Moving

HI! I am moving and revamping my blog. The new blog will be 3 Strand Romances at http://www.3strandromances.blogspot.com/   The tentative schedule will be: Sunday:        Devotional Monday:      Book Review Tuesday:      Writing Status / Updates Wednesday: Book Review Thursday:    Story Day Friday:         Author Interviews Saturday:      Miscellaneous Stuff   Hope to see you at the new site!

Camy Tang Podcast

Tyora Moody posted a podcast with this month's FIRST author Camy Tang. For more info, check it out here.

FIRST: Single Sashimi by Camy Tang

I read this book as well as Camy's first book Single Sashimi? and I LOVED both of them. She may write "romance with a kick of wasabi" but there's a lot of fun and humor in there also. A definite MUST ADD to your TBR pile. It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter! The feature author is: Camy Tang and her book: Single Sashimi Zondervan (September 1, 2008) ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Camy Tang is a FIRST Family Member! She also is a moderator for FIRST Wild Card Tours. She is a loud Asian chick who writes loud Asian chick-lit. She grew up in Hawaii, but now lives in San Jose, California, with her engineer husband and rambunctious poi-dog. In a previous life she was a biologist researcher, but these days she is surgically attached to her computer, writing full-time. In her spare time, she is a staff worker for her church youth group, and she leads one of the worship teams for Sunday service. Sushi for One? (Sushi Series, Book One) was her first novel. Her second, Only Uni (Sushi Series, Book Two) was published in March of this year. The next book in the series, Single Sashimi (Sushi Series, Book Three) came out in September 2008! Visit her at her website. List Price: $12.99 Paperback: 336 pages Publisher: Zondervan (September 1, 2008) Language: English ISBN-10: 0310274001 ISBN-13: 978-0310274001 AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: Single Sashimi By Camy Tang Chapter one Venus Chau opened the door to her aunt's house and almost fainted. "What died?" She exhaled sharply, trying to get the foul air out of her body before it caused cancer or something. Her cousin Jennifer Lim entered the foyer with the look of an oni goblin about to eat someone. "She's stinking up my kitchen." "Who?" Venus hesitated on the threshold, breathing clean night air before she had to close the door. "My mother, who else?" The ire in Jenn's voice made Venus busy herself with kicking off her heels amongst the other shoes in the tile foyer. Hoo-boy, she'd never seen quiet Jenn this irate before. Then again, since Aunty Yuki had given her daughter the rule of the kitchen when she'd started cooking in high school, Jenn rarely had to make way for another cook. "What is she cooking? Beef intestines?" Jenn flung her arms out. "Who knows? Something Trish is supposed to eat." "But we don't have to eat it, right? Right?" "I'll never become pregnant if I have to eat stuff like that." Jenn whirled and stomped toward the kitchen. Venus turned right into the living room where her very pregnant cousin Trish lounged on the sofa next to her boyfriend, Spenser. "Hey, guys." Her gaze paused on their twined hands. It continued to amaze her that Spenser would date a woman pregnant with another man's child. Maybe Venus shouldn't be so cynical about the men she met. Here was at least one good guy. Trish's arms shot into the air like a Raiders' cheerleader, nearly clocking Spenser in the eye. "I'm officially on maternity leave!" Venus paused to clap. "So how did you celebrate?" "I babysat Matthew all day today." She smiled dreamily at Spenser at the mention of his son. Venus frowned and landed her hands on her hips. "In your condition?" Trish waved a hand. "He's not that bad. He stopped swallowing things weeks ago." "I'm finally not wasting money on all those emergency room visits," Spenser said. "Besides, I got a book about how to help toddlers expect a new baby." Trish bounced lightly on the sofa cushion in her excitement. "And?" It seemed kind of weird to Venus, since Trish and Spenser weren't engaged or anything. Yet. Trish chewed her lip. "I don't know if he totally understands, but at least it's a start." A sense of strangeness washed over Venus as she watched the two of them, the looks they exchanged that weren't mushy or intimate, just . . . knowing. Like mind reading. It made her feel alienated from her cousin for the first time in her life, and she didn't really like it. She immediately damped down the feeling. How could she begrudge Trish such a wonderful relationship? Venus was so selfish. She disgusted herself. She looked around the living room. "Where is -- " "Venus!" The childish voice rang down the short hallway. She stepped back into the foyer to see Spenser's son, Matthew, trotting down the carpet with hands reached out to her. He grabbed her at the knees, wrinkling her silk pants, but she didn't mind. His shining face looking up at her -- way up, since she was the tallest of the cousins -- made her feel like she was the only reason he lived and breathed. "Psycho Bunny?" he pleaded. She pretended to think about it. His hands shook her pants legs to make her decide faster. "Okay." He darted into the living room and plopped in front of the television, grabbing at the game controllers. The kid had it down pat -- in less than a minute, the music for the Psycho Bunny video game rolled into the room. Venus sank to the floor next to him. "Jenn is totally freaking out." Trish's eyes had popped to the size of siu mai dumplings. "What brought all this on?" Venus picked up the other controller. "Well, Aunty Yuki had a doctor's appointment today -- " "Is she doing okay?" She chose the Bunny Foo-Foo character for the game just starting. "Clean bill of health. Cancer's gone, as far as they can tell." "So that's why she's taken over Jenn's domain?" Trish rubbed her back and winced. "She took one look at me and decided I needed something to help the baby along." Jenn huffed into the living room. "She's going to make me ruin the roast chicken!" Venus ignored her screeching tone. "Sit down. You're not going to make her hurry by hovering." She and Matthew both jumped over the snake pit and landed in the hollow tree. Jenn flung herself into an overstuffed chair and dumped her feet on the battered oak coffee table. Venus turned to glance at the foyer. No Nikes. "Where's Lex?" "Late. Where else?" Jenn snapped. "I thought Aiden was helping her be better about that." "He's not a miracle worker." Spenser massaged Trish's back. "I have to leave early." Venus stretched her silk-clad feet out, wriggling her toes. Her new stilettos looked great but man, they hurt her arches. "Then you might not eat at all." Jenn crossed her arms over her chest. Venus speared her with a glance like a stainless steel skewer. "Chill, okay Cujo?" Jenn pouted and scrunched further down in the chair. Venus ignored her and turned back to the game. Her inattention had let Matthew pick up the treasure chest. "I have to work on a project." "For work?" "No, for me." Only the Spiderweb, the achievement of her lifetime, a new tool that would propel her to the heights of video game development stardom. Which was why she'd kept it separate from her job-related things -- she didn't even use her company computer when she worked on it, only her personal laptop. A new smell wafted into the room, this one rivaling the other in its stomach-roiling ability. Venus waved her hand in front of her face. "Pffaugh! What is she cooking?" Trish's face had turned the color of green tea. "You're lucky you don't have to eat it. Whatever it is, it ain't gonna stay down for long." "Just say you still have morning sickness." "In my ninth month?" Venus shrugged. The door slammed open. "Hey, guys -- blech." Venus twisted around to see her cousin Lex doubled over, clenching her washboard stomach (Venus wished she could have one of those) and looking like she'd hurled up all the shoes littering the foyer floor. Lex's boyfriend Aiden grabbed her waist to prevent her from nosediving into the tile. "Lex, it's not that bad." "The gym locker room smells better." Lex used her toes to pull off her cross-trainers without bothering to untie them. "The men's locker room." "It's not me," Jenn declared. "It's Mom, ruining all my best pots." "What is she