Great Potential

Wow! You guys don't disappoint, that's for sure. I asked for editor referrals. Bam! I asked for title suggestions. Bam! Bam! Bam!

Thanks to the treasured advice from my friend, Christine Green, I have partnered with editor Nina Alvarez. She hails from Rochester, NY, and I think we make a good fit. Nina's been editing for several years and has some great success to show for it. I'm excited to have her onboard with this project. (I can't believe I hired an editor. It's exciting and unnerving. I swore I'd never do it.)

If you're a regular visitor to this blog, you may recall that Hellbent has been the working title of book #3. I like the name and it works with the story line, but there are at least a dozen other novels out there with the same title. The world doesn't need another.

You offered some amazing suggestions. Some were hilarious (thanks, Tiffany Paine), others quite nautical (thanks, Tim Farley), and some made sense only after a couple of glasses of wine (thanks, Lisa Perkins). After sorting through all of them, I have a tentative new title:

Southernmost Invasion: The Swarm

oooooo. I likey. Do you?

I've been battling the flu since before my last post, so I'll have to revisit this when the fever finally breaks. I liked the title Southernmost Swarm: The Invasion a little better at first, but I think it might be too hard for people to say. Please do me another favor and say it out loud. "Southernmost Swarm". Do it again. Is it hard to say? Does it sound odd? Now try doing the same thing with "Southernmost Invasion". Different experience, right?

To give proper credit:
 - Invasion was suggested by Marie Pauly

 - The Swarm was suggested by Tim Farley

(No, I don't play favorites to people whose last names ends with the "lee" sound.)

Thanks guys! You will both be officially thanked on the dedication page!

I added "Southernmost" to tie the title specifically to the Keys. Your thoughts on the new title are most welcome.

One blog post, some de-germing with Lysol, and it's back to the sofa I go. When will this damn flu ever end?

Be Nice and Find Me A Title!

I'm going to talk about a subject that most of you will shy away from. It's okay. I know that it makes people uncomfortable. No, it's not politics, because I hate that subject. Not religion either; I've already done that. It's not farts. People love talking about those. Well, at least my family does. I assume all families do. (That will be a topic for another day.)

Recently, I've been touched by the number of people who've contacted me to thank me for writing "Confessions of a Catholic School Dropout". Actually, I think shocked would be a more appropriate way to describe how they've made me feel.

There are a shit ton of women (hmm...there are a shit ton or there is a shit ton? I think "is".) out there who have pasts similar to my own. More than I suspected. Those that I've spoken with are grateful (their word, not mine) that I publicly owned my past and wrote about it for others to experience.

Stop rolling your eyes. I can see you. Does that make you nervous? Then be nice.

My past is exactly that. The past. As a small child, I was the victim of sexual abuse by a family member. Period. The end. I don't dwell on it because it's over. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed of it either. I didn't do anything wrong.

I'm not going to rehash all the stuff that's already been said about victims feeling guilty for their abuse. I'm sure you already know about all of that. It sure is weird, though. You know what's even more weird? There are adults who still blame the child for being abused. Yep, it's true. I just talked with one today. She's a grown-ass woman, married, with three beautiful baby boys. Her mother (and other family members) continues to blame her for the abuse she suffered as a child!

What the hell is wrong with people?!? I want to punch that poor woman's mother in the vagina. Repeatedly.

Okay, enough about that.


I've set an artificial date in my head for publishing the third book - which STILL doesn't have a title. The book is officially done, but I'm editing. Along those lines, I've decided to hire an editor. Yup, it's true! I'm biting the bullet and hiring someone who knows what they're doing. I've fought the idea for years, but I can finally admit that it's a necessity for a really well done novel.

Does this mean I'm growing as a person? (My closet sure says that I am.)

I hate asking for help and that's what hiring an editor feels like, which is why I refused to consider it for the first two books. Having said that, we all know that there were typos in both books and that there were some timeline issues in the second. I used to say that I was proud of the good and the bad in each book; that everything between the pages was mine. I didn't want an editor to be able to take credit for any part of what I'd written. I still don't, but I've decided that if I can find the right editor, I won't feel that way.

