Boobs

Boobs. Apparently America has an obsession with them that goes past the normal, healthy guy thing. CBS had to explicitly define a dress code regarding boobs at the Grammys, not that some people listened to it. Personally, had I been CBS, anyone who disregarded the dress code they would not have been allowed in nor given any publicity, but that's me.

It's bad enough that so many celebrities regardless of age, young or old, need to flash their boobs for attention. What about wanna be celebrities like, oh, I don't know, aspiring writers?

Pshaw. No one would be silly enough to do that.

"Oh, yes they would, Precious," in my best Gollum voice.

I was doing some chores at the desk a few days ago and decided to follow along on a twitter writer's chat. So, I'm half paying attention when WonderWanda joins the chat. Her avatar is of her looking up, the camera looking down at her ample, highly pushed up, barely, barely, barely covered boobs. She completes the come hither look with her Betty Page wig and bright red lips.

I click on her to read about her. Surely this isn't an agent, editor or published author. She's an author. She's published three books.

The hell?

I'm curious as to what she writes and who publishes her because she's now making some very authoritative statements as well as asking some extremely basic questions. Aha, yes, she is published. She's also in her 40's or 50's with a litter of children and a bit of middle-aged spread. Some of her other avatars include her in a porn plaid school girl outfit with her blouse ripped open, fishnet stockings, platform heels and a wide-eyed "Oh dear, my boobs have escaped and I don't know whatever to do" look.

A bit more investigation and I see that her publisher is actually a self-publishing outfit. I tab back to the agent chat and she's asking agents if they are interested in xyz erotic novel with an abc heroine.

Someone advises her that's it's considered bad form to pitch agents on social media unless expressly invited to do so. She responds she's a published writer and she knows what she's doing.

I chalk it up to one boob with boobs.

Oh, no, mon ami. We have more.

The next one, thankfully, at least loses the Betty Page wig. She has, instead, neon yellow hair and, color me shocked, a shot of the camera looking down at her boobs while she smiles up.

Someone is now talking about expectations of writers after they sell a first book. Another conversation is going about what is most difficult as a writer. She doesn't have any difficulty with characters, plot, pacing, dialogue or action. She's finished her first novel and her publisher loves it so much they want to do a trilogy and maybe more!

As for expectations and is it difficult to live up to them after the first book? Well, of course not, her first book was fabulous, so no one can even comprehend how great the second one will be.

We have an experienced novelist who graces us peons with her presence and shares her knowledge because she has already finished a fabulous novel. While she has nothing more to learn, she's happy to help us.

Oh, and her vaunted publishing house? They started up the end of 2012, have two clients and such a rough blurb about their company it was all I could do to not take a red pen to my screen.

I've been thinking about this a bit. I've actually considered either creating a separate persona for professional social media and another for when I want to discuss politics or something that doesn't pertain to writing, or just quitting social media all together. I'm still debating that. Suffice to say for now, I think a writer, one who wishes to be a professional writer, should have some kind of standard.

Therefore, here is mine:

1. I shall post no avatars of my boobs, butt or other more intimate body parts. Believe me, you will thank me for this later.

2.  I shall not tell everyone to listen to me because I am published and I know what I'm talking about if my publisher is me or a vanity press.

3.  I will not spend time in agent talks trying to convince people how sexy I am. I may after I get the racing stripes on my walker, but not yet.

4.  I will not post anything that will make an agent or editor wonder if I have lost my rabid rabbit mind. Well, not too often anyway.

5.  I will not be rude to agents, writers, editors or anyone else in these little chats because I think being published by Johnny Jump Up Journalistic Endeavors gives me the right to be an egomaniac. If I am rude, it will be for a different reason entirely.

A Farm Girl, A Wizard And A Sword Walk Into A Bar

This is the ending of a year and the beginning of a new one, filled with hope and promise. Like many people, I am making goals for the new year, not the least of which focus on my writing.

In December, a group of writers and agents decided to do a mentor program. Writers would submit a query, the first five pages and a pitch about their completed work. They chose from the list of writers and agents willing to mentor a writer and hoped they would be accepted.

