A MOVING EXPERIENCE

To those who have followed my blog a hearty thank you! It's my hope that you'll follow me to my new address. http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com

I call it Addicted to Purple. For those who know me, the reason is usually obvious. Look to my new site for this coming Friday's 100 word flash fiction.
Shalom,
Rochelle

CASUALTY OF WAR

This week's Friday Fictioneers' photo prompt is from Lura Helms. It's always fun to read the different imaginings that emanate from one photo. Here's my 100 word offering.

In the woods on the outskirts of town is the Tree of Life. Not to be confused with the original this one earned its name from a century of discarded oddities which have grown into its branches.

Jason and I carved our names into the bark the day before he left for Viet Nam. We’d marry when he returned.

When the final letter came my heart cratered to my stomach.

He’d met Trinh-Lee, his true love.

Today you can still read the crude print that says, “Jason loves Karen.”

Just below it, imbedded in the trunk, is my disengagement ring.

SAFE

Without a lot of explanation or intro I give you this week's offering for Friday Fictioneers.

“Your services are no longer needed.”

Twenty-three years of loyalty to the company. Terminated. Snap! Just like that.

Along with other victims, Elise sued for age discrimination and won.

No longer defined by job description, motherhood, widowhood or any other hood, she left the Midwest behind.

Thousands of miles away, the ocean’s slup-slosh sated her thirsty ears. The salt-laden breeze sent shivers of delight through her bare arthritic shoulders.

Then she dove headlong into the wake. The sea welcomed and caressed her like a long-lost lover. Her eyes feasted on purple coral, mollusks and striped clownfish.

Elise was home!

THE SWIMMING LESSON

The following is an excerpt from my short story "The Swimming Lesson". It's one of 14 stories included in my anthology THIS, THAT AND SOMETIMES THE OTHER. Illustrations and Front cover are the author's original work as well.

A lit M-80 slipped from Wayne Lord's fingers. It sizzled its way to the water thirty feet below. Bang! Splash! A startled catfish floated to the surface and turned belly-up.

Two more explosions resulted in two more dead fish. He grinned at his buddy, Frankie Ray, and shrugged. "Ain't done it."

"Darn tootin' you did!" With a shake of his head, the other boy chuckled. "We'll make a hillbilly out of you yet, city boy."

It was the second day of Wayne's escape. Summer vacation. 1961. He didn't miss the eight-by-forty-foot home he shared with his two brothers, a sister and his mother. Their trailer sat next to Frankie Ray's parents', in a tag-rag trailer park behind Beech Aircraft, on the outskirts of Wichita, Kansas. When they invited him to go to Arkansas cor the summer with Frankie Ray, he jumped at the chance to leave behind the dust and never-ending flatlands. His eyes couldn't drink in enough of Arkansas' lush hills and valleys.

"Hey, Lordy Lordy, know how to swim?" asked Boyce, a barrel-chested boy with ash-blond hair and a deep tan.

Wayne breathed in hot air, thick with humidity and his own sweat. Words stuck in his throat like first-grade paste. "No."

"Time you learned, city boy." Thump! Boyce smacked his shoulders.

Scraping his bare heel on a sharp rock. Wayne stumbled backward and tumbled over the cliff's edge. He flailed his arms and feet and fought to climb empty air.

The river approached with alarming speed. What if he missed the swimming hole and landed on the rocks instead? he shut his eyes so he wouldn't see it when his brains splattered into fish bait and floated down the Buffalo.

End of excerpt.

The story in its entirety is included in my collection. Copies are available on Amazon.com. To find out how to receive a personally autographed copy go to my website: www.rochellewordart.com.

WILD LIFE

This week's Friday Fictioneers' photo prompt has been something of a challenge. While it might conjure up visions of creepy aliens. it's a picture of a cut grape vine. I neither wrote about grape vines nor aliens. Just under 100 words this week with 99.

Half naked Himba people in Nambia, a sweaty camera crew and millions of TV viewers witnessed our marriage vows.