doing? Killing small animals on the stovetop?" "Something for the baby." Trish tried to smile, but it looked more like a wince. "As long as we don't have to eat it." Lex dropped her slouchy purse on the floor and walked into the living room. Aunty Yuki appeared behind her in the doorway, bearing a steaming bowl. "Here, Trish. Drink this." The brilliant smile on her wide face eclipsed her tiny stature. Venus smelled something pungent, like when she walked into a Chinese medicine shop with her dad. A bolus of air erupted from her mouth, and she coughed. "What is that?" She dropped the game controller. "Pig's brain soup." Trish's smile hardened to plastic. Lex grabbed her mouth. Spenser -- who was Chinese and therefore had been raised with the weird concoctions -- sighed. Aiden looked at them all like they were funny-farm rejects. Venus closed her eyes, tightened her mouth, and concentrated on not gagging. Good thing her stomach was empty. Aunty Yuki's mouth pursed. "What's wrong? My mother-in-law made me eat pig's brain soup when I was a couple weeks from delivering Jennifer." "That's what you ruined my pots with?" Jennifer steamed hotter than the bowl of soup. Her mom caught the yakuza-about-to-hack-your-finger-off expression on Jenn's face. Aunty Yuki paused, then backtracked to the kitchen. With the soup bowl, thankfully. "Papa?" Matthew's voice sounded faint. Venus turned. "Don't feel good." He clutched his poochy tummy. "Oh, no." Spenser grabbed his son and headed out of the living room. Then the world exploded. Just as they passed into the foyer, Matthew threw up onto the tiles. Lex, with her weak stomach when it came to bodily fluids, took one look and turned pasty. A burning smell and a few cries sounded from the kitchen. Trish sat up straighter than a Buddha and clenched her rounded abdomen. "Oh!" Spenser held his crying son as he urped up the rest of his afternoon snack. Lex clapped a hand to her mouth to prevent herself from following Matthew's example. Jenn started for the kitchen, but then Matthew's mess blocking the foyer stopped her. Trish groaned and curled in on herself, clutching her tummy. Venus shot to her feet. She wasn't acting Game Lead at her company for nothing. "You." She pointed to Jenn. "Get to the kitchen and send your mom in here for Trish." Jenn leaped over Matthew's puddle and darted away. "And bring paper towels for the mess!" "You," she flung at Spenser. "Take Matthew to the bathroom." He gestured to the brand new hallway carpet. Oh no, Aunty Yuki would have a fit. But it couldn't be helped. "If he makes a mess on the carpet, we'll just clean it up later." He didn't hesitate. He hustled down the hallway with Matthew in his arms. Venus kicked the miniscule living room garbage basket closer to Lex. "Hang your head over that." Not that it would hold more than spittle, but it was better than letting Lex upchuck all over the plush cream carpet. Why did Lex, tomboy and jock, have to go weak every time something gross happened? "You." Venus stabbed a manicured finger at Aiden. "Get your car, we're taking Trish to the hospital." He didn't jump at her command. "After one contraction?" Trish moaned, and Venus had a vision of the baby flying out of her in the next minute. She pointed to the door again. "Just go!" Aiden shrugged and slipped out the front door, muttering to himself. "You." She stood in front of Trish, who'd started Lamaze breathing through her pursed lips. "Uh . . ." Trish peered up at her. "Um . . . stop having contractions." Trish rolled her eyes, but didn't speak through her pursed lips. Venus ignored her and went to kneel over Matthew's rather watery puddle, which had spread with amoeba fingers reaching down the lines of grout. Lex's purse lay nearby, so she rooted in it for a tissue or something to start blotting up the mess. Footsteps approaching. Before she could raise her head or shout a warning, Aunty Yuki hurried into the foyer. "What's wron -- !" It was like a Three Stooges episode. Aunty Yuki barreled into Venus's bent figure. She had leaned over Matthew's mess to protect anyone from stepping in it, but it also made her an obstacle in the middle of the foyer. "Ooomph!" The older woman's feet -- shod in cotton house slippers, luckily, and not shoes -- jammed into Venus's ribs. She couldn't see much except a pair of slippers leaving the floor at the same time, and then a body landing on the living room carpet on the other side of her. Ouch. "Are you okay?" Venus twisted to kneel in front of her, but she seemed slow to rise. "Venus, here're the paper towels -- " Jenn's voice in the foyer made Venus whirl on the balls of her feet and fling her hands up. "Watch out!" Jenn stopped just in time. Her toes were only inches away from Matthew's mess, her body leaning forward. Her arms whirled, still clutching the towels, like a cheerleader and her pom-poms. "Jenn." Spenser's voice coming down the hallway toward the foyer. "Where are the -- " "Stop!" Venus and Jenn shouted at the same time. Spenser froze, his foot hovering above a finger of the puddle that had stretched toward the hallway. "Ah. Okay. Thanks." He lowered his foot on the clean tile to the side. Aiden opened the front door. "The car's out front -- " The sight of them all left him speechless. Trish had started to hyperventilate, her breath seething through her teeth. "Will somebody do something?!" Aunty Yuki moaned from her crumpled position on the floor. Smoke started pouring from the kitchen, along with the awful smell of burned . . . something that wasn't normal food. Venus snatched the paper towels from Jenn. "Kitchen!" Jenn fled before she'd finished speaking. "What do you need?" Venus barked at Spenser. "Extra towels." "Guest bedroom closet, top shelf." He headed back down the hall. Venus turned to Aiden and swept a hand toward Aunty Yuki on the living room floor. "Take care of her, will you?" "What about me?" Trish moaned through a clenched jaw. "Stop having contractions!" Venus swiped up the mess on the tile before something worse happened, like someone stepped in it and slid. That would just be the crowning cherry to her evening. Even when she wasn't at work, she was still working. "Are you okay, Aunty?" She stood with the sodden paper towels. Aiden had helped her to a seat next to Lex, who was ashen-faced and still leaning over the tiny trash can. Aside from a reddish spot on Aunty Yuki's elbow, she seemed fine. Jenn entered the living room, her hair wild and a distinctive burned smell sizzling from her clothes. "My imported French saucepan is completely blackened!" But she had enough sense not to glare at her parent as she probably wanted to. Aunty Yuki suddenly found the wall hangings fascinating. Venus started to turn toward the kitchen to throw away the paper towels she still held. "Well, we have to take Trish to the hospital -- " "Actually . . ." Trish's breathing had slowed. "I think it's just a false alarm." Venus turned to look at her. "False alarm? Pregnant women have those?" "It happened a couple days ago too." "What?" Venus almost slammed her fist into her hip, but remembered the dirty paper towels just in time. Good thing too, because she had on a Chanel suit. Trish gave a long, slow sigh. "Yup, they're gone. That was fast." She smiled cheerfully. Venus wanted to scream. This was out of her realm. At work, she was used to grabbing a crisis at the throat and wrestling it to submission. This was somewhere Trish was heading without her, and the thought both frightened and unnerved her. She shrugged it off. "Well . . . Aunty -- " "I'm fine, Venus." Aunty Yuki inspected her elbow. "Jennifer, get those Japanese Salonpas patches -- " "Mom, they stink." Jenn's stress over her beautiful kitchen made her more belligerent than Venus had ever seen her before. Not that the camphor patches could smell any worse than the burned Chinese-old-wives'-pregnancy-food permeating the house. At the sound of the word Salonpas, Lex pinched her lips together but didn't say anything. Aunty Yuki gave Jenn a limpid look. "The Salonpas gets rid of the pain." "I'll get it." Aiden headed down the hallway to get the adhesive patches. "In the hall closet." Jenn's words slurred a bit through her tight jaw. Distraction time. Venus tried to smile. "Aunty, if you're okay, then let's eat." Jenn's eyes flared neon red. "Can't." "Huh?" "Somebody turned off the