No worries. The blog hop lives on. Scroll down to the Birthday Blog Hop to find out how you can enter to win more than 200 prizes including my novel, a necklace and oh yeah, a free download of my novel Stealing Mercy.
Now, a word in favor of grownup books.
I live in Rancho Santa Margarita, CA. We moved here when the lake was a hole in the ground, the golf course a splotch of mud and the library was a promise. Coyotes used to roam the streets and for awhile a naked homeless man lived in the canyon. We’ve grown up considerably since those early days before grocery stores and dry cleaners came to settle in the town center. Now, we not only have water in our lake and grass on the golf course, we also have restaurants, movie theaters, and a fine library. Rancho is a lovely place to be, but that doesn’t mean anyone from Mission Viejo shops here. The rumor is that Rancho citizens will shop in Mission Viejo, simply because for years the shopping in Mission Viejo was the closest option, but the favor isn’t returned. Why would the Mission Viejo people ever need to cross the bridge to Rancho? It just isn’t done.
Can the same thing be true for young adult lit? Adults read books about teenagers, but do teenagers read books about the middle-aged? (Probably only if they’ve been given school assignment.) With this knowledge in my pocket, it makes sense to write young adult lit. Except that it seems that everyone has a young adult story to tell…and did you know that the majority of readers are sister baby-boomers? Baby boomers have the most disposable time and income—but are they interested in reading about the middle aged?
The novel I just finished, A Ghost of a Second Chance, is about a woman approaching forty. Forty isn’t old. There’s a joke about a woman going through menopause who is at the doctor’s office and she tells him, but forty is the new thirty and he replies, tell that to your ovaries. So, our ovaries haven’t gotten the message, but has our society? With the rise of magazines such as More and bestsellers such as What Alice Forgot and Chasing Rainbows can we say the tide has turned? Can we start reading about grown-ups?
I hope so. I really want to catch that wave. But, tell me what do you think? Is the world ready, willing and eager for books about grown-ups or is the fascination with youth too strong to overcome?
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Birthday Blog Hop
(Grendal, who is usually my model, is clearly upset she wasn't chosen to wear the necklace)
Welcome to my birthday blog hop! Today I’m celebrating two very important events—my birthday and the finis of my novel Ghost of a Second Chance. To commemorate these milestones I’m offering a coupon for a free download of my novel Stealing Mercy for everyone who:
follows my blog
leaves a comment
and likes my novel on Amazon.
(Yes, I was born on Friday the 13th—you’re not really surprised, are you?)
These three steps also qualify you to win a signed hard copy of Stealing Mercy and a key necklace like the one on the book cover.
Thank you so much for visiting my blog. I hope you enjoy your free download from smashwords! Did you follow, comment and like? If so, here’s your coupon code HH82R. I hope you win my prizes! I hope you visit all my friends and win their prizes, too!
Transportation Terrors- Financial Fridays (on Thursday)
Trains and plane and boats and buses characteristically
Evoke a common attitude of blue,
Unless you have a ticket and suitcase and a passport
And the cargo they are carrying is you.
Manhattan Transfer—A Foreign Affair
Sadly, transportation, or lack thereof, can cause all sorts of frustrations and expense. Here are just a few of our adventures with cars.
When our oldest son, Adam, was a baby we drove a Datsun Kingcab truck. We loved the truck because in those early years we moved a lot and all of our possessions fit in the back of the truck. We bolted Adam’s car seat to the floor and strapped him in. We were good to go. Until we had Bethany.
With Bethany’s birth we decided we needed a bigger car, but living under the belief that we couldn’t, shouldn’t go in debt, we bought a used sedan. Which was great, until we moved from California to Connecticut.
In Connecticut, we only needed one car because Larry rode the train. Unfortunately, we didn’t have even one car. When the sedan rolled off the moving van, it refused to shift out of first gear. I discovered this on Adam’s first day of kindergarten when we were trying not to be late and the sedan could not be coaxed to go more than seven miles an hour.
