Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Katy is represented by
Rachelle Gardner at
WordServe Literary
Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net
Recent Posts
- Ticking The Boxes
- Happy Ninth Blogiversary to ME!
- NaNoCryMo
- Predictability? Don’t Count On It
- It’s That Time Again!
- Losing It
- Acutely Not That Funny
- Coming To Terms With Writing Terms
- Another Great Conference!
- Catching Up Again, Or Still?
- Crazy!
- If Doug Had Seen This Movie Of Me As A Baby, He Might Not Have Ended Up With Chatty Katy
- I Can’t Believe We’re Finally Here
- Why I’m Always Glad To Have Written
- Happiness Is Locking In A Low Rate With The Man Of Your Dreams
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
Priceless
So we spent lots of hours in the ER the other day before Mom finally got admitted. Completely unlike her last trip to the ER, during which she expressed her utter…um…dislike for me, Doug, the nurses and the doc, Mom was in a patient (ha!) and even pleasant mood. Who does HER meds, huh?
Anyway, my little sister Bridget was standing near the gurney at one point, so that Mom saw her profile. Out of the blue, Mom said, “You look so pretty, just standing there.”
Bridget is beautiful, but this was so unlike my mother to say that I think Bridgie and I both nearly cried.
About an hour later, lacking other amusement, I assumed the pose Bridget had and said to Mom, “I need you to say one to me.”
“One what?”
“You know, something like you said to Bridget. Something like, ‘You look so pretty, just standing there.’”
Mom hesitated, so I figured she must not think I’m much of a looker. And that’s OK. Really, it is. I’ve got 13 long years on Bridget, after all.
Then she said, “I think you look a lot like Kathy Griffin.” I gasped a little, then she went on. “And I think you are talented and could have a career on the stage.”
“Whoa, Mommy!” I said. “An affirmation!”
“A what?”
“It doesn’t matter what you call it. That was really, really sweet.”
And you know what? Today, as we visited her in the hospital, I purposely affirmed her. I don’t remember now what I said, but it was about something that she’s doing well at this stage of her life. She said that was very nice to hear. Then Bridget and I recalled different times and occasions when Mom has looked “beautiful,” and I know it pleased her for us to say so.
There are a lot of us adult (WAY adult!) kids out here who are still wishing to hear an encouraging word from a parent, but it works both ways. Every human soul needs to be acknowledged, praised, and loved. Even our parents, no matter their age.
I’ll gladly put my life on Broadway aside a bit longer, if it means I’ve got a chance to touch the heart of my one-and-only mother.
A Veritable Dearth Of Posts
My mother is in the hospital—-again. This is Day Three. I guess I’ve mentioned here that she now has C.diff, a horrible bacterial infection of the intestine that usually begins with too many courses of antibiotics and ends with Dear Lord You Really Don’t Want To Know. She’s suffered with this for what? Three months? Honestly, a daughter loses count after awhile.
Now she’s got complications of THAT condition. Yesterday she had a sigmoidoscopy and got through it OK. Haven’t met with the GI doc to talk about results yet.
Today is the first day I paused long enough to discover that the hospital wifi, it is free.
As usual, small mercies everywhere.
Mom has also been in good spirits, which makes all of our lives so much easier. She’s had five UTIs so far in 2008, and that was icky enough. This is….ickier.
Small mercies, received with gratitude. Thank you, Jesus.
Ireland In June
How I long for the auld sod this time of year!
Okay, I’m exaggerating. This time of year has nothing to do with it. Our first trip to Ireland and Scotland, in 2000, occurred in July/August. Our second trip, in 2006, was in April/May. But I can tell you this: No matter what month and what season, I yearn to go back. It has nothing to do with this time of year. It’s truly every time of year.
Today, though, I’m happy to refer all you Celtic hearts to BJ Hoff’s site. This isn’t the first time BJ, herself a novelist who’s written many historicals about Ireland, has shared her favorite books and music, and let me just say that her recommendations are always excellent.
I’ve read the books on the potato famine that BJ refers to, and I learned a lot from them. (But I’ve learned just as much about that topic from her novels…) Besides the books she mentions, my library contains histories of County Monaghan (land of my recent ancestors), and such wild stories of Fenian rebels, hunger strikers, and other malcontents (purchased in a Sinn Fein bookstore in Belfast) that I hesitate to mention them by name for fear of stirring up the Troubles all over again.
BJ, I’m sure, is more balanced than ever I’ll be! She won’t lead you astray. If you love all things Celtic as much as I do, don’t fail to visit her site!