oven." Jenn frowned at her mother, who tactfully looked away. "Dinner won't be for another hour." She stalked back to the kitchen. Even with the nasty smell, Venus's stomach protested its empty state. "It's already eight o'clock." "Suck it up!" Jenn yelled from the kitchen. It was going to be a long night. *** Venus needed a Reese's peanut butter cup. No, a Reese's was bad. Sugar, fat, preservatives, all kinds of chemicals she couldn't even pronounce. Oooh, but it would taste so good . . . No, she equated Reese's cups with her fat days. She was no longer fat. She didn't need a Reese's. But she sure wanted one after such a hectic evening with her cousins. She trudged up the steps to her condo. Home. Too small to invite people over, and that was the way she liked it. Her haven, where she could relax and let go, no one to see her when she was vulnerable -- Her front door was ajar. Her limbs froze mid-step, but her heart rat-tat-tatted in her chest like a machine gun. Someone. Had. Broken. Into. Her. Home. Her hand started to shake. She clenched it to her hip, crushing the silk of her pants. What to do? He might still be there. Pepper spray. In her purse. She searched in her bag and finally found the tiny bottle. Her hand trembled so much, she'd be more likely to spritz herself than the intruder. Were those sounds coming from inside? She reached out a hand, but couldn't quite bring herself to push the door open further. Stupid, call the police! She fumbled with the pepper spray so she could extract her cell phone. Dummy, don't pop yourself in the eye with that stuff! She switched the spray to her other hand while her thumb dialed 9 - 1 - 1. Her handbag's leather straps dug into her elbow. Thump! That came from her living room! Footsteps. Get away from the door! She stumbled backwards, but remembering the stairs right behind her, she tried to stop herself from tumbling down. Her ankle tilted on her stilettos, and she fell sideways to lean against the wall. The footsteps approached her open door. "9 - 1 - 1, what's your emergency?" She raised her hand with the bottle of pepper spray. "Someone's -- " The door swung open. "Edgar!" The cell phone dropped with a clatter, but she kept a firm grip on the pepper spray, suddenly tempted to use it. One of her junior programmers stood in her open doorway. Copyright (c) 2008 by Camy Tang Requests for information should be addressed to: Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

TEENFIRST: All About Us

My daughter read this book and (hopefully) she'll be posting her thoughts on it later this week. It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter! Shelley Adina and her books: It's All About Us: A Novel FaithWords (May 12, 2008) and The Fruit of My Lipstick (All About Us Series, Book 2) FaithWords (August 11, 2008) Plus a Tiffany's Bracelet Giveaway! Go to Camy Tang's Blog and leave a comment on the Teen FIRST All About Us Tour and you will be placed into a drawing for a bracelet that looks similar to the picture below. But the winning FaithWords Tiffany's bracelet will be a double heart charm. ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Shelley Adina is a world traveler and pop culture junkie with an incurable addiction to designer handbags. She knows the value of a relationship with a gracious God and loving Christian friends, and she's inviting today's teenage girls to join her in these refreshingly honest books about real life as a Christian teen--with a little extra glitz thrown in for fun! In between books, Adina loves traveling, listening to and making music, and watching all kinds of movies. It's All About Us is Book One in the All About Us Series. Book Two, The Fruit of my Lipstick came out in August 2008, and Book Three, Be Strong & Curvaceous, comes out in January 2009. Visit the author's website. It's All About Us: A Novel Product Details: List Price: $9.99 Paperback: 256 pages Publisher: FaithWords (May 12, 2008) Language: English ISBN-10: 0446177989 ISBN-13: 978-0446177986 AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: Chapter One SOME THINGS YOU just know without being told. Like, you passed the math final (or you didn't). Your boyfriend isn't into you anymore and wants to break up. Vanessa Talbot has decided that since you're the New Girl, you have a big bull's-eye on your forehead and your junior year is going to be just as miserable as she can make it. Carly once told me she used to wish she were me. Ha! That first week at Spencer Academy, I wouldn't have wished my life on anyone. My name is Lissa Evelyn Mansfield, and since everything seemed to happen to me this quarter, we decided I'd be the one to write it all down. Maybe you'll think I'm some kind of drama queen, but I swear this is the truth. Don't listen to Gillian and Carly—they weren't there for some of it, so probably when they read this, it'll be news to them, too. But I'm getting ahead of myself. When it all started, I didn't even know them. All I knew was that I was starting my junior year at the Spencer Academy of San Francisco, this private boarding school for trust fund kids and the offspring of the hopelessly rich, and I totally did not want to be there. I mean, picture it: You go from having fun and being popular in tenth grade at Pacific High in Santa Barbara, where you can hang out on State Street or join a drumming circle or surf whenever you feel like it with all your friends, to being absolutely nobody in this massive old mansion where rich kids go because their parents don't have time to take care of them. Not that my parents are like that. My dad's a movie director, and he's home whenever his shooting schedule allows it. When he's not, sometimes he flies us out to cool places like Barbados or Hungary for a week so we can be on location together. You've probably heard of my dad. He directed that big pirate movie that Warner Brothers did a couple of years ago. That's how he got on the radar of some of the big A-list directors, so when George (hey, he asked me to call him that, so it's not like I'm dropping names) rang him up from Marin and suggested they do a movie together, of course he said yes. I can't imagine anybody saying no to George, but anyway, that's why we're in San Francisco for the next two years. Since Dad's going to be out at the Ranch or on location so much, and my sister, Jolie, is at UCLA (film school, what else—she's a daddy's girl and she admits it), and my mom's dividing her time among all of us, I had the choice of going to boarding school or having a live-in. Boarding school sounded fun in a Harry Potter kind of way, so I picked that. Sigh. That was before I realized how lonely it is being the New Girl. Before the full effect of my breakup really hit. Before I knew about Vanessa Talbot, who I swear would make the perfect girlfriend for a warlock. And speaking of witch . . . "Melissa!" Note: my name is not Melissa. But on the first day of classes, I'd made the mistake of correcting Vanessa, which meant that every time she saw me after that, she made a point of saying it wrong. The annoying part is that now people really think that's my name. Vanessa, Emily Overton, and Dani Lavigne ("Yes, that Lavigne. Did I tell you she's my cousin?") are like this triad of terror at Spencer. Their parents are all fabulously wealthy—richer than my mom's family, even—and they never let you forget it. Vanessa and Dani have the genes to go with all that money, which means they look good in everything from designer dresses to street chic. Vanessa's dark brown hair is cut so perfectly, it always falls into place when she moves. She has the kind of skin and dark eyes that might be from some Italian beauty somewhere in her family tree. Which, of course, means the camera loves her. It didn't take me long to figure out that there was likely to be a photographer or two somewhere on the grounds pretty much all the time, and nine times out of ten, Vanessa was the one they bagged. Her mom is minor royalty and the ex-wife of some U.N. Secretary or other, which means every time he gives a speech, a photographer shows up here. Believe me, seeing Vanessa in the halls at school and never knowing when she's going to pop out at me from the pages of Teen People or some society news Web site is just annoying. Can you say overexposed? Anyway. Where was I? Dani has butterscotch-colored hair that she