We desperately needed a car, so in typical Tate fashion, we rented a car and went on a car safari. After the hunt, we finally settled upon a used Grand Am sedan that had previously been a rental car. Three times we tried to buy that car. The first time the salesman couldn’t complete the sale because the owner of the dealership was out sick. Because Larry was working a new job, we had to buy the car on a Saturday—his only day off. So, we waited another week and then made the second attempt. Sadly, we lost the keys to our rental car and spent that entire Saturday searching for the lost keys. We found them that night under the covers of Bethany’s bed. Another week passes with the rental car. And on that Saturday—the dealership was closed. We don’t know why. We could see our chosen Grand Am in the lot, but we couldn’t buy it. Another week passes and the car situation is desperate enough that Larry decides to take a day off work. We rethink the Grand Am, buy newspapers, look at car ads and decided to test drive a brand new minivan. Considerably more expensive than the Grand Am, it sat seven and we were a family of four. We didn’t need the van, but we could afford it, we wanted it and we bought it with cash.
Two days later Larry was asked to be the scout master for the boy scouts. Thirteen thirteen year old boys—we needed a bigger car. That van was the first to serve in a long line of years of devoted to church youth groups.
Skip ahead about fifteen years to when I wrote the following letter.
We recently experienced a death in our family. Our ten year old, fifteen passenger Ford van died. Lately, nearly everyone I meet has asked of its health, so I thought it worth mentioning. It enjoyed a long, joyful life of service, but it huffed its last puff of smoke in Vegas. (Turns out it’s true that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.) It died carrying a troop of 16 and 17 year old boys and their gear on their way to hike the Narrows in Zion’s National Park. I can’t think of a more appropriate end.
The night we bought the van Bethany, who now has a husband, baby and college degree, Nathan, currently serving a mission in Argentina, and Jared, 17 years old and taller than his dad, enjoyed a rousing game of hide and go seek inside the van. Very few vehicles could offer has many hiding spots. The van served in many other important capacities. It carried girls in formals and boys in tuxes to many proms. It drove numerous carpools. It hosted sleep overs, pulled boats and trailers. Filled to the rafters, it made trips to the dump. It even served as a ladder to and from my son’s bedroom window. (And you thought we didn’t know.) It was always easy to spot in a crowded parking lot and it had an enormous horn. Other cars always gave us a wide berth.
Some of my favorite van stories include the day I was at lunch with a group of friends and I got a call from Nathan claiming that the van was missing. A friend, over hearing my conversation, exclaimed, “No one would steal it!” Even though it was legally parked, it had been towed because “the neighbors claimed it blocked their vision.” Another time when we were idling at the curb and had just picked up my daughter’s new boyfriend and future husband from the airport a strange man with a suitcase climbed in, sat down and gave us all a funny look when we burst out laughing. He had mistaken us for a hotel shuttle. Once when we were caravanning to a mountain cabin, friends who were supposed to be following us, trailed after the wrong van. After much honking and light flashing, they pulled along beside a van they thought to be ours and found KinderCare written in large block letters on the side.
The van’s passing marks, for us, an end of an era. With three of our children grown, another with college applications in his hand and one foot out the door, and two teenage girls who will soon find other rides with drivers more hip than their parents, Larry and I rattled like two forgotten peas in a giant tin can. Our children have grown and our car has died.
We’re going to buy a convertible. (Or, if work doesn’t pick up, a basket for my bike.)
Skip ahead about three years to not a letter, but a blog post.
Nancy Drives the Carpool
Paulie Marshall wrote: “Sometimes a person has to go back, really back – to have a sense of understanding of all that’s gone to make them – before they can go forward.”
I’d like to point out that we bought our fifteen passenger van because Alex, husband to Nancy and the most geared headed person we know, recommended the Ford 150 vans. When we were younger and had flocks of children, Nancy drove a 150 and I drove a 350 extended van. And it was great. There were many times when I had my six children, Nancy and her five children and a couple of dogs in the van. We were always noisy, but generally happy.
Nancy’s kids are now all adults and she drives a Mercedes convertible which comfortably seats Nancy and her dog, Sandy. Last week I asked Nancy if she could drive my carpool. Since she works at the school where my girls attend and I knew that her family has a collection of cars in a variety of sizes, didn’t think this would be a problem.
On the given day, Nancy forgot to trade cars with her daughter and she found herself in front of the school folding four teenagers into a car built for two. Taylor sat in front. Natalie, Miranda and Alex squished into the back, sitting, pretty much on top of each other. No one cried and no one died, although I’m sure there was a lot of bouncing and groaning as they rolled over speed bumps.
