The Serial Writings of Robin Shope*Musings of a Paperback Writer

Ode to My Mother

2011-05-20T06:50:00.000-07:00

A New Take on Robert Frost
I love the poem by Robert Frost, two roads diverged in a yellow wood. I took the one less traveled by and that has made all the difference. It reflects my life.

When I was a senior, my high school counselor advised me not to go to college. She said with a C/B average my grades were proof enough that I was not college material. My mother didn’t agree with that assessment and gave me two choices; be a waitress or go to college. I all ready had enough of waiting tables at a pancake house so I ignored my high school counselor and filled out college applications.

My mother took me to see the college counselor to plan my courses at the Wisconsin State University Eau Claire. I will never forget. During the interview I was asked what career I had chosen. Of course I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life...I only knew what I didn’t want to do. When I opened my mouth to say these words my mother piped up and answered for me, “She wants to be a teacher.”

‘Interesting’, I thought at the time as I nodded my head. And since the only class I had done well in was English, I suddenly had my major. And since I enjoyed Drama Club, I now had my minor. I was all set as I checked into my dorm room with an electric typewriter in one hand and my record player in the other.

Shakespeare held no interest for me and I was within a semester of graduating when everything changed for me. During my practicum, I was placed in a middle school special education classroom. I loved working with those students. We made clocks from paper plates to learn how to tell time, we told stories and then wrote them down, and the students learned about good nutrition by planning well balanced meals. Ah ha! Now I knew what I really wanted to be…a special education teacher. When I told my mother about this, she told me to continue with my laid out plans and wrap things up. I couldn’t do that when my heart was going in a different direction so I left school a semester short of graduating, much to my mother’s horror.

Back home again, in my old pink bedroom, I started working at a resort as a receptionist. For two years I did this thankless job, knowing my dream of teaching was slipping further and further away. I had to do something myself in order to change my destiny.

I stopped buying myself clothes, I rarely went anywhere with my friends and socked away nearly every dime I made until there was enough money to return to college. The first trip to college was on my mother’s money; going back I paid my own way. Now I enrolled at UW Whitewater. This time around I paid closer attention in class and took great pride in learning.

A year later I graduated with a double major in English and Special Education, with a minor in theater. Time hadn’t been wasted after all. I was able to use all my credits and apply them toward my goal. Since that time I have earned four teaching certificates and have taught every grade from kindergarten through high school. My career has spanned nearly twenty-five years. Presently I am the Special Education Coordinator at a state facility for at risk teens that have been expelled from their school or court ordered to be there. I also have three fictional books published because of my love of literature. My life is filled with meaning.

Way back in high school my school counselor predicted a constricted future for me based on past grades. Her vision was narrow. She never took the time to see what possibilities lay within me. I was blessed to have a mother who saw great things and pushed me in the right direction. Along the way I was able to catch my own vision. Two roads diverged, my mother’s insight and my determination, and that has made all the difference.

Come Join Me.....

2011-01-31T04:33:00.000-08:00

I am so honored to be on this blog today talking about writing. Please drop by and leave your comments on writing advice, or anything else you would like to add. Please chime in!http://everyjournalist.wordpress.com/2011/01/31/tips-from-a-pro/

The Talented Amy Munoz created a NEW HEADER

2011-01-25T17:54:00.001-08:00

I LOVE IT!!!!

SEARCHING FOR ME......

2011-01-19T06:51:00.000-08:00

I wore white on my wedding day. It rained all day long, and folks in that small town of Ottawa, Illinois told me it was a good omen of a long and happy marriage. In the seventies people put a lot of faith in a marriage lasting a lifetime. Me too. That was my full intention when I said my ‘I do’s.’

I loved hearing the stories with the characteristic fairy tale ending, “and they lived happily ever after.” But my happily ever after never showed up.

Now it’s been years. Thirty-two of them. It rained on my wedding day and the cloud never really lifted from my wedding day to the day I walked out of the house, a much older, hopefully wiser woman.

Now, in this new century, young’uns ask why I stayed so long when I should have left. I have all the right reasons; I loved him in spite of everything, I stayed for the children, I stayed waiting for the five minutes of wonderful that would make it all worthwhile, I stayed because I was a Christian, I stayed because I hid from the truth of what was really going on, I stayed because it was the right thing to do. But then one day, the reasons didn’t outweigh my total despair. I left.

It’s stunning to suddenly be living alone, but not be lonely anymore. I find myself talking to everyone when I was once too shy to do so. At night I lie in bed and think about how good the sheets feel. My hair has started to curl, I suddenly developed a craving for Dr. Pepper, and I don’t need my reading glasses anymore.

As God parted the Red Sea, He is parting the clouds for me. Now I am searching for a bit of sun. I will live the rest of my life in it.

Robin Shope Jansen will be speaking to at the COURTHOUSE-ON-THE-SQUARE

2011-01-10T12:45:00.000-08:00

DENTON COUNTY MUSEUMS

THE 2011 COU RT HOU S E -ON- THE - SQU A R E LE C TU R E S E R I E S

Free • Open to the Public • Handicapped Accessible

For further information or directions contact the Courthouse-on-the-Square Museum

110 West Hickory • Denton, TX 76201 • 940-349-2850 • www.dentoncounty.com/chos

Author Robin Jansen Shope will discuss her book Ruby Red, a fictionalized tale of a

true event connected to the Orphan Trains in the 1920s. Robin’s books will be available for

sale during the lecture.

Robin is an educator with four teaching certificates and twenty-five years of classroom

experience. Her day position is Special Education Coordinator at the Denton County Juvenile

Justice System for at-risk teens. By night she is an avid reader and a compulsive writer.

Ruby Red is Robin's first young adult

novel. Homeless children roamed the streets of

New York City from the late 1800s through the

1930s. Death and disease were heaped upon

poverty and overcrowding, causing thousands

of children to be abandoned and left to fend for

themselves. Eleven-year-old Ruby is taken in

as a maid. Believing life holds more for her

than washing someone’s clothes, she makes a

risky move by faking insanity. After being expelled

from the household, Ruby sneaks onto

the Orphan Train. Both an enigma and a young

teen, she is the perfect reflection of how life

once was in America. Ruby embodies goodness,

and simplicity of truth; a rare gem which

bespeaks her name.

Friday, January 21, 2011

12:15-1:00

Commissioners Courtroom

Courthouse-on-the-Square

Orphan Trains

in the 1920s

by Robin Jansen Shope

Congrats Wendi B. You have won!!

2010-12-18T18:03:00.000-08:00

You have won the DVD of Journey to Paradise!

Win a DVD of Journey to Paradise or the book, The Christmas Edition!!!

2010-12-14T06:43:00.000-08:00

Its almost Christmas! I want to do something really special. You all are just the best ever...so...What should it be? I KNOW! I am offering the chance to win either a DVD of Journey to Paradise, or my book The Christmas Edition, which is based on the movie. (The movie earned the Dove seal of Approval and is featured on the American Christian Film site)

In order to win, all you have to do is; 1.leave a comment about one of my previous books 2. OR leave a Christmas recipe 3. OR tell me about a Christmas tradition.

You can leave the comment on FB or on my blog.

***I will announce the winner of the DVD and the book on Sat. December 18th, in time to arrive at your home before Christmas!

However, if you don't win, remember, these family friendly products can still be purchased either on Amazon or from Salty Earth Pictures. http://saltyearthpictures.myshopify.com/

My books are available on Amazon. Follow the side links for purchase.

Movie Release! From Salty Earth Pictures. Based on my book The Christmas Edition Journey to Paradise

2010-11-24T12:27:00.000-08:00

Ready for release, after a wonderful premier in Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, is the movie Journey to Paradise, based on my book (available on amazon) The Christmas Edition Journey to Paradise.

Lucy Collins is desperate. A large newspaper is planning to set-up shop in town, threatening the livelihood of her small, family-run business, The Turtle Creek Newspaper. Only a miracle can save them...but it's Christmastime, the season of miracles. At the staff Christmas party, Lucy makes a wish, and what seems like the answer to her prayer walks in the front door. Joe McNamara a genius when it comes to the written word, and he's gifted with ideas about keeping the newspaper afloat. Lucy finds herself not only falling in love with his talent, but also the man. Joe McNamara is desperate. He loves everything about Lucy-her fresh spirit, her zeal for the newspaper, and the way she looks at him across the table when they share hot chocolate. But Joe is harboring a dark secret that threatens to tear him up inside. If Lucy ever discovers his part in her fiancé's death, what looks like a promising relationship will unravel like discarded Christmas ribbon. How can he find redemption for his sins and continue to keep the truth from Lucy? Will the spirit of celebration be enough to heal two hearts? Or will the reality of deception make this the worst Christmas of all?

To order your copy of the DVD go to....

http://saltyearthpictures.myshopify.com/

RED INK A story of Faithfulness and Hope by Kathy Macias

2010-11-24T12:16:00.000-08:00

Paperback: 320 pages

Publisher: New Hope Publishers (October 4, 2010)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1596692790

ISBN-13: 978-1596692794

Product Dimensions: 8.9 x 6 x 0.9 inches

This review is from: Red Ink (Extreme Devotion Series, Book 3) (Paperback)

Kathi Macias writes of religious persecution in China and stuns the reader with true accounts of bravery and self sacrifice in RED INK. Zhen-Li, raised in China, accepts Christianity her husband's faith when she marries. She skirts the taboos of the nation again when she becomes pregnant with her second child. However, she soon pays the price for her conversion and for the child.

The story is wholly mesmerizing with fully developed round characters. The writing is compelling and a page turner. I read it in 2 days, not able to put it down. The expressions of faith inspired my own faith, allowing me to take away spiritual lessons. I also appreciated a list of Chinese words and phrases that the author thought to include at the front of the book. Let us not forgot the persecution of others around this world, and hold them up in prayer.

Robin Shope Jansen author

Author of The Christmas Edition Journey to Paradise, now a motion pictueThe Christmas Edition: A Journey to Paradise

also, author of

The Valentine Edition

The Easter Edition

and Wildcard

God Moves in Mysterious Ways his wonders to perform.

2010-08-30T16:00:00.000-07:00

At nine o’clock one Saturday evening late in August of 1965, my boyfriend was at his out of town swim meet and I was stuck at home with a bad summer cold. Since my latest paperback was finished the day before, I went to the bookcase and ran my fingertips over the book spines not expecting to find anything interesting since all the reading material belonged to my mother. However, this title caught my attention; The Family Nobody Wanted.

Written by Helen Doss, it was published in 1954. Helen Doss and her minister-in-training husband Carl were a young California couple. Infertile at a time, Helen wanted nothing in the world more than to have a “happy, normal little family.” After adopting one infant who matched them perfectly, they wanted more children but were frustrated by the lengthy waiting periods for white babies. And so Helen and Carl Doss, whose only desire was to expand their family, ended up with twelve children: Filipino, Hawaiian, Balinese, Malayan, Indian, Mexican, and Native American, in various combinations. Some were afflicted by a host of other special needs—one child had a tumor on her forehead, another was described as mentally retarded—but these defects quickly disappeared and the Doss children blossomed in their family filled with acceptance, faith, and love. They were just adorable kids. The Dosses just happened to think that love had more to do with making kinship than blood.

The entire weekend I lay curled on my bed, book in hand, hearing the weeping of orphans in need of a mother to listen to their goodnight prayers. Tears stung my eyes. Something inside me awakened. It was then I felt God say to me that I would never have biological children, but my children would come to me by way of adoption. The knowing came lowly, like a tapping foot that couldn’t be stilled. Impatience similar to an opening and closing of a hand preceded an avalanche of erupting emotions that swept all preconceived ideas of motherhood away. Suddenly I knew a measure of what my future held. Adoption. From that moment on I balanced myself on the edge of a far off tomorrow. A bit impatient to see what else the good Lord had for me.

On our next date, I mentioned this startling revelation to my then boyfriend, Rusty—the same one I had inadvertently sent his Christmas gift away to the Native Americans. Let’s just say he was a good sport about the present, but now, he didn’t know what to make of my heavenly revelation. It was rather disconcerting for him. However, in his defense, we were only sixteen at the time. I had just come from the presence of God and he was thinking movie night with his girlfriend—maybe, later, a goodnights kiss at the door. He was the same guy as he had been the day before while I had just been swept away by the touch of God.
Many years later, my now former husband (not Rusty) and I discovered we could not have biological children. Although he was devastated from the news, I wasn’t. I wasn’t afraid; I wasn’t distressed, for I had been bolstered years prior by God’s disclosure. My journey for adoption—to find my children—began. I contacted a Christian agency from Wheaton, Illinois and started the paperwork, the interviews, etc. Right before Christmas, the Lord spoke to my heart and said , “Kimberly is on her way” (home to me). A month later, the end of January, the phone call came from the social worker A racially mixed, five week baby girl was ours if we wanted her. YES! OH YES!

Kimberly came home on January 28, 1981. That dark haired little munchkin filled me with unspeakable joy. Since she had been born at the biological mother’s home, alone, without medical aid, the agency wasn’t sure what her intellect might be. No matter. She was mine, and I was hers. We belonged to one another. And to add blessing to blessing, very quickly we discovered that Kim was quite bright. Before she was two years old, she woke me up one morning and announced, “Mother, take me to school. I am tired on not learning anything!” Her thirst for knowledge was lit and remained as a thirst which to this day has not been quenched.

As Kim grew so did her longing for a baby brother. Every night she would thank Jesus for giving her a one. Whenever we shopped, she always insisted on buying little boy’s clothes. When I demurred, she would plead, “But my baby brother needs these.”

Kimberly was four when a woman from our church told me her daughter was distressed. Carol* (not her real name) was about to have another baby, out of wedlock. Since I already knew her, I said I would visit the next day. The minute I stepped into the apartment, Carol asked me if I would take her baby as my own when it was born. I burst into joyful tears. Long story short, I was at the hospital when Matthew, Kim’s baby brother, came into the world. I called home and told Kim the news. “Kim, you have a baby brother.” She said, “I knew it was a boy."

And now I had my children. Not a full house like the Dosses had in the book, but my two. Kim a dark haired beauty with skin the color of milk chocolate, and Matthew a blue eyed charmer with skin the color of snow.

Years later, Kim went into accelerated classes for the gifted and talented in school, while Matthew attended special education classes and speech classes for language, and occupational therapy for his fine motor skills. Yet, my children were two peas in a pod; close to one another, and honestly, they never argued but always got along well.

Kimberly graduated from UT at the top of her class in kenisthesiology and psychology. After working for a law firm, she moved to Atlanta and got her masters in health at Emory. She interned for the GAO in Washington DC. Went to Congressional meetings on The Hill. Met lawmakers. Every job she applied for, she got. The one she chose was working for PriceWaterhouseCoopers in Dallas. And now she is married and has an adorable son, Kingston who is so much like his mama that it makes me laugh.

After graduating from high school, Matthew went to vocational school and is now a certified nurse’s aide. He’s employed at a nursing home. He loves his residents and takes excellent care of them. Matthew is the kindest, sweetest, most loving person I have ever known. Besides being an artist, he comes up with fabulous story ideas that one day will find their way to paper.

My son Matthew and I live together along with our cocker spaniel Cooper, and our very crabby Russian Blue cat, Lexie.

Imagine a seed planted in the ground. Picture the seed cracking opening to send out a runner. The seed cracks wider and up shoots a sprout. God speaks to it from the firmament and says, “Come up here where the weather is fine.” Soon that sprout reaches the warm air of the garden where it begins to grow strong and even blossom.

God moves in a mysterious way

his wonders to perform;

He plants his footsteps in the sea,

and rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines

of never failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs

and works his sovereign will.