Diana, Come On Down!
I’m gratified to say that a brand new commenter to fallible, Diana, has been randomly chosen to win a free copy of Deb Raney’s latest novel. Leaving November.
Have a great time reading it, Diana, and thank you for playing!
Oh, and email me with your postal address. Yes, that would be important….
I Hesitate To Say You’re Doubly Lucky, But Hey. You Are.
Today, I’ve got another free book giveaway going on. One fortunate and fallible commenter will receive a copy of Deb Raney’s book Leaving November. However, the rules have changed, just this once.
This time, to gain a chance to win this lovely novel, you will be leaving a comment on any post at my NEW blog, LateBoomer.net. (You’ll see a link in the left sidebar, too, for future reference.) I’m hoping a bunch of you visit LateBoomer often, so this is my way of introducing the site to you. It will be filled with lots of into/inspiration/entertainment of interest to readers of a certain age, if you catch my drift. And if you’ve arrived at that age somewhat clueless about how to proceed from here, so much the better!
Now, about Deb’s book. Some of you will recall that I had the joy of interviewing Deb when Remember to Forget released. Leaving November is the second in the Clayburn series, but I think of it as a stand-alone book. Here’s the back-cover copy:
“Eight years ago, Vienne Kenney moved away from Clayburn and all its gossip to pursue a law degree in California. But now she has failed the bar exam again. Is she destined to be stuck forever, a failure—-just like her father—-in this two-horse Kansas town? Nine months ago, Jackson Linder left Clayburn with no explanation to anybody. Now he, too, is back. He isn’t sure he’s ready to face the rumors and well-meaning questions of the town’s busybodies. Yet he’s determined, once more, to make his art gallery a success—-in spite of the secret that haunts him every day…”
Vienne’s father is dead and here’s the thing: She wasn’t sorry to see him go. In fact, she could never understand why her long-suffering mother put up with him at all. But she’s promised herself one thing: She will never fall for a man like her father—-ever. Too bad she’s already fallen for the charming Jackson before she finds out how much like her father he is.
If you’d like to read my interview with Deb, here it is. Let me tell you, if you like issues-rich novels authentically set in small towns, no one does it better!
Now, hop on over to LateBoomer and leave me a comment! I’ll randomly choose a commenter to win a copy of Leaving November on Wednesday.
Write The Next Chapter!
My new blogging and writing buddy Kathryn Harris, who’s an editor at The Norfolk Daily News in Norfolk, Nebraska, is sponsoring a fun contest through the newspaper.
I know there are dozens of aspiring novelists who read fallible, and I can’t pass up the chance to recommend this contest. At the paper’s website, Kathryn has written the first short chapter of a compelling novel, and she’d love to read the next paragraph, scene, or chapter from YOU.
You do know that many famous novelists got their start serializing their stories in newspapers, don’t you? One of my favorite authors ever, the Scottish Victorian preacher and novelist George MacDonald, supported his large family largely by releasing his novels in dribs and drabs to Scotland’s newspapers.
So here’s your chance to get your work read! In the case that more than one person submits a piece for the same spot, the piece published will be at the sole discretion of the newspaper editors.
Read all about it here, and then get those scenes and chapters (or even paragraphs!) written!
And, above all, have fun with it!
About The Post Directly Beneath This Post!
For some reason, I cannot edit my previous post to correct some obvious errors. There are three that I know of. In the first sentence, the word “don’t” should actually be “won’t.”
Then I refer to an “alliance garage” in which we keep our toaster. The term is “appliance garage.”
Finally, I write a whole paragraph about the wonderful word “doterage,” and evidently THERE IS NO SUCH WORD. The correct word is dotage, which I will from now on use, clear into my fast-approaching dotage.
I will need to start my own collection of non-words soon, I fear. The first two will be “endulge” and “doterage.” Pretty cool words, eh?
I don’t know. Maybe I should stick to exploding eggs.
Deaf. And Evidently Dumb, Too
If I get much more fallible, I don’t know what to expect next.
Here’s the deal: I am FOREVER giving my husband little pointers on how not to burn the house down (Don’t walk away from the stove when you’re cooking! Pull the toaster out from the “alliance garage” thingie when you’re toasting! Never lay a potholder or a dishtowel on the stovetop!)
He tends to be scatterbrained and I am trying to help him get into the kind of good habits that might save our lives in our doterage.