has highlighted at Biondi once a month, and big blue eyes that make her look way more innocent than she is. Emily is shorter and chunkier and could maybe be nice if you got her on her own, but she's not the kind that functions well outside of a clique. Some people are born independent and some aren't. You should see Emily these days. All that money doesn't help her one bit out at the farm, where— Okay, Gillian just told me I have to stop doing that. She says it's messing her up, like I'm telling her the ending when I'm supposed to be telling the beginning. Not that it's all about her, okay? It's about us: me, Gillian, Carly, Shani, Mac . . . and God. But just to make Gillian happy, I'll skip to the part where I met her, and she (and you) can see what I really thought of her. Ha. Maybe that'll make her stop reading over my shoulder. So as I was saying, there they were—Vanessa, Emily, and Dani—standing between me and the dining room doors. "What's up?" I said, walking up to them when I should have turned and settled for something out of the snack machine at the other end of the hall. "She doesn't know." Emily poked Dani. "Maybe we shouldn't tell her." I did a fast mental check. Plaid skirt—okay. Oxfords—no embarrassing toilet paper. White blouse—buttoned, no stains. Slate blue cardigan—clean. Hair—freshly brushed. They couldn't be talking about me personally, in which case I didn't need to hear it. "Whatever." I pushed past them and took two steps down the hall. "Don't you want to hear about your new roommate?" Vanessa asked. Roommate? At that point I'd survived for five days, and the only good things about them were the crème brulée in the dining room and the blessed privacy of my own room. What fresh disaster was this? Oops. I'd stopped in my tracks and tipped them off that (a) I didn't know, and (b) I wanted to know. And when Vanessa knows you want something, she'll do everything she can not to let you have it. "I think we should tell her," Emily said. "It would be kinder to get it over with." "I'm sure I'll find out eventually." There, that sounded bored enough. "Byeee." "I hope you like Chinese!" Dani whooped at her own cleverness, and the three of them floated off down the hall. So I thought, Great, maybe they're having dim sum today for lunch, though what that had to do with my new roommate I had no idea. At that point it hadn't really sunk in that conversation with those three is a dangerous thing. That had been my first mistake the previous Wednesday, when classes had officially begun. Conversation, I mean. You know, normal civilized discourse with someone you think might be a friend. Like a total dummy, I'd actually thought this about Vanessa, who'd pulled newbie duty, walking me down the hall to show me where my first class was. It turned out to not be my first class, but the teacher was nice about steering me to the right room, where I was, of course, late. That should've been my first clue. My second clue was when Vanessa invited me to eat with them and Dani managed to spill her Coke all over my uniform skirt, which is, as I said, plaid and made of this easy-clean fake wool that people with sensitive skin can wear. She'd jumped up, all full of apologies, and handed me napkins and stuff, but the fact remained that I had to go upstairs and change and then figure out how the laundry service worked, which meant I was late for Biology, too. On Thursday Dani apologized again, and Vanessa loaned me some of her Bumble and bumble shampoo ("You can't use Paul Mitchell on gorgeous hair like yours—people get that stuff at the drugstore now"), and I was dumb enough to think that maybe things were looking up. Because really, the shampoo was superb. My hair is blond and I wear it long, but before you go hating me for it, it's fine and thick, and the fog we have here in San Francisco makes it go all frizzy. And it's foggy a lot. So this shampoo made it just coo with pleasure. You're probably asking yourself why I bothered trying to be friends with these girls. The harrowing truth was, I was used to being in the A-list group. It never occurred to me that I wouldn't fit in with the popular girls at Spencer, once I figured out who they were. Lucky me—Vanessa made that so easy. And I was so lonely and out of my depth that even she was looking good. Her dad had once backed one of my dad's films, so there was that minimal connection. Too bad it wasn't enough. jolie.mansfield L, don't let them bug you. Some people are threatened by anything new. It's a compliment really. LMansfield You always find the bright side. Gahh. Love you, but not helping. jolie.mansfield What can I do? LMansfield I'd give absolutely anything to be back in S.B. jolie.mansfield :( LMansfield I want to hang with the kids from my youth group. Not worry about anything but the SPF of my sun block. jolie.mansfield It'll get better. Promise. Heard from Mom? LMansfield No. She's doing some fundraiser with Angelina. She's pretty busy. jolie.mansfield If you say so. Love you. Copyright © 2008 by Shelley Adina &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& The Fruit of My Lipstick (All About Us Series, Book 2) Product Details: List Price: $9.99 Paperback: 256 pages Publisher: FaithWords (August 11, 2008) Language: English ISBN-10: 0446177970 ISBN-13: 978-0446177979 AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: Chapter One chapter 1 Top Five Clues That He’s the One 1. He’s smart, which is why he’s dating you and not the queen of the snob mob. 2. He knows he’s hot, but he thinks you’re hotter. 3. He’d rather listen to you than to himself. 4. You’re in on his jokes—not the butt of them. 5. He always gives you the last cookie in the box. THE NEW YEAR. . . when a young girl’s heart turns to new beginnings, weight loss, and a new term of chemistry! Whew! Got that little squee out of my system. But you may as well know right now that science and music are what I do, and they tend to come up a lot in conversation. Sometimes my friends think this is good, like when I’m helping them cram for an exam. Sometimes they just think I’m a geek. But that’s okay. My name is Gillian Frances Jiao-Lan Chang, and since Lissa was brave enough to fall on her sword and spill what happened last fall, I guess I can’t do anything less. I’m kidding about the sword. You know that, right? Term was set to start on the first Wednesday in January, so I flew into SFO first class from JFK on Monday. I thought I’d packed pretty efficiently, but I still exceeded the weight limit by fifty pounds. It took some doing to get me and my bags into the limo, let me tell you. But I’d found last term that I couldn’t live without certain things, so they came with me. Like my sheet music and some more of my books. And warmer clothes. You say California and everyone thinks L.A. The reality of San Francisco in the winter is that it’s cold, whether the sun is shining or the fog is stealing in through the Golden Gate and blanketing the bay. A perfect excuse for a trip to Barney’s to get Vera Wang’s tulip-hem black wool coat, right? I thought so, too. Dorm, sweet dorm. I staggered through the door of the room I share with Lissa Mansfield. It’s up to us to get our stuff into our rooms, so here’s where it pays to be on the rowing team, I guess. Biceps are good for hauling bulging Louis Vuittons up marble staircases. But I am so not the athletic type. I leave that to John, the youngest of my three older brothers. He’s been into gymnastics since he was, like, four, and he’s training hard to make the U.S. Olympic team. I haven’t seen him since I was fourteen—he trains with a coach out in Arizona. My oldest brother, Richard, is twenty-six and works for my dad at the bank, and the second oldest, Darren—the one I’m closest to—is graduating next spring from Harvard and going straight into medical school after that. Yeah, we’re a family of overachievers. Don’t hate me, okay? I heard a thump in the hall outside and got the door open just in time to come face-to-face with a huge piece of striped fiberglass with three fins. I stood aside to let Lissa into the room with her surfboard. She was practically bowed at the knees with the weight of the duffel slung over her shoulder, and another duffel with a big O’Neill logo waited outside. I grabbed it and swung it onto her bed. “Welcome back, girlfriend!” She stood the board against the wall, let