You fearful saints, fresh courage take;

the clouds you so much dread

Are big with mercy and shall break

in blessings on your head.

His purposes will ripen fast,

unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,

but sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err

and scan his work in vain:

God is his own interpreter,

and he will make it plain.

My Precious Journey

2010-08-27T10:42:00.000-07:00

Recently I came through a level 5 tornado, but not in the weather sense. It took place in my personal life. Although I suffered damage, I survived. Barely. Now I am in the rebuilding stage—starting over. Finally, many months later, I find I am blossoming. I am on a journey to recover me and find hope for my future. In bed at night, I think back over my life and remember who I once was…..

When I was a young woman, not yet out of high school, I knew I wanted to contribute significantly in some way to make the difference in someone’s life. Back then, people looked to others who were humanitarians rather than the music or Hollywood industry like some do today. My role model was Tom Dooley and Albert Schweitzer. Both men were brilliant doctors who gave up a life of ease to live in third world harsh conditions in order to bring health and hope to others; (American) Dr. Dooley in Cambodia and (German) Dr. Schweitzer in Gabon, Africa. I read voraciously about them and knew God was calling me to do something special. It was then I decided to be an overseas missionary. I told these plans to my mother, who looked up at me from her knitting with an odd expression of disquiet on her face. “There are people in our own nation who need help too.”

Really? After all, I lived in an affluent household. The front of our antique house faced Lake Delavan. From the age of thirteen I had my own speed boat. I might have been too young to drive a car, but on the water, I was master. My closet brimmed with stylish clothes. I lacked for nothing—I couldn’t grasp that people in my own country might need help. Up to that time I thought the only really poor people lived elsewhere, faraway, perhaps, on the other side of the world where no one but God, or a missionary could see them.

So began my interest in the Native Americans who lived on reservations.

I found the name of the director of Indian Affairs at Menominee Falls, Wisconsin. After several weeks of conversing with her, she gave me the names of children who would enjoy gifts for Christmas, and might not get any, any other way (an early form of the angel tree). My mother and I went shopping for the children, and I also bought my then boyfriend’s Christmas gift which was a standard plaid shirt. We got home, wrapped it all up and shipped off the gifts to the reservation. A few nights later, Rusty came over to give me his gifts, a locket and perfume. When I went to get his gift, I discovered it was missing! Mother and I searched high and low for it. Then it dawned on me. Mistakenly, we had sent it to the reservation with the other gifts. That incident soon turned into a Christmas family story.

Now, decades later, I am not any closer to stepping onto a reservation than I was long ago. Sometimes I dream a dream that I am teaching on a one, but then I look around at where I am. I love my job as the Special Education Coordinator at an alternative program for my county. My office is in the supply portable where I sit beside shelves of black army boots and green fatigues. Like beauty and money, a few dreams have passed me by. But when I work with troubled teens, who have been expelled from school, or court ordered to be here, I know I couldn’t be at a better place. Where I belong.

Somewhere my dreams and reality have collided. Some for the better, yet, I wonder about those dreams while I gaze into the mirror. In real life I am a small boned-woman with soft hands. In summer I wear over-sized t-shirts to bed and skinny jeans during the day. Naturally, my face has more wrinkles than it did ten years ago and I refuse to touch up my hair with dyes anymore. I look at my last driver’s license picture and wonder who that person was. I look at my recent driver’s license picture and think I look like someone who has been apprehended for drunk driving and resisted arrest on my way to having my picture took. (No, that did NOT happen. I don’t drink and I work with police officers, don’t tangle or tango with them).

And this is the first bit of writing I have done in half a year. I hope and pray it’s my precious journey back to it as I remember that today belongs to me. It’s all mine. And God’s.

Each morning, when I arise, I look for a bit of hope and live my life in it.

Interview with K. Dawn Byrd*WIN A FREE eBook

2010-08-01T18:40:00.000-07:00

Be sure to leave a comment for a chance to win Dawn's newest release, Killing Time.

K. Dawn Byrd is an author of inspirational romance. Queen of Hearts, a WWII romantic suspense released in April and was Desert Breeze Publishing's bestselling novel for the month. Killing Time, a contemporary romantic suspense released August 1, also with Desert Breeze Publishing.

K. Dawn Byrd is an avid blogger and gives away several books per week on her blog at www.kdawnbyrd.blogspot.com, most of which are signed by the authors. She's also the moderator of the popular facebook group, Christian Fiction Gathering.
When not reading or writing, K. Dawn Byrd enjoys spending time with her husband of 14 years, walking their dogs beside a gorgeous lake near her home, and plotting the next story waiting to be told.
Links:
Blog: www.kdawnbyrd.blogspot.com

Publisher:

http://stores.desertbreezepublishing.com/-strse-103/k-dawn-byrd-killing/Detail.bok (there will be links at this site to purchase from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, the Sony ebook store and others)
Youtube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ncljBid61g

Book blurb:

Mindy McLaurin, thinks it's the end of the world when she's incarcerated on trumped-up embezzlement charges. While in jail, she investigates the death of an inmate who allegedly died of an overdose. Mindy suspects foul play when her cellmate dies and she learns that both women had ingested the same drug. Mindy trusts no one, including Drew Stone, the handsome counselor she can’t stop thinking about. She faces many challenges, including constant interrogation by the Major and emotional abuse from the other inmates. Upon release, someone is stalking her and framing her for the murder. Can she prove to Counselor Stone that she’s innocent of all charges before she loses him forever?

Welcome Dawn. It is my pleasure to interview you about your newest release, Killing Time.

1) How did this story come to you?

I've always been an avid reader and planned to write a book one day. When I began work as a counselor in a jail, I thought that would be a neat setting for the book. I began to jot down notes about the environment such as sights, sounds, and smells. Before I knew it, my heroine had formed in my mind, begging me to tell her story.

2) Tell us about the journey to getting this book published.

This book didn't go through rejections because I never sent it out. I did enter it into some contests in order to get feedback. It finaled in the Duel on the Delta last year. An agent took a look at it and said that she really liked my writing, but was afraid it might be hard to sell a book partially set in a jail. It was then I realized that there's such a thing as writing to market if you want to sell. About that time, I became friends with Michelle Sutton and she recommended one of her publishers to me, Desert Breeze Publishing. They liked it and the rest is history.

3) Tell me three things about yourself that would surprise your readers.

1) I own two hairless Chinese Crested dogs.

2) I love sour things....pickles, lemons, sour candy.

3) I used to ride a Harley, but gave it up in order to have more time to write. (My husband always wanted to stay out way too long and take the scenic route home. He still has his bike, but I don't miss mine at all.)

4)What are you working on now and what's next for you?

I'm working on my fifth novel. I've not tried to place novels three and four because an agent is looking at them and I'm awaiting his advice. I can say that Desert Breeze has been absolutely wonderful to work with and I'll be sending them more of my work.

5)Parting comments? Thank you for hosting me on your blog! For those of you who love Christian fiction, please check my blog for weekly book giveaways. I interview 3-5 authors a week who give away their books. www.kdawnbyrd.blogspot.com

6) Where can fans find you on the internet?

www.kdawnbyrd.blogspot.com

I'm also on Twitter (kdawnbyrd) and facebook (K Dawn Byrd.) I am the moderator of the Christian Fiction Gathering facebook group (http://www.facebook.com/#!/group.php?gid=128209963444) If you join this group, you'll get reminders about the weekly book giveways.

Shar MacLaren & Robin Shope Interview

2010-06-13T13:00:00.000-07:00

Two Different Authors with Two Different Viewpoints write about the 75 Year Social Experiment Known As The Orphan Train.

Maggie Rose by Sharlene MacLaren

Ruby Red by Robin Jansen Shope

Sharlene and Robin made a lovely discovery. Not only are they both teachers (Shar’s retired), they have also written about a special time in history from separate viewpoints. As a result, they decided to ‘cross pollinate’ their books in this shared interview. Come join the discussion, and for leaving a comment, you will automatically be entered into a drawing for a chance to win a copy of both their books, Maggie Rose and Ruby Red, from either one of their Websites. That’s twice the chance to win; in other words, go ahead and leave a comment at both sites to double your odds. If you aren’t a blogger then leave a comment for them on Facebook, and they’ll throw your name into the “proverbial hat”. Click one or both of the following blogs to read their interviews!

http://www.sharlenemaclaren.blogspot.com

http://write2robinshope.blogspot.com/

Few people realize that 30,000 homeless children roamed the streets of New York City from the mid-1800s through the 1930s. Death and disease were heaped upon poverty and overcrowding, causing thousands of children to be abandoned and left to fend for themselves. Adding to the malaise, boatloads of European immigrants flooded our shores and soon succumbed to the same adversities, leaving thousands of their children parentless. Accounts have been written of the Orphan Train that carried white-skinned children into the heartland of America to find new families. For some it was a gift; for others it ended with tragedy. Many children were loved and cherished while others suffered at the hands of cruel caretakers and were little more than slaves or servants.

Sharlene: Here is a snapshot of my early life, which influences me to this day. I grew up in the small town of Twin Lake, Michigan. When I say small I mean we had one gas station, a post office, a tavern/restaurant, a lumberyard, and two grocery stores whose owners were ALWAYS at odds (enemies perhaps?) because of the competition. Townsfolk were either loyal Oslunds’ grocery shoppers or Powells. (You couldn’t be both. Ha!) My family went to Powells’ because my mom swore they had a better meat selection!

I grew up in a tiny cottage-style house on the lake, as in we had beach frontage. It was a great swimming, fishing, waterskiing lake, so as a kid nearly every day in the summer the first thing I did when I awoke was peek through my bedroom curtains to determine what to put on, regular clothes or my swimsuit. Some days, Daddy would awaken me at 5:30 a.m. when the lake was still as glass and the fog lying lazily on the surface and ask if I wanted to go fishing. I didn’t LOVE fishing, but I soaked up those opportunities to sit in my Dad’s quiet, reassuring presence. We had a rowboat dubbed “Maybe Baby”. She had a slow leak, so we kept a bucket handy at all times.

My parents were devout Christians. When those Wesleyan Methodist Church doors opened, our family of five (I have two older brothers) walked through them, Sunday mornings, evenings, midweek prayer meetings, and annual revivals. Sundays were kept holy, as in, um, no swimming—unless I took a bar of soap with me in which case I was going down to the lake to “take a bath”. (grins) That was acceptable. However, no jumping off the end of the dock or acting rowdy!

My parents did have some rigid rules when it came to their belief system, I suppose, but they ruled with tremendous grace and mercy. In fact, they loved us kids with amazing tenderness and care. There was always a good deal of joking, teasing, and laughter in our home, lots of it. (I acquired my sense of humor from my dad.)

We had very little in the way of material possessions. After all, I grew up in the 50s and 60s, and the country was still suffering through a long, grueling recovery from the Great Depression. But I don’t recall feeling especially deprived, forget that we had an outhouse till I was at least 10—just loved and free and secure. When I was a little kid, Dad worked in a factory then switched to head custodian at a Muskegon elementary school when I was a young teen. While I was in second grade, my mom took a job in the Twin Lake Post Office. I remember feeling so PROUD that MY mom had a “real job” while my friends’ moms didn’t. No insecurity on my part! She was such a loving, generous, fun person; a very strong influence in my life.

Robin: Here is a snapshot of my early life, which influences me to this day. As you will ‘see’ as you read, my upbringing was very different from Shar’s.

I grew up in Chicago, Illinois, the daughter of a former bootlegger who, by the time of my birth, owned a respectable nightclub, The Ivanhoe Restaurant. My Christian mother was twenty years his junior. Dad had disguised himself as a Christian man, covering up his swearing, drinking, and womanizing ways for two months while he wooed my mother by taking her to church. As soon as that ring was placed on her finger, and vows were spoken, Dad became Dad again and picked up his former ways. I am the middle child of that union.

Born in the late 1800s, my dad was the age of a grandfather. Still, I felt lucky he belonged to me and I to him. He spoiled me terribly with presents, never disciplined me (probably too tired to do so) and gave into me—indulging my every whim while the role of disciplinarian went to my mother.

I loved to hear his stories about running away from home at the age of eleven. He worked his way to Texas where he learned to break horses and pick cotton. Traveling further south, he ran into Poncho Villa (honest) and rode with him for a while. He didn’t like what the bandit did, so Dad returned to Texas and joined the Texas Rangers until WWII broke out and he joined the army. When the war ended, Dad lived with his brother in Chicago and started a tavern at the same time prohibition hit. Not to be deterred from their new adventure, they turned the tavern into a speakeasy and ran bootleg whiskey. After prohibition was repealed, they expanded their business by buying out the stores around them. Soon the small tavern grew into a castle structure fashioned after the one In Robin Hood.

Shar: my early life impacts the person I am today.

I grew up in a very musical family, my mom a gifted piano player and alto singer and my dad having a beautiful tenor voice. Thus, my brothers and I all inherited musical tendencies as well, but along with that creative, artsy bent, God also gifted me with a most vivid imagination. As a kid, I had no notion of EVER writing novels, but I knew I loved to read and jump into the characters’ skin of whatever book I happened to be reading, pretending to be that very person stranded on an island or riding like the wind on a horse, or saving a drowning dog. In bed, I would talk to myself and make up stories. I still recall my brother walking past my bedroom one night, saying, “Who are you talking to?” and I very proudly answering, “MYSELF!” He huffed and marched off.

I made my first attempt at writing stories as an 11th grader. I could fill up an entire spiral notebook with a silly teenage romance. Those stories passed from one girlfriend to another in civics and government classes, and always with the teacher’s back to us. But then college came, and my teaching career, then marriage and kids, and my wild passion for music. That writing thing I’d once done in high school slipped into Neverland, almost a forgotten memory, and would you believe I never gave it another thought until the ripe age of 52 in the summer of 2000? Yep, that’s when God revived my passion, and in the year 2006, I signed my first contract.

My idea for writing Maggie Rose came about because of having read about the Orphan Train, which ran from the mid-1800s to 1929 (more than 75 years!) while doing some research for another book project. It immediately intrigued me, and suddenly, I couldn’t read enough about that era, and in many ways, it utterly enraptured me, as in SWALLOWED ME UP. Whenever I become this wrapped up in a subject I sense God’s percolator working overtime in my brain. Not only that, every time I turned around it seemed I was running into the words Orphan Train—either at the library, or by accidentally coming across something online or on TV—and even in the newspaper. At that point, I said to the Lord, “Okay, God, I get it. You want me to write about the Orphan Train era.” Here’s a brief synopsis of my story, Maggie Rose, which by the way is the second in my series called The Daughters of Jacob Kane:

The year is 1904, and Maggie Rose, the spunky, friendly, twenty-year-old middle daughter of Michigan resident Jacob Kane, feels compelled to leave her beloved hometown of Sandy Shores to pursue what she feels in her heart are God's plans for her life-in New York City. Maggie Rose adjusts to her new life at Sheltering Arms Refuge, an orphanage that also transports homeless children to towns across the United States to match them with compatible families. Most of the children have painful pasts that make Maggie aghast, but she marvels at their resiliency. As she gets to know each child, her heart blossoms with new depths of love and compassion. When a newspaper reporter comes to stay at the orphanage in order to gather research for an article, Maggie is struck by his handsome face…and concerned by his lack of faith. She can't deny their mutual affections, though. Will she win the struggle to maintain her focus on God and remain attuned to His guidance?

Robin: my early life impacts the person I am today.

Although I knew my dad loved me, there was some kind of a disconnect. I needed to find a connection and as a teen found it in Christ. He is my constant anchor. And now I write about people who search for their faith, reach for hope, learn to forgive, and find the most important place in the world—home—a place to belong.