By the way, I just googled doterage to make sure I spelled it correctly. Guess what? Fallible.com appears NUMBER FOUR in among all the tens of thousands of websites using the word! Wait a minute—-there are only 71 occurrences of the word doterage on the entire WORLD WIDE WEB? That can’t be right! DOTERAGE is an excellent word, and should be used by SOMEONE besides ME!
I hope that if someone else uses the word doterage, she does it in a way that can save my sorry behind, for you see, I’ve got nothing on poor Doug.
I did the DUMBEST thing imaginable for a mostly deaf person. I put a dozen eggs in a pan of water, set the pan on the stove to boil, and walked away. OF COURSE I set the stove’s timer, because that’s what intelligent people do, right? Even though I NEVER forget that I’ve put something on the stove, I would never risk my home, my body, or for that matter my EGGS by not setting the timer.
But then I went into the other room, sat down to finish crocheting a baby blanket I’m making for my niece, and TURNED ON THE TV—-something I never do in the middle of the day.
That must have been some compelling television, not that I could have heard the timer even in the absence of the TV. But I’ll tell you what I did hear! Gunfire!!!
I am alone in the house, and I thought for sure someone had broken in and started shooting even before they located me down the hall. It only took several seconds for this illogical idea to cause me to move on down the line thought-wise. And suddenly I heard myself exclaim “EGGS!”
Let me just say that if you’ve never heard and watched a pan full of eggs EXPLODE, you’ve had an uneventful life.
Now, HOW will I explain all this *ahem* excitement to Doug? In spite of the lessons on fire safety I’ve tried my darndest to share with him, I’ve pulled the craziest trick yet.
Knowing him, he’ll take it in stride. He’ll probably get a good chuckle out of it, and he sure won’t make me feel any worse about the situation than I already do.
What can I say? The guy dotes on me.
O.P.T.
I just came from visiting Mom, and I gotta say this is the most cognizant she’s been in a very long time. Cognizant and something approaching cheerful. Cognizant and cheerful and nice. I’m still reeling from the experience.
I expected her to be sound asleep at 9 am, as she usually is. Instead, she was sitting on her couch watching TV, dressed and in her right mind. If you count a t-shirt and a Depends as dressed, and if you count “in her right mind” as wanting to talk about Joel Osteen and tough toenails. Fortunately for me, I have ever-adjusting standards.
“You know that new man I’ve been telling you about? Henry? He goes to a different church every Sunday.”
“Well, he just moved here from another city,” I said. “Maybe he’s church shopping.”
Why did I use a piece of Christianese like that? Mom didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. She looked confused and that’s not the look I was going for.
“All I know is he comes back from church and tells us the sermon was terrible or the sermon was really great. Sometimes, he even goes to Bible study in the middle of the week.”
“An interesting man, I’d say,” I said.
“So the other day I ask him if he’s ever heard of Joel Osteen. You know Joel, don’t you?”
“I do,” I answered.
“I love him. No fire and brimstone. He’s very calm. Just tells it like it is and then he’s done.”
“Had Henry heard of him?”
“Henry loves Joel! I told him I’d just caught Joel on that morning, when I thought he was only on at night. Henry did not know he was on in the morning, either. He said we’d look at his TV Guide together and try to figure out all the times we can see Joel.”
“Well, that’s a nice thing you two are talking about. Very cool…”
Mom and her nearly-100-year-old friend Annie have gotten called on the carpet recently for talking trash about the other residents—-IN FRONT OF THEM. In fact, Henry hasn’t lived there more than a month, and the two ladies dished the dirt on him thoroughly. He weighs maybe 500 pounds, and when he said in the lunchroom how he’d had his first shower and how nice it was to get some help, my mother spoke up LOUDLY and said, “Where’d they bathe him? At the CAR WASH?”
But now she and Henry have something fascinating in common: they are both Joel Osteen enthusiasts. I am not complaining.
Mom went on. “Then Henry asked me if I knew that Joel had written a couple of books, and I said yes, I knew.”
Mom can’t read anymore. Just can’t. No newspapers, no magazines, no books. She can’t write, either. Or do simple math, or fill out a check.
“Do you want me to pick you up one of Joel’s books?” I asked, ever the optimist.
“No! I’m sure not going to read Joel if I haven’t even read Tony Orlando!”
After I stopped having a near-death experience laughing, I said, “So what else has been going on?”
“Toe Day.”
“No, not that, Mom. Please, can we talk about something else? I can’t handle…”
“You need to hear this, Katy. It was a disaster.”