There’s a lot of life lessons to be learned from this experience.
Even though after one look at Taylor Nancy knew her car was inadequate for the job, she still showed up and did the best she could with humor and grace.
Just like the ducking that occurred when Nancy and crew passed a police car so they wouldn't be cited for clearly breaking the seatbelt law, sometimes you have to keep your head low and try to accomplish what needs to get done without drawing unnecessary attention.
As we get older and pass from one stage of life to the next, it’s easy to forget lessons already learned. As a mom of teenagers and young adults, I sometimes forget about bottles, pacifiers, and the need for large vans.
On the days when my semi-grown children are challenging, I’ll feel nostalgic for the days when they brought me flowers and drew me pictures. They were sweet and my memories of their childhoods are tender, but I also have to remember the tantrums, spilt milk and the carpet that often smelled of vomit and urine.
And then be grateful for the convertibles of this stage of life.
So, what does this collection of stories have to do with saving money on transportation? My point is this—buy the car you need, not necessarily the car you want (honestly, who wants to drive a silver fifteen passenger Ford Econoline? And believe me, I’m not suggesting that everyone goes and buys one—that would be silly and bad for the environment.) Look at what you can afford, what purpose needs to be filled and make your purchase carefully and maybe even prayerfully. And when the time comes and should you lose the rental car keys, think again because maybe your needs are more than you had ever imagined.
Exercise: When buying a car, always check the newspaper ads. Often there are cars advertised “only five at this price”—we always buy one of those five cars. They are the loss liters used to draw in potential buyers. Of course, the dealership hopes that once you are on the lot you’ll be charmed and wooed by the fancier bells and whistles on the sleeker models. But, with the newspaper ad in your hand and a checkbook in your pocket, he has no choice but to sell you the car he advertised. Especially if you’re paying cash.
I know this is contradictory to the standard advice to always buy used. But we tried used and found that cars are a lot like puppies. If you buy one carefully and take very good care of it, it will be a very nice animal for a very long time. Misused cars, misused dogs—well you’re never quite sure what problems you’re inheriting.
So, we buy new but we buy cheap. Often the new cars we buy are less than the listed Kelly Blue Book price—which is particularly helpful when the car is totaled by teenage drivers. This has happened to us twice (which could be a topic for another blog post) and both times our insurance paid us more for the destroyed car than we had paid for the car brand new.
If you love cars—ignore this post. Buy the car of your dreams, if you can afford it. But, if you just need a car that can carry you from place to place without headaches and hiccoughs, buy new, buy cheap and hold your breath when your teenager gets behind the wheel.
Evoke a common attitude of blue,
Unless you have a ticket and suitcase and a passport
And the cargo they are carrying is you.
Manhattan Transfer—A Foreign Affair
Sadly, transportation, or lack thereof, can cause all sorts of frustrations and expense. Here are just a few of our adventures with cars.
When our oldest son, Adam, was a baby we drove a Datsun Kingcab truck. We loved the truck because in those early years we moved a lot and all of our possessions fit in the back of the truck. We bolted Adam’s car seat to the floor and strapped him in. We were good to go. Until we had Bethany.
With Bethany’s birth we decided we needed a bigger car, but living under the belief that we couldn’t, shouldn’t go in debt, we bought a used sedan. Which was great, until we moved from California to Connecticut.
In Connecticut, we only needed one car because Larry rode the train. Unfortunately, we didn’t have even one car. When the sedan rolled off the moving van, it refused to shift out of first gear. I discovered this on Adam’s first day of kindergarten when we were trying not to be late and the sedan could not be coaxed to go more than seven miles an hour.
We desperately needed a car, so in typical Tate fashion, we rented a car and went on a car safari. After the hunt, we finally settled upon a used Grand Am sedan that had previously been a rental car. Three times we tried to buy that car. The first time the salesman couldn’t complete the sale because the owner of the dealership was out sick. Because Larry was working a new job, we had to buy the car on a Saturday—his only day off. So, we waited another week and then made the second attempt. Sadly, we lost the keys to our rental car and spent that entire Saturday searching for the lost keys. We found them that night under the covers of Bethany’s bed. Another week passes with the rental car. And on that Saturday—the dealership was closed. We don’t know why. We could see our chosen Grand Am in the lot, but we couldn’t buy it. Another week passes and the car situation is desperate enough that Larry decides to take a day off work. We rethink the Grand Am, buy newspapers, look at car ads and decided to test drive a brand new minivan. Considerably more expensive than the Grand Am, it sat seven and we were a family of four. We didn’t need the van, but we could afford it, we wanted it and we bought it with cash.