When I was in middle school, I read a book The Family Nobody Wanted. It was about children who were considered unadoptable yet they found a place where they belonged with a wonderful couple. I somehow knew I would never have biological children. God had a different plan for me and that was adoption. Years later, my five-week-old daughter was placed into my empty arms by a social worker. Kimberly was a beautiful, racially mixed baby. A few years later, Matthew followed with very fair skin. Perfect children. Perfect bookends holding up my life.

As a teacher, I read to my class stories of the Orphan Train riders. It pained me to think about the thousands of children who didn’t have parents to tuck them in at night and listen to their bedtime prayers. Had my children been born then, Matthew would have been sent out west to find a home. Would he have been taken in by kind parents? What about Kimberly? What would have become of her? The seed of Ruby Red was born at that moment.

Ruby Red is a fictionalized tale of a true event. Homeless children roamed the streets of New York City from the late 1800s through the 1930s. Death and disease were heaped upon poverty and overcrowding, causing thousands of children to be abandoned and left to fend for themselves. Eleven-year-old Ruby is taken in as a maid. Believing life holds more for her than washing someone s clothes, she makes a risky move by faking insanity. After being expelled from the household, Ruby sneaks onto the Orphan Train. With her best friend, a cockroach named Red, housed in a canning jar, Ruby searches for a place to call home and runs into adventure and heartbreak. Both an enigma and a young teen, she is the perfect reflection of how life once was in America. Ruby embodies goodness, and simplicity of truth; a rare gem which bespeaks her name. Softened a bit through suffering she refuses to be hardened and keeps believing that the world holds a special place for her. Written beautifully by author Robin Jansen Shope for young teens and adults, the indomitable spirit of Ruby Red triumphs and will live in your heart far beyond the pages of the book.

Thank you for joining us here today. Be sure to leave a comment on our blogs for a chance to win our books!

ACFW June Releases

2010-06-03T08:06:00.001-07:00

http://pammeyerswrites.blogspot.com/

And the Winner of NO GREATER LOVE IS....

2010-06-02T17:14:00.001-07:00

Steve Dunbar! Steve contact me privately with your address. Congratulations!

Kathi Macias & No Greater Love

2010-05-31T06:43:00.000-07:00

Welcome. I have the honor of interviewing the award winning author Kathi Macias today. Please be sure to leave a comment for a chance to win her book NO GREATER LOVE released by New Hope Publishers.

Kathi, thank you for joining us here today. Tell us about your life.

I was actually born in SoCal, (suffice it to say, EONS ago!) and have lived in various parts of SoCal ever since, with brief forays into Amarillo, Texas, Houston, Texas, Colorado Spring, Colorado, and LaCenter and Longview, Washington. My husband, Al, and I live in a retirement community (with a golf course, which is all Al noticed when we moved here!). My almost 89-year-old mom lives with us. In our very rare spare time, we ride my husband's Harley (a Road King), which is how I got my road name of "Easy Writer." We also spend as much time as possible with our grown kids and grandkids; our two oldest grandsons are in the Navy, stationed in nearby San Diego.

Grandkids are the best! Now that we know a bit about your present life, tell us a tidbit about your childhood.

As I said, I grew up in SoCal, and I met Al when we were in the first grade. By eighth grade we were an "item." I even told him, while we were still in junior high, that I would be a writer some day. He often reminds me that I'm one of the few people he knows who knew such a thing so young. Also, I was sick a lot as a child (prior to my teens), so I spent a lot of time reading and developing an ongoing love affair with words.

Ah, what a sweet love story between you and dear Al. The calling to write was upon your life as a child. Do your characters talk to you, or even get sassy with you as mine do with me?

I'm not sure if they talk to me, but they sure do tend to go off on tangents of their own! Seriously, I know where my stories will start and where they will end, but much of what happens in between seems to be orchestrated by my characters!

Tell us about your feature book.

No Greater Love is set in 1989 South Africa and is centered around a young (16 years old) African girl named Chioma, the daughter of martyred ANC leaders. The story opens with Chioma and her younger brother, Masozi, living
and working on an Afrikaner farm. When the farm owner's son, Andrew, and Chioma, find themselves attracted to one another--a definite no-no in Apartheid South Africa--tragedy revisits Chioma's life and she must escape and seek shelter elsewhere. A rebel band of "freedom fighters" takes her in, and she soon finds herself faced with life-and-death decisions born out of the conflict between her feelings for a white man and her hatred of his race.

Okay, you have us all hooked. You must tell us snippets about your other books.
There are thirty in all, so I'll just focus on the newest ones. Following No Greater Love, there are three others in the international Extreme Devotion series: More than Conquerors, set in the Mayan country of Mexico (available
now); Red Ink, set in China (releases October 2010); People of the Book, set in Saudi Arabia (available April 2011). I also have a stand-alone historical (third century) novel releasing from Abingdon Press in September, titled
Valeria's Cross and co-authored with Susan Wales.

WOW, thirty books. You are a well-seasoned author. If you were one of your characters, which one would you be and why that one?

Strangely enough, I think I most relate to Chioma, even though she is a young black woman from another culture and country. But she is headstrong and determined, much as I was at her age--and very idealistic. Chioma became
so real to me during the writing of No Greater Love that I often find myself thinking about her and wondering how she's doing.

I have the direct link to No Greater Love available on my blog but how can we order your other books?
No Greater Love and More than Conquerors can be ordered from my website (http://www.kathimacias.com/). Red Ink and Valeria's Cross are available for pre-order on Amazon. Book trailers for No Greater Love and More than
Conquerors can be seen on my website as well.

Kathi, you are a treasure! Thank you for being with us today.

Thank you everyone for stopping by. Please remember to leave a comment so we know that you were here and for a chance to win No Greater Love.

The winner for Ruby Red is...

2010-05-23T07:09:00.001-07:00

Steph Skolad! And wow, did she ever want this book! She commented like 5 times. Thanks Steph...and now for everyone else...

If you order Ruby Red from amazon anytime in May, I will send a special gift to you the first week in June.If you order, be sure to let me know and send me your address. XO

Love you all. YOU are the reason I write...you and all the characters that introduce themselves to me and talk me to death until I write about them.

Win a Copy of my Debut Young Adult Novel RUBY RED!

2010-05-20T06:08:00.000-07:00

Today I am giving away a copy of my debut novel Ruby Red. To enter, just leave a comment here on my blog or on FB (be sure I know your email address). This will run through Saturday May 22 when I draw the name. The more comments you make the better the chances of winning.

Background: Homeless children roamed the streets of New York City from the late 1800s through the 1930s. Death and disease were heaped upon poverty and overcrowding, causing thousands of children to be abandoned and left to fend for themselves. Adding to the malaise, boatloads of European immigrants flooded our shores and soon succumbed to the same adversities leaving thousands of their children parentless. Accounts have been written of the Orphan Train that carried white-skinned children out into the heartland of America to find new families, but history is totally silent of what became of the dark-skinned children.

Ruby Red is a fictionalized tale of a true event. It's the end of the Orphan Train run in the mid-nineteen-twenties. The story is told through Ruby Red’s eleven-year old eyes. After Ruby is taken in as a maid, she finds she has little hope of being anything more and makes a risky move by faking insanity. After being expelled from the household, she sneaks onto a train heading west where she finds adventure, danger, and renewed hope.

and now a quick blurb from chapter 1
CHAPTER 1

Ruby didn’t know she sparkled with beauty like the gem whose name she carried. Her skin was the color of lush earth darkened by the heat of summer’s noonday sun. But it wasn’t the green of summer it was the white of winter and Ruby had no place to call home.

Ruby was medium boned with impish brown eyes. Always dressed in brown, she felt she belonged here among the potato filled pots and spice scented kitchen. Ruby held her plain skirt pinched between her fingers as if it were a party dress and danced toward the kitchen where a sink load of pots and pans waited to be washed.

Chilled by early morning winter, Ruby happily obliged to clean the breakfast dishes and plunged her arms into the heated sudsy water, clear up to her elbows. Ruby looked out the window at the halo sun looking down on her with its lemony color seeping down from the bright cerulean sky. She considered this the best part of the day.

A book YEARS in the Making...

2010-04-28T15:39:00.000-07:00

Every book has a story behind it. A story that has lent part of itself to the book but not has given itself completely to it. And so it is with the debut of my first young adult novel, Ruby Red.

When I was in middle school, I read a book that changed my life. It was about a remarkable family that adopted ten children, one at a time. I was so moved that I read the book time and again. And then I somehow knew, I would never have biological children; that I would find my children through adoption. Although I would have loved to have raised at least a half dozen children, God saw fit to bless me with two, first Kimberly and then Matthew.

Kim was in third grade when Good Housekeeping and IBM teamed up for a national writing contest. Kim entered and she won national in her divison. The story was about her adoption and what it meant to her being part of a family in A Bear Named Song (A mother's assertion that "When something valuable goes out of your life, something more precious enters" is proved twice in her daughter's life), later published by Standard Publishing. Although the book is now out of print, it can still be found on the secondary market and through places like Amazon and ebay.

Around this same time I became aware of something called the Orphan Train. Homeless children roamed the streets of New York City from the late 1800s through the 1930s. Death and disease were heaped upon poverty and overcrowding, causing thousands of children to be abandoned and left to fend for themselves. An organization sent thousands of children out west on trains to find a new home, a new family and new life. History tells us stories of the white children who rode these trains. No mention has been made of the African American children. It made me wonder what happened to babies and children like my daughter who is a mix of white, Hispanic and African American.

Ruby Red became a speck of an idea that quickly grew and changed over the next several years. This young adult novel is a fictionalized tale of a true event.

Ruby embody's Kimberly's indominable spirit. An impish brown skinned girl who walks into your heart and takes over your life in beautiful ways. Matthew is my son, who is the same shade of white that I am. He is gentle and filled with joy and imagination like Andy. Andy? Who is Andy? You will meet him and others in Ruby Red.

To purchase Ruby Red press here

Eleven-year-old Ruby is taken in as a maid. Believing life holds more for her than washing someone’s clothes, she makes a risky move by faking insanity. After being expelled from the household, Ruby sneaks onto the Orphan Train, meant only for white children. With her best friend, a cockroach named Red, housed in a canning jar, Ruby searches for a place to call home and runs into adventure and heartbreak. Both an enigma and a young teen, she is the perfect reflection of how life once was in America. Ruby embodies goodness, and simplicity of truth; a rare gem which bespeaks her name. Softened a bit through suffering she refuses to be hardened and keeps believing that the world holds a special place for her. Young teens and as well as adults will be inspired by the indomitable spirit of Ruby Red. She will live in your heart far beyond the pages of the book.

Ruby Red on Amazon

BE A LOOSER! How I LOST 5 DRESS SIZES & COUNTING!!!!

2010-04-16T06:33:00.000-07:00

Be a LOOSER (this pix of me is 5 months old)

Motivation: A year ago last summer, I spent a lot of time in bed with OA of the knees and in terrible pain as inches of fat kept creeping onto my bones. I thought about ‘skinny’ Robin from my high school years and remembered how happy and active I had been. Then I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t want this to be the rest of my life. The only one who could change things was me.

I am not a health nut guru. I am not an exercise freak. I don’t tote a magic pill or have a special diet plan. On top of that I will turn 61 this summer. Yet, I look younger, feel better, and am in better health than I was ten years ago. How did a plain, ordinary person accomplish that? Determination.

My main motto for if I am not losing weight is, eat less move more. (Be careful here to be sure you do not have an underlying medical condition). Let me tell you what I don’t do…

1. I do not count calories.

2. I don’t go on crazy diets.

3. I don’t take diet pills.

4. I didn’t have surgery.

5. I don’t buy pre-packaged meals from any diet center.

6. I am not following any diet plan.

What I do…

1. I eat healthy and make it organic as much as possible.

2. I move. i.e. I take advantage of walking the dog. I have a desk job so whenever possible I will get out and walk around the prison (no I am not in one. I work next door to one). (13 minutes of walking a day improves the memory by 20%. Question: How long would I have to walk to improve my memory 100%?) I belonged to a gym for 6 months and biked, swam, did upper body strengthening and building. Doing nothing wreaks havoc on your muscles. Now I walk, swim, hike, and for upper body training I carry 10 bags of groceries from my car up to my second story apt. (that last one was meant for levity).

Let’s explore a bit more in detail about the importance of eating right and movement. (I am about what I did. I am not toting this as what you should do. This is my journey. I am not a doctor or nutritionist. My training is education, so all my information comes from what I have learned and by what I experienced myself. Remember that.)

EAT RIGHT!

I can take in 1500 calories a day and move a lot and still not lose weight. How come? I found I was eating the wrong foods.

1. I watch my salt intake. I knew a man who by just cutting out his salt intake lost 20 pounds.

2. I also have given up 90% soda pop drinking. It’s bad, bad, bad. Not only do I gain weight but it also eats into my bones and depletes calcium. I am working on giving up the last 10% of soda pop.

3. I eat dessert once a week and make it really, really good. Not anything like a mini candy bar, but something I totally love. For me it’s hot fudge Sundae with whipped cream, nuts and a cherry on top…or it’s a thick slice of chocolate mousse cake. It can be a cupcake or two. The thought of that single dessert helps keep me on track all week.

4. I never skip breakfast. I have organic, plain yogurt sprinkled with walnuts and pieces of fruit, or a few eggs (yolk and all!) with dark wheat toast and a touch of real butter, or oatmeal with a dab of brown sugar and warm milk (fat free or skim).

5. For my mid morning snack I eat a piece of fruit.

6. Lunchtime is protein. Long grain brown rice with chicken and veggies, like lima beans.

7. Dinner is a salad; lettuce, cucumbers, radishes, tomatoes, carrots, etc. A side of salad dressing. NOTHING fat-free or diet. I would rather have a little bit of wonderful than a whole lot of nasty tasting stuff.

8. I try not to eat a thing after 6 pm but if I must I make it something filled with anti-oxidants and/or celery. Celery is your friend. Make peace with it.

*** If I go out for dinner, I skip the appetizer which is usually creamy or fried. For the main course I chose a thick steak or fish…with steamed vegetables (I lose the potatoes), followed by dessert.

MOVE!

1. While I write or watch TV I do butt crunches.

2. I take my dog for lots of walks. We both enjoy it.

3. I swim.

4. I take the garbage out a lot…every step I take burns calories.

5. Several times during the day I put my hands on the seat of my desk chair and do pushups, lifting my butt up off the chair. I do this 3 to 4 times a day. It strengths arms and back.

6. While I drive I hold a death grip on the steering wheel until I feel the muscles at the back of my arms. Release and repeat. Then hold it for 2 or 3 minutes. Repeat.

My continual plan…this summer I will swim more, buy the wii and get the exercise program (my physically fit daughter highly recommends), walk more, and take advantage of the fresh fruit and veggie season.

The Result

I have dropped 5 sizes since last September. I no longer lay in bed all day. I have energy. I am happy (without drugs). The pants I bought one month ago are getting lose.  I have 50 more pounds to go until high school skinny. And did I mention I will be 61 years old in August?
Okay, I might fall off the healthy wagon to eat Fritos or a cupcake or two, but I make my peace with the scale and put all that grease and sugar behind me ... and move on...repenting with celery and water.

Does Stephen King scare you? Delight you? The man can WRITE!