the duffel drop to the floor with a thud that probably shook the chandelier in the room below us, and pulled me into a hug. “I am so glad to see you!” Her perfect Nordic face lit up with happiness. “How was your Christmas—the parts you didn’t tell me about on e-mail?” “The usual. Too many family parties. Mom and Nai-Nai made way too much food, two of my brothers fought over the remote like they were ten years old, my dad and oldest brother bailed to go back to work early, and, oh, Nai-Nai wanted to know at least twice a day why I didn’t have a boyfriend.” I considered the chaos we’d just made of our pristine room. “The typical Chang holiday. What about you? Did Scotland improve after the first couple of days?” “It was fre-e-e-e-zing.” She slipped off her coat and tam. “And I don’t just mean rainy-freezing. I mean sleet-and-icicles freezing. The first time I wore my high-heeled Louboutin boots, I nearly broke my ankle. As it was, I landed flat on my butt in the middle of the Royal Mile. Totally embarrassing.” “What’s a Royal Mile? Princesses by the square foot?” “This big broad avenue that goes through the old part of Edinburgh toward the queen’s castle. Good shopping. Restaurants. Tourists. Ice.” She unzipped the duffel and began pulling things out of it. “Dad was away a lot at the locations for this movie. Sometimes I went with him, and sometimes I hung out with this really adorable guy who was supposed to be somebody’s production assistant but who wound up being my guide the whole time.” “It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.” “I made it worth his while.” She flashed me a wicked grin, but behind it I saw something else. Pain, and memory. “So.” She spread her hands. “What’s new around here?” I shrugged. “I just walked in myself a few minutes ago. You probably passed the limo leaving. But if what you really want to know is whether the webcam incident is over and done with, I don’t know yet.” She turned away, but not before I saw her flush pink and then blink really fast, like her contacts had just been flooded. “Let’s hope so.” “You made it through last term.” I tried to be encouraging. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?” “It made one thing stronger.” She pulled a cashmere scarf out of the duffel and stroked it as though it were a kitten. “I never prayed so hard in my life. Especially during finals week, remember? When those two idiots seriously thought they could force me into that storage closet and get away with it?” “Before we left, I heard the short one was going to be on crutches for six weeks.” I grinned at her. Fact of the day: Surfers are pretty good athletes. Don’t mess with them. “Maybe it should be, ‘What doesn’t kill you makes your relationship with God stronger.’” “That I’ll agree with. Do you know if Carly’s here yet?” “Her dad was driving her up in time for supper, so she should be calling any second.” Sure enough, within a few minutes, someone knocked. “That’s gotta be her.” I jumped for the door and swung it open. “Hey, chicas!” Carly hugged me and then Lissa. “Did you miss me?” “Like chips miss guacamole.” Lissa grinned at her. “Good break?” She grimaced, her soft brown eyes a little sad. Clearly Christmas break isn’t what it’s cracked up to be in anybody’s world. “Dad had to go straighten out some computer chip thing in Singapore, so Antony and I got shipped off to Veracruz. It was great to see my mom and the grandparents, but you know . . .” Her voice trailed away. “What?” I asked. “Did you have a fight?” That’s what happens at our house. “No.” She sighed, then lifted her head to look at both of us. “I think my mom has a boyfriend.” “Ewww,” Lissa and I said together, with identical grimaces. “I always kind of hoped my mom and dad would figure it out, you know? And get back together. But it looks like that’s not going to happen.” I hugged her again. “I’m sorry, Carly. That stinks.” “Yeah.” She straightened up, and my arm slid from her shoulders. “So, enough about me. What about you guys?” With a quick recap, we put her in the picture. “So do you have something going with this Scottish guy?” Carly asked Lissa. Lissa shook her head, a curtain of blonde hair falling to partially hide her face—a trick I’ve never quite been able to master, even though my hair hangs past my shoulders. But it’s so thick and coarse, it never does what I want on the best of days. It has to be beaten into submission by a professional. “I think I liked his accent most of all,” she said. “I could just sit there and listen to him talk all day. In fact, I did. What he doesn’t know about murders and wars and Edinburgh Castle and Lord This and Earl That would probably fit in my lip gloss tube.” I contrasted walking the cold streets of Edinburgh, listening to some guy drone on about history, with fighting with my brothers. Do we girls know how to have fun, or what? “Better you than me.” “I’d have loved it,” Carly said. “Can you imagine walking through a castle with your own private tour guide? Especially if he’s cute. It doesn’t get better than that.” “Um, okay.” Lissa gave her a sideways glance. “Miss A-plus in History.” “Really?” I had A-pluses in AP Chem and Math, but with anything less in those subjects, I wouldn’t have been able to face my father at Christmas. As it was, he had a fit over my B in History, and the only reason I managed to achieve an A-minus in English was because of a certain person with the initials L. M. Carly shrugged. “I like history. I like knowing what happened where, and who it happened to, and what they were wearing. Not that I’ve ever been anywhere very much, except Texas and Mexico.” “You’d definitely have liked Alasdair, then,” Lissa said. “He knows all about what happened to whom. But the worst was having to go for tea at some freezing old stone castle that Dad was using for a set. I thought I’d lose my toes from frostbite.” “Somebody lives in the castle?” Carly looked fascinated. “Who?” “Some earl.” Lissa looked into the distance as she flipped through the PDA in her head. Then she blinked. “The Earl and Countess of Strathcairn.” “Cool!” “Very. Forty degrees, tops. He said he had a daughter about our age, but I never met her. She heard we were coming and took off on her horse.” “Mo guai nuer,” I said. “Rude much?” Lissa shrugged. “Alasdair knew the family. He said Lady Lindsay does what she wants, and clearly she didn’t want to meet us. Not that I cared. I was too busy having hypothermia. I’ve never been so glad to see the inside of a hotel room in my life. I’d have put my feet in my mug of tea if I could have.” “Well, cold or not, I still think it’s cool that you met an earl,” Carly said. “And I can’t wait to see your dad’s movie.” “Filming starts in February, so Dad won’t be around much. But Mom’s big charity gig for the Babies of Somalia went off just before Christmas and was a huge success, so she’ll be around a bit more.” She paused. “Until she finds something else to get involved in.” “Did you meet Angelina?” I asked. Lissa’s life fascinated me. To her, movie stars are her dad’s coworkers, like the brokers and venture capitalists who come to the bank are my dad’s coworkers. But Dad doesn’t work with people who look like Orlando and Angelina, that’s for sure. “Yes, I met her. She apologized for flaking on me for the Benefactors’ Day Ball. Not that I blame her. It all turned out okay in the end.” “Except for your career as Vanessa Talbot’s BFF.” Lissa snorted. “Yeah. Except that.” None of us mentioned what else had crashed and burned in flames after the infamous webcam incident—her relationship with the most popular guy in school, Callum McCloud. I had a feeling that that was a scab we just didn’t need to pick at. “You don’t need Vanessa Talbot,” Carly said firmly. “You have us.” We exchanged a grin. “She’s right,” I said. “This term, it’s totally all about us.” “Thank goodness for that,” she said. “Come on. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.” RStapleton I heard from a mutual friend that you take care of people at midterm time. Source10 What friend? RStapleton Loyola. Source10 Been known to happen. RStapleton How much? Source10 1K. Math, sciences, geography only. RStapleton I hate numbers. Source10 IM me the day before to confirm. RStapleton OK. Who are you? RStapleton You there? BY NOON THE next day, I’d hustled down to the student print shop in the basement and printed the notices I’d laid out on my Mac. I tacked them on the bulletin boards in the common rooms and classroom corridors on all four floors. Christian prayer circle every Tuesday night 7:00 p.m., Room 216 Bring your Bible and a friend! “Nice work,” Lissa told me when I found her and Carly in the dining room. “Love the salmon pink paper. But school hasn’t officially started yet. We probably won’t get a very good turnout if the first one’s tonight.” “Maybe not.” I bit into a succulent California roll and savored the tart, thin seaweed wrapper around the rice, avocado, and shrimp. I had to hand it to Dining Services. Their food was amazing. “But even if it’s just the three of us, I can’t think of a better way to start off the term, can you?” Lissa didn’t reply. The color faded from her face and she concentrated on her square ceramic plate of sushi as though it were her last meal. Carly swallowed a bite of makizushi with an audible gulp as it went down whole. Slowly, casually, I reached for the pepper shaker and glanced over my shoulder. “If it isn’t the holy trinity,” Vanessa drawled, plastered against Brett Loyola’s arm and standing so close behind us, neither Carly nor I could move. “Going to multiply the rice and fish for us?” “Nice to see you, too, Vanessa,” Lissa said coolly. “Been reading your Bible, I see.” “Hi, Brett,” Carly managed, her voice about six notes higher than usual as she craned to look up at him. He looked at her, puzzled, as if he’d seen her before somewhere but couldn’t place where, and gave her a vague smile. “Hey.” I rolled my eyes. Like we hadn’t spent an entire term in History together. Like Carly didn’t light up like a Christmas tree every time she passed a paper to him, or maneuvered her way into a study group that had him in it. Honestly. I don’t know how that guy got past the entrance requirements. Oh, wait. Silly me. Daddy probably made a nice big donation to the athletics department, and they waved Brett through Admissions with a grateful smile. “Have any of you seen Callum?” Vanessa inquired sweetly. “I’m dying to see him. I hear he spent Christmas skiing at their place in Vail with his sisters and his new girlfriend. No parents.” “He’s a day student.” I glanced at Lissa to see how she was taking this, but she’d leaned over to the table behind her to snag a bunch of napkins. “Why would he be eating here?” “To see all his friends, of course. I guess that’s why you haven’t seen him.” “Neither have you, if you’re asking where he is.” Poor Vanessa. I hope she’s never on a debating team. It could get humiliating. But what she lacked in logic she made up for in venom. She ignored me and gushed, “I love your outfit, Lissa. I’m sure Callum would, too. That is, if he were still speaking to you.” I barely restrained myself from giving Vanessa an elbow in the stomach. But Lissa had come a long way since her ugly breakup with a guy who didn’t deserve her. Vanessa had no idea who she was dealing with—Lissa with an army of angels at her back was a scary thing. She pinned Vanessa with a stare as cold as fresh snow. “You mean you haven’t told him yet that you made that video?” She shook her head. “Naughty Vanessa, lying to your friends like that.” A big smile and a meaningful glance at Brett. “But then, they’re probably used to it.” Vanessa opened her mouth to say something scathing, when a tall, lanky guy elbowed past her to put his sushi dishes on the table next to mine. Six feet of sheer brilliance, with blue eyes and brown hair cropped short so he didn’t have to deal with it. A mind so sharp, he put even the overachievers here in the shade—but in spite of that, a guy who’d started coming to prayer circle last term. Who could fluster me with a look, and wipe my brain completely blank with just a smile. Lucas Hayes. “Hey, Vanessa, Brett.” My jaw sagged in surprise, and I snapped it shut on my mouthful of rice, hoping he hadn’t seen. Since when was the king of the science geeks on speaking terms with the popular crowd? To add to the astonishment, the two of them stepped back, as if to give him some space. “Yo, Einstein.” Brett grinned and they shook hands. “Hi, Lucas.” Vanessa glanced from him to me to our dishes sitting next to each other. “I didn’t know you were friends with these people.” He shrugged. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” “That could change. Why don’t you come and sit with us?” she asked. Brett looked longingly at the sushi bar and tugged on her arm. She ignored him. “We’re much more fun. We don’t sing hymns and save souls.” “So I’ve heard. Did you make it into Trig?” “Of course.” She tossed her gleaming sheet of hair over one shoulder. “Thanks to you.” I couldn’t keep quiet another second. “You tutored her?” I asked him, trying not to squeak. He picked up a piece of California roll and popped it in his mouth, nodding. “All last term.” He glanced at Vanessa. “Contrary to popular opinion, she isn’t all looks.” Oh, gack. Way TMI. Vanessa smiled as though she’d won this and all other possible arguments now and in the future, world without end, amen. “Come on, Lucas. Hold our table for us while Brett and I get our food. I want to talk to you about something anyway.” He shrugged and picked up his dishes while she and Brett swanned away. “See you at prayer circle,” he said to me. “I saw the signs. Same time and place, right?” I could only nod as he headed for the table in the middle of the big window looking out on the quad. The one no one else dared to sit at, in case they risked the derision and social ostracism that would follow. The empty seat on my right seemed even emptier. How could he do that? How could he just dump us and then say he’d see us at prayer circle? Shouldn’t he want to eat with the people he prayed with? “It’s okay, Gillian,” Carly whispered. “At least he’s coming.” “And Vanessa isn’t,” Lissa put in with satisfaction. “I’m not so sure I want him to, now,” I said. I looked at my sushi and my stomach sort of lurched. Ugh. I pushed it away. And here I’d been feeling so superior to Carly and her unrequited yen for Brett. I was just as bad, and this proved it. What else could explain this sick feeling in my middle? Two hours later, while Lissa, Carly, and I shoved aside the canvases and whatnot that had accumulated in Room 216 over the break, making enough room for half a dozen people to sit, I’d almost talked myself into not caring whether Lucas came or not. And then he stepped through the door and I realized my body was more honest than my brain. I sucked in a breath and my heart began to pound. Oh, yeah. You so don’t care. Travis, who must have arrived during dinner, trickled in behind him, and then Shani Hanna, who moved with the confidence of an Arabian queen, arrived with a couple of sophomores I didn’t know. Her hair, tinted bronze and caught up at the crown of her head, tumbled to her shoulders in corkscrew curls. I fingered my own arrow-straight mop that wouldn’t hold a curl if you threatened it with death. Okay, stop feeling sorry for yourself, would you? Enough is enough. “Hey, everyone, thanks for coming,” I said brightly, getting to my feet. “I’m Gillian Chang. Why don’t the newbies introduce themselves, and then we’ll get started?” The sophomores told us their names, and I found out Travis’s last name was Fanshaw. And the dots connected. Of course he’d been assigned as Lucas’s roommate—he’s like this Chemistry genius. If it weren’t for Lucas, he’d be the king of the science geeks. Sometimes science people have a hard time reconciling scientific method with faith. If they were here at prayer circle, maybe Travis and Lucas were among the lucky few who figured science was a form of worship, of marveling at the amazement that is creation. I mean, if Lucas was one of those guys who got a kick out of arguing with the Earth Sciences prof, I wouldn’t even be able to date him. Not that there was any possibility of that. As our prayers went up one by one, quietly from people like Carly and brash and uncomfortably from people like Travis and the sophomores, I wished that dating was the kind of thing I could pray about. But I don’t think God has my social life on His to-do list. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Copyright © 2008 by Shelley Adina This article is used with the permission of Hachette Book Group and Shelley Adina. All rights reserved.