Two days later Larry was asked to be the scout master for the boy scouts. Thirteen thirteen year old boys—we needed a bigger car. That van was the first to serve in a long line of years of devoted to church youth groups.
Skip ahead about fifteen years to when I wrote the following letter.
We recently experienced a death in our family. Our ten year old, fifteen passenger Ford van died. Lately, nearly everyone I meet has asked of its health, so I thought it worth mentioning. It enjoyed a long, joyful life of service, but it huffed its last puff of smoke in Vegas. (Turns out it’s true that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.) It died carrying a troop of 16 and 17 year old boys and their gear on their way to hike the Narrows in Zion’s National Park. I can’t think of a more appropriate end.
The night we bought the van Bethany, who now has a husband, baby and college degree, Nathan, currently serving a mission in Argentina, and Jared, 17 years old and taller than his dad, enjoyed a rousing game of hide and go seek inside the van. Very few vehicles could offer has many hiding spots. The van served in many other important capacities. It carried girls in formals and boys in tuxes to many proms. It drove numerous carpools. It hosted sleep overs, pulled boats and trailers. Filled to the rafters, it made trips to the dump. It even served as a ladder to and from my son’s bedroom window. (And you thought we didn’t know.) It was always easy to spot in a crowded parking lot and it had an enormous horn. Other cars always gave us a wide berth.
Some of my favorite van stories include the day I was at lunch with a group of friends and I got a call from Nathan claiming that the van was missing. A friend, over hearing my conversation, exclaimed, “No one would steal it!” Even though it was legally parked, it had been towed because “the neighbors claimed it blocked their vision.” Another time when we were idling at the curb and had just picked up my daughter’s new boyfriend and future husband from the airport a strange man with a suitcase climbed in, sat down and gave us all a funny look when we burst out laughing. He had mistaken us for a hotel shuttle. Once when we were caravanning to a mountain cabin, friends who were supposed to be following us, trailed after the wrong van. After much honking and light flashing, they pulled along beside a van they thought to be ours and found KinderCare written in large block letters on the side.
The van’s passing marks, for us, an end of an era. With three of our children grown, another with college applications in his hand and one foot out the door, and two teenage girls who will soon find other rides with drivers more hip than their parents, Larry and I rattled like two forgotten peas in a giant tin can. Our children have grown and our car has died.
We’re going to buy a convertible. (Or, if work doesn’t pick up, a basket for my bike.)
Skip ahead about three years to not a letter, but a blog post.
Nancy Drives the Carpool
Paulie Marshall wrote: “Sometimes a person has to go back, really back – to have a sense of understanding of all that’s gone to make them – before they can go forward.”
I’d like to point out that we bought our fifteen passenger van because Alex, husband to Nancy and the most geared headed person we know, recommended the Ford 150 vans. When we were younger and had flocks of children, Nancy drove a 150 and I drove a 350 extended van. And it was great. There were many times when I had my six children, Nancy and her five children and a couple of dogs in the van. We were always noisy, but generally happy.
Nancy’s kids are now all adults and she drives a Mercedes convertible which comfortably seats Nancy and her dog, Sandy. Last week I asked Nancy if she could drive my carpool. Since she works at the school where my girls attend and I knew that her family has a collection of cars in a variety of sizes, didn’t think this would be a problem.
On the given day, Nancy forgot to trade cars with her daughter and she found herself in front of the school folding four teenagers into a car built for two. Taylor sat in front. Natalie, Miranda and Alex squished into the back, sitting, pretty much on top of each other. No one cried and no one died, although I’m sure there was a lot of bouncing and groaning as they rolled over speed bumps.
There’s a lot of life lessons to be learned from this experience.
Even though after one look at Taylor Nancy knew her car was inadequate for the job, she still showed up and did the best she could with humor and grace.
Just like the ducking that occurred when Nancy and crew passed a police car so they wouldn't be cited for clearly breaking the seatbelt law, sometimes you have to keep your head low and try to accomplish what needs to get done without drawing unnecessary attention.