2010-04-06T18:40:00.000-07:00

ALL THAT YOU LOVE WILL BE CARRIED AWAY (first paragraph from a short story)

It was a Motel 6 on I-80 just west of Licoln, Nebraska. The snow that began at midafternoon had faded the sign's virulent yellow to a kinder pastel shade as the light ran out of January dusk. The wind was closing in on that quality of empty amplification one encounters only in the country's flat midsection, usually in wintertime. That meant nothing but discomfort now, but if big snow came tonight--the weather forecasters couldn't seem to make up their mnds--then the interstate would be shut down by morning. That was nothing to Alfie Zimmer.

Alfie drove around the corner and parked with the nose of his Chevrolet pointed at the white expanse of some farmer's field, swimming deep into the gray of day's end. At the farthest limit of vision he could see the spark lights of a farm. In there, they would be hunkered down. Out here, the wind blew hard enough to rock the car. Snow skated past, obliterating the farm lights for a few moments.

SOUND OFF! Do you believe in Soul Mates?

2010-04-05T09:15:00.000-07:00

According to Wikipedia a soul mate is as follows:
A soulmate is a person with whom one has a feeling of deep and natural affinity, love, intimacy, sexuality, spirituality, and/or compatibility. A related concept is that of the twin flame or twin soul – which is thought to be the ultimate soulmate, the one and only other half of one's soul, for which all souls are driven to find and join. However, not everyone who uses these terms intends them to carry such mystical connotations.

What moves you? Is it the conversation? Being able to laugh with someone? A deep spiritual connection? Do you believe there is a soul mate for you? Are you married to him/her? Or are you one of the people who thought they found that special someone only to be met with disappointment, ending in a broken relationship whether it is divorce or breakup? Sound off! I want to hear from you.

The Easter Edition Newly Released

2010-02-18T13:15:00.000-08:00

My latest release, the third book in The Turtle Creek Edition series, has been released. The first book, The Christmas Edition, is being produced as a movie, Journey to Paradise, by Salty Earth Pictures. Watch for a late fall 2010 release. More information to come. If you haven't already befriended me on FaceBook please do so for updates, which will also be posted here.

Christian Code in song Partridge in a Pear Tree

2009-12-21T06:15:00.001-08:00

There is one Christmas Carol that has always baffled me. What in the world do leaping lords, French hens, swimming swans, and especially the partridge who won't come out of the pear tree have to do with Christmas?

This week, I found out.

From 1558 until 1829, Roman Catholics in England were not permitted to practice their faith openly. Someone during that era wrote this carol as a catechism song for young Catholics. It has two levels of meaning: the surface meaning plus a hidden meaning known only to members of their church. Each element in the carol has a code word for a religious reality which the children could remember.

-The partridge in a pear tree was Jesus Christ.

-Two turtle doves were the Old and New Testaments.

-Three French hens stood for faith, hope and love.-

-The four calling birds were the four gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke & John.

-The five golden rings recalled the Torah or Law, the first five books of the Old Testament.

-The six geese a-laying stood for the six days of creation.

-Seven swans a-swimming represented the sevenfold gifts of the Holy Spirit--Prophesy, Serving, Teaching, Exhortation, Contribution, Leadership, and Mercy.

-The eight maids a-milking were the eight beatitudes.

-Nine ladies dancing were the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit--Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self Control.

-The ten lords a-leaping were the ten commandments.

-The eleven pipers piping stood for the eleven faithful disciples.

-The twelve drummers drumming symbolized the twelve points of belief in the Apostles' Creed.

So there is your history for today. This knowledge was shared with me and I found it interesting and enlightening and now I know how that strange song became a Christmas Carol...so pass it on if you wish.'

Tango!

2009-12-10T05:09:00.000-08:00

I started writing this story years and years ago. The book is complete but wrought with problems that I need to fix before submitting. Here is the beginning. Tell me if you think it's worth the trouble to rewrite. I cannot wait to hear your comments!

Tango

Though a cage may be made of solid gold, it is still a cage...Mexican Proverb

1
Her purse was bubble gum pink. It swung from Thalia Davila’s arm as she walked along the tree-lined streets on her way to meet her fiancé Luis Arroyo. Today was ‘d-day’ in the Big D; detonation day, dumping day, and disposal day in Dallas. Even though she wasn’t all that convinced breaking up with Luis was what she wanted to do, Thalia wasn’t ready for marriage either. Now was the time to put her feelings right out in the open. “It's over,” she’d say. Simple -and with just two words she’d be free.
The pedestrian crossing light at the corner of Ross and Pacific Avenues turned red. She stopped here, and used this moment to help gather her nerve. Of course, Luis would ask why she was breaking their engagement. That was a given. With so many reasons to choose from, which one should she pick? Thalia tapped her foot in thought. Ah-ha, the best answer loomed directly in front of her; it was the loft apartment –Luis’s surprise-wedding gift. The problem was it overlooked the city at the same time the city would be overlooking her. Luis kept making solitary decisions on her behalf and now, she had enough of his controlling nature. Love wasn’t enough. There was no way she could stand in church, before God and man, and say the words …forever, till death do us part. The ring on her finger cinched tighter about her neck.
Now her only dilemma was deciding when to break the news to him… would it be before lunch or after dessert?

THE MOVE from West of Lake Michigan

2009-10-20T10:08:00.001-07:00

On The Lake—Part One

The summer I was to turn thirteen, my mother and her adult step son Dick, persuaded Dad to retire. No wonder. Mom was tired of his carousing and his drinking. She figured if we moved away from the temptations things might just iron themselves out all right. In the meantime the family business would rest on Dick’s shoulders.

The spot on earth Mom picked was a no brainer since it was our summer home in Delavan, Wisconsin. I loved it there; the lake, the boats, the scenery, and I had a feeling of being reborn. My younger brother felt the same. By that time my older sister Karen was a freshman at the University of Wisconsin, leaving me the oldest of the siblings still at home. I didn’t flaunt my power. I enjoyed the lack of restrictions imposed by someone who thought she was the boss of me.

However, seventh grade was a do-over for me. Back in Chicago I didn’t pass it the first time through the grade. No shame in that, especially since no one at my new school knew about it. (I wasn’t telling) The summer between seventh grade and seventh grade, I suddenly slimmed down even further and grew boobs. The later totally embarrassed me.

My first day back in seventh grade, for the second time, in a new school and location, I found the boys and the girls liked me. Popularity was something new to me but I quickly adapted. I liked all my teachers too. They were non-combative.

For some reason after seven years, my mother finally tired of making those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and allowed me to eat hot lunch. Not only that but I had a great group of friends who actually wanted me to sit with them at lunchtime. We exchanged phone numbers and my social calendar was filled in every weekend. Added to this change of lifestyle, I brought home my first report card that did not have a D or an F on it. My mother was thrilled! “Let the good times roll,” I thought to myself.

Of course I had to block out the fact that dad now had nothing standing in between him and his drinking since he was retired. Alcohol consumption became his fulltime job. That and taking care of his lawn. We had a 24/7 drinking marathon situation on our hands. Mom frantically hid his bottles in my underwear drawer. Each morning I moved aside a bottle of vodka and two bottles of whiskey in order to locate all my undergarments.

By this time I was pretty good at blocking out what wasn’t pleasant and concentrated on the good things, such as popularity and going to school. What a difference a year made. And then I got my first boyfriend who enticed me to walk in the woods with him. I have never been so scared…. And I am not talking wild animals.

Continued next week…..

Family Stories--West of Lake Michigan

2009-10-15T07:19:00.000-07:00

The Ivanhoe Restaurant, Chicago, Illinois. The 1950s

I grew up in Chicago on Wellington Ave., just west of Lake Michigan. When I walked out my front door and looked down the street, I'd see two important places. 1. My best friend's home 2. My dad's nightclub, The Ivanhoe Restaurant-which was a speak easy back during prohibition....way-yy before I was born.

I lived in a lovely English Tutor. My bedroom was on the second floor located at the front of the house where I watched the neighborhood. My bedroom walls were pink* and so was everything else in there. On the oppiste side of the house was the backyard. It was large with a sidewalk threading through it, starting at the back door leading to the alleyway. Thank goodness for that because if there wasnt a sidewalk, I never would have been allowed out there. Not ever. Let me explain. Dad loved his lawn. I mean, LOVED his lawn. We kids were not allowed to lay a single toe, much less a foot, on it. I can still hear him yell, "Stay off the grass!" Therefore we played on the sidewalk. If a ball rolled over the lawn, we stood in horror praying it hadn't flattened down the blades of grass too much.

I will never forget when Mom bought us a swing set. It was set up in our recreation room in the basement. An entire playground swing set, with three swings and a slide and monkey bars was down there. I thought nothing about the strange location. It made sesne. It was just how things were done.

For dinner, we'd either go to the nightclub and eat, which required wearing a fancy dress with crinolin slips, or we'd eat at home in pajamas and order from The Ivanhoe. Mom would go around the house and ask everyone what they wanted for dinner that night. She'd write it on her paper and then call it in. Within a half an hour it was delivered on a silver tray to our front doorstep. Princess or not, this was really cool. Only I didnt know it was cool because this is the way our family worked.

Satruday nights were always special. We didn't eat at The Ivanhoe, neither did we order from there. Mom ordered pizza from a real neighborhodd pizzeria! What a treat! We ate the pizza kneeling at the living room coffee table while watching TV. We were allowed one small bottled Coke, only first we had to drink a glass of milk. I think that was to balance out the bad effects of drinking the Coke.

I'd love to hear about your family quirkinesses.

West of Lake Michigan—Part VI

2009-10-02T03:59:00.000-07:00

The hands of the clock keep right on moving across the face of time. Honesty has at last arrived to our house on Wellington Ave.—West of Lake Michigan. The whole concept of truthfulness was a kicker since every word that ever fell from my dad’s lips I considered golden. The thought of a lie was unfathomable. Dads don’t lie. Moms don’t lie either, and yet, I heard her lie when she talked to Monica’s mom, saying I made the story up about Dad paying a ransom. But I heard him say it. I didn’t lie. Why did she? This was most confusing in my eight-year-old brain.

And now for the big reveal. The kidnapping, the ransom, the escape to Arizona to get away from The Chicago Tribune headlines and the police—least they learn the real truth resulting in fines and a family embarrassment that the entire city of Chicago would be privy. Mom sat me down. “Dad has a drinking a problem,” she said.

Okay, I knew this already. Just last summer I had to get behind him and push him up a hill he couldn’t navigate by himself on his unsteady, drunken feet. Most of the time when he drank he would disappear from us for weeks. It was a part of life. My life. I thought all Dads’ did this. In between the drunk spree and coming home, he’d enter into a detox program. It’s just how our family worked.

During those times, Mom distracted us by signing us up for ballet lessons, horseback riding lessons, and visiting museums and The Art Institute. Then when Dad was BETTER and back home, life was on an even keel for a bit, until the next time, which meant another flurry of increased activity for us kids. And long nights for Mom as she gazed out the window, finger pressed down on the Venetian shades, checking the street for Dad. Wondering if this was the night he’d come home.
But that was just a part of the bigger, ugly truth. Dad also had womanizing problems. That was news to me. I didn’t understand womanizing but I did know what it meant when Mom said, “Dad has several girlfriends. He was on a date, in a bar, the night he got hurt.”

Whoa! Reel that thought in and take a good look at the horror dangling at the end of my imaginary fishing pole. He can’t date, he is married, right? I felt shame. I felt dirty. I wanted to go knock on those dating women’s doors to tell them he was my daddy and to back off.
“Why didn’t Dad drink at The Ivanhoe?” Was there no end to his cheating and betrayal? The only restaurant I had ever been to up to that time had been at The Ivanhoe—except for the time we had lunch near the giant Christmas tree at Marshal Fields. Not only was Dad unfaithful to Mom, Karen, my brother and me, but he was also unfaithful to his establishment.

Mom repeated; Dad was on a date with his girlfriend, they got drunk and into a brawl. The result was a bashed in head and multiple broken ribs. He was robbed of two thousand dollars that he had in his wallet for our family vacation, along with a diamond pinkie finger ring. On his way home in a cab, alone, he came up with a super duper lie to explain where the money went as well as why he was so badly injured.
At two a.m. one morning, he told this lie to his wife, never suspecting his eight-year-old daughter sat in the dark at the top of the stairs listening to the whole thing. That same daughter spread the news far and wide from show-and-tell, to the daughter of a police captain. From that moment it took on a life of its own.
Rather than to fess up to the police and the Tribune and suffer public humiliation, it was easier for my parents to leave Chicago, hoping during the month away, the attention would blow over. It had but it left its toll on me and the most precious friendship I had. Mom saw me. My tears. She had a broken-hearted daughter on her hands, who had lost her best friend in all the world. Mom called Monica’s mom and they made a lunch date where she finally told the truth. Once that situation was cleared up, Monica and I went returned to the Catacomb craziness and our Barbie doll playing. My world slowly healed.

Only there was a new problem, I looked at Dad differently. My hero, along with my princesshood, was gone.

To this day, fifty years later, my show-and-tell is still logged as an unsolved Chicago crime. See? I knew I had the best story in the third grade classroom.

*** be sure to come back next week for another slice of life.

West of Lake Michigan—Part V

2009-09-27T07:45:00.000-07:00

Wedding Day. My older brother Dick with his bride Joan.

My sister Karen, who once thanked me for shining the media spotlight on her, the one who had a handsome police escort to and from school every day, now turned against me because Mom and Dad had to leave Chicago and seek privacy in Arizona. For meals, in place of the usual juicy meat, clouds of mashed potatoes, and pea mounds, followed by some kindof a yummy dessert that involved chocolate, we now sat over mystery food drenched in a layer of wheat germ. Our sister-in-law, Joan, was a health nut way before it was fasionable. Added to this horror, the candy basket Mom kept in a cupboard near the fridge was suddenly empty. We had our suspicions no matter many times Joan shrugged her shoulders saying she had no idea what we were talking about.

The first rule breaking took place 'day one' after the initial wheat germ incident. Karen wanted to exact revenge on me and my big mouth. She ordered me to do something forbidden by both Mom and Joan. Karen was five years older than me and towered above my head. What choice did I have? In the basement laundry room, right above the wash machine, there was a small door that opened up to the crawl space under the porch. It was filled with dirt; a really cool hiding place. But we didn’t hide. Karen had me sit in the door opening and said, "Don’t move, I will be right back." In a moment Joan was there. Karen beamed during my spanking.

At night I was sent up the steps to do my own bathing, dressing for bed and praying. All clean and jammied up, I started my run from the hall and then took a leap into bed, hoping to dodge the boogie man's spindly fingers from under my bed. Having safely made it, my heart still raced. I pulled the sheet and blankets up over my head. However, sleep only brought nightmares about witches coming in through the backdoor of the house. They all looked exactly like the Wicked Witch of the West. Of course, it didn’t help Mom made me watch Wizard of Oz right the night she packed to leave.

Finally the month was over, and it was time for Mom and Dad's return. They came home all sun-tanned and smiling, with suitcases filled with presents for us. Just putting my arms around Mom and smelling her sweetness was present enough for me. And again she heard my nighttime prayers, chased away the boogie man from under the bed, and made meals free of wheat germ. Even the basket in the cupboard next to the fridge was once again filled with candy bars. My world was back to being normal. Well, almost, there was still the matter across the street that needed to be cleared up. That one about Monica, my very best friend in all the world. She still wasn’t talking to me. Rightly so because the family thought I made this whole story up about what happened that night when Dad paid a kidnapping ransom.

I cried mournful tears, wanting to hear Monica's voice on the other side of my phone line. I couldn't wait to hide in the nightclub's Catacombs and listen to people scream when Monica and I touched their arms in the darkness. Mom was moved. She said she would set things right with Monica's mom but first she had a confession to make to me. After hearing what she had to say, I wasn’t so sure that the story Dad told Mom the night I overheard them wasn’t the preferable one to the real truth. That one was so terrible that I never would have told anyone. And if The Chicago Tribune or the police found this truth out, there would be real trouble for us all.