FIRST: The Summer The Wind Whispered My Name

It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter! The feature author is: Don Locke and his book: The Summer the Wind Whispered My Name NavPress Publishing Group (August 2008) ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Don Locke is an illustrator and graphic artist for NBC's Tonight Show with Jay Leno and has worked as a freelance writer and illustrator for more than thirty years. He lives in Southern California with his wife, Susan. The Summer the Wind Whispered My Name, prequel to The Reluctant Journey of David Connors, is Don's second novel. Product Details: List Price: $12.99 Paperback: 355 pages Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (August 2008) Language: English ISBN-10: 1600061532 ISBN-13: 978-1600061530 AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: Preface Until recently my early childhood memories weren’t readily available for recollection. Call it a defective hard drive. They remained a mystery and a void—a midwestern landscape of never-ending pitch-blackness where I brushed up against people and objects but could never assign them faces or names, much less attach feelings to our brief encounters. But through a miraculous act of divine grace, I found my way back home to discover the child I’d forgotten, the boy I’d abandoned supposedly for the good of us both. There he sat beneath an oak tree patiently awaiting my return, as if I’d simply taken a day-long fishing trip. This reunion of spirits has transformed me into someone both wiser and more innocent, leaving me to feel both old and young. And with this new gift of recollection, my memories turn to that boy and to the summer of 1960, when the winds of change blew across our rooftops and through the screen doors, turning the simple, manageable world of my suburban neighborhood into something unfamiliar, something uncomfortable. Those same winds blew my father and me apart. One Route 666 With a gentle shake of my shoulders, a kiss on my cheek, and the words It’s time whispered by my mom, I woke at five thirty in the morning to prepare for my newspaper route. Careful not to wake my older brother, Bobby, snoozing across the room, I slipped out of bed and stumbled my way into the hallway and toward the bathroom, led only by the dim glow of the nightlight and a familiarity with the route. There on the bathroom floor, as usual, my mother had laid my clothes out in the shape of my body, my underwear layered on top. You’re probably wondering why she did this. It could have been that she severely underestimated my intelligence and displayed my clothes in this fashion in case there was any doubt on my part as to which articles of clothing went where on my body. She didn’t want to face the public humiliation brought on by her son walking out of the house wearing his Fruit of the Loom undies over his head. Or maybe her work was simply the result of a sense of humor that I missed completely. Either way, I never asked. Mine was a full-service mom whose selfless measures of accommodation put the men of Texaco to shame. The fact that she would inconvenience herself by waking me when an alarm clock would suffice, or lay out my clothes when I was capable of doing so myself, might sound a bit odd to you, but believe me, it was only the tip of the indulgent iceberg. This was a woman who would cut the crust off my PB&J sandwich at my request, set my toothbrush out every night with a wad of Colgate laying atop the bristles, and who would often put me to sleep at night with a song, a prayer, and a back scratch. In the wintertime, when the wind chill off Lake Erie made the hundred-yard trek down to the corner to catch the school bus feel like Admiral Perry’s excursion, Mom would actually lay my clothes out on top of the floor heater before I woke up so that my body would be adequately preheated before stepping outside to face the Ohio cold. From my perspective my room was self-cleaning; toys, sports equipment, and clothes discarded onto the floor all found their way back to the toy box, closet, or dresser. I never encountered a dish that I had to clean or trash I had to empty or a piece of clothing I had to wash or iron or fold or put away. I finished dressing, entered the kitchen, and there on the maroon Formica table, in predictable fashion, sat my glass of milk and chocolate long john patiently waiting for me to consume them. My mother, a chocoholic long before the word was coined, had a sweet tooth that she’d handed down to her children. She believed that a heavy dusting of white processed sugar on oatmeal, cream of wheat, or grapefruit was crucial energy fuel for starting one’s day. Only earlier that year I’d been shocked to learn from my third grade teacher, Mrs. Mercer, that chocolate was not, in fact, a member of any of the four major food groups. Wearing a milk mustache and buzzing from my sugar rush, I walked outside to where the stack of Tribunes—dropped off in my driveway earlier by the news truck—were waiting for me to fold them. More often than I ever cared to hear it, my dad would point out, “It’s the early bird that catches the worm.” But for me it was really those early morning summer hours themselves that provided the reward. Sitting there on our cement front step beneath a forty-watt porch light, rolling a stack of Tribunes, I was keenly aware that bodies were still strewn out across beds in every house in the neighborhood, lying lost in their dreamland slumber while I was already experiencing the day. There would be time enough for the sounds of wooden screen doors slamming shut, the hissing of sprinklers on Bermuda lawns, and the songs of robins competing with those of Elvis emanating from transistor radios everywhere. But for now there was a stillness about my neighborhood that seemed to actually slow time down, where even the old willow in our front yard stood like one more giant dozing on his feet, his long arms hanging lifeless at his sides, and where the occasional shooting star streaking across the black sky was a confiding moment belonging only to the morning and me. From the porch step I could detect the subtle, pale peach glow rise behind the Finnegan’s house across the street. I stretched a rubber band open across the top of my knuckles, spread my fingers apart, and slid it down over the length of the rolled paper to hold it in place. Seventy-six times I’d repeat this act almost unconsciously. There was something about the crisp, cool morning air that seemed to contain a magical element that when breathed in set me to daydreaming. So that’s just what I did . . . I sent my homemade bottle rocket blasting above the trees and watched as the red and white bobber at the end of my fishing pole suddenly got sucked down below the surface of the water at Crystal Lake, and with my Little League team’s game on the line, I could hear the crack of my bat as I smacked a liner over the third baseman’s head to drive in the go-ahead run. Granted, most kids would daydream bigger—their rockets sailed to the moon or Mars, and their fish, blue marlins at least, were hooked off Bermuda in their yachts, and their hits were certainly grand slams in the bottom of the ninth to win the World Series for the Reds—but my dad always suggested that a dream should have its feet planted firmly enough in reality to actually have a chance to come true one day, or there wasn’t much point in conjuring up the dream in the first place. Dreaming too big would only lead to a lifetime scattered with the remnants of disappointments and heartbreak. And I believed him. Why not? I was young and his shadow fell across me with weight and substance and truth. He was my hero. But in some ways, I suppose, he was too much like my other heroes: Frank Robinson, Ricky Nelson, Maverick. I looked up to them because of their accomplishments or their image, not because of who they really were. I didn’t really know who they were outside of that. Such was the case with my dad. He was a great athlete in his younger years, had a drawer full of medals for track and field, swimming, baseball, basketball, and a bunch from the army to prove it. It was my dad who had managed to pull the strings that allowed me to have a paper route in the first place. I remember reading the pride in his eyes earlier in the spring when he first told me I got the job. His voice rose and fell within a wider range than usual as he explained how I would now be serving a valuable purpose in society by being directly responsible for informing people of local, national, and even international events. My dad made it sound important—an act of responsibility, being this cog in the wheel of life, the great mandala. And it made me feel important, better defining my place in the universe. In a firm handshake with my dad, I promised I wouldn’t let him down. Finishing up folding and banding the last paper, I knew I was running a little late because Spencer, the bullmastiff next door, had already begun to bark in anticipation of my arrival. Checking the Bulova wristwatch that my dad had given me as a gift the morning of my first route confirmed it. I proceeded to cram forty newspapers into my greasy white canvas pouch and loop the straps over my bike handles. Riding my self-painted, fluorescent green Country Road–brand bike handed down from my brother, I would deliver these papers mostly to my immediate neighborhood and swing back around to pick up the final thirty-six. I picked the olive