I willingly followed Trevor up the Himalayas, drank sun-scorched canteen water instead of Cabernet and swatted mosquitos in the Amazon.

In Nepal he slipped on something and narrowly escaped being trampled by a choleric elephant.

“I’m done,” he whispered later. “Let’s go home.”

“You are my home.”

Back in the states, safe from cheetah attacks and hippo stampedes, Trevor’s mangled body lies on a cold steel table. The driver, texting on her cell phone, never saw him cross the street.

SNARL

I'm multitasking this morning. Trying to cram down breakfast, put on makeup and post my story for Friday Fictioneers at the same time. Then it's off to work. 97 words this go around.

“Nice doggie,” whispered Jolie.

Huddled against the fence she faced a mouthful of Pit Bull teeth. Which would be worse--the whipping she’d get for losing Grandma’s ring or to be eaten alive by a junkyard dog?

A few inches from the behemoth’s haunch, moonlight glinted off the sapphire. With her eyes fixed on his, she slid her hand toward the ring, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

But he snapped to his feet with a roaring bark and lunged.

Her heart thrashed against her ribs.

In one ferocious bite the Copperhead skulking toward her met a grisly fate.

BITTERSWEET

A week's vacation has afforded me more writing time than usual. Even though it's only Thursday I deem my Friday Fictioneers story ready for viewing. 98 words if you're counting.

Savage heat devoured the crops. My hopes for new shoes, satin and lace shriveled with the corn and beans in Daddy’s field.

Mama inspected brittle vines along the fence. “No jelly makin’ this year, Della-Mae.”

Under the feral sun, on withered ground, she smoothed spotless bed-sheets. Then she strewed them with tiny grapes.

In September I pledged my troth in Mama’s yellowed gown. Her slippers were half again too small so I walked the aisle barefoot.

Thirty-nine years later, as we did on our wedding day, Rueben and I celebrate our devotion with grapevine bouquets and raisin wine.

ANNOUNCEMENT!

After 7 years of writing, rewriting and shopping for an agent. I'm pleased to announce that last weekend I signed a contract with Jeanie Pantelakis of Sullivan Maxx Literary Agency.

To say that I'm happy would be the epitome of the understatement.
Below is the blurb that Jeanie wrote for my novel. Wow. It even makes me want to read it!

Barefoot, wearing only a nightgown, 16 year old Havah Cohen alone escapes the brutal massacre by the Czarist tyranny that destroys her home and slaughters her family on a frigid November night in 1899.

Love ignited, lost and found, insurmountable struggles and challenges, Kishinev’s Jewish pogroms and all odds against them, Havah and her soul mate, Arel withstand the storms of life in this unforgettable story of a time and place rarely spoken of.

Now to work on editing the sequel From Silt and Ashes. It's a sweet feeling to know I'm not in this alone.

ARSON

It's my favorite time of the week! Not only do I get to meet the challenge of writing a 100 word story to go with the photo prompt from Madison Woods, I'm privileged to enjoy stories written by other Friday Fictioneers as well.

Somewhere in the vicinity of the girl’s restroom a fire fighter found a melted disposable lighter but couldn’t say for sure it was the cause. By the time he found it flames had already licked, hissed and reduced the school to a charred heap.

Stunned faces, like gray balloons, floated single file through choking billows. Only one teacher perished. A hero.

“Tell that to his wife and baby son.” Angela’s cheeks blazed.

The next morning she watched a buzzard spread his wings on an incinerated branch. Nothing left to scavenge; he soared into the grief-stricken sky.

Angela never smoked again.

ENCAMPMENT

This week's photo prompt from Amanda Gray was a challenge for me so I'm a little later posting than usual. Hope everyone had a safe and happy 4th.

“I detest camping,” said Ella.

But how could she resist Chuck’s brown-eyed, boyish pout? That same look coaxed her into matrimony to the impoverished med student a year ago.