PART VI next week. In the meantime please check out my newest release, PASSAGES, now a Kindle book on Amazon (see the link). Or, if you don't have one but don't mind reading the eBook on a computer, follow the other link in the left hand column on this page to purchase it from me. Just be patient if it takes a few hours until I send it. Thank you so much. You are the reason I keep writing. Well, that and because I love to do it.

who are you, little i

2009-09-25T13:05:00.000-07:00

While waiting for Part V to be written and posted, enjoy this poem by E.E. Cummings. A big time fave of mine.

who are you, little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window; at the gold

of november sunset

(and feeling: that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)

West of Lake Michigan—Part IV

2009-09-19T11:53:00.000-07:00

The following morning, right in the middle of watching Captain Kangaroo and eating cold cereal, the Chicago Police showed up at our house. I should have expected it after telling Janice—the daughter of a police captain—about the near-miss-kidnapping episode, but I never saw it coming.

Mother reluctantly let the police into the house while explaining Dad couldn't be reached because he was in the hospital. They didn’t care. The Chicago PD wanted details about the ransom on a son who wasn’t kidnapped, and about Dad's injuries. "What did the men look like?" "How many men were involved?" They said they could do a line-up if Dad came down to the station. Mother was evasive and cast an angry look in my direction.

I shrugged, giving her the "oops' expression. Mother wasn’t minding her hospitality manners so I offered them coffee. They accepted and sat down. Since I was too short to reach the coffee mugs, Mother had to leave the room to do it. Alone with the Chicago PD, I waited for commercial, and then asked how I could help them.

By the next day, my show-and-tell story ended up as headlines in The Chicago Tribune. I knew I my story was very good! Authors, even budding ones, have a second sense about these things. It was probably how I learned about the power of words both written and spoken.

My older sister, Karen, was thankful for the mention I gave her during my conversation with the police, and also, with the show-and-tell, because now her name was in the newspaper, too. She bought copies to pass around to all her friends. Since she was five years older than me, she had access to her own money and the ability of getting to the drug store by crossing the street alone.

After speaking to my Dad at the hospital, the Chicago PD gave not only Karen police protection, but also Russell—the un-kidnapped victim. I was the only one without protection which I found totally prejudicial. My mother explained it was because I took the school bus, so they felt I was safe. Well, my brother Russell took the very same bus as I, but since he had been the target, extra security was provided for him. I still wasn’t sure what my sister's security was all about, but she now walked to the CTA bus stop with a very handsome plainclothes policeman. And as for me, well, I was—as they say—out in the cold, fending for myself and keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who might want to do me harm—in addition to the regular popular girls at my school.

The worst part of all was when my mother sent Dad off to Arizona to escape the hoopla and told family members and friends that I made up the entire kidnapping story. Her words made me lose credibility. I understood they were trying to save their reputations—but I was trying to gain recognition. Being branded a liar had a domino effect. Not wanting her daughter to play with a liar, and not just any liar but a headline making liar, Monica’s mother forbade her to ever play with me again. This was a huge blow. Monica was my best friend. I couldn't even talk to her on the phone, I know because I asked. My best friend and I were over. There was no one to spook the customers with in The Ivanhoe Catacombs. It almost wasn’t worth my time. It was a sad, sad day. I even had given Monica her, her first bra, years before either one of us needed it. Didn’t that mean anything? And now between school and home, there was no one to talk to except the police and reporters. I adjusted and kept right on talking.

The worst was yet to come. The same night Peter Pan jumped out of the fish bowl and died when he was chopped to pieces in the disposal, Mother told us she was going to join Dad in Arizona. They would be gone for a month. My older half brother, Dick and his wife, Joan, along with their son, Rick, would be moving in with us to take care of things.

That first night in bed, I trembled in the darkness beneath my pink blanket and said my goodnight prayers to myself. I was certain there'd be no sleep until Mother was back home. If I thought I was alone before, now I was really alone. My princesshood was way over; I had no best friend, no school friends, no parents, and a dead fish, and right in the middle of media frenzy, too. But that was just the beginning.

West of Lake Michigan—Part III

2009-09-13T10:15:00.000-07:00

I had my story for show-and–tell. It was a blockbuster, too, so I rose early to make sure my appearance was good, since all eyes would be upon me. Hair combed, teeth brushed, but not much I could do about my itchy, navy wool skirt and button down white blouse. The uniform was hard to work with when I wanted to wear pink chiffon every day, but no, it wasn’t allowed.

At school, in the my third grade class room, sitting in my back of the room, last-person- in- the-aisle desk, I waited patiently, listening to all the pathetic stories about teddy bears and how a cop ticketed someone’s dad for running a red light. All the normal, run of the mill type yawners I heard last week. Finally, it was my turn. I rose from my desk, squared my skinny shoulders and walked to the front of the room where I looked face-to-face. Eye contact is most important for holding and maintaining attention. I took a breath of stale classroom air and quickly spilled the story.

Looks of horror crossed the faces of not only the very popular but the quite smart and my stoic-faced teacher, too. It was so hard not to smile. I wanted to smile, but thought my dad being hurt and going to the hospital wasn’t an appropriate time to show happiness. I wasn’t happy about my dad, I was sad. Very, very sad. What did make me happy was that I had delivered an amazing story, making me the buzz word in the cafeteria at lunch. Maybe Jessica* (not her real name) would even allow me sit across the table from her when I eat my usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich, without potato chips (Mother thinks potato chips aren’t healthy—she keeps forgetting that taste matters).

I think my social standing at the private school raised me up one notch to the third most unpopular girl in my class. I had expectations for so much more, but Jessica sitting at the table behind me, instead of with me, might have had something to do with it. Just like real-estate, location is essential.

When I got home, a friend from down the street Janice* (it is her real name), came over to play Barbies. I was actually holding out for Monica to get home so we could play Barbie's, but I let Janice talk to me on the front porch until then. I couldn’t help but say the words, “I was so worried about my mother and my dad all day.”

“Why?”
“Don’t get me started.”
“Tell me.”
“Okay.”

And the same show-and-tell story fell from my lips. Janice couldn’t help if she went to public instead of private and I do believe in equal opportunity for all. And total disclosure. But there is where I went totally wrong. Janice’s dad was a Chicago policeman.

By the time I went to bed that night, I had this uneasy feeling I might have told the story one time too many.

West of Lake Michigan—Part II

2009-09-08T20:30:00.000-07:00

Just a refresher from last week, I was a Princess whose dad owned a castle. Now and then I took a bit of time off to be Annie Oakley. At those times, I put on my red cowgirl outfit with the white fringe, and then rode through the west on my fantasy horse, which was actually a broom. Whenever I saw a bandit, I'd pull out my Bible, read a few scriptures. The perp repented—recanting their evil ways. Naturally, they always tried to thank me afterwards, but it was too late, just like ‘the masked man’ I was already on my way to another adventure. Once they turned themselves into the law, I turned back into a Princess, job well done.

Even though I was a Princess at home, I certainly wasn’t one at school. I attended a wonderful private school but no one there liked me much. In fact, I was the second to the last most unpopular third grader. It was nearly impossible to move up that social ladder at this place, so, I got a plan. The next day was show-and-tell and I needed something with pizzazz enough to dazzle everyone.

My dad loved to give me nearly anything I wanted—except for the dollhouse I asked for each and every Christmas, but never got. (That is another story—later) So I played on his affection in order to get a particular doll that was for sale in a glass cabinet at the nightclub. Dad told me he would bring it home with him that very night. My show-off-time, I mean my show-and-tell was going to be a hit this week.

I was in the Princess mode, fighting off sleep, trying to still be awake when Dad got in from work. Once The Ivanhoe was closed, I imagined Dad sliding the small, gold key, into the lock of the glass cabinet and opening it up. He’d reach in and take out my doll. Then he'd put it into his overcoat’s pocket and walk home with it. Although I knew how the doll looked, all dressed in the same shade of pink that matched my bedroom walls, the shag carpet, and the rose bud print on my bedspread, I didn’t know how she’d feel when I held her. Texture is important.

By midnight, I lost the battle and fell asleep. Hours later, I awoke with an eerie sense that something was very wrong at the castle. My parents were on the first floor and their voices were uncharacteristically strained. I crawled to the head of the stairs, keeping back in the shadows, and listened to every word, wishing the conversation would move along so I could get my doll.

This is what I heard my dad say. "I got this phone call saying I had to pay them two thousand dollars or they'd kidnap Russell (my brother). The deal was to hand them the money and then I'd be on my way home. As I walked down the street, a car pulled to the curb and a man grabbed me, pushing me inside. One man counted the money, one man drove, and two men beat me up. When someone said, "The money is all here," I was tossed out on the street." Dad cried. I had never heard him cry before that night and wondered if my doll fell into the gutter because I sure couldn't see it from my vantage point, no matter how much I craned my neck.

Mother told him the cab had arrived to take him to the hospital. She kissed him goodbye through tears of her own. And just like that, he was gone.

I ran down the steps and into my mother's arms. She was horrified to see me. Neither one of my parents wanted their eight-year-old Princess, who wasn’t feeling Princessly anymore, to hear this kind of news. And I no longer wanted the doll. I just wanted my dad.

Mother made me Princess Promise NOT to tell anyone what happened. I Princess Promised but my reign was somehow ended by that event. Mother hadn't yet been informed. The news was too fresh. Since by now, I was a commoner, and I knew that by tomorrow at noon all the students my third grade class would hear about my brother's near miss at being kidnapped, that my dad was robbed and beaten. Yep. My story was going to be the best one ever. The only thing was, I didn’t know the true story of what happened that night.

West of Lake Michigan - Part I

2009-09-01T08:11:00.000-07:00

I once was a princess who lived in a castle. Okay, maybe I didn’t really live there—as in ‘sleeping over’—but my dad owned it and I put in plenty of daytime hours to call it mine. This castle had a name, The Ivanhoe Restaurant--but it was actually more along the lines of a nightclub.

Not only did the outside look like a stone fortress but the inside had a cool draw bridge right next to the coat check, where I spent a lot of time rifling through top coats and women's furs. I never took anything, I was just very curious about what they had on them.

Patrons ate in Sherwood Forest and stirred their drinks with skeleton swizzle sticks. Near the woman’s bathroom were funny carnival-like mirrors that made you look oddly shaped, or at the very least—horrifically deformed. There was an indoor waterfall and three bars for your drinking pleasure in the cellar. Everywhere ghosts in full amour stood watch.

There also was an actual Catacombs designed to scare the vitamin C out of anyone who was brave enough to even try making it from one end of the dungeon to the other. Chains rattled on the walls and puffs of air mysteriously shot up from the floor. Once the patron exited from this chamber there were three bars with liquor awaiting them to help quiet their frayed nerves. Dad thought of everything. Sometimes I even got myself a shot glass filled with 7Up to quiet my nerves or sage my thirst.

I also liked to work my way through the maze of hallways on the second color until I found the stairs that took me up to the roof. I’d stand up there, next to the flag, and wave at cars and yelling at passerby’s that my dad owned this place. I knew I was special. I was lucky. Therefore I let everyone know. My favorite spot of all was the outside garden which had another waterfall and stream where gorgeous painted fish swam. I fed them raw shrimp. I fed myself raw shrimp too.

During the reign of my princesshood, I went to pre-school and one day, for no particular reason, colored on a girl's sweater. She was wearing it at the time so I got into big trouble. The teacher grabbed the crayon from my small, artistic hand and then screamed into my face after which she tossed the crayon across the room to show she was not only mad but really, really mad. I went home at the end of the day and told Mother I no longer cared to attend Blue Bird Nursery School and to take me out. She did.

The next fall I attended kindergarten at The Harris School of Chicago. Mother kissed me on the cheek before she left me on that first day of school and made me princess promise not to color on anyone's clothes because quitting school from here on out was strictly forbidden. I princess promised to be good. Princesses always keep their word. It’s the mark of a true princess.

Our teacher had a perfectly delightful name. Mrs. Rounds sat in a rocking chair to read us stories. Good ones. She always was in a good mood and had a very soft voice which I found most soothing. In the room, long tables were placed along the tall windows where the other students and myself would sit to do our workbooks, identifying the different objects from the rest. A row of ducks and a kitten. I circled the kitten. And then colored him.

Then we all sang Uncle Remus songs before going back home on the yellow school bus.

First grade was another year of extreme happiness. I had a school best friend named Becky and then a neighborhood best friend named Monica. She wore the most beautiful miniature bridal dress the day of her first communion. It turned me green with envy; not the communion but the dress. I remember standing on the sidewalk in front of my house on the day she returned from church. I watched her run up the steps to her place wearing that perfectly lovely dress and a glorious veil.

Second grade was my happiest of years. The sun still streamed in through those big tall second grade classroom windows even on rainy days. One day we were to write a story about our family pet. I didn’t know how to spell Chihuahua and my teacher said she didn’t know how to spell it either. She took me up to the huge dictionary kept on a podium at the front of the room because it was a very important book. We looked through the dictionary and learned how to spell it together, Teacher and me. Every afternoon we took turns at the backboard learning how to write cursive letters. My days were quite pleasant. After all I was a princess and this is how princesses spent their days.

On weekends I returned to my castle to eat caviar in Sherwood Forest, use all the bathrooms in the place just because I could, look at myself in the silly carnival mirrors and made sure I stayed away from The Catacombs.

Let’s not forget those wonderful Steiff stuffed animals and dolls from around the world on sale at the castle too. The Ivanhoe perfume was sold there as well, and it smelled like old lady’s perfume. Ahhhh! One evening I picked out a doll I wanted. Dad promised he’d bring it home to me after the nightclub closed. I will never forget that night. Hours later my Dad came home beaten and bloodied. Soon the police became involved and the situation became headlines for the Chicago papers.

Heroines Stumbling over Obstacles

2009-08-30T09:35:00.001-07:00

I loved the lively discussion from last week about flawed heroines. There were so many different points of view offered and everyone backed up their opinion with great reasons. It gave me a lot to think about and I am sure it did the same for you. Thank you for all the comments left here and also on FB.

This week I want to talk a bit about obstacles that face our heroine. I think back to the Jill Lewis trilogy I co-authored with Susan Wales. Jill had a nice inheritance at her fingertips so money was never an issue. She also had a great job as a political reporter for a Washington newspaper and a stunning apartment that looked out over Capitol Hill. Jill was beautiful, smart, and had great contacts. So what problem could she possibly have? Plenty. She struggled with love, she didn’t get along with her sister, her contacts dried up at the worst possible moment, her boss pressured her to uncover political corruption and her mother expected her home for holidays.

In my latest thriller, Wildcard, Ivy Dillon didn’t have the luxury of coming from a rich family so she constantly scrambled for money. Also unlike Jill Lewis, political intrigue found Ivy when the person she interned for, the private secretary of the United States, turned up dead in the Potomac River. Blamed for this crime, Ivy hid from the FBI while trying to solve the murder of her dear mentor. With her face plastered all over the TV and newspaper, the naive young woman had to figure out how to keep safe and figure out whom to trust while she heals from a broken engagement. Added to the problems, Ivy's mother becomes critically ill and Ivy risks her life to come home and say goodbye before she dies.