As we get older and pass from one stage of life to the next, it’s easy to forget lessons already learned. As a mom of teenagers and young adults, I sometimes forget about bottles, pacifiers, and the need for large vans.
On the days when my semi-grown children are challenging, I’ll feel nostalgic for the days when they brought me flowers and drew me pictures. They were sweet and my memories of their childhoods are tender, but I also have to remember the tantrums, spilt milk and the carpet that often smelled of vomit and urine.
And then be grateful for the convertibles of this stage of life.
So, what does this collection of stories have to do with saving money on transportation? My point is this—buy the car you need, not necessarily the car you want (honestly, who wants to drive a silver fifteen passenger Ford Econoline? And believe me, I’m not suggesting that everyone goes and buys one—that would be silly and bad for the environment.) Look at what you can afford, what purpose needs to be filled and make your purchase carefully and maybe even prayerfully. And when the time comes and should you lose the rental car keys, think again because maybe your needs are more than you had ever imagined.
Exercise: When buying a car, always check the newspaper ads. Often there are cars advertised “only five at this price”—we always buy one of those five cars. They are the loss liters used to draw in potential buyers. Of course, the dealership hopes that once you are on the lot you’ll be charmed and wooed by the fancier bells and whistles on the sleeker models. But, with the newspaper ad in your hand and a checkbook in your pocket, he has no choice but to sell you the car he advertised. Especially if you’re paying cash.
I know this is contradictory to the standard advice to always buy used. But we tried used and found that cars are a lot like puppies. If you buy one carefully and take very good care of it, it will be a very nice animal for a very long time. Misused cars, misused dogs—well you’re never quite sure what problems you’re inheriting.
So, we buy new but we buy cheap. Often the new cars we buy are less than the listed Kelly Blue Book price—which is particularly helpful when the car is totaled by teenage drivers. This has happened to us twice (which could be a topic for another blog post) and both times our insurance paid us more for the destroyed car than we had paid for the car brand new.
If you love cars—ignore this post. Buy the car of your dreams, if you can afford it. But, if you just need a car that can carry you from place to place without headaches and hiccoughs, buy new, buy cheap and hold your breath when your teenager gets behind the wheel.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
CROSSED and Tortured Teens
A friend gave me Ally Condie’s Crossed to read. After forty pages I put it down and I’m going to try and understand why, not for Mrs. Condie’s benefit—I don’t worry about her, I think she’s a brilliant writer and my little humph I think not will not hurt her career in the slightest—but for my own writer-self. Why do readers put down a book mid-way? Why do viewers abandon a TV show they once loved? I’m sure there’s a zillion answers to these questions, but I’m going to focus on my personal reasons for putting aside Crossed.
I really enjoyed Condie’s MATCHED, but my daughter did not. The prose is lovely, I said. The whole thing is cliché, Natalie responded. And when I thought about it, Natalie was right. One girl, two boys, one approved, one forbidden, the girl loves them both.
I hate love triangles. I know they work for Stephanies Meyer and Plum, but having lived with teenagers for the last fifteen years and having been one once myself, I also know that when the typical teenie is gaga for a boy she doesn’t look right or left. She’s listening for HIS footsteps. She’s waiting for HIS call. Just the scent of HIM puts a spin in her tail. Everybody else is about as important as gum stuck on the bottom of her shoe. Just ask her long suffering and often neglected best friend. (Come on, we all know this! Why do we let young adult authors convince us it can possibly be otherwise?)
And then there’s the evolved society that in its righteous desire to create a utopia went power hungry south. I loved the Hunger Games. I read it in one sitting--didn't eat, sleep and tried not to pee--and when I was done I had to change my shirt because that book made me sweat. And Catching Fire, when I came to the end, made me swear. I barely endured Mockingjay and loved nothing but about the last two pages. I don’t think I’ll ever read another dystopian novel.
And that’s not Mrs. Condie’s fault, because, as I said, I think her prose is lovely, but I just don’t want to read about tortured teenagers. Teenagers torture themselves enough already in real life—I don’t want to read about it for fun. Because for me…it’s just not fun.
And that’s why I put down Allie Condie’s Crossed.