I strongly considered doing this. FAR RIDER is finished, has been revised and is in the process of what I hope is close to a final revision in hopes of securing an agent. These last three revisions have been requested by an agent, revise and re-send is the term. Obviously, it's a great honor and positive step to get this far and frankly, even though it's my story, I think it's a good one and it was worth the effort.

I had second thoughts about submitting to this workshop because I would really hate for a mentor agent to work with me and be told I have been revising for another agent. Now, granted, I haven't been offered a contract so the agent owes me nothing nor, technically, do I owe her anything. However, I feel I owe her a lot and she should get first right of refusal.

So, this little tidbit nagged at me, but I still thought it would be a really good workshop to get the pitch, query and manuscript in better shape.

What finally decided me not to participate was a comment an agent made. I don't recall the exact wording, but it was something to the effect of, "God save me from another farm boy who goes off to save the world with a magical sword or ring and an old wizard."

Now, Gen is female, not male, but holy smoke did that hit close to home. It hit close enough I have spent the past few weeks wondering if FAR RIDER was simply more practice on the way to the right story. I wondered why I had added in the sentient sword and the wizard and realized they certainly weren't planned. They were characters who walked fully born into the story and introduced themselves as if they had always been there, just waiting to come on stage.

Maybe they were.

I've spent several nights thinking about this as I'm trying to go to sleep, debating on whether I should just shelve it and move on to something else. Then I think NYA (New York Agent) saw enough to give it to her minions to do a complete read twice. Both times the story was greatly improved based on their recommendations and the last time the agent sent back detailed comments, recommendations and the invitation to send back.

That has to count for something.

Then Doubt comes creeping back to plague the mind and whisper words of despair.

I belong to a crit group and it was my turn to send something in. Past my turn. I confess I was wondering if I really want to spend any more time on FR or go back to DRAGON VALLEY, my new project I'm working on.

I started reading back through FR, looking for a section to send and found myself reading scenes I had already sent. Then I caught myself reading more than I had planned. I remembered bits and pieces that reached out to me as a reader. This is a work I have created. I shouldn't really be interested in reading it. I wrote it. I know what happens. That probably sounds egotistical. Heaven knows I've also had enough of the "Argh, I hate this stupid story," moments.

I suppose the final thought is FAR RIDER may never sell. No one has any guarantees save one. If I give up on it, it certainly will never see the light of day. I have to trust the story is strong enough to lure readers in even if it is just a farm girl who dreams of being a Far Rider.

Perhaps that is the secret to any success. Don't give up.

Black Eyed Peas- The Recipe and the Legend

I wasn't born in the south, but I got here as fast as I could. Actually, I think I was somehow mixed up at birth because Texas has always seemed like home to me. While I embrace most things southern, I draw the line at black-eyed peas and stewed okra. Fried okra I will eat all day long, just the smell of stewed okra makes me gag. Black-eyed peas have the same effect. I eat them under duress, but only on New Year's Day and only after the battle.

According to southern tradition, black-eyed peas are considered good luck. This legend, as I was told, goes back to the Civil War when Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman spread his scorched earth policy across the south on his march to the sea. He had no remorse about destroying homes, property, livestock and food for thousands of civilians and instead reveled in his power to inflict misery as a way to punish the south.

It's safe to say I have zero respect for the man or his tactics in both the Civil War and later in the Indian Wars. If he were alive today, he would be considered a war criminal rather than hailed as a hero.

So the legend goes, Sherman's troops didn't destroy black-eyed peas, or cowpeas as they are also called, because they thought the peas were fit for nothing but livestock. It was all right to starve families, it appears, but livestock might be spared starvation if they survived the initial slaughter.

If you are in the south, you eat black-eyed peas for good luck as it was certainly good luck during the Civil War and kept families from starving.

When forced, here is how I prepare black-eyed peas.

Soak two cups of black-eyed peas overnight in a crock pot or heavy pan. (If you forget to soak overnight, bring the peas to a boil and then turn off the heat and let them set two hours.) The next morning, drain the peas and add 6-8 cups of good water.

Fry up a pound of bacon until almost crispy and break it into smaller pieces. Fry 1 cup diced onion in the bacon grease.