With my romance series, The Turtle Creek Edition (The Christmas Edition and The Valentine Edition; The Easter Edition will be a 2010 release) we see problems of the love kind. What can get in the way of love? Another woman, I tell you. Lies for another thing, people running inference, low self-esteem, misunderstanding and perhaps a bad past experience tossed in the mix. Although there is nothing better than a good mystery, I will never be a Jill Lewis or an Ivy Dillon. Chances are you won't be either. But you just might be a Lucy Collins who is trying to recover from a bad break up when Mister Right finally walks into your life—unaware he's the one. As far as you know, he could be another heartbreak just waiting to happen. You could also be a Jodi Williams who didn’t get the job she wanted and settled for a rinky dink job in a town so small that none of your friends can find it on a map. But then you not only fall in love with a rescue dog but also with his veterinarian only to find out he is involved with his receptionist—or is he? Or are you could be a Carol Horn who has a call of God on her life that it takes her in the opposite direction of the love of her life. Which does she choose the call or her soul mate?

Man versus man. Man versus himself. Man versus nature. Man versus himself.

Okay, your turn. What obstacles do you like in the way of your heroine achieving her goal? I want to hear from both readers and authors. After all, I write for my readers.

FLAWED HEROINES

2009-08-25T17:38:00.000-07:00

"She speaks poniards, and every word stabs."
Benedick from Shakespeare Much Ado About Nothing

I am demanding of my heroines. They must be flawed.
I overheard a conversation once that went like this, "The female lead in my novel is beautiful. Flawless. Long blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, a button nose, gorgeous figure. She is sweet and kind, too. The moment the hero sets his dashing eyes on her, he falls in love even before the first word is spoken." I hated the heroine already. Was this for real? Cinderella is just a fairy tale, so I knew it wasn’t that story, not again.
So, how do we become flawed? Reality. Give me a heroine who snorts when she laughs, stutters self consciously when she is nervous, who doesn’t take herself seriously so therefore no one else does. As a result she is overlooked once more for a promotion. One who always answers the phone on only the fourth ring and if she cannot reach the phone in time, allows the answering machine to pick it up.
Just as in real life, our heroines should be portrayed with flaws. Think about Kate on the TV show Lost. We all thought she was an innocent gal until we had a glimpse of her shocking past, which explains a lot about why she chose Sawyer over Jack. Brie Hodges from Desperate Housewives is the very picture of being perfect but her perfectness causes her to live by rigid, narrow guidelines, deeply flawing her in that process.
In Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, we find beautiful Beatrice who is given to fits of fierce opposition. So, tell me, why do we love her? Because she is a witty heroine known for her verbal dueling. She has it all in her life, everything to bless her and to vex her.
On the flip side, should men be perfect? Let’s look at the TV character Monk, played by Tony Shaluba. He is an obsessive-compulsive detective who can hardly function in life so he hires an assistant. He also lacks social graces. So why do we love him? Because he is a genius at solving crime. How about a villain with redeeming qualities? Think about The Phantom of the Opera. In the movie version, one side of his face is horribly disfigured, while the other side is normal and quite handsome. Both sides reflect the two halves of his personality; a cold blooded killer and a lonely man who woos Christine through music.
Back to the conversation about the twinkling blue eyes and button nose. The gal listening to her friend replied, "Well, my heroine hates anyone who is not a workaholic. I have her kicking street people in the first chapter but she changes by the last chapter." Oh boy. Can a heroine be too flawed to be loved by readers? Yep. Readers may not get to the last chapter if they find the heroine is too unappealing. The reader needs to connect with the heroine and like her enough to read the whole book and cheer for her.
Flaws are important. They reveal the need for change and make us vulnerable in our humanity. I put my heroines in uncomfortable situations, forcing them to change. They grow. Improve. Just like we do in real life. We can use that grist in our writing. As a card-carrying member of flawed heroines, I see stories everywhere.
Writers, who’s your favorite flawed heroine? (Hero?) Would you want her as your friend? What flaws do you write into your heroine's character? What risks did she have to take? And was it fun?

The Birthday Gift That Kept on Haunting

2009-08-15T10:00:00.000-07:00

Since we are a few days past my birthday, sorry if you missed it, I must admit it's not so much fun getting old anymore. It's not the being older in years that's the worst, but the aches and pains that accompany it—which is another matter.
We lived in Chicago while I was growing up, but summered at our lake cottage on Delavan in Wisconsin. My birthdays were a real treat. Each year I could count on a chocolate cake with chocolate fudge frosting decorated with yellow roses from Boutelle's Bakery and presents that were wrapped in pink tissue paper, tied-up in ribbons. I'd sit on the sunny porch, perched on a chair, crown on top of my head with braided hair while sailboats glided passed in the background. Very picturesque.
Then one birthday I got the most horrid gift. I was in sixth grade and my mother felt the kitchen table was no longer the proper study place for me, so she bought me a desk and placed it in my bedroom, upon my pink rug, right in front of the Pricilla laced curtains that framed the windows.
The desk wasn’t one of those charming pieces of furniture with small cubbies at the top for stamps and stationeries; one of those I might have liked. The desk I was given was practical, utilitarian, and served the purpose for which my mother bought it—for studying. The surface was large. Three drawers down each side and the thinner middle drawer. The whole thing was beige. I had to leave the area when I needed to daydream.
Years later, while in high school, Mother thought the desk needed a face lift so she striped it and got one of those new paint kits that were fresh on the market at the time. You chose your fake antique color and then painted on with a special treatment which was to make it look like a genuine antique when completed. Well, it didn’t. The desk was now very dark green with black lines through it. Mother thought replacing the drawer pulls might jazz it up a bit so she bought brass knobs that had a chariot emboldened on it. I didn’t think it was possible for that desk get any uglier until she gave it the treatment.
Of all the things I have owned in my lifetime that is the only belonging that followed me everywhere I went for years and years. It dogged me. Seriously. When I went to college, it came along, when I got my own apartment it was there, and when I moved back home while I filled out job applications, it came back too. Why couldn't I have been followed by my first baby doll, or the pretty chenille bedspread, or the antique floral dishes my great grandmother gave to my mother and then my older sister got? Sigh.
The desk even came along when I got married and we moved to Virginia, back to Illinois and down to Texas. Finally I pawned it off on my daughter Kim when she turned ten, kind of like a rite of passage. I got it when I was ten now it's her turn to be shadowed by it. I felt like writing at the bottom of her birthday card, 'good luck honey' but resisted the urge.
Why do we hold onto things like this? Is it because we have had it for so long that we feel obligated to bring it along with us like ol' Uncle Harry to a family reunion?
One summer, Kimberly and I decided to have a garage sale. That ugly green desk, now chipped with time, was the first thing we sold. That was eighteen years ago and ya know, I still don't miss it.

Mother's Last Gift

2009-08-13T10:48:00.000-07:00

by Robin Shope

Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness of the pew where I sat. I was at the funeral of my dearest friend—my mother. She finally had lost her long battle with cancer. The hurt was so intense, I found it hard to breathe at times.

Always supportive, Mother clapped loudest at my school plays, held a box of tissues while listening to my first heartbreak, comforted me at my father's death, encouraged me in college, and prayed for me my entire life.

When Mother's illness was diagnosed, my sister had a new baby and my brother had recently married his childhood sweetheart, so it fell to me, the 27-year-old middle child without entanglements, to take care of her. I counted it an honor.

"What now, Lord?" I asked sitting in church. My life stretched out before me as an empty abyss.

My brother sat stoically with his face toward the cross while clutching his wife's hand. My sister sat slumped against her husband's shoulder, his arms around her as she cradled their child. All so deeply grieving, no one noticed I sat alone.

My place had been with our mother, preparing her meals, helping her walk, taking her to the doctor, seeing to her medication, reading the Bible together. Now she was with the Lord.

My work was finished, and I was alone.

Providential mistake

I heard a door open and slam shut at the back of the church. Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted floor. An exasperated young man looked around briefly and then sat next to me. He folded his hands and placed them on his lap. His eyes were brimming with tears. He began to sniffle.

"I'm late," he explained, though no explanation was necessary.

After several eulogies, he leaned over and commented, "Why do they keep calling Mary by the name of 'Margaret'?"

"Because that was her name, Margaret. Never Mary. No one called her 'Mary,'" I whispered. I wondered why this person couldn't have sat on the other side of the church. He interrupted my grieving with his tears and fidgeting. Who was this stranger anyway?

"No, that isn't correct," he insisted, as several people glanced over at us whispering, "Her name is Mary, Mary Peters."

"That isn't who this is."

"Isn't this the Lutheran church?"

"No, the Lutheran church is across the street."

"Oh."

"I believe you're at the wrong funeral, sir."

The solemnness of the occasion mixed with the realization of the man's mistake bubbled up inside me and came out as laughter. I cupped my hands over my face, hoping it would be interpreted as sobs.

The creaking pew gave me away. Sharp looks from other mourners only made the situation seem more hilarious. I peeked at the bewildered, misguided man seated beside me. He was laughing, too, as he glanced around, deciding it was too late for an uneventful exit. I imagined Mother laughing.

At the final "Amen," we darted out a door and into the parking lot.

"I do believe we'll be the talk of the town," he smiled. He said his name was Rick and since he had missed his aunt's funeral, asked me out for a cup of coffee.

That afternoon began a lifelong journey for me with this man who attended the wrong funeral, but was in the right place. A year after our meeting, we were married at a country church where he was the assistant pastor. This time we both arrived at the same church, right on time.

In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter. In place of loneliness, God gave me love. This past June we celebrated our twenty-second wedding anniversary.

Whenever anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells them, "Her mother and my Aunt Mary introduced us, and it's truly a match made in heaven."

I Totally LOVE This Poem

2009-08-09T08:21:00.000-07:00

how about you?

My Inside Self, by Rachel Field

My Inside-Self and my Outside-Self
Are different as can be.
My Outside-self wears gingham smocks,
And very round is she,
With freckles sprinkled on her nose,
And smoothly parted hair,
And clumsy feet that cannot dance
In heavy shoes and square.

But, oh, my little Inside-Self -
In gown of misty rose
She dances lighter than a leaf
On blithe and twinkling toes;
Her hair is blowing gold, and if
You chanced her face to see,
You would not think she could belong
To staid and sober me!

WildCard chapter one

2009-08-07T20:10:00.000-07:00

He stared at her with superb green eyes the color of a calm sea, but it was his slow smile that pierced her heart. Eyes and smile. Together they pulled her into the deep waters of wild imagination. The six-footer awkwardly tugged on his collar and no wonder, he seemed totally out of place at the theater’s cast party. Ivy Dillon was ripe for romance. She had to meet Whatzhisname.
“Here’s your fruit punch.” Jordan nudged. “I snagged you a cup before the alcohol went in.”
“Thanks.” Ivy turned toward her roommate. “By the way, who’s that?”
“Who?”
“The great looking guy near the window.” Ivy tipped her head in that direction.
“You can’t mean Martin?” Jordan snorted.
“Martin?” Ivy whipped around and squinted. Sure enough, the man she set her sighs on meeting had disappeared and in his place was Martin, still wearing his stage makeup. He waved at her. Ivy waved back, disappointedly. “No not him.”
Ivy cruised through the stage director’s apartment, trying to catch sigh of the man with the interesting angular features, the hair that curled up along his neckline, and, oh yes, those eyes—those amazing eyes.
On the way by the dessert table, the chocolate covered strawberries distracted her. She bit into one, enjoying the meeting of two rivers of flavors, and just like that Whatzhisname appeared in front of her. A miracle!
“You have a bit of chocolate right there,” he told her pointing at the corner of her mouth.
“Thanks,” Ivy croaked.
“May I?” he asked permission to touch her skin and wipe the chocolate away.
Ivy moved closer and felt the gentle stroke of his touch. Just like strawberries and chocolate, Ivy knew they were meant to be.
“There, you’re perfect again.” He licked his chocolate finger and then glanced around the room scanning faces. “Great opening night for the play. Do you know the cast?”
Ivy nodded. “Yes, in fact, the leading actress is my friend.”
“Jordan Belle is your roommate? Interesting.”
“How did you know she was my roommate?”
Just as Whatzhisname opened his mouth to answer, Martin swayed up and held out a platter of canapés. “Would you help pass these for me, d

Garage Sale Blues

2009-08-06T18:43:00.001-07:00

Robin Lee Shope, a self-confessed "garage sale junkie," shares how she was consumed by disappointment over a lost bargain—until God changed her tune:

I parked in front of the house [that was holding the inside moving sale]. The front door was open as if urging, Come in and buy my treasures. As I wandered through the house, searching for hidden gems, I found a case under a pile of old bedspreads in the back bedroom. Inside was a shiny saxophone, beautifully engraved with the figure of a woman. It was vintage, in pristine condition, and mine for only $20.
Unfamiliar with the going rate for instruments, I called my husband to do a quick eBay search. No way could I afford to end up with another white elephant to store in my shed. It was crowded enough!
I heard Rick's fingers tapping, then silence. "There aren't any listed."
Odd. It seemed to me that someone should have at least one saxophone for sale. "You're sure?"
"Not one."
I ended the call, worried. I was $20 poorer and the proud owner of a shiny saxophone that might not sell. What did I know about musical instruments? All I could play was the radio. As I was leaving, an elderly man stopped me. "Can I buy that saxophone from you?" he asked hopefully. "I'll give you $20 more than what you paid."
I was thrilled. I'd not only recoup my 20 dollars, I'd make 20 more—and within minutes of my purchase. I viewed it as God's unexpected provision, a blessing. …
[Later that day] I sat at the computer, pulled up the eBay homepage, and entered the type of saxophone I'd owned for less than five minutes. To my horror, three exact matches popped up, all selling for over $500. "Rick!" I wailed, pointing at the screen. "Look!"
He wrinkled his nose. "Oh."
"You said there weren't any saxophones listed!" I felt weak. I was losing consciousness.
"That's weird. When I looked there weren't any listed."
Suddenly, I realized the problem: Rick hadn't gone to the eBay homepage; he'd gone to my seller's page. Of course I didn't have a sax listed. I had an enamel coffee pot with no bids, a sunbonnet girl quilt with no bids, and a primitive cabinet, also without a bid. I'd sold the sax cheap. God wanted to bless me abundantly, but I'd blown it! It was as if someone had snatched money right out of my pocket, and I'd let it happen. …
It was done. Finished. No chance for a do-over. Yet I couldn't let it go. Late at night I sat sleepless, angry with myself for harboring ill feelings. My brain kept replaying the moment I sold the sax, while a bitter little voice whispered that the old man had probably pawned it. I felt envious, consumed by greed—and guilty. God was revealing a side of me that I hadn't known existed.
I opened the Bible to Galatians 6: "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." Next I turned in my concordance to the verses on praising God and made note cards of ten verses. Each time I thought about the sax, I lifted my arms and praised God, thanking him and quoting Scripture. "Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you" (1 Thess. 5:18). I was amazed by how my turmoil fled, leaving behind pure happiness. It set me free, and once more my life became enjoyable. I even let Rick off the hook, so his life became enjoyable as well!
A few months later as I was perusing a garage sale, I spied my sax buyer hunched over a box, sifting through old sheet music. Feeling the old twinge of regret, I pretended not to see him. But he recognized me and cheerfully called out, "Hello there! Have you found any treasures today?"
"No." …
[And] as I turned to walk away, he caught hold of my arm. "I want you to know that because of your spontaneous generosity, I rekindled my old passion for the saxophone. Being retired, I now volunteer my time to teach kids how to play." He wiggled his fingers over the keys of an invisible sax. It was then I noticed his frailty, his worn clothes, and his scuffed shoes.
And suddenly I understood. I thought he'd stolen my blessing, when in fact he was my blessing. God's provision is for us all. And I was blessed to have received it twice, and in the most unusual place.
I'd call that a double blessing.

