There haven’t been many times when I’ve come out on these pages encouraging a specific book. I believe the last time was The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie by Jennifer Ashley and not a one of you who read it was sorry at my suggestion.
I have another one for you. One Perfect Roseby MaryJo Putney.
Typically, I came up with his story by deciding what was the worst, the very worst, thing I could do to the poor guy. A sober sort, Stephen had always subordinated his own desires to the heavy responsibilities he carried. Now on the brink of a new life, he comes face to face with his own mortality and bolts from the gilded, aristocratic cage in which he has spent his life. In the course of his anonymous journey across England, he falls in with lovely, compassionate Rosalind Jordan and her family of exuberant traveling players. Needless to say, happiness doesn’t come easily, but in the end Stephen and Rosalind find what they so richly deserve.
People, I was up until 3:28am on Friday night/Saturday morning reading this book. Many of you know that I’m a crier – but usually that limits itself to damp eyes and a stuffy nose or, worse case scenario, a tear rolling down my cheek. This book had me in the throes of shoulder shaking sobbing. It is so well written, so emotionally powerful that I was riveted to my spot on the couch.
The above snippet from Ms. Putney’s site doesn’t allude to the event that sends our hero careening off into the world and neither will I. However, I will say the troubles our lovers encounter are not your standard romance fare.
Follow my link – get yourself a copy and fall in love with MaryJo Putney. Also know that she is one of the stupendous writers gracing the romance tent and the 2011 Tucson Festival of Books.
Ava and I work together in a job we both despise for a company we can’t stand. I try to resign on a daily basis. Since Ava is my boss again, she won’t accept my resignation.
Instead, we complain, whine, piss and moan, bitch, kvetch, and wallow in self pity for more than 8 hours a day. The only thing that keeps us sane is the fact that we work together. Something that would make us really happy, besides winning the lottery and fulfilling our goal of owning Greece, is if we could figure out how to get Kelli a job there. We keep trying and she keeps resisting. Smart girl since she’s never heard one nice thing about any part of it.
Since it’s the end of the month, things have been extra stressful. I managed to get away for lunch today, but Ava couldn’t peel herself away from her desk to join Kelli and I for On The Border. Instead, Ava ate candy and cookies and other sugary nonsense all day until she finally had to go get a bagel to soak up all the crap in her stomach.
SOME ONE OUT THERE – contact MY AGENT and contract my book. The Quills have plans and this job thing is not working out.
Honestly, it was a cool field trip. We went to the brand new Fire House #1. It’s the headquarters and the biggest one in town. It was gorgeous and very nice to see my tax dollars at work – especially since I voted yes on that last proposition. The engines went out on two calls while we were there so that was exciting, the bagpipe and drum band was practicing while we were there which I personally thought was cool, and they had cookies for the kids afterwards which was a big hit as I’m sure you can imagine.
It also didn’t hurt that the firemen were adorable. And so ridiculously fit. I think that’s what it is that draws women like moths to a flame. “To a flame” and I’m talking about firemen. Did you see what I did there? That’s called humorous writing, people.
All the moms had makeup on and their hair done. I wonder what that was all about, huh? I was talking to one of the moms, a personal favorite of mine, and we were laughing about how well everyone was done up. As you may remember from how I’ve described my morning routine, we should all just be happy my hair was combed. She said her husband teased her about being showered, fully dressed, made up and coiffed at 6:30 this morning.
Last night I asked My Honey what I should wear to the fire house the next day.
I told him I was not wearing a burka.
But really, you get a bunch of women together legitimately following around a fireman without getting dirty looks or threats of the police being summoned, and said women are going to get silly. For goodness sake, it was like we all reverted to 16 again.
“Do you suppose he’s gonna need a CPR model?” It only took 35 seconds for
that comment to be floated in a stage whisper around the giggling crowd.
We all carefully noted there was a poster advertising a Halloween party one of the firemen is throwing. I think several of us took pictures with the intent of crashing it. And I’m not proud to relate the whole group denigrated into a twittering mass as soon as the kids asked questions about the length and capacity of their “hoses”. We got several quizzical looks from the kids, and were roundly ignored by the entire fire department, during this incident. But the kids had fun, it was a really good tour, and as far as I know, none of the mothers were arrested for groping a fireman.
AS FAR AS I KNOW.
It’s been a while since I shared something from my daily calendar, but I find this entry especially amusing. I have a particular fondness for Southern writer, Carson McCullers. In fact, there are many Southern writers I feel an affinity for. I have no idea why. I’ve never lived anywhere but the Southwestern desert and I imagine the way of life here to be as far from similar to growing up in the south as someone from New York City’s experience would be. Nevertheless, Tennessee Williams, McCullers, Mark Twain, Katherine Ann Porter and, dear God let us not forget one of the venerable Godmothers of Romance, Margaret Mitchell all rank among my favorites.