So...the search is on for a qualified editor that 1) I can work with; 2) I can afford; and 3) I can trust. Feel free to send recommendations or  - even better - offer your services.

For those of you who aren't editors/don't know any editors, you can help me with the book title....

The setting is the FL Keys (of course) during mini season. (That's a two-day affair during which people can fish for FL lobsters before the commercial season begins. Our islands are mobbed by people from the mainland. They are like locusts and leave a mess in their wake. Most locals hate mini season.) It's a story of life and death, love lost and found with a little bit of human trafficking thrown in for good measure. Some of the characters are despicable ghouls, others have questionable morals but are trying to become better people. It's my best story yet.

The damn title continues to elude me and I don't mind asking for help with this problem. What the hell am I gonna name this dang thing? Get busy and start thinking.

And, please remember to be nice. Just because Santa doesn't arrive for another 356 days, it doesn't mean you can be a dick.

Holding On Tightly

The subject of today's post has been on my mind now for a long time, years in fact. It's one that many of you have already dealt with and if you haven't, then it's on the horizon. It's about our children growing up and leaving home.

I suppose I'm beginning to understand why some folks (I never use that word because I dislike it. A lot.) don't thrill over the idea of Christmas the way I always do. I never understood it before, but it's becoming less of mystery as my babies grow up. This will be our third Christmas without our son. It sucks moose balls. There's just no other way to say it.

Christmas is an entirely different animal when one of your children can't be home to share it.

I refuse to allow this post to become a reflection of pre-menopausal emotions. Partly because I am, in fact, not suffering from that particular affliction. My body and I agreed years ago that I am not doing menopause. I'm just not. It's not mandatory and I refuse to participate in that crap. I don't believe in it, anyway. Back to the point, I don't want this post to be a puddle of shit during what is The Most Wonderful Time of the Year, so I won't drag out all my cry-baby thoughts about my children growing up and moving on.

However, I will take this opportunity to tell those of you who are still getting up in the middle of the night with crying babies or have toddlers in your bed, stealing the covers and kicking you in the bladder all night, that it goes fast. Too fast. Before you know it, they can drive and have the car on Friday night while you sit at home trying to remember where you put your social life. Then you remember that for the past sixteen years, your children were your social life. You have to adapt and change.

Its a time of change for all of us. Zak is a man. Grown and gone. Three years in the Navy and making his way in the world. Lauren is a sophomore. She drives herself where she needs to go and is already looking at colleges. I need old lady glasses to read my goddamn iphone and anything else that's not written in letters the size of walnuts. I've also discovered I snore, another sign of Father Time's shitty sense of humor. I have wrinkles that I can't see unless I take out my contacts, so I just don't bother looking in the mirror unless I'm wearing them. (If I can't see them, then they aren't there!) Then there's Doug, but he's been old since I was in high school. He can't hear shit but refuses to do anything about it. Instead of getting a hearing aid, we play the "Huh?" game after EVERY sentence that comes out of my mouth. Sometimes I just move my lips to make him think I'm talking and then refuse to repeat myself. I need entertainment, too.

In spite of these changes, I will never be old. I refuse to do that, just like menopause. I plan to live to be 120 years old. My kids know this plan very well. I will be 120, pushing Zak in his wheelchair - he will be 96. Lauren will be beside us with her walker. She will be 90. Doug probably won't be around, but we'll still make fun of him. While I'm happy to push his wheelchair, Zak will have to change his own diaper. Those days, like so many others, are over.

But we have the memories. Hold on tightly to your babies and relish this Christmas, whatever it brings.

Well that's odd....

Its an odd day no matter how I look at it.

It started with me having to drive my daughter to school; she usually gets picked up by a couple of hoodlums from the neighborhood but they were unable to get her today. When I stumbled to the bathroom to put in my contacts, I found the box empty. I tossed it in the trash and opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet to pull out a new box of contacts.

There weren't any.

The contacts are gone.

Oh my. My vision is 20/225. That means at 25 feet, objects appear to my eyes as if they were 225 feet away. That doesn't make for save driving without some sort of eye correction.