I started to gag but controlled myself. “OK, Mom. Tell me.”
“It was scheduled from one to three, right? So thirteen of us gathered in the big room with the fireplace at one. Of course, some of us know to get there early, so we won’t miss out.”
“I thought you signed up for time slots with the podiatrist. Don’t they knock on your apartment door when it’s your turn?”
“No, silly. You’ve got to be there at one, on the dot. And we were—-all thirteen of us. But guess what? Dr. Gout never showed.”
“But he only comes every two months…”
“He got busy at another facility. Didn’t even call. So the whole lot of us were circled up with our shoes off for two hours, waiting. There went my whole day, not that we didn’t have a good time. It’s the best thing on the activities calendar, bar none.”
“Weren’t they showing Pretty Woman last night? That sounds like a lot more fun. You love Richard Dreyfus.”
“Gere, Katy. I love Richard Gere. But even Gere doesn’t beat Toe Day. Just LOOK at my toenails! In fact, could you grab those clippers on the nightstand and try to…”
I ran from the apartment, silently screaming. I have made a promise to myself that I will never consider Toe Day a social event and, even though I am a very useful and helpful person otherwise, I will stick to my guns about not cutting O.P.T.—-Other People’s Toenails.
I looked back over my shoulder to shout good-bye and “I love you!” to Mom as I flew down the hall.
The last thing I heard her say was, “It’s gonna take a whole lot of Joel to calm her down.”
The Skinny
I’m pretty committed, as I age oh so fallibly, not to have “procedures” done to my face. But even I know it’s gone too far when I define a procedure as Windexing the mirror so I can take a quick peek.
When it comes to my face, I’m clueless. I still remember my grandmother and all her beauty potions. Unlike my mother—whose idea of a skin regimen was 13 pairs of tweezers, a round box of Mabelline powder with a puff on top, and a tube of red lipstick—Grandma dabbled in more refined beautification arts.
Which is to say, she plunked down $1.95 to try any formula advertised in the back of her movie magazines.
She often rhapsodized about Elizabeth Taylor’s magnificent violet eyes, and how no matter how much weight she lost or gained or how many husbands she married and divorced, no one could say she didn’t have the loveliest eyes in the world.
And then, since there were no violet contact lenses on the market to change Grandma’s eyes from plain brown to violet, she did the next best thing. She purchased—and wore—every brand of false eyelash (black and thick!) known to womankind.
Add those to the false fingernails, the mousy hair she kept red forever, eye shadows in every color including magnificent violet, and lipsticks to match each outfit, and well. You can imagine how much fun I had sitting at her vanity and playing grown-up.
While she had fun with cosmetics, she also had some angst about her fair, freckled skin. I’m remembering her at about age sixty, being terribly concerned about her “liver spots.” So concerned, in fact, that she read all the movie magazine articles about which stars were using what, and tried every concoction they swore by.
And then she started examining me. I was just a little kid, but Grandma was quite concerned about bleaching my freckles with lemon juice so that I wouldn’t face the horror of liver spots when I got to be, I don’t know, twelve. So, for a few years, every time I visited Grandma slathered me with a new ointment, cream, or salve guaranteed to save me from a fate worse than…hers.
But, you see, heredity (like gravity) is a winner. The movie magazines did not save Grandma from liver spots any more than People Magazine can save me. But now, after performing yesterday the procedure of Windexing the mirror, I’m getting…concerned.
It’s my neck, doing that thing it does. But it’s not only my neck. My jowls are falling and apparently they can’t get up. Plus, I’ve got laughlines in places that have never smiled.
And if you think I’m a candidate for a product that promises to “visibly reduce the appearance of fine lines,” think again. To call these fine lines is a gross insult to fine lines.
Maybe Grandma traumatized me a little, making me think my freckles weren’t acceptable. Maybe I rebelled by waiting too long in the game to pay attention to my complexion. But now I’m coming to you, O fallible ones, for your BEST tips on how to try to hold wrinkles (Dear Lord, I hate that word!) at bay.
Here’s my hope: I would love it if you’d suggest cheap, easy, time-tested, cheap, and easy remedies.
I would REALLY, REALLY hate having $34.99 plus $7.95 shipping and handling automatically deducted from my checking account each month, all because I skipped church and instead watched infomercials starring Jane Seymour. Seeing that charge come through would make me scowl in a way not consistent with helping the matter.
I also will not get involved in any type of multi-level marketing.
Anybody out there using olive oil as a facial? What kind of results have you had?