Two miles past the nearest service station, his classic Mustang stalled. Neither of their cell phones found a signal and the sun was setting. Resentment swelled her. Pain riddled her back and thighs as they hauled their gear to a nearby abandoned building.

“At least we don’t have to pitch the tent. See, El, our luck’s about to change.”

“More than you can imagine."

"Huh?"

"My water just broke.”

FORGIVENESS

TGIFF! Thank God it's Friday Fictioneers! Thanks for stopping by and reading my offering. A little lighter than my usual fare. As always thanks to Madison Woods for the challenge and the fun. This has become not only a great exercise in writing, but a link to a great community of writers as well!
This week I'm dedicating my story to my sister/friend Regina who would never have carried this particular guilt.

“I’ll never forgive you!” Bang! The door slammed behind him.

Troy’s slouched form dwindled to a speck and disappeared over the hill.

Regina grabbed a bowl and went out to her garden. Like crimson jewels, bulging raspberries, dripping with morning dew, begged to be plucked and eaten.

Daily tasks were not enough to occupy her mind or quell her longing for his arms.

At 3:30 the back door opened and shut. He came back!

“Raspberry cobbler? Yum!” Fourteen-year-old Troy hugged her. “Sorry I yelled at you, Mom.”

“It’s okay. I should’ve asked before I threw away your old teddy bear.”

THIS, THAT AND SOMETIMES THE OTHER

My first published book debuted in November of 2011 by High Hill Press. It's a collection of short stories that I refer to as eclectic since there's no central theme.
In addition to the stories, the illustrations and cover art are my own works.

You can find my book on Amazon.com and I offer them through my website. www.rochellewordart.com.

Currently it's also available in two Kansas City area book shops:

Rainy Day Books
2706 West 53rd St.
Fairway KS 66205
913-384-3126
www.rainydaybooks.com

and

Emmanuel Christian Shop
7771 Quivira Rd
Lenexa KS 66216
913-713-5181

Note: My book isn't a Christian book. But my friend owns the shop and has offered to carry my work.

Second Note: I've not been able to figure out how to make the web addresses into links on this site. If anyone can help this addled author, feel free to share the instructions in the comment box.

HOMEWORK

Once more it's Friday. That is, in some Friday Fictioneers' homelands. Here in Missouri it's still Thursday evening. To find out more about us and our creator Madison Woods visit our Facebook page.

“Odonata class: Zygoptera.” With calculated neatness twelve-year-old Clark wrote in his notebook. “Damselfly.”

The insect’s organza wings shimmered silver-blue in the late afternoon sun. It seemed to relish the unprecedented attention rather than fear it. The excited boy snapped it from every angle with his new iPhone.

“‘A+’ for sure!”

A low growl interrupted his reverie. “Get your ass home, nerd-boy, before I havta beat the crap outta ya again.”

Clark poised the iPhone like a camera in one hand while with his other he cocked the stolen gun in his pocket. He winked a swollen eye.

“Hey…Dad. Say ‘cheese.’”

A MOTHER'S GIFT

I took a different path this week. Thanks again to Madison Woods and Friday Fictioneers. I'm dedicating this story to my friend Teddy whose love of her Native American heritage is an inspiration.

“Walk with me now,” said Wind Woman.

Red Fawn could not hide her impatience. Following in obeisant silence behind her mother she dreamed only of her beautiful warrior. Of all the girls in her clan, he chose her.

At the top of the hill the older woman pointed to two burial mounds. “When we found them, he was dead. She laid you in my arms. Then she died.”

Wind Woman’s eyes brimmed. She pressed her palms against Red Fawn’s cheeks. “Hair like fire. Eyes like sky. The Great Spirit gave you to me. Tomorrow I give you to Iron Wolf.”

WINGS

One photo prompt is worth a hundred words. Here's my story for this week's Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Madison Woods.


When my mother was pregnant in 1958 she took an experimental drug to quell morning sickness. Seven months later she delivered a daughter with limbs too small to ever be useful.