Anyway, I find this tidbit quite charming.
Carson McCullers had a special affinity for Russian writers, such as Anton Chekhov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, and Leo Tolstoy. She also had a knack for bumping into their relatives on public transportation. One day she and her mother were on a bus bound for New York City when they struck up a conversation with a regal-looking Russian woman. Mama McCullers was going on and on about her daughter’s literary prowess when the woman remarked that her father had
also been a writer. Her name? Countess Tolstoy.
That sounds exactly like something that would happen to me. Open mouth and insert foot. Not that Carson wasn’t an excellent writer, but I suspect way more people recognize Tolstoy than do McCullers. It’s a shame really. Tolstoy is great, but McCullers could wrap a lot of emotion into a novella. If you doubt me, pick up a copy of The Ballad of the Sad Cafe. You won’t be sorry.
Sleeeeeeeeeepy. Must sleep. I”m nodding off even as I write this.
I had a really wonderful time this weekend at a mini-author-retreat up on the mountain. One of the gals in my writing group invited me up with some of the other ladies and we had a little slumber party at her cabin.
So what do a bunch of writer types talk about for hours at a time while snuggly ensconced in a cute little cabin? Mostly they giggle, and drink margaritas/coke and limoncellos/wine, and tell silly stories about their kids. We did talk a little bit about craft, but mostly we watched hysterical and fascinating videos on Youtube.
It was really refreshing and I feel so peaceful I don’t have a single thing to bitch about tonight. So enjoy my good mood as I am.
I have to go to work tomorrow and at some point this week head down to the Department of Motor Vehicles so that ought to fill up my dry well of Annoyance.
P.S. I am pleased to report my two baskets were very well received at the Big Raffle. Thank goodness. (I’m such a lunatic. I really need to stop the insanity but then what would you all have to read about?) To those of you who were immeasurably helpful in assisting me in pulling this off – Thank you thank you thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Hey – go check out www.amylynnbright.com – my personal website. It underwent a makeover and I think it looks fantastic.
I down in the dumps today. The agent said out of the eight editors who have my book, there have been four passes. Deep sigh.
“Ugh! Does this happen often? The ‘passes’ I mean?” I asked her.
“Yes, unfortunately more often than not…” she replied. “We often get down to 1 editor who loves it to close a deal….but we only need 1!!”
She’s right, of course. But that news compounded with the dreary, rainy dayand my soul-sucking day job has made me blue, kind of Eeyoreish. I’m usually a glass is half-full kind of person but it’s hard to keep that up all the time.
I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow. After all tomorrow is Friday and Saturday is the big raffle meeting for my writer’s group and all the Sisters will be together. After the meeting, I’m going up the mountain with some of the writer ladies for an over-night at a cabin – a little mini-retreat and I’m looking forward to that as well.
Deep sigh. Everything will work out in the end. I’m sure.
My mother says I have perfectionismmania. It’s a word she made up to define what’s wrong with us. Or rather, to define one of the things wrong with us.
Ava and Kelli have been looking at me askance for weeks, shaking their heads and giving each other looks. My mother keeps encouraging me to step away, but I can’t. Ava keeps saying things like “crazy” and “what’s wrong with you?” Kelli assures me that no one but me will notice or care.
But the problem is, I will. I’ll notice. I care. And I can’t step away.
Do you remember those damn baskets I’m making for the big fundraiser my writers group? I really hate those baskets, which is confusing because I’m also really proud of them.
There are a few missing things that are totally nagging at me. I hear them in my head – it’s very loud in my head. I’ve got whole committees meeting up there: the characters of my current project nagging at me, the characters of the last book nagging at me, my hopes and aspirations which are all attached to MY AGENT, Bills that need to be paid (these are extraordinarily obnoxious), and most plaguing of all, the stupid projects I take on and then become obsessed with making perfect.
There are only a few things I can’t find for these damn baskets. The main one being a parasol for the lady’s one. One of those pretty, paper ones you see all the time. I know after this is over I’ll spot a hundred of them, but for now, they may as well not exist. I’ve been everywhere I can think of.
I know it’s stupid. As Kelli says, no one will notice but me. But I’LL KNOW. I’ll know how much better it could have been. Why can’t I let it go? ARRRRG!
I can’t write on this anymore. I have to go finish sewing lace on that &^%$@%& basket.