All cheap and easy advice graciously appreciated!
A Mother Remembers
First of all, I hope you all know that I am NOT the type of chick to laugh at my husband’s misfortune. Okay, maybe occasionally if he loses a golf game to his sisters or his 14-year-old nephew, but that’s different.
I do NOT laugh at pain. Lord knows, I’ve experienced enough of it myself, and Doug is the most sympathetic and kind man in the world when it comes to helping me deal with pain. I think he would say I show him the same kindness.
It’s just the word bursitis that got me. And yes, Christa in the Comments is right: Bursitis would make an excellent name for a Dude Ranch! Something about the word tickles me so much with its The Real McCoy sound and good-old-boy feeling that I half-expected the doctor to ask Doug if “Arthur” had paid him any visits yet.
I told my mother over the phone about the diagnosis of bursitis and she perked up considerably. Old people really can’t relate to the stuff I’ve got. When I mentioned to my mother that I’ve got Trigeminal Neuralgia, her eyes glazed over. But good old-fashioned bursitis? That’s something she knows all about. Just hearing the word made her feel like a with-it young woman.
“Why, my mother had that right when your dad and I got married,” she said. Mom can’t remember what she had for breakfast, or even if she had breakfast, but the medical history of Grandma in 1950? Oh, yeah.
“How long did it take to get better?” I asked, because I REALLY AM concerned about my husband.
“A full year,” she said. “And then, darned if her other shoulder didn’t get the bursitis. It lasted a full year, too.”
“Oh, eeek. I hope Doug does better than that…”
“I hope so, too,” she said. “Because you know what comes after bursitis, right?”
“I’m not sure…”
“Pleurisy.”
So, see? I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.
Where Is Dave Barry When We Need Him?
You know how my buddy Dave Barry is always saying, “Hey! That would make a great name for a rock group!”
He, of course, with a group of his author friends like Stephen King and Amy Tan, is a musician with a band called “The Rock Bottom Remainders,” an excellent name for a rock group if I’ve ever heard one.
When I found out I had a brain tumor (years ago), I sent him a note. He didn’t answer me that time (although I do have a handwritten postcard from him framed on my desk), but I still think the name of my particular tumor made a humdinger of a fantastic name for an up and coming band: “The Acoustic Neuromas.”
In fact, I tend to have exotic diseases and illnesses with the kind of names that lend themselves well to nearly all branches of pop culture. Right now, I’m proud to say I’ve evidently got me a strong case of Trigeminal Neuralgia. If “Spinal Tap” can make it, don’t you think my disorder can?
Then there’s Doug, the poor dear. He actually believed—-hoped, perhaps—that he had at least a strained rotator cuff. It sure did seem like he might, from the symptoms he described. So he went to the doctor today with, I just have to be honest here, delusions of grandeur.
“What would Dave say about ‘The Rotator Cuffs?’” he asked before the doctor called him in. “Do you think I’ve got a chance?”
“Possible,” I said, “but don’t set your expectations too high.”
The doctor examined him and delivered the terrible news. “Your rotator cuff is perfectly fine. What I believe you have is…well…” The man looked at his shoes, those crazy plastic ones medical people wear. He seemed nervous, embarrassed even.
“What, doctor? We can handle it,” I said, “You can tell us.”
He looked up, with true sympathy in his eyes. “Um…you’ve got bursitis.”
Do they even still MAKE bursitis?
I laughed till I cried, thinking what a truly horrible name “Bursitis” would make for a rock group. And then it hit me. I remembered all too well what happens next with geezers who come down with bursitis.
“What?” Doug asked, his hopes all but dashed.
“Pleurisy.”
My stuff’s bad, but at least it has star appeal.
Overdose
Well, it happened—-the thing I’d decided to bet against when I agreed to try a trial of the drug Tegretol, in an effort to combat the horrible daily headaches that have plagued me for many years.
I essentially went into mild Tegretol poisoning.
When you start on this drug, which is known most for being an anti-convulsant but which is also prescribed for trigeminal neuralgia (a wicked face pain caused by an irritation of a cranial nerve inside the skull), you start on a low, non-therapeutic dose. You have blood tests often, to make sure your liver is not being affected and that your Tegretol levels remain within a certain range.
Gradually, the dose is raised—as long as you’re not having terrible side-effects—until you are taking a dose that is considered safe and one that is holding your pain at bay. With Tegretol, it’s a fine balance. The goal with me was to use the Tegretol to establish the firm diagnosis of trigeminal neuralgia, and then switch to a drug that has comparable results with far fewer side effects.