Leslie never complained about her deformities. Instead she made jokes about them and dreamed of flying.

Once we took a hot-air balloon ride. She tossed sequins over the side. They glittered to the water below.

“In my next life,” she said, “I want to be a bird.”

From the same balloon I pour out her ashes. Mixed with sequins they spangle the sky.

Today my sister is free!

KISS ME, SAILOR

Another Friday has come. I found this photo prompt the most challenging one yet. Thanks, Doug and Madison. I love a challenge!

After a forbidden night in heaven Daniel stretched in the down sleeping bag. The mountain air chilled his face as he watched the sun rise over the snow-dusted volcano.

Loath to wake her, he filled his eyes with her image for just another breath. Ebony hair haloed her high-boned cheeks and full lips.

Self-satisfied, he grinned. Sooner or later the army would be sent to fight the Krauts. Not him. He couldn’t wait for Christmas luaus in paradise.

“Kiss me, sailor,” she whispered.

“Okalani, it’s 6:30. I gotta get back to Pearl before Skipper realizes I’m AWOL.”

RENDEZVOUS

This is truly habit forming. Here's my weekly installment for Friday Fictioneers. Thank you Madison Woods!

Golden arches and a drive-through replaced the baroque beacon on the hill. The French restaurant where we often rendezvoused is gone.

At our special table we shared crème brulée, class notes and anecdotes.
Our careers left no room for marriage. He went his way and I went mine.

Two years later the embossed invitation came. Birth announcements and commencement notices followed me around the world.

When I read his wife’s obituary I wept.

Thirty summers passed. I reminisce in McDonald’s parking lot. Someone taps my windshield.

Ink-black hair turned bone-white, Bordeaux in hand, he grins. “You saved our table.”

MIRACLE

What can I write about a rainbow? Here's my take on the picture for Madison Woods' Friday Fictioneers.

Merciless rain pelted the Conestoga’s canvas roof. Tildy’s stomach swelled and roiled with each pitch and sway.

Three-year-old Jonas whimpered in her arms. Like periwinkle marbles, his eyes rolled in aimless delirium. She almost welcomed his fevered warmth in the penetrating damp.

The wagon lurched and stopped. Smelling of horses, leather and wet denim Noel slipped through the narrow opening. In silence, his vigilant eyes on his son, he nestled under the blanket beside her.

Tildy woke to hushed sunlight. Her baby was gone.

Outside, naked as dawn, Jonas hopped and pointed at the rainbow. “Ma! Pa! Angels came!”

Sleepwalk

Here it is! My Friday Fictioneers offering for the week. Special thanks to Madison Woods for the challenge.

Like a pearl brooch pinned to mottled velvet, the moon glistered through a web of tree branches. A desperate voice yelled her name.

“Kanzie.”

With a scream, she woke to every day shadows. After twenty years, she accepted her somehow comfortable blindness…until bedtime.

Always it was the same dream. Then one night she woke up outside. Mississippi air stuck to her skin like a damp cloak. Trees rustled in the hot wind.

Suddenly she could see! Six-years-old again, she remembered. Why did white-robed ghosts put that rope around her gentle Daddy’s neck? His terror-filled eyes drilled her.

“Kanzie, don’t look!”

Simple House

Here's my response to Madison Woods' photo prompt for this week's Friday Fictioneers. Also check out Friday Fictioneers Facebook Page.

In 1901 taxidermist Jefferson Thomas constructed a home and a thriving business. His petulant mail-order bride hated rural life.

One day her prized ruby from a former suitor disappeared. Blaming Jefferson, she demanded a divorce. Tongues wagged when she abandoned both her husband and child.

A century later a tornado devastated the house to a pile of clapboard. Amid the rubble, Jefferson Thomas III, found nothing left of his heritage save a lone wall. He tore off a length of wallpaper and yelped.

A glass eyed, mummified woman stared back at him, a ruby ring clinched between her teeth.

In Memory of 24682

Thanks to Madison Woods for the photo prompt and Friday Fictioneers to keep us on our writing toes.