I really enjoyed Condie’s MATCHED, but my daughter did not. The prose is lovely, I said. The whole thing is cliché, Natalie responded. And when I thought about it, Natalie was right. One girl, two boys, one approved, one forbidden, the girl loves them both.
I hate love triangles. I know they work for Stephanies Meyer and Plum, but having lived with teenagers for the last fifteen years and having been one once myself, I also know that when the typical teenie is gaga for a boy she doesn’t look right or left. She’s listening for HIS footsteps. She’s waiting for HIS call. Just the scent of HIM puts a spin in her tail. Everybody else is about as important as gum stuck on the bottom of her shoe. Just ask her long suffering and often neglected best friend. (Come on, we all know this! Why do we let young adult authors convince us it can possibly be otherwise?)
And then there’s the evolved society that in its righteous desire to create a utopia went power hungry south. I loved the Hunger Games. I read it in one sitting--didn't eat, sleep and tried not to pee--and when I was done I had to change my shirt because that book made me sweat. And Catching Fire, when I came to the end, made me swear. I barely endured Mockingjay and loved nothing but about the last two pages. I don’t think I’ll ever read another dystopian novel.
And that’s not Mrs. Condie’s fault, because, as I said, I think her prose is lovely, but I just don’t want to read about tortured teenagers. Teenagers torture themselves enough already in real life—I don’t want to read about it for fun. Because for me…it’s just not fun.
And that’s why I put down Allie Condie’s Crossed.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Taxes and Other Legalities--Financial Fridays
Marta and I used to run with our dogs in the canyon. We knew it was a violation of the city’s ordinance, but we did it anyway. We had our reasons.
1. We ran early, often before dawn. If you combined the weight of our three dogs—we had about 300 pounds of fur, muscles and teeth. I’m not exaggerating, my beagle was extremely overweight and one of Marta’s dogs weighed 140 pounds…and she had two. We felt safer with our dogs.
2. Running on the canyon’s dirt path is much better for our joints and innards than running on concrete or cement.
3. We liked running in the canyon.
4. No dogs in the canyon is a very silly ordinance.
We were caught and received fines of $360. Marta paid her fine. I took mine to court.
After listening to complainants whining over their fines for offenses much more grievous than mine, the judge looked at me and said, “It says here that you were walking your dog.”
I launched into my reasons of why I thought it was a ridiculous, not to mention sexist, ordinance and was promptly rewarded with a lecture on how to rally my neighbors and fight an unjust law, a lowering of the fine from $360 to $100 and a drop of the criminal charges.
Years later, Marta divorced and consequently returned to the work force. Our morning runs (now on the concrete sidewalks) ended. Marta called me one day, furious. She had applied for her dream job and had considered her new position a done deal until they sadly told her that they couldn’t hire her because she had a criminal record! (All for walking her dog in the canyon.)
Theresa, a financial analyst, enjoyed a generous salary and regular lunches at a fast food place near her work. One afternoon after ordering her typical meal at her favorite lunch spot, she found that she didn’t have the cash on hand to pay for her lunch. The owner said, “That’s okay, you come here all the time. Just pay me next time.” So, Theresa never went back. She got a free lunch! If she went back, she’d have to pay, so she never did. But, what did she lose? Her ability to look that owner in the eye and all her future lunches at her favorite place.
Clair and Eric hired a young woman to stay with their seven children for a week while they went on a trip to Hawaii. They agreed to pay her, but never established a price. At the end of the week they gave the young woman a muumuu and a box of macadamia nuts. What had their vacation child care cost them? Not much, unless you consider their reputation and the goodwill of the young woman (who never spoke to them again, but spoke about them behind their back plenty.)
Everything has a cost, although not all expenses can be measure by dollars and pennies. A lost friendship. A smeared good name. Freedom from unpaid debts. A sense of integrity. Carefully consider all costs--fiduciary, social and emotional.
So, whether you’re parking illegally, walking your dog, or cheating on your taxes, my advice is DO NOT DO IT. Be honest. Always. Period. Say what you’ll do and then do what you’ve said you would. Make and keep promises. And contracts. And friends.
Exercise 4
Look around your home and heart—is there something there that belongs to someone else? Return it. Replace it. Make amends. Say you’re sorry and let it go. No matter how much money you have, you can’t afford to hold onto anything that doesn’t belong to you.