Yesterday I saw my doctor and he upped my dose, since I was only experiencing mild relief from the face pain (mine is actually a stabbing pain in my right eye). I took the first increased dose last night. This morning, before I took my morning dose, I noticed I was twitching. Hands, feet, face, thigh—everywhere.
I also noticed I was replacing a word in a spoken sentence with another word which made absolutely NO SENSE. Doug was NOT THRILLED when I told him I planned to fix “newspaper” for dinner. Now, if I’d just been looking at a newspaper, or had just emptied the trash and laid my eyes on a newspaper, it might explain why that word came out of my mouth, but there were no newspapers anywhere. Hmmm.
I went ahead and took the morning dose. Four hours passed. I was still twitching and told Doug that my brain was so fuzzy all I could do was crochet a simple pattern. NO WAY could I have driven a car. In fact, when I cut up the onion and potato to put in the crock pot with the newspaper, I mean pork chops, I KNEW I should NOT be using a knife.
Around noon, things began deteriorating rapidly. It all started when I stood up. Within a couple of minutes, I was staggering, slurring my words, and finally actually falling on the floor. (Doug caught me not once but twice before I crashed. My hero…) Doug tried to get me into bed, but I knew I had to go to the ER. Fast. The rapid onset of the symptoms was too alarming for me to wait for the doctor to get back from his lunch break before trying to get medical attention.
I do not know how Doug got me in the car, especially since he also had to fit all four of him in the driver’s seat. That’s right, four. One of the symptoms of Tegretol poisoning is double vision, but I’m talkin’ quadruple, baby. To only have double vision, I had to keep one eye completely closed—-which I did.
I remember nothing of the 20-minute ride to the hospital. I do remember telling Doug not to let me fall asleep, because I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be a good thing. He chatted me up the whole time he drove, the sweetie. I also don’t remember much of the first hour we were there.
It’s all one big Tegretol poisoning blur.
I do know that the Tegretol level in my blood came back at 13.8. A therapeutic level is considered between 4-12. Anything higher than that is just too darned high and can cause the kind of overdose symptoms (and much worse ones) I experienced today.
Yikes!
So. I’m to skip my dose tonight. (Ya think?) Then take a lower dose for the next few days. Then maybe switch to the other drug that won’t carry these risks, because it looks like we may have hit on a diagnosis.
On this intoxicating dose of Tegretol? My head hardly hurts at all!
Bunnies
I got a call from my literary agent this morning. It’s freakish how much fun we have talking on the phone, about everything from Mother’s Day, to getting lost in the big city, to not being able to keep houseplants alive.
But I digress. Apparently, a lot.
The good news is that Rachelle has read my book and loves it! However, she’s got a few “ish,” ones she and I will clear up together before she starts submitting my manuscript in earnest.
“You go off on bunny trails,” she says.
“But did you see my post about going downtown to see American Idol’s David Cook?”
I KNOW she and her daughters are huge David Cook fans. She will want to talk about David Cook, right?
“Yeah, I did. Very cool, Katy. Now about the bunny trails…it happens most often during dialogue.”
“We TOTALLY got on the wrong bus leaving downtown. Ended up in kind of a scary part of town. There was a guy on the bus saying stuff into his cell phone like, ‘You’re my Tasmanian Devil, baby.’ Can you imagine?”
“No, honestly, I can’t,” Rachelle says. “Now, about your book, which—please remember—I really, really love. Sometimes, you have two lines of dialogue, followed by a bunny trail, and then another two lines, followed by another bunny trail.”
“We live on acreage, you know. TONS of bunnies,” I say. “I am not kidding, Rachelle. I can sit here near the window and count literally hundreds of bunnies in, like, an HOUR. You would not BELIEVE the bunnies!”
“I’m thinking we could do a bit of an edit on your book and deal with the bunny trails. It needs to happen.”
So she wasn’t calling about David Cook or taking the wrong bus or fear of killing my Mother’s Day orchid? This was sobering, indeed.
“Katy, the bunny trails have to go.”
“But…what about the bunnies?”
“We’ll build a hutch.”
Gracie and Sandi, You Are The Winners!!
Congrats to Gracie and Sandi, who’ve each one a copy of BJ Hoff’s newest novel release, Song of Erin. If you’d both email me (Katy at ngenius.com) with your postal addresses, I will put your books in the mail right away!
Congrats, and Happy Reading!!