Through vicious barbs and twisted wire the sun had the audacity to shine. Marushka licked the dregs of a discarded sardine tin. Her disappointed stomach howled its outrage. She sank down on the stony ground. Stretching her rawboned legs in the dust she longed for silk stockings to hug her once shapely calves.

From her torn pocket she pulled a mirror-shard and glowered at her reflection. Who was this bald hag? Murderer! No! She'd only covered his mouth so they wouldn't hear.

"24682." She slashed a trail, long and deep, through the tattooed number to her wrist.

"Mama's coming, Dovid."

Remembrance

Yesterday, April 19, was Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. In honor of the 6 million, some of them family I never knew, I offer this piece.

“You see this rock?” Zipporah asks her thirteen-year-old great-granddaughter.

“What’s so special about it?” Anya yawns.

“Underneath this rock…half your age…I hid from them. Papa told me not to move or make a sound, no matter what.”

Anya’s half-closed eyes snap open. “Then what happened, Bubbie?”

“Blam! I held my breath. Mama fell. I didn’t cry. Mud filled my nose. Dear God, I wanted to cry.

“Papa sang a prayer, ‘Magnified and Sanctified be His Great name…’

“Bang! Papa never sang again.

“Today only water drips off this rock but on that day, my child, it dripped with something else.”

Stepping Out

Last Friday I went with my husband to Stockton MO. Our nephew who is a high school English teacher at Stockton High School had invited me to read some of my stories to his classes.
Ham that I am, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. For the most part I think the kids did, too.
To be introduced as a published author is pretty heady stuff. The questions were challenging and it was interesting to see which stories sparked their interest and which ones fell flat. As in any classroom situation, some students show interested while others merely fill a desk until the bell rings.
Then there was that sparkling moment when I truly felt I made a connection! That one student who related to a particular story with tears and smiles made the whole trip worthwhile.

THE LIE

Jenna asked her mom why there were no baby pictures of her in the family album.
“We adopted you when you were three. Your real mother didn’t want you.”
Until she turned thirteen she accepted Mom’s explanation. Then the dreams started. A tunnel. Benches.
“Stay here, Tracy," said the black-haired lady.
But rough hands came out of the tunnel and carried her off.
Today as she rode her bike Jenna found the same tunnel.
On the bench a lady with black hair wiped tears from her eyes and stared at Jenna.
“Tracy?”
“I’m sorry, Mommy. I went away.”

Progress or Regress?

In high school I refused to take the secretarial courses my mother thought I should. Shorthand and typing. Good skills to fall back on she said. I preferred fine arts classes such as Drama and Painting. Skilled receptionist that she was, Mom couldn't allow her daughter to be a hunt and peck typist. So she found my brother's old text book and taught me herself.
While I'm not the greatest typist in the world, I do enjoy it and, thanks to my mother of blessed memory, I place the right fingers on the right keys. However I couldn't tell you how many words I type per minute. Does that count include backspace and delete?
About a month ago a friend suggested that a good old typewriter might help tighten the writing. And he's entitled to his opinion.
If I had to go back to the old fashion way, I'd not only have to own stock in a white-out concern but a paper mill as well. Do I regret not taking those secretarial courses? Not at all at all.
Viva la Computer!

THIS, THAT AND SOMETIMES THE OTHER is now available at
Rainy Day Books
2706 West 53rd Street
Fairway KS 66205
913-384-3126
Another step in the right direction. Now what to do with the rest of my vacation from the day job?

Generating Genre

As I round the bend of wrapping up my "final" edits on my novel with the working title PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME I have questions about genre. From the beginning I've considered this work to be historical fiction.
A couple of years ago a NY agent told me, in her rejection, that it was terribly moving and brought her to tears in places. However it was too long and needed too much editing. She threw out the suggestion that I might consider offering it as young adult fiction.
While it's true my main character, Havah, is 16 at the beginning, the novel spans four years. My plan is for this is the first book of a trilogy. By the end of the series she's in her mid twenties with a husband and a child.
Since I'm usually stymied by the question, "Who's your target audience?" I'd really like some feedback on this one.