Add

2 teaspoons granulated garlic
2 teaspoons black pepper
2 teaspoons crushed red pepper
Salt, to taste

Add all to the soaked peas. Bring to boil, then simmer until peas are tender.

Santa Was A Cowboy Revisited

I hope people will stop and think just a bit about how a small gesture of kindness might mean more than you will ever know to someone who is drowning in sorrow. Even a smile to a stranger, holding a door open for someone, allowing someone to get in line ahead of you or just making a nice comment about something can brighten a day. That elderly lady with the bright purple dress and carefully combed hair might not have had anyone tell her how pretty she or her dress is in a very long time. The lady struggling with kids and groceries would probably be very grateful to you for letting her check out a little sooner. All these things cost you is a small effort and a bit of time.

Maybe your family can go to a nursing home with hand signed cards and hand out to the residents. Take some little plants from a nursery in festive wrappings. Pick up some little ornaments that the resident can put on their bulletin board. Give tiny bags of sugar free candy since most are diabetic. Mostly, stop and visit. Many are starved for company.I used to take my children to the nursing homes. They loved being around children and, of course, Will was a big hit since he was a toddler. Everyone loves a baby, but especially the elderly do.

Take some pet food to your local food bank. Many people give groceries this time of year, but no one thinks about the pets some of these families are fortunate enough to have.

Visit a VA hospital. Ask what they need or want. Books, dvds and audiobooks especially are in demand since many are confined to bed and can't read for various reasons. Christmas cards with carefully worded greetings. You don't want to give someone who just lost his legs a message about dashing through the snow. Again, little ornaments they can put on their bed or wall. Stickers! Something to make them smile.

It's not too late to do something special for someone and it certainly doesn't need to be confined to Christmas.

And now, an oldie. Santa Was A Cowboy and a demonstration about how little things can make such a huge difference to another.



I’ve been thinking a lot about people lately.

I’m basically a happy person. I look for the best in people and I can usually find something to laugh about. Even though I like to believe the best in people, life has taught me that will often cause great heartache. I can accept that when it happens to me. When people hurt my children, I go insane.

Twenty years ago, we were trying to recover from the oil bust, much like the one we are about to experience. We lost our vehicles, our hot shot company, the horses, the real estate company and our house. The house we sold to keep the real estate company going, but it was still gone.

We moved out to a little village thirteen miles from town. I took in ironing, cleaned houses for people and baked bread for several people while Don drove truck long haul.

My mother had been down here and bought a trailer house from a man who was going to let her make the payments to him and he would make the payments to the loan company since she had no credit. She decided to move back north, so we took up that payments on the land and the trailer.

The man we were buying the trailer from called me the first week in December and told me I should contact the loan company and get the trailer put in my name. I asked him if there was a problem since I had already sent the check for the December payment. Yes, he had the check, but it might be best if we try to get the trailer in our name. I told him I would check into it, but I couldn’t do anything until after Christmas.

I had saved up enough money to put deposits on some new bullropes for the two older boys. The rodeo coach at the junior college plaited custom ropes for professional bull riders and offered to make some for the boys for $75 each. That was a lot of ironing and house cleaning, but it’s what the boys wanted for Christmas more than anything, so I was going to make it happen. I also bought a few toys and clothes, but it was pretty slim pickings that year and I still didn't have the extra groceries to do my holiday baking and candy making. If I timed everything just right, I would be able to buy the stuff for Christmas dinner with the check that would arrive just before Christmas.

I got a call from a finance company on December 13. They wanted to know if I was going to put the trailer in my name and when would I be able to make the past due payments totaling $2,350 plus some other fees that would bring it to a little over $2,500.

I was speechless. I don’t cry much, but I did then. I dug out my receipt box as if holding the receipts in my hand for every money order I had sent for the payment would show him I wasn’t behind on my payments. I just made a payment two weeks ago.

He was very understanding, but the man hadn't sent them a payment for six months, so we had to come up with the $2,500 by December 20 or they would have a truck there to pick up the trailer on the 23rd.

“Are you serious? You’re going to kick me and my kids out of a house I have paid for faithfully two days before Christmas?”

