty much dissuaded from hunting here, but the distress calls from little peepers that could find their way out, but not their way in, was just too enticing. Now that there are distress signals, it also brings in magpies. Time to go back to work and build a better chicken run. Maybe the second time around you will get it right. Maybe not. Maybe there will be other bumps in the road. Only time will tell how determined you really are to make all of this work.



Sandy Shacklett

What Writing and Pageants Have in Common

AKRWA Blog by Lynn Lovegreen:

As some of you know, my daughter Katy Lovegreen is Miss Alaska 2011. As I’ve been enjoying watching her wave in parades and getting ready for the Miss America competition, I’ve noticed that there are some things that writing and pageants have in common:

1. You’re judged by experts as you compete for a spot. In writing, you’re trying to get an agent or editor to choose you for their client or author list. In pageants, you're trying to impress the judges so they choose you for the title.

2. There’s a lot of prep behind the scenes. In writing, there are hours of writing, editing, working on your website or blog or other marketing. In pageants, there are hours writing your essay and other entry paperwork, practicing for your talent and interview, working out at the gym, and fundraising for the pageant’s national community service partner, the Children’s Miracle Network.

3. You meet lots of great people. In writing, I am always impressed with how generous writers are with advice and encouragement. In pageants, most of the girls and volunteers are very helpful, whether it’s loaning you a pair of high heels or teaching you how to walk in them.

4. People have stereotypes. For writers, people think we’re all Barbara Cartland (or pick your “typical” contemporary author). For pageant participants, people think they’re all Barbie dolls or bubble heads. Actually we’re all individuals with our own personalities and motivations. (Did you know that most of the Miss America participants are interested primarily in the scholarships?)

5. It’s satisfying when you win. It’s heartwarming when readers tell you that your book is important to them. It’s rewarding when you see the kids at the children’s hospital and know that you made their day.

If you’d like to learn more about my Katy and the Miss Alaska Scholarship Foundation, go to missalaskapageant.com or to see how to donate to the Children's Miracle Network, check out https://www.missamericaforkids.org/m.aspx?i=1232899E0375FF55A.