Tammy & The Diamond Dress

2009-08-01T05:20:00.000-07:00

A true story, written by me, Robin Shope

Many people will walk in and out of your life. But only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.
~Eleanor Roosevelt

Sitting on the flowered print couch, I paged through the Kissees' family album: there was nine-year-old Tammy, ten-year-old Tammy, eleven-year-old Tammy. Then I looked across the room at twelve-year-old Tammy playing checkers with her father. Her long blond hair was gone; the radiation had left only a wisp of fuzz on her head. Her fair complexion was now a chalky gray. The skeleton-like limbs made her appear weak and breakable.

Tammy caught a side glimpse of me staring, and she figured out pretty quickly that I had to be comparing her to the robust girl sitting astride the black horse in the picture. She smiled at me as if to say, "It's okay. I'll be that girl again someday."

My four-year-old daughter Kimberly leaned over Tammy's shoulder to watch her next move on the game board. "I think you should jump the black checker with the red one, Tammy." Tammy laughed, touching her dark curls with envy. "I am the black checker."

We met the Kissee family a year earlier when they began attending our small country church, soon after Tammy had been diagnosed with liver cancer. They joined the congregation, and we all began to pray daily for a healing miracle.

There was something so ethereal about Tammy. Kimberly couldn't resist her and became her shadow. Often Tammy felt weary from treatment, but she somehow managed to add strength to her patience in dealing with this admiring fan. Tammy had two older brothers, so she treated Kimberly as a welcomed younger sister. With their heads together, one nearly bald and the other thick with lustrous curls, they paged through the children's Bible.

One day, as I sewed, Kimberly said, "I need a diamond dress to wear for special occasions, like to parties and weddings and funerals." I flinched at her last word. Tammy laughed and seemed to understand something I could not grasp.

"Why funerals?" I could not meet Tammy's eyes.

"Because when people die they go home to heaven. I really need a dress for that celebration!"

Monday morning, Kimberly and I sorted through stacks and rows of fabric in the basement of an old Ben Franklin store.

"Here it is!" she exclaimed, holding up some purple cloth with a colorful jelly bean print on it. "Diamonds!"

"Honey, those are jelly beans."

"No, they are diamonds, beautiful colored diamonds."

I looked at the material for a long time, trying to see what Kimberly saw, but finally gave up. I asked for two yards to be cut, picked out matching thread and paid my money. All week I struggled with making my daughter's diamond dress. To make it fancier, I sewed on a lace collar and dotted it with rhinestones. Kimberly was happy with the result; she saw diamonds, I saw jelly beans.

Christmas was festive at church with a wonderful program and platters of carefully prepared food. Tammy admitted she felt awkward around girls her own age, as they didn't quite know how to act toward the girl who looked so different from them. So she remained by her little four-year-old friend and was a wonderful help in serving the food.

I thought I detected a little color crawling back into Tammy's wan cheeks. Surely she would recover and be just fine. I said another silent prayer for the hundredth, the thousandth, the millionth time.

I watched Tammy out of the corner of my eye all evening. She checked plates and cups, making sure everyone had enough to eat and drink, and served more when needed. She seated the elderly in the most comfortable chairs. I saw her push back the constant fatigue she experienced in order to help turn the pages for the pianist's music. At last, she sat with the children gathered about her feet, leading them in Christmas songs, listening intently to their stories. She was a young girl who was not self-absorbed in makeup and boyfriends. She was a young girl absorbed in helping others.

Two days after Christmas, we received a call from Tammy's parents. She had been rushed to the hospital. Walking into her room, I noticed how small she looked among the bed sheets. Her mother rubbed her forehead and smiled into the blue eyes that were heavy with sleep. My husband and I stood by her bed, along with her parents and brothers. Although we had prayed for healing, God performed His own miracle and just before midnight took Tammy home to live with Him in heaven.

The members of the church dreaded the funeral of one so young. We seem to understand and accept better the death of someone elderly who has lived a long and full life. This young life slipping away from us, however, made our own mortality seem more brittle. And there were the nagging questions: Had we failed Tammy in not believing hard enough, in not praying long enough?

I held my four-year-old daughter's hand as we walked up to the old oak casket. Tammy appeared as if she had gotten ready for church and then simply laid down for a quick rest among her favorite toys. I squeezed Kimberly's hand tighter. If she got too close to the casket, would death snatch her too? Sensing my fears, Mr. Kissee picked Kimberly up into his arms so she could clearly see Tammy's face.

"She is at peace now. See, no more pain on her face," he told her.

Kimberly looked into the pain-filled father's eyes and then nodded seriously, turning her attention back to her friend.

"Thanks for helping me be quiet in church," my daughter whispered to her. "See, I wore my diamond dress for you today. You knew how important it was. I am so happy that you can see heaven. Save me a seat next to you."

During the service, Tammy's parents sat close together holding hands, their grieving sons on either side. The pastor spoke, "This is not the end but the beginning for Tammy. Let her beginning be a new beginning for us as well. Let's finish what she has started, and may it be a work in progress."

It was true. Tammy left us with so much. She set her own needs aside to help others. She cheerfully illustrated to my impressionable daughter, to children yet to be shaped, and to adults set in their ways, how to be of service to others when pain and tiredness are your greatest enemies.

That night I tucked my own little daughter into her bed, thinking that Tammy would never be tucked into hers again. Kim looked at me with concern. Her tiny finger brushed away one of my tears.

"Mommy, when I close my eyes I can see Tammy. She has her long blond hair back and wears a beautiful dress with stones all over it. I think her diamond dress is even prettier than mine," Kimberly whispered while pointing to her jelly-bean dress hanging in the closet.

I closed my eyes too. Yes, I can imagine Tammy with her long hair and pink, glowing complexion. I think she is probably wearing her own diamond dress as she gallops through the streets of heaven.

Creature Comforts

2009-07-21T19:05:00.001-07:00

When I was a young woman, I thought I had to have the nice car, a great wardrobe, the best haircut, and a drop dead gorgeous boyfriend. Nowadays, these items have no pull on my heart any longer. A car is simply a tool that takes me from point A to point B. My wardrobe consists of what I can get away with wearing for one more year. I cut my own hair (it probably shows) and I am married to my drop dead gorgeous honey. I am older so my priorities have changed/shifted/matured. I am into creature comforts these days, like clean sheets on my bed when I lay down at night. Relaxed shoes so I can easily walk around during the day. A bite of a rich dessert daily would send me over the moon (especially if its Fannie Mays creams) but most of all I crave finding a comfortable bra. It's become my goal. What are your creature comforts?

The Christmas Edition soon a MOVIE

2009-04-07T09:13:00.000-07:00

For immediate release:

April 8, 2009

Salty Earth Pictures to Produce Robin Shope’s Novel

Salty Earth Pictures and Robin Shope are pleased to announce that plans to produce a Feature motion picture based on Shope’s novel “The Christmas Edition” is underway.
Ms. Shope, an author now living in Dallas, Texas, has written a series of novels that are set in Wisconsin, known as The Turtle Creek Edition series. Salty Earth Pictures, located in Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin is a non-profit organization dedicated to encouraging, producing, and distributing entertainment that challenges minds, lightens hearts, and strengthens souls.

“Ms. Shope’s faith based novels take place right out our front door, making them a perfect fit for Salty Earth Pictures,” said studio President Steven F. Zambo. He added, “It is our goal to produce a feature based on Robin’s “Christmas Edition” in a manner much like the successful “Facing the Giants” film was produced.” The film will be shot for a relatively low budget, by Hollywood standards, but will rely on volunteers and passionate individuals and supporters to bring the film to the screen. When asked about the movie of her book Shope commented, “Being born and raised in Delavan, Wisconsin, I couldn’t think of a more perfect setting for a book and now the movie.” Wisconsites may remember Robin Shope as Robin Jansen. She is a 1968 graduate of D-DHS and also graduated from UWWhitewater.

Without revealing too much of the story, the movie will be based on a struggling family owned business in a small Wisconsin town. It focuses on relationships, secrets, trust, faith, and the hope Christmas and it’s message provides.

Much work needs to be done before the camera will roll. “Scripting, casting, financing, music and locations are all issues we will be facing in the next several months. But, it is our prayer that we will be in production late this year with a planned distribution for Christmas 2010,” said Zambo. Salty Earth Pictures’ studio is located in Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin and will be the primary location for production. The studio has over 30,000 square feet of production space.

Marketing an independent film is no small task. Zambo says, “We are going to use the electronic tools out there to build and keep interest.” Periodic video update will be available on Salty Earth Pictures’ Youtube Channel. Also, both Shope and Salty Earth

Pictures will be using their group pages on Facebook to build audience interest
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMZJGPrYsW0

“The finished movie is only a part of the product,” says, Zambo. “We feel the journey getting there will also be exciting and entertaining. We want to share the entire experience!”

For Immediate Press Release!

2009-03-17T07:25:00.000-07:00

Coming soon to a bookstore near you is Wildcard. Turn on the news any night and you will hear frightening news reports about what Washington is doing. Where does it start? With law makers. However, it begins before then, at the ballot box. This book is about fiddling with voter ballots. Its been done before but not on such a grand scale. Blurb: What would happen if someone secured a microchip that could be manipulated to give his or her candidate the edge to win the next presidential election? Not enough votes for a landslide, but just enough to put their candidate over the top in a decisive win. The Wildcards are a group of maverick agents who want to take over the outcome of the next election for President of the United States. During Ivy Dillon's last week as a Washington Intern, she and Ms. Geneen Waters, the secretary to the President of the United States, overhear a conversation about voting machines and missing software. Months later Ms. Waters body is found floating in the Potomac River. FBI Special Agent Ian Serby, who swears he will give his life to protect her, takes Ivy into protective custody. Ian is smart, sexy and seems to have a hidden agenda all his own. Will Ivy follow her heart and believe what Ian tells her about trying to stop the Wildcards or is he actually a member of the Wildcards?
Ivy Dillon's last week as a Washington Intern. All she wants to do now is return home to Twin Lakes, Wisconsin and fill out applications as a political speech writer. On her last day at the White House, Ivy and the secretary to the United States, Geneen Waters, overhears a conversation. That night Ivy returns to a ransacked apartment. Frantically, she runs from door to door for help and the man who opens his door to assist her is the same stranger she met the night before at a theater party. The man calls for the police and waits with her, calming her nerves until they arrive. Later the same evening, they share Chinese take-out. All night, the kind stranger remains on Ivy's mind. In the morning, she goes to his apartment to thank him again for his help. When she knocks, no one answers. The door is unlocked. She turns the knob slowly and walks inside to an empty apartment. Only a fortune cookie remains. She breaks it open and reads what it says....'Bad luck never walks alone.'

Watch for April EighthMusings of a PaperBack Writer

2009-03-13T08:49:00.000-07:00

My newest book, Wildcard, is about to release just about the same time my first grandchild makes his way into the world.

April 8th (fourth month, eighth day) carries importance this year. I have never been into numbers, however, just this week, I began to notice a number pattern emerging in my life. April 8th is not only the date of the possible birth of Kingston, but also the date (chosen arbitrarily by another person) to announce my new endeavor. The number '48' came in an email the other day. Okay, so what does this mean?

I looked up the meaning of numbers in the Bible. Four stands for the beginning of creativity. My fourth book came out in December of the year 08. Eight stands for abounding blessings. And my BIG news concerns this fourth book, The Christmas Edition.

I am ready and looking forward to all God has in store for me. I hope you will stay tuned.

The Musings Of a Paperback Writer*AKA The Serial Writings of Robin Shope

2009-03-06T13:25:00.001-08:00

THANK YOU TEXAS STATE LEGISLATURE!

2009-01-22T06:39:00.000-08:00

Thank you Texas Legislature! I received a commendation from the Texas State Legislature with an official state seal, recognizing my recent book publications. Included is recognition of my work with troubled teens in the juvenile justice system. It is a really neat long, formal document. Impressive. Gee, for me? No, its not framed and on the wall. It's still inside the folder it arrived in, and slipped between books on my shelf. But how cool is that?

The Valentine Edition

2008-12-31T06:23:00.000-08:00

I write stories about Christian people who struggle with their faith, but still depend on God. Emotionally driven stories with a strong romance and a strong Christian principle. When a reader picks up one of my books I don't want to fail them. I want them to be awed, moved to laughter or tears or both in the span of a few chapters. I want them to talk to their friends about my book, that they've found a keeper of an author in me because all my books are a must-read and how they can't wait for the sequel or the next new release. To purchase either The Christmas Edition or The Valentine Edition please click on one of the book covers at the side.

Blurb from The Valentine Edition: The last place in the world Jodi Williams wanted to live was Turtle Creek, Wisconsin, but when her stepdad refused to put in a good word for her at the Chicago paper, she had no other choice than to accept the first job offer that came her way. Josh Thomas was Turtle Creek's veterinarian, but he also happened to be single and quite handsome. His life was pretty peaceful until a pretty, young stranger came to his clinic with a dog that had been hit by a car. While his first reaction was to care for the injured animal, he couldn't help a few glances at this unique young woman.That day was one of quite a few new beginnings. Jodi came to the aid of an injured animal, earning her the respect of a handsome man, she started a new job as a reporter for The Turtle Creek Newspaper, and she gained the wrath of the vet's receptionist. Della had her sights set on Joshua, and she wasn't about to let anyone come between her and the man of her dreams.

Got Mittens?

2008-12-24T09:52:00.001-08:00

Nina Graff is the talented maker of these mittens. You have gotta go here and see this site... http://sweaters2hands.wordpress.com/
You have to see what my talented friend is doing!
Nina Graff said, "My sewing room has exploded this month!
A short while ago…I was making a ‘few’ pair of mittens for my daughter-in-laws for Christmas. It seems that EVERYONE liked them! Four weeks and 82 pair of mittens later…I am still having fun creating these, and am offering them for sale here.
They are made from wool/wool blend sweaters (a patchwork of 3 or 4 different ones–washed and shrunk), lined with fleece, and embellished with buttons or wool ties.
You can request a color scheme, but I am at the mercy of whatever sweaters I am able to find. I will send you a preview e-mail before shipping, to be sure you’ll be happy with the choice. I will do my best to fill all orders as timely as possible….but right now I am taking a few days off with family. Will be back in the sewing room by Dec. 29 or so.
Cost is $33….which includes U.S. shipping. I accept PayPal…and those details will be given when you contact me:
back40fotos@gmail.com "

Visit me at titletrakk

2008-12-15T16:33:00.000-08:00

Gett'n ready....

2008-12-15T12:28:00.000-08:00

..for the holidays. Tree is up. Over the years I have collected antique glass and mercury ornaments in various shapes such as houses, birds (with feathers), balls, stars, diamonds and the like. Once they are on the tree, I step back to admire my work. It takes away my breath and thus my old fashiond Christmas begins. To the yummy spicy scent of gingerbread men baking in the oven, we now turn our attention to hanging our stockings but first we take out the wish list that we tucked inside last year. What fun to read what our hearts desires were one year ago and to see if we have changed since then or achieved it. This goes beyond loosing weight. It's about spirit and dreams and hope. We never focus on things to buy - that is too fleeting - but its how to become - an eternal wish. It may be about a job or a special prayer for a family member, or friend...helping others. Maybe it has to do with spending more time in God's word. Completing that novel. Volunteering. Being nicer to a co-worker. Then we hang the stockings from the mantle and watch as they fill with token gifts and homemade goodies. On Christmas morning there are lots of ooos and aaahhhhs when the owners look inside of them. And then they are put away until next year...but first we make our list of wishes for the coming year and tuck them into the toe. This year I think our wishes will be about how we can be of service to others. How we can make do and do without. Live simply...from the inside out.