Inside my Head...be Be Back in a Few

As a child my defense mechanism against pain was to go inside my head and tell myself stories. I would take myself out of the situation and into one of my favorite television shows. There I would write my own episodes with my favorite characters. Some of my "scripts" would be dark or sad so I thought something was terribly wrong with me.
Just the same, I enjoyed my guilty pleasure. In school I was known as a daydreamer. It was true. I missed plenty of lessons even when I sat at my desk.
When I grew up, married and had a family of my own I found myself spending less time inside my head. Then my mother passed away in July 1981. Again I coped by detaching and "writing" a script.
A die-hard MASH fan for years, I discovered fan fiction on a site about seven or eight years ago called bestcareanywhere.net.
Although some of the stories were ridiculous, I found a couple that I really enjoyed. I began to spin a story in my head that just wouldn't leave me alone.
A good friend suggested I try my hand at my own fan fiction. My MASH short story, IMPLOSION turned into a 20 chapter novella and after that I wrote a sequel called STRANGE BEDFELLOWS under the pseudonym Bigelow.
Silly as it may sound, this was where I began my writing journey in earnest. I discovered that to make the stories authentic I had to do some research.
Surprisingly, once posted on the site and on another fan fiction site, I got a lot of feedback. Even my husband Jan read them and thought they were great.
They are still up on the website. However, with what I've learned about the craft and am still learning, I find them hard to read since they need a lot of work.
As for the cartoon at the top, someone posted it on Facebook and I just had to share it. What writer cannot relate to it? In fact, like the lady on the right, I used details from a tragic incident that was in the forefront of the media a couple of years ago in my novel.
Please excuse me now, I'm going back inside my head. I hear the voices calling.

A Rainy Day and a Sad Chapter

For a week now I've been working and reworking a chapter in my novel. It's one of the darker sections of the book, filled with despair and angst. Although it's fiction of my own making, I find myself sinking into a bit of a funk.
I was told once that to be able to experience a great depth of emotion is a two edged sword. If it's real to the performer/author it will be real to the audience/reader.
Perhaps it's time to set Havah aside for a few hours and concentrate on something more cheerful...like laundry.

Although I'm almost to the end of my novel edits, the next project looms ahead. A children's book. Not a new one exactly, for the illustrations are sixteen years old. In terms of story and writing experience it's a fresh endeavor. The original manuscript which I wrote in longhand as part of a therapy is long gone. I remember the basic gist of it and, no doubt, with what I've learned, would have had to rewrite anyway.
So it's time to take THE MAGIC DAFFODILS out of mothballs and proceed.

Writer's Block

For days I've wrestled with a couple of chapters in my novel. Sitting in front of the screen my mind would go everywhere but where I wanted it to. Before I knew it I had frittered away two hours playing solitaire, word bubbles and chatting on Facebook.
This afternoon my husband came home early and suggested we take a Harley ride. 80º and sunshine made it a hard offer to refuse.
Two hours on the back of the bike, coupled with the sites and sounds of spring blew out the cobwebs. As I enjoyed the scenery I crawled inside my head and let my characters take over.
This is nothing new for me. It's just been a while since the weather's been warm enough for a comfortable ride.
So I'm curious. If you're a writer and reading this blog let me ask a question. What is your way to break up writer's block?