I dug out an old pair of glasses. Not only are they hideously ugly (back in my Coast Guard days, we called glasses such as these "BC glasses"....as in birth control.), they aren't the proper prescription. No matter. I managed to drive the four miles there and back without incident.

It was raining lightly when we left for school and was pouring by the time we got back. That in itself is unusual for our island. It never rains here. It can be raining at the high school but will be perfectly dry and sunny here.

I came home and let out the dogs. They refused to go in the rain. What? Don't dogs love rain? Mine took one look out the front door and went back inside to sleep.

Everything is sticky. Not just sticky, gross and sticky. The humidity level must be maxed. My feet stick to the floor, my clothes feel damp, the dogs' fur feels damp and my fingers are sticking to the keyboard. Even the furniture is damp. I hate to close up the house and turn on the A/C again, because its only 72 degrees, but everything feels so gross.

Back to the oddness...

So, it's still raining. Hours of sold rain. We don't get that. As I looked out at the canal from the porch, I saw my poor little boat filling with water. Opps. I didn't cover it.

I ran outside to begin the bailing out. As I scooped water from the bottom and poured it over the side, I heard the unmistakable sound of dolphin exhaling. If you've ever heard it, you know exactly what I mean. I looked up and not far from the boat was a single dolphin. He eyeballed me and then dove. I waited and watched, occasionally bailing. He surfaced again, closer that time. I smiled and said hello. I asked him if he was enjoying the rain and he smiled before diving again.

Mr. Dolphin and I played that game until I was well beyond soaked through. He surfaced several times near the boat, never close enough to touch, but close enough that we spent several minutes just looking at each other. I suppose he wondered just what the hell this human was doing. He seemed curious. Just about the time I considered slipping over the side to join him, he showed me his tail flukes one last time and headed for Snake Creek.

I came back inside to get dry (that's not really possible today) and then called my eye doctor to order more contacts.

'I'm sorry, but you're due for your annual exam. We can't supply you with more contacts until you have another exam."

"But I'm completely out. I can't see to drive or work. Can't I buy a few pairs to carry me over until I can have an exam?"

"We don't usually do that."

(This is exactly what they did for me last time this happened.)

"What if I bring you some homemade fudge? Then would you do it?"

There was a long pause.

"How soon can you be here?"

It's only 9:41am and I've had lots of oddness. I wonder what else this day holds in store...

Food For Thought

Last week I attended the graduation of six of my former recruits. I was a proud Momma as I watched my babies stand before the community and receive their certificates. I'd be lying if I said I was I impressed with the way it was put together.... no honor guard and no bag pipes. Hello FKCC? My kids deserved better than the bush league ceremony that the college put together. My former supervisor didn't even know the names of the police officers that he was trying to introduce. I was embarrassed for him. Oh wait, no I wasn't. He showed everyone in attendance just what a donkey he really is. I may have smiled about it. A lot.

The purpose of the event was to celebrate the accomplishments of my babies and that's exactly what I did. They've come a long way from the day they stumbled into my office to hand in an application to the police academy. Wow. It's been a long ten months for them, but they are well on their way to bright futures. Congrats to them. They each made me very proud and I've no doubt that they will continue to do so. I look forward to rolling through Homestead/Florida City/Miami Dade and seeing them speed by in a patrol car.

On a related but different subject, I have decided not to pursue a career with the local law enforcement agency. Some of you think that a most unwise decision, but there's no way I could publish book #3 if I was on their payroll. I'd also have to seriously monitor what I publish on social media and we all know how difficult that can be for me. (Think back to the late July, voodoo doll fiasco.) I am who I am. I can't change it and probably wouldn't even if I could. I'm damn near 47 years old (how the flip did that happen??) and I don't enjoy the thought of returning to an environment where I have to bite my tongue, monitor every word that comes out of my face, and refrain from expressing my opinions. It wouldn't be worth the pay, the hours, or the irritation.

Fortunately, my Island Momma business has taken off like gangbusters, affording me the freedom to decline a more "traditional" means of earning a living. (I just looked up the phrase "coming on like gangbusters" on urban dictionary to learn about its origins...does anyone under the age of 70 say that? I mean other than me, of course.) I am fortunate and thankful to those who make this profession a wonderful way to support my family.