1. We ran early, often before dawn. If you combined the weight of our three dogs—we had about 300 pounds of fur, muscles and teeth. I’m not exaggerating, my beagle was extremely overweight and one of Marta’s dogs weighed 140 pounds…and she had two. We felt safer with our dogs.
2. Running on the canyon’s dirt path is much better for our joints and innards than running on concrete or cement.
3. We liked running in the canyon.
4. No dogs in the canyon is a very silly ordinance.
We were caught and received fines of $360. Marta paid her fine. I took mine to court.
After listening to complainants whining over their fines for offenses much more grievous than mine, the judge looked at me and said, “It says here that you were walking your dog.”
I launched into my reasons of why I thought it was a ridiculous, not to mention sexist, ordinance and was promptly rewarded with a lecture on how to rally my neighbors and fight an unjust law, a lowering of the fine from $360 to $100 and a drop of the criminal charges.
Years later, Marta divorced and consequently returned to the work force. Our morning runs (now on the concrete sidewalks) ended. Marta called me one day, furious. She had applied for her dream job and had considered her new position a done deal until they sadly told her that they couldn’t hire her because she had a criminal record! (All for walking her dog in the canyon.)
Theresa, a financial analyst, enjoyed a generous salary and regular lunches at a fast food place near her work. One afternoon after ordering her typical meal at her favorite lunch spot, she found that she didn’t have the cash on hand to pay for her lunch. The owner said, “That’s okay, you come here all the time. Just pay me next time.” So, Theresa never went back. She got a free lunch! If she went back, she’d have to pay, so she never did. But, what did she lose? Her ability to look that owner in the eye and all her future lunches at her favorite place.
Clair and Eric hired a young woman to stay with their seven children for a week while they went on a trip to Hawaii. They agreed to pay her, but never established a price. At the end of the week they gave the young woman a muumuu and a box of macadamia nuts. What had their vacation child care cost them? Not much, unless you consider their reputation and the goodwill of the young woman (who never spoke to them again, but spoke about them behind their back plenty.)
Everything has a cost, although not all expenses can be measure by dollars and pennies. A lost friendship. A smeared good name. Freedom from unpaid debts. A sense of integrity. Carefully consider all costs--fiduciary, social and emotional.
So, whether you’re parking illegally, walking your dog, or cheating on your taxes, my advice is DO NOT DO IT. Be honest. Always. Period. Say what you’ll do and then do what you’ve said you would. Make and keep promises. And contracts. And friends.
Exercise 4
Look around your home and heart—is there something there that belongs to someone else? Return it. Replace it. Make amends. Say you’re sorry and let it go. No matter how much money you have, you can’t afford to hold onto anything that doesn’t belong to you.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Cover Critiques Wanted
A few exciting things are happening.
1. I’m crossing the final humphda of my current work in progress. The story that felt as solid as Jello has finally melded into something I love. It goes to an editor in ten days—just enough time for some spit and polish.
2. I got a photo shop program for Christmas and I’m excited to learn how to design my own book covers. This means two things—next month I’ll be publishing not only my new novel A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE, but also my short story MAGIC BENEATH THE HUCKLEBERRIES.
3. Next week I’m a part of a massive blog hop and I’m planning on slashing the price of the e-book edition of STEALING MERCY (for a limited time.)
So, here’s my question. Can you tell my novel STEALING MERCY is a romantic suspense from its cover? I love the cover. I loved creating it, BUT would it sell better if it’s cover screamed this is a romaction that will keep you awake at night? Should I redesign the cover before the price slash? (Get a gander of my book on the sidebar.)
Opinions welcome. Thank you.
1. I’m crossing the final humphda of my current work in progress. The story that felt as solid as Jello has finally melded into something I love. It goes to an editor in ten days—just enough time for some spit and polish.
2. I got a photo shop program for Christmas and I’m excited to learn how to design my own book covers. This means two things—next month I’ll be publishing not only my new novel A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE, but also my short story MAGIC BENEATH THE HUCKLEBERRIES.
3. Next week I’m a part of a massive blog hop and I’m planning on slashing the price of the e-book edition of STEALING MERCY (for a limited time.)