From Dot Matrix to Wireless Ink Jet

In the early 1980's my husband decided we needed a computer. His face glowing with excitement, he tore open the box that contained our brand new Radio Shack TRS 80. Trash 80.
"You spent how much?"
Another big boy toy. Just what we needed. And it didn't stop there. The next wave was the Commodore 64 complete with dot matrix printer and Koala pad. Or does anyone remember the Kaypro, or as I call it, the Commodore in a can.
By the end of the decade I wrote poetry and inherited my own computer, a used Leading Edge with a 5" floppy drive. I found typing cathartic and Word Perfect with its built in thesaurus became my best friend.
At my brother's urging we joined AOL so we could keep in touch online. Soon I joined the ranks of internet junkies. Ten years later we went from dial-up to broadband.
Just like our cars, Jan and I own separate computers. Oh, but not just desktops. He has a laptop for his music and another just because.
But who am I to criticize? In addition to my new HP Touchsmart I still retain my last desktop in another corner of my office. There are just certain things that wouldn't transfer to the new one. And let us not forget my pink netbook. So portable. Great for taking to conferences or on trips to see my gorgeous grandbaby.
And floppy disks? Forget about it. I have four flash drives and an external hard drive so nothing's lost. Well, nothing except, maybe, those 400 plus poems I saved on 5" floppies.

Justifiable Homicide

"Kill your darlings." Although author William Faulkner said it first, he's been quoted many times.
For the past couple of weeks I've agonized over three particular chapters in my novel. After reading and rereading them I realized that while they might entertain the author they did nothing to pulse the main story forward.
With all the research that went into writing and constructing the scenes it was akin to contemplating the murder of a cherished child. Nonetheless, convinced I'd made the right decision I heaved a self righteous sigh. Then I highlighted and sent the discarded paragraphs to another Word document. With a knowing smile I deleted them from the manuscript.
My darlings? The reader will never miss them.

So...What's Next?

Question: What can be more exhilarating than seeing my writing, artwork and name in print?
Answer 1: Selling them.
Answer 2: Feedback of the positive variety.
Answer 3: Selling more!

Thus far I've sold over a hundred copies of THIS, THAT AND SOMETIMES THE OTHER, with my husband's help, to friends and coworkers. Of course I hope word of mouth will bring more book requests but sitting on my thumbs and waiting for this to happen isn't the best marketing strategy.
After a book signing hosted by my mentor, friend and co-writer, Patricia Clothier, in January I've thought of sending out feelers to others who might do the same. It was a sweet, intimate setting. I read my shortest story, answered questions and sold seven copies.
I really would like to do more readings like that. Again no one's knocking down my door. So now's the time to get in touch with my inner PJB (Pushy Jewish Broad). At the same time my inner cringing chicken is curled up in a corner.

Morning Ponderings

Sometimes...Most of the Time...Maybe even ALL of the time, I feel like I'm doing a juggling act. Five days, forty hours a week I'm a cake decorator, up to my elbows in sugar and shortening. Seven days a week I'm a wife and not so great a housekeeper (thankfully I have help in that department) and a laundress. We won't talk about cooking, but I can give you the names of some great area restaurants.

All the while I'm somewhere inside my head telling myself stories. I've always done this but it wasn't until about 6 years ago that someone pointed out that I just might be a writer.

Today is one of my two days off. There's so much to pack into it I'm not sure where to begin. Since 4:00 a.m. I've been at this computer.

Soon my first novel will be ready to shop around again. I'm about halfway through the rewrite. Then it's onto rewriting the sequel.

Marketing strategies buzz through my head...again I'm scared and excited at the same time. This weekend a friend is hosting a book signing. So far not many invitees have responded and I'm trying not to be discouraged.

Putting One Foot in Front of the Other

"Shoppers! Head back to the bakery for a great deal! Come pick up a copy of the book, THIS, THAT AND SOMETIMES THE OTHER, written by our own Rochelle Fields for $15.95. When you do, you will receive $5.00 worth of bakery items absolutely free! Not only that, but if you ask Rocky, she'll personalize your book for free!"

About four were sold during the holiday promo at Independence Hy-Vee. So far, out of the twenty copies we ordered at the store, we've sold eight. Not exactly a barn buster, but respectable. Not to mention I've had some positive feedback from those who bought.

Another 75 copies are on their way and, so far, 5 are spoken for. Meanwhile, there are other marketing strategies to pursue. By turns I'm excited and terrified.