One of the greatest things about cooking for people is the ability to pick my hours. I don't have to miss important family events and I refuse to work holidays. My family time is so important. My baby girl is a sophomore in high school and I don't want to miss one minute of the time I have left. I can read the handwriting on the wall and that girl is destined for great things...but they won't be in the Keys. Her brains and talent will take her far away from this little island. I plan to do as much as possible with her before that happens.

I am very fortunate to be able to live the life I do. Thanks to those who make it possible, especially my husband Doug, who puts up with my latest and greatest most brilliant ideas and occasional mood swings (wink, wink...they might be more than occasional, but he's smart enough not to mention them). I know how lucky I am.

Truth and Lies

My need to blog was temporarily overshadowed by my need to earn a living. I know, I know. I need to get my priorities straight.

The biggest news is that I finished the third book! Well, that's not completely accurate. I wrote the ending, but now I need to go back to edit and fill in. There are some timeline issues that need to be addressed, which will take time to work out. I'm a long way from publishing. I'd say at least three months, but still...it's pretty gosh darn exciting.

I still don't have a title for the damn thing. That could be a problem.

So, maybe you could stop sending voodoo dolls of the Prez of FKCC (although they are adorable and line the back of my desk) and start brainstorming titles. I realize that you don't know what the book is really about, but I have given a few clues. The setting is mostly Islamorada during mini season. It tells the story of several characters, some are locals who struggle to make a living and others are just passing through. Some are dangerous criminals, others are the salt of the earth. The novel is fiction, although as Stephen King once said, "fiction is the truth inside the lie".

I'll never be in the same league as King (Hello Captain Obvious!), but here's my take on what he meant. To write good fiction, you start with the truth and then build the lies around it. You know bad fiction when you read it. It's when the author doesn't do their research and things aren't believable because you recognize the inaccuracies. I've been guilty of this, especially when the characters in my books continue to insist that's how they want their stories written. I'm trying to get better at reining my characters in, rather than being a slave to their whisperings. It's not easy.

Back to the point. The third novel is fiction, which means there are snippets of truth woven through the lies to hold it all together. Maybe therein lies the title...Hmmm.

As always, your suggestions are most welcome. Until then, I have a lot of editing and cleaning up to do.

I plan to start a pool before the book is released. We'll bet on how many people will be pissed off about a fictional book that isn't about them.

About that - just this past weekend during our annual Halloween party, one of my ghoulishly-costumed guests began picking out characters from Fat Chance as they wandered through the buffet line or stood at the bar. It was so damn entertaining to watch the light bulb turn on and then she'd say, "Maude, right?" or "That's gotta be Donna!"

After all, fiction really is the truth inside the lie.

Surprise!

I love when my books write themselves and that's exactly what's been happening over the past couple of days. I thought I knew where this thing was headed, but man was I wrong!

These characters have minds of their own. They do whatever they want. Apparently, I'm just along for the ride. I've lost all control and, while that may sound frightening, it's also exhilarating! Surprise!

I often wonder if some of what's unraveling in book number three is just too unrealistic to publish, but maybe that's the wrong attitude. Weird shit is happening and that's okay; it's fiction. Fortunately, there aren't hard and fast rules about what can and can't happen in a fictional story. I'm going to stick with my method of letting the book happen. I won't try to control or shape it. I'll just let the story unravel and then share it with you. Take the parts that you like and ignore the rest.

Two people died this week. (Relax. I'm referring to two fictional characters in the book.) I felt pretty bad about one of them and didn't feel like writing for about a day afterwards. Is that weird? The other one had it coming, but I may rewrite it to make that particular ending a bit more awful. Is that more weird?

Do you wonder where these stories come from? I do. What's going on in my grey matter? Honestly, I don't sit around contemplating murder, but it sure is happening frequently in my books as of late. One thing I know for sure; I always feel better after writing, whatever it is that comes out. Certainly, writing is cheaper than therapy. So is wine. Combine the two and BAM!

I've gotta get back to the madness. An idea just came to me and I want to see where it goes. The book is still without a title, but I hope that will resolve itself in the near future or it'll be published as "The Next One" and that just won't do.

Suggestions?!