He was very apologetic, but he had no choice.

Don called from California and I was a complete basket case. I had three boys, a pony, some ducks and several dogs and would be without a home in a little over a week.

He called his family to borrow some money and got an advance on his check. I borrowed money from my family. I called a breeder in Oklahoma and offered to sell them some dogs they had been wanting for a long time and made a deal to give them three other bitches in the deal. One of them was a dog who had produced three quadruple working champions and there were only seven champions in the country.

I pawned what little we had left of value and I was still short. A friend’s mother offered to let me work some extra hours in the flower shop for more money. I got some extra orders for bread. At the end, I could come up with the rest of the money if I used the grocery money and took back the gifts I bought the boys.

There would be no Christmas, but we had a roof over our heads. When all the dust settled I had $20 left and the only reason I had that was because I had been walking around the little town to clean houses to save gas.

I told the boys we could either buy a Christmas tree, buy some little gifts or go to the rodeo. Rodeo tickets had been high on their wish lists for Christmas.

They wanted rodeo tickets.

I bundled them up and we went to town. As fate would have it, I got in line behind a bunch of drunks in their new cowboy costumes. New hats, new boots, new jeans and whoopy-ti-yi cowboy shirts. The guy at the front of the bunch was taking his friends to the rodeo. Not only was he taking them to the rodeo, but he wanted the best seats in the house.

“I love to see them cowboys gets their asses stomped in the ground by those bulls.”

My boys were shocked someone wanted to see a cowboy get hurt.

I was sure I recognized Mouth’s voice, but I couldn’t believe it.

He turned around and stopped dead still in his tirade when he recognized me.

The idiot I was buying the trailer from. I hadn’t talked to him often and I’d only seen him once, but it was him. The scum who had stolen my boys’ Christmas. It was all I could do to keep from attacking him. Had I been alone, instead of with the three boys, including a baby, I probably would have. Instead, I kept my mouth shut and ignored him. Throwing a fit would accomplish nothing.

A woman opened up another window and called me up.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take three of the cheapest seats you have.”

Mouth had noticeably quieted down.

The boys were remarkably understanding, as they always were. They had their rodeo tickets and that was the important thing. They asked if we could get a Coke. I had enough money left to get one and let them split it.

I’ve always tried not to cry in front of the boys, but it was danged hard that day. I had to keep reminding myself to keep the hate from my heart. That was harder.

I had already called and canceled the bullropes. I told Jim I would finish paying for them for their birthdays in March.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about Christmas dinner. I had a pound of hamburger meat, macaroni, one can of tomato sauce and some cranberry sauce. Meatloaf and macaroni with tomato sauce.

Lord, I know you’re going to take care of us. Just keep the hatred from my heart and take care of my babies.

It was just about dark when we got home and I thought a man was standing on the porch when I first pulled in. We got out and realized it was a Christmas tree. It was kind of a scrawny little tree, but it was a tree. Not only was there a tree, but it had ornaments on it. There were some little gifts under the tree and on the porch were several bags of groceries. I think the kids were as excited about all the food as anything.

The lady at the flower shop had a tree left over from the ones she used to cut up for greenery. She also hung a few ornaments on it and sent two boxes of lights. We lost most of our Christmas decorations when a storm took the top off our storage building, but I still had the little terra cotta cherubs that I had painted. I didn’t usually do tinsel, but there were boxes of tinsel and the boys had a ball hanging it just right. Of course, Cody’s just right and Brandon’s just right were just opposite. Cody threw the tinsel at the tree, the more the better. Brandon carefully hung each strand to make sure it was even.

We baked cookies that night and watched our beautiful little tree twinkling merrily at us.

I was still upset about not being able to buy gifts, but we would have a nice meal and the boys had their rodeo tickets.

I got a few more odd jobs before Christmas, so I went to Salvation Army and bought the newest pants I could find. They would have a few more gifts under the tree.

Christmas morning was here at last. I got breakfast ready and went out to feed animals before we opened packages.

Something was propped against the door when I opened it. Two round packages addressed to Brandon and Cody and both of them from Santa.

Santa was a cowboy and he knew the boys wanted bullropes for Christmas.