This Writer's New Life

2008-11-20T09:42:00.000-08:00

I write stories of Christian people who struggle with their faith, but still depend on God. Emotionally driven stories with a strong romance and a strong Christian principle. When a reader picks up one of my books, I don’t want to fail them. I want them to awed, moved to laughter or tears—or both in the span of a few chapters. I want them to talk to their friends about my book, that they’ve found a keeper of an author in me because all my books are a must-read—and how they can’t wait for the sequel or the next new release. As you know, I began writing mysteries. Thrillers. I loved reading that genre so that's where I began writing. As I wrote, I built an arsenal of information about blood spatter, forensics, data. I also had an interesting list of "story characters" and endlessly pestered doctors, lawyers, investigators, and even judges to help keep my writing accurate.

I still love reading and writing mysteries, but in the past year a change has come over me. Perhaps it’s due to the worrisome condition of world events. Or needing to read/watch something uplifting and inspirational, I find myself leaping over my old favorites to a new one, contemporary romance. Everyone wants to love and be loved. It’s a basic need. To be important to someone. But then stuff gets in the way. Stuff like trust issues, past relationships that ended badly, disappointment, hurt, not living up to someone's expectations. This is what links us all together, disenchantment in love on some level at some time in our life. I decided to write heartwarming romance where love and hope and faith were the cornerstones. I found myself replaying popular love songs from my high school years. They were about being with the person you love, holding their hand, thinking about them all day long, dreaming about a future together, waiting for that first kiss. I found myself transformed by the melodies, the positive words. I wanted to write a book that embodied that tender purity. But what would be the problem? I was used to the hero and heroine discussing the case. Without a murder, what would they have to say to one another?

That's when I began thinking about love being a powerful force. It’s a transformational power that can make us reach to the greatest pinnacle of our life or it can be our fatal flaw. This single emotion has a depth that is limitless. It can make you change directions. An idea brewed. It took six weeks of steady, focused writing but I completed a 65K novel. I sent it in thinking it would be shot right back with the words flawed manuscript stamped across the top. In fact I almost expected it. After all, it was my first attempt at this genre but it slid together so quickly. Instead of rejected, I was handed a contract asking for it to be a series. If you read me before I hope you come back to read my new books. And if you haven't read one of my books then I hope you start with The Christmas Edition December 2008and follow it with The Valentine Edition, out early in 2009.

The Christmas Edition is on sale now

2008-11-19T04:00:00.001-08:00

The Christmas Edition is released. It is the first book in The Turtle Creek Edition series. The second book, The Valentine Edition releases early 2009. They are a contemporary romance.

Order it now by clicking on the book cover to the left. Can also be ordered from any bookstore Print ISBN 13: 9781601543301

Lucy Collins has given up on Christmas since the painful break-up with her fiance. Things only get worse when a large newspaper is about to come to town and threatens the livelihood of their family run business, The Turtle Creek Newspaper. At the staff Christmas party, she makes a wish and what seems like the answer to her prayer walks in the front door to apply for the editor position, which they are hoping will bring new life to the paper. Not only is Joe McNamara a genius when it comes to the written word, but he is also gifted with ideas about keeping the newspaper afloat. However, Joe has a secret of his own that he is keeping from Lucy. If she finds it out, then what looks like a promising relationship will unravel, but it's Christmas time, the season of rebirth and miracles. Will the spirit of celebration be enough to heal two hearts? Or will the reality of deception make this the worst Christmas of all?

New Children's Book THE MOON SHINES DOWN

2008-11-18T16:28:00.000-08:00

Years and years ago, when my girl was little...we would take night time walks and as we started back home again, we would look up at the stars and the moon and together would say, "I see the moon and the moon sees me. God bless the moon! And God bless me!" I picked this book up because of the same premise and because I am about to be a grandmama for the very first time. I couldnt wait to page through this. We follow the moon around the world and God bless all the living creatures as we go. The illustrations are sweet and colorful. The words are lyrical. This will be a favorite of Kingston and mine. I know it.

CHANCE 4 THREE BOOK GIVEAWAYS

2008-11-15T10:14:00.001-08:00

On Monday November 17 I am very honored to have my biography and book description on Margaret Daley's blog. Tuesday is the interview. I would so love it if you dropped by and left a comment. I am offering a copy of my latest book, THE CHRISTMAS EDITION. Here is the link. See you there! http://margaretdaley.blogspot.com/

On Wednesday November 19th I am quite honored to be on Novel Journey and offering 2 copies of my latest book, The Christmas Edition for leaving a comment! http://www.noveljourney.blogspot.com/

Review of Chronological Study Bible By Thomas Nelson

2008-11-13T06:15:00.000-08:00

I love it but beware, this Bible is for the serious student and lover of the Bible. It is filled with timelines, history, maps, etc. The print is a good size too. I love the concordance and appreciate the fact this is NEW King James Version. The authors are an impressive list of theologians who put this together. The best aspect is the Psalms of David are put along side of the chapters in I Samuel when it happened. Rev. 20 on the Millennium it speaks of the different views. I am thrilled. My husband is a minister and couldn't be more pleased with this. I am too. It will be most helpful to me when I write my books.

A Story Is Like A House

2008-11-04T18:33:00.000-08:00

I found this old photograph of the house where I grew up in Chicago about the same time I stumbled upon this amazing decription of what writing feels like inside your soul. It comes from Alice Munro. I wanted to share her words with you. "I've got to make, I've got to build up, a house, a story to fit around the indescribable 'feeling' that is like the soul of a story. I'm very, very excited by what you might call the surface of life, ...in a way I can't analyze or describe. I never intended to be a short-story writer. I started writing them because I didn't have time to write anything else - I had three children. And I got used to writing stories, so I saw my material that way. There's a kind of tension that if I'm getting a story right. I kind of want a moment that's explosive, and I wanted everything gathered into that." If you want to read one of her short stories set in rural Ohio, I suggest a look at the one entitled, BOYS AND GIRLS.

SEE me on SGM Radio

2008-11-03T09:50:00.000-08:00

I am on radio! Southern Gospel Music Radio, that is. Please take a look at what is happening on this wonderful Christian station. Press one of the SGM Radio links to the left. You will love what you hear.
Rob Patz is President of the Coastal Media Group, which owns 2 internet radio stations and also distributes a weekly one hour syndicated radio show. Patz is the host of the "Southern Styles Show" and emcees concerts and special events. In 2005, he received the "Paul Heil Diamond Award", an award given for excellence in radio

The Christmas Edition

2008-10-18T15:08:00.000-07:00

Welcome to My Serial Writings...

2008-08-12T06:59:00.000-07:00

Hello
I am an ordinary person who is still discovering God's will in my life. Since he doesn't seem to give me the full plan all at once, I find myself on a journey with Him. It's a trip filled with surprises, changes, twists and blessings.

At the age of seven years I confidently told a Chicago taxi driver that I was going to be a missionary when I grew up. Yep, that really happened. And right after I was married at the age of twenty seven, that is exactly what my husband and I did. We gave away everything and hit the mission field. We thought we'd be gone forever, but on actual earth time it turned out to be two years. But we did have a lifetime of experiences as we traveled to over twenty nations. When we got back to the states we had no income, no home, no stuff. It was then I realized that what God sets before us sometimes is only for a season. Like when we became pastors of an Illinois church. We thought that would be forever. But it wasn't. That forever lasted six years.

From then till now, I have laughed a thousand hours, cried a few rivers, gone from being a Language Arts teacher to presently being the special education coordinator at a youth facility for the county. My husband still takes yearly trips overseas to third world nations to preach. Recently he has been to Kenya and India. Me? I like home. When we traveled during the early season of our marriage we were trapped in Iran. The country was in the middle of a revolution and Shah was fleeing for his life. We holed up in the Commodore Hotel in Tehran, trying to catch a plane out. That did it for me. I like things a little calmer but I sure did marry adventure with my beloved, Rick. This story; "Not My Call
A missionary wife in India? Not me!" WILL BE IN THE NOV/DEC ISSUE OF CHRISTIANITY TODAY. I hope you read it and enjoy it.

And the Lord did say that those who stays by the 'stuff' gets the same reward as those who go. So Rick goes...I stay by the stuff which is a weedy yard, our two grown children and two pets. My job too. And I pray for a rich harvest of souls and for Rick's safe return to me.

And then there is my writing. I write articles and short stories and books. I love to write mystery/thrillers but I also have been known to pen romance books as well. I hope you pick them up to read sometime. I hope you like 'em. Stop by my blog often and say hi. I'd love to hear from you!

May your journey be filled with surprises, changes, twists and turns....

Robin

My Personal Story...Mom's Last Laugh

2007-09-22T18:01:00.000-07:00

Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness of the pew where I sat. I was at the funeral of my dearest friend---my mother. She finally had lost her long battle with cancer. The hurt was so intense, I found it hard to breath at times. Always supportive, Mother clapped the loudest at my school plays, held a box of tissues while listening to my first heartbreak, comforted me at my father's death, encouraged me in college, and prayed for me my entire life. When Mother's illness was diagnosed, my sister had a new baby and my brother had recently married his childhood sweetheart, so it fell on me, the 27-year-old middle chld without entanglements, to take care of her. I counted it an honor. "What now, Lord?" I asked sitting in church. My life stretched out before me as an empty abyss. My brother sat stoically with his face toward the cross while clutching his wife's hand. My sister sat slumped against her husband's shoulder, his arms around her as she cradled their child. All so deeply grieving, no one noticed I sat alone. My place had been with our mother, preparing her meals, helping her walk, taking her to her doctor, seeing to her medications, readig the Bible together. Now she was with the Lord. My work was finished, and I was alone. I heard a door open and slam shut at the back of the church. Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted floor. an exasperated young man looked around briefly and then sat down next to me. He folded his hands and placed them on his lap. His eyes were brimming with tears. He began to sniffle. "I'm late," he explained, though no explanation was necessary. After several eulogies, he leaned over and commented, "Why do they keep calling Mary by the name 'Margaret'? "Oh" "Because that was her name, Margaret. Never Mary. No one called her "Mary'" I whispered. I wondered why this person couldn't have sat on the other side of the church. He interrupted my grieving with his tears and fidgeting. Who was this stranger anyway? "No, that isn't correct." he insisted, as several people glanced over at us whispering, "Her name is Mary, Mary Peters." "That isn't who this is , I replied.." "Isn't this the Lutheran church?" "No, the Lutheran church is across the street." "Oh." "I believe you're at the wrong funeral, Sir." The Solemness of the occasion mixed with the realization of the man's mistake bubbled up inside me and came out as laughter. I cupped my hands over my face, hoping it would be interpreted as sobs. The creaking of the pew gave me away. Sharp looks from mourners only made the situation seem more hilarious. I peeked at the bewildered , misguided man seated next to me. He was laghing , too, as he glanced around, deciding it was to late for an uneventful exit. I imagined Mother laughing. At the final "Amen," we darted out a door and into the parking lot. "I do believe we'll be the talk of the town," he smiled. He said his name was Rick and since he missed his aunt's funeral, asked me out for a cup of coffee. That afernoon began a lifelong journey for me with this man who attended the wrong funeral, but was in the right place. A year after our meeting, we were married at a country church where he was the assistant pastor. This time we both arrived at the same church, right on time. In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter. In place of loneliness, God gave me love. This past June we have been married for thirty years. Whenever anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells them, "Her mother and my Aunt Mary introduced us.

Ode To My Bra

2007-09-21T04:44:00.000-07:00

It came unexpectedly
although I should have known it couldn’t last forever.
I have only myself to blame.
After all I had worn it everyday
for the last 5 years.
It had a wisp of green paint smears
all over it from the time I painted the kitchen walls.
It no longer held my girls up
in their attention saluting position
but at least
it kept them from hitting my knees.
Some people feel best in well-worn shoes.
Me? I prefer well worn, stretched out elastic bras.
Some bra deaths are silent
Mine wasn’t.
It was abrupt
and harsh
and happened in the frozen food isle of the grocery store.
It was there the under wire finally snapped
piercing my right breast.

Confessions of a Serial Writer

2007-09-18T17:40:00.000-07:00

My latest book came out July 2007. What a strange and wonderful feeling to see my name on the cover. Everyone should know that fabulous rush, at least once in their lives. The setting is my hometown of Delavan, Wisconsin. I based most of the characters on people who live there but then tweaked them just enough that they might not recognize themselves. If you visit that quaint northern town you will be charmed by the streets and fall in love with the lake (in the early days it was known as Swan Lake). But the town folk are the best part of it all. They make it come alive. I moved to Delavan when I was 13, escaping the navy blue and white garb of a private Chicago school. For the first time in my life I was happy. Delavan is where I learned it was safe to be me. I wish all my books could be set there....I hope you will take this writing journey with me...and now that I finally found out my password and login name, I promise to do better with blogging. After all, I am the serial writer.

God Bless All,

Robin

I AM A SERIAL WRITER...no apologies made

2006-09-01T17:13:00.000-07:00

Don’t think me strange because I carry around an Idea Book. It's right inside of my purse with the spiral edge sticking up and if you happen to see me jotting something down, you’ll know I have an inspiration brewing. The cover on the book will say IDEA BOOK. Really. I wrote it myself with a permanent marker. I get ideas all the time while walking down the street, and at home; no telling when inspiration will strike again. Sometimes I am fast asleep when it hits right in the middle of the night. It’s been known to happen to me during dinner before dessert. It always takes place during the Sunday sermon so I have to bring along plenty of paper...the preacher says things my characters need to hear. Just so you know, if you happen to say something clever, I must write it down. Its mine. When something sad happens I must make note of it, when something funny happens my characters have to be a part of that moment…you get the idea…okay I admit it…I am a serial writer. But its not my fault, I cannot help myself because it’s beyond my control. If this happens to you then you are a serial writer too. We should talk over lunch sometime.

At times my book characters become more real to me than my family. Okay, now that is an exaggeration but they do become real to me. I know them, how they look, what they like to wear, what their faith in God is like. I even know why they become silent when a certain subject comes up. And I name them as carefully as I named my children and some of them would be friends if they met while others wouldn’t. It’s life and it happens.

Who cares where I live, what my fav music is, what I like to drink in the mornings? You don’t. You only want a good read with believable characters, a riveting plot, a good love triangle, a thrilling mystery and a suspenseful ending with a twist of surprise. I aim to give it to you.

The Chase is my first published novel. Single gal Jill Lewis is fired from her job as political reporter at THE WASHINGTON GAZETTE. It's a humbling experience to return home to Delavan, Wisconsin. Jill thinks the newsies at THE LAKES newspaper will be thrilled to get her to write their jaunty columns but Jill is shocked when she is given the obituaries and told she has to work her way up. Soon Jill realizes the trouble she was in back in Washington has chased her home and nothing is as it seems, especially the milk toast editor.

The Replacement is the second installment to THE CHASE. Gazette investigative reporter Jill Lewis has covered Capitol Hill for years. So it's no big deal when a high-profile senator calls her with an urgent meeting request. She juggles her schedule and waits for him on the Capitol steps. But he never arrives. Suffering a massive stroke practically at Jill's feet, Senator George Brown is dead within days, and his rumored successor, Senator Tommy Harrison, shoots to the top of Jill's must-interview list.

The third book to the triology will be out 2007, THE CANDIDATE.

All books can be purchased on Amazon.com

and please come to say hello to me on ebay...I am princess*la-dee-da
http://search.ebay.com/_W0QQfrppZ50QQfsooZ1QQfsopZ1QQrdZ0QQsassZprincessQ2alaQ2ddeeQ2dda