So, here’s my question. Can you tell my novel STEALING MERCY is a romantic suspense from its cover? I love the cover. I loved creating it, BUT would it sell better if it’s cover screamed this is a romaction that will keep you awake at night? Should I redesign the cover before the price slash? (Get a gander of my book on the sidebar.)
Opinions welcome. Thank you.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
The Letter I Should Have Written
Every Sunday I write a letter to my son, a missionary in Taiwan. This past Sunday, being New Year’s Day, I wrote the letter same as always. I mentioned Nathan’s creation of his music video to the Veggie-Tale’s Cheeseburger Song (which is hysterically funny) but then I yammered on about a disappointing real estate deal which I followed up with a long and boring paragraph on marketing my novel.
That same day, my sister-in-law sent out an e-mail describing all the fun and happy ways their family had celebrated the holidays. Here’s the painful thing—our family had also done more than our fair share of celebrating. We went to the beach, built a bonfire, and roasted hotdogs and marshmallows while the sun set. We sent our children on an elaborate scavenger hunt where they had to sing to strangers, recite the Gettysburg Address and build boats and set them sailing in Rancho’s lake. We played games until our minds turned to mush. We threw firecrackers and lit sparklers. Made and ate sushi. Toasted each other with sparkling cider. Walked every morning in the canyon—a parade of Tate’s--dog, babies, teenagers and grownups. I should have written to Jared about all these things, but I didn’t. Because at the moment when I sat down to write—they weren’t on my mind.
What was I thinking about? The real estate transaction turned sour. The fact that a friend from my writer’s group has sold tens of thousands of her self-published novels in the last seven months compared to my hundreds. Here’s a couple of excerpts from my letter:
About the condo: We’re feeling a little like nothing ever happens despite our best efforts—which might be for the best in the long run, but it’s certainly boring.
About my book: I’m learning marketing and strategy and it’s all very fun if not very profitable…but maybe that’s not the point. If it was, I’m sure I’d be very frustrated with that look at all I do, look at all my effort, and very little happens in return feeling.
Discouragement seeps through my letter and it’s so ridiculous because those disappointments are so heavily outweighed by all the love and laughter of our holiday.Reading Rebecca’s letter reminded me that by not writing down, by not remembering the wonderful things that happen—it’s like they never did. The beach at sunset, the games and laughter, the sparklers in the night sky—those are the realities to be remembered.
Real estate investments, books sales—those are nothing but a numbers game dependent on good fortune and chance and I’d have to have a mind of mush to consider them more important than marshmallows, sparklers and the beach at sunset.
That same day, my sister-in-law sent out an e-mail describing all the fun and happy ways their family had celebrated the holidays. Here’s the painful thing—our family had also done more than our fair share of celebrating. We went to the beach, built a bonfire, and roasted hotdogs and marshmallows while the sun set. We sent our children on an elaborate scavenger hunt where they had to sing to strangers, recite the Gettysburg Address and build boats and set them sailing in Rancho’s lake. We played games until our minds turned to mush. We threw firecrackers and lit sparklers. Made and ate sushi. Toasted each other with sparkling cider. Walked every morning in the canyon—a parade of Tate’s--dog, babies, teenagers and grownups. I should have written to Jared about all these things, but I didn’t. Because at the moment when I sat down to write—they weren’t on my mind.
What was I thinking about? The real estate transaction turned sour. The fact that a friend from my writer’s group has sold tens of thousands of her self-published novels in the last seven months compared to my hundreds. Here’s a couple of excerpts from my letter:
About the condo: We’re feeling a little like nothing ever happens despite our best efforts—which might be for the best in the long run, but it’s certainly boring.
About my book: I’m learning marketing and strategy and it’s all very fun if not very profitable…but maybe that’s not the point. If it was, I’m sure I’d be very frustrated with that look at all I do, look at all my effort, and very little happens in return feeling.
Discouragement seeps through my letter and it’s so ridiculous because those disappointments are so heavily outweighed by all the love and laughter of our holiday.Reading Rebecca’s letter reminded me that by not writing down, by not remembering the wonderful things that happen—it’s like they never did. The beach at sunset, the games and laughter, the sparklers in the night sky—those are the realities to be remembered.
Real estate investments, books sales—those are nothing but a numbers game dependent on good fortune and chance and I’d have to have a mind of mush to consider them more important than marshmallows, sparklers and the beach at sunset.
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