Thanksgiving

I was thinking about Thanksgiving and longing for the days when all the family was home. It was a lot of work to fix everything and make the proper feast which involved days of preparation.

Sometimes I made fresh monkey bread which is a heavy potato bread that was enormously popular with the family and friends. Other times I just made hot rolls, but by jiminy, I never made brown and serve rolls. (I declare proudly while I eye the package of brown and serve rolls now sitting on my countertop.)

Oddly enough, one of my most vivid memories of Thanksgiving started out pretty bleak. My little brother Stevie had passed away two weeks before he turned six in June. Mom had a tough time keeping a job because she, frankly, was having a nervous breakdown. She frequently fixed a large pot of macaroni and dumped a can of chili in it. We'd eat that for days.

Milk was a luxury. I was probably spoiled because we bounced back and forth between parents and my grandparents' dairy farm where we had fresh, whole milk with every meal, but more about that another time.

Thanksgiving was coming up, but it seemed to me at the time we didn't have much to be thankful for. There was simply no money for a Thanksgiving dinner.

Then, one night, a group of people showed up with several boxes of food. You would have thought Gary, my remaining little brother, and I had been dropped into the largest toy store in the world. We went crazy looking at all the food.

Mom cried and hugged everyone. Our benefactors were people in the Lion's Club who had heard about us and wanted to help.

God bless the Lions.

When they left, we handed Mom the groceries so she could put them up. I probably didn't stick my tongue out at that one lonely can of chili sitting on the shelf, but I wanted to.

In one of the boxes was a very large jar of peanut butter. Mom and I both sat down and cried when we saw that. Stevie was crazy about peanut butter. He used to cry because we couldn't afford it and there sat this huge jar of peanut butter that would last us for months.

And so, what was looking like a pretty grim Thanksgiving turned into one of our best.

Years later I am often reminded to be thankful for the small things and the large. The three jars of peanut butter in my cabinet, the peacefulness in the country, friends.

Today, I'd like to share a bit more on what I am thankful for. I have good friends in the gaming world and out. Just as the Lions probably didn't really know what a real miracle they were, so do our friends probably not realize they are also miracles. They can be the beacon of light someone needs when they are in a very dark place. A smile, a joke, a friendly invitation to go do something. Sometimes it just takes one simple act of kindness to turn someone's day around.

To the people in WoW, my guild mates, my friends, strangers I don't know yet, thank you. You make more of a difference than you know and I am very thankful for you. To the Pie People in particular, you are spectacular and I truly appreciate you.

I'm thankful for my writing friends and in particular, the Gnomies, my writing group. What a blessing you all are. Even though many of you are working on manuscripts of your own, you are always truly generous with your time and advice. You don't "eeeew, that's horrible" when I write a graphic scene that really is horrible. You study it and tell me I need more blood over there. Well, y'all did "eeew" about the horse tongue scene, but that was admittedly icky.

I have an opportunity to do what I love, write. Sometimes it makes me want to pull my hair out. More than one tear has been shed over these stories, but, thankfully, no one has told me to stop writing and give up.

I'm thankful for my health. It's been kind of an uphill, depressing battle at times this last two years, but it could be so very much worse. What is going on now is temporary, so yes, thank you, Lord, for my health.

I'm blessed with three healthy sons, daughters-in-law and my beautiful grandbabies. What a true miracle it is just to have healthy children. I still have my parents.

Brandon

                                                                                                               Samantha

       

                                                   Cody and Beth

Bailey and Garrett

                                                                                                           

                                                       Stormie     

                

                                                       Logan and Will

Dad












 

I'm thankful for our military and first responders who so often have to spend their holidays away from their loved ones. God bless you all.

I'm thankful to live in America even though our politicians drive me insane at times. 

Lastly, I am thankful that I really am happy. That in itself is a remarkable gift and I don't underestimate how lucky I am.

Now, since we come back to Thanksgiving and thoughts of food, let me share some recipes I posted in the past.

I hope you enjoy them and realize how much I appreciate all of you. I pray your day has been blessed.

Pecan Pie with Bourbon Cream 

Old Fashioned Peanut Butter Pie and Never Fail Pie Crust

Buttermilk Pie

Wrangler Patches and Country Humor

A while back I was commenting in a chat about a picture I have of some bronc riders behind the chutes and the nice "scenery". A young man in the chat blew a gasket. "That's disgusting to be talking about men's butts!" I'm sure he felt very violated.

I laughed.

Seriously? You're going to get offended at the idea that a woman might admire a nice Wrangler patch?

So, because I have no couth, I decided to write a blog about Wrangler patches and country humor. I confess, the appreciation for Wranglers might be a country thing because most of us really do have a pretty earthy sense of humor. So, if you are politically correct or easily offended, read no more.

Cody, my middle son, runs with a group of bullriders, including another young man named Kody. They were all at a restaurant after a rodeo and had ordered steaks. Kody wanted his steak medium well. It came out rare the first time, so he sent it back. It came out the second time a little more cooked, but still pretty rare. The third time it came back medium. Kody stabbed it with his fork, threw it on the floor and yelled, "Run you son-of-a-bitch while you still can!"

I would have laughed my head off, but I am an admitted heathen. The manager, however, had no sense of humor and demanded they all leave.

Now, on to the part you've all been waiting for, a treatise on Wrangler patches.

Most cowboys wear Wranglers, or did. A few other jeans are popular, but Wranglers have been a cowboy staple for decades. So, if you get caught admiring the scenery, you can always chalk it up to appreciating the Wrangler patch.

First, you need to recognize the stance with the brown leatherette Wrangler patch on the hip pocket. This is one you will typically see and be nice, this is a family member.

One of my favorites. This one should be poster worthy for people who really appreciate Wrangler patches.

I probably shouldn't include this one since he's hiding his patch, but I love the red shirt.

Mmmm. Nice horse. 

This one is courtesy of my friend Kari Lynn Dell who is a very talented roper, writer and all around great gal. I asked her if I could borrow this shot she took at Pendelton Round Up. She, being the gracious sort, said, "Of course. Butts are for sharing." If you get a chance, read her blog because it's always so much fun, and follow her on facebook. The nice thing about this picture is they are all numbered so you can compare your favorite Wrangler patches with your friends more easily. 

It's the little things in life that make it fun, like Wrangler patches.

Below is a picture of Kari Lynn because she is such a sweetheart and she's the reason I got to thinking about Wrangler patches.

Photo by Dreams Alive Imagery

Lost in Space

I probably shouldn't write this post, but...I'm frustrated. A few weeks ago my hard drive crashed on my Alienware. I need to find the documentation on it as I bought the extended warranty, but the service rep insists it's expired...conveniently a few weeks previous.

Anyway, since I have lost work before, I had everything backed up on Dropbox which I had been assured is foolproof and the safest way to back up work. It isn't.

I lost everything associated with V Dusk Falling, the game I have been writing for. That's eight months of research and stories down the drain. Last night I decided to send one of the new chapters of DRAGON VALLEY to the crit group and get back on track with that writing also, since a writer should always have a book in the birthing process, or so I think.

Oh, look. None of the DRAGON VALLEY stuff is there either. Now, that's only 15,000 words, but it's also a complete rewrite of the beginning chapters. Frankly, that's beyond frustrating.

So, now I'm pondering what the best method of backing up work is. I'll probably reload Liquid Story Binder tomorrow and start saving work there as well as various other places. I know I need to back up to more than one place now, but it's such a pain to back up edits to four places like I am now and it's getting very disorganized.

Maybe I should print everything out at the end of the day.

I feel like I am just drowning in writing 101, when I should be writing. Now I don't even want to write until I get a handle on getting my life in order and get some kind of a fool proof system in place.

Well, I do want to write, that's what's frustrating. I really wanted to get back to work on DRAGON VALLEY now that I am kind of getting caught back up with the Dusk Falling stuff. I want to go back to the page and read about my little fairy dragon and continue his journey, but now I have to go back to the beginning and re-write all that so I can.

I may have to bite the bullet and see if I can try to recover the crashed hard drive. Will offered to try and do that, but now I'm paranoid about even mailing it.

So, how do you protect your precious?