green army hat up off the step. Though most boys my age wore baseball caps, I was seldom seen without the hat my dad wore in World War II. Slapping it down onto my head, I hopped onto my bike, turned on the headlight, and was off down my driveway, turning left on the sidewalk that ran along the front of our corner property on Willowcreek Road. I rode around to where our street dead-ended, curving into Briarbrook. Our eccentric young neighbors, the Springfields, lived next door in a house they’d painted black. Mr. and Mrs. Springfield chose to raise a devil dog named Spencer rather than experiencing the joy of parenthood. Approaching the corner of their white picket fence on my bike, I could see the strong, determined, shadowy figure of that demon dashing back and forth along the picket fence, snarling and barking at me loudly enough to wake the whole neighborhood. As was my custom, I didn’t dare slow down while I heaved the rolled-up newspaper over his enormous head into their yard. Spencer sprinted over to the paper and pounced on it, immediately tearing it to shreds—a daily reenactment. The couple insisted that I do this every day, as they were attempting to teach Spencer to fetch the morning paper, bring it around to the back of the house where he was supposed to enter by way of the doggy door, and gently place the newspaper in one piece on the kitchen table so it would be there to peruse when they woke for breakfast. Theirs was one of only two houses in the neighborhood that were fenced in, a practice uncommon in the suburbs because it implied a lack of hospitality. Even a small hedge along a property line could be interpreted as stand-offish. The Springfields’ choice of house color wasn’t helpful in dispelling this notion. And yet it was a good thing that they chose to enclose their property because we were all quite certain that if Spencer ever escaped his yard, he would systematically devour every neighborhood kid, one by one. The strange thing was that the picket fence couldn’t have been more than three feet high, low enough for even a miniature poodle to clear—so why hadn’t Spencer taken the leap? Could it be that he was just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to jump that hurdle? So I was thankful for the Springfields’ ineptitude when it came to dog training because it allowed me to buffer Spencer’s appetite, knowing that whenever he did decide to make his move, I would most likely be the first course on the menu. The neighborhood houses on my route were primarily ranch style, third-little-pig variety, and always on my left. On my left so that I could grab a paper out of my bag and heave it across my body, allowing for more mustard on my throw and more accuracy than if I had to sling it backhand off to my right side. This technique also helped build up strength in my pitching arm. I always aimed directly toward the middle of the driveway instead of anywhere near the porch, which could, as I’d learned, be treacherous territory. An irate Mrs. Messerschmitt from Sleepy Hollow Road once dropped by my house, screaming, “You’ve murdered my children! You’ve murdered my children!” Apparently I’d made an errant toss that tore the blooming heads right off her precious pansies and injured a few hapless marigolds. From that day on I shot for the middle of the driveway, making sure no neighbors’ flowers ever suffered a similar fate at my hands. I passed my friend Mouse Miller’s house, crossed the street, and headed down the other side of Briarbrook, past Allison Hoffman’s house—our resident divorcée. All my friends still had their two original parents and family intact, which made Mrs. Hoffman’s status a bit of an oddity. Maybe it was the polio scare that people my parents’ age had had to live through that appeared to make them wary of any abnormality in another human being. It wasn’t just being exposed to the drug addicts or the murderers that concerned them, but contact with any fringe members of society: the divorcées and the widowers, the fifty-year-old bachelors, people with weird hairdos or who wore clothing not found in the Sears catalogue. People with facial hair were especially to be avoided. You didn’t want to be a nonconformist in 1960. Though nearly a decade had passed, effects of the McCarthy hearings had left some Americans with lingering suspicions that their neighbor might be a Red or something worse. So everyone did their best to just fit in. There was an unspoken fear that whatever social dysfunction people possessed was contagious by mere association with them. I had a feeling my mom believed this to be the case with Allison Hoffman—that all my mother had to do was engage in a five-minute conversation with any divorced woman, and a week or so later, my dad would come home from work and out of the blue announce, “Honey, I want a divorce.” Likely in her late twenties, Mrs. Hoffman was attractive enough to be a movie star or at least a fashion model—she was that pretty. She taught at a junior high school across town, but for extra cash would tutor kids in her spare time. Despite her discriminating attitude toward Mrs. Hoffman, my mother was forced to hire her as a tutor for my sixteen-year-old brother for two sessions a week, seeing as Bobby could never quite grasp the concept of dangling participles and such. Still, whenever she mentioned Mrs. Hoffman’s name, my mom always found a way to justify setting her Christian beliefs aside, calling her that woman, as in, “just stay away from that woman.” Mom must have skipped over the part in the Bible where Jesus healed the lepers. Anyway, Mrs. Hoffman seemed nice enough to me when I’d see her gardening in her yard or when I’d have to collect newspaper money from her; a wave and smile were guaranteed. I delivered papers down Briarbrook, passed my friend Sheena’s house on the cul-de-sac, and went back down to Willowcreek, where I rolled past the Jensens’ vacant house. The For Sale sign had been stuck in the lawn out front since the beginning of spring. I’d seen few people even stop by to look at the charming, white frame house I remember as having great curb appeal. Every kid on the block was rooting for a family with at least a dozen kids to move in to provide some fresh blood. A half a block later, I turned the corner and was about to toss the paper down Mr. Melzer’s drive when I spotted the old man lying under his porch light, sprawled out on the veranda, his blue overall-covered legs awkwardly dangling down the front steps of his farm house. I immediately stood up on my bike, slammed on the brakes, fish-tailed a streak of rubber on the sidewalk, dumped the bike, and rushed up to his motionless body. “Mr. Melzer! Mr. Melzer!” Certain he was dead, I kept shouting at him like he was only asleep or deaf. “Mr. Melzer!” I was afraid to touch him to see if he was alive. The only dead body I had touched up till then was my great-uncle Frank’s at his wake, and it was not a particularly pleasant experience. I was five years old when my mom led me up to the big shiny casket where I peered over the top to see the man lying inside. Standing on my tiptoes, I stared at Frank’s clay-colored face, which I believed looked too grumpy, too dull. While alive and kicking, my uncle was an animated man with ruddy cheeks who spoke and reacted with passion and humor, but the expression he wore while lying in that box was one that I’d never seen on his face before. I was quite sure that if he’d been able to gaze in the mirror at his dead self with that stupid, frozen pouting mouth looking back at him, he would have been humiliated and embarrassed as all get out. And so, while no one watched, I started poking and prodding at his surprisingly pliable mouth, trying to reshape his smile into something more natural, more familiar, like the expression he’d worn recalling the time he drove up to frigid Green Bay in a blizzard to watch his beloved Browns topple Bart Starr and the Green Bay Packers. Or the one he’d displayed while telling us what a thrill it was to meet Betty Grable at a USO function during the war, or the grin that always appeared on his face right after he’d take a swig of a cold beer on a hot summer day. It was a look of satisfaction that I was after, and was pretty sure I could pull it off. Those hours of turning shapeless Play-Doh into little doggies and snowmen had prepared me for this moment. After a mere twenty seconds of my molding handiwork, I had successfully managed to remove my uncle’s grim, lifeless expression. Unfortunately I had replaced it with a hideous-looking full-on smile, his teeth beaming like the Joker from the Batman comics. Before I could step back for a more objective look, my Aunt Doris let out a little shriek behind me; an older gentleman gasped, which brought my brother over, and he let out a howl of laughter, all followed by a flurry of activity that included some heated discussion among relatives, the casket’s being closed, and my mother’s hauling me out of the room by my earlobe. But you probably don’t really care much about my Uncle Frank. You’re wondering about Mr. Melzer and if he’s a character who has kicked the bucket before you even got to know him or know if you like him. You will like him. I did. “Mr. Melzer!” I gave him a good poke in the arm. Nothing . . . then another one. The fact is I was surprised when Mr. Melzer began to move. First his head turned . . . then his arm wiggled . . . then he rose, propping himself up onto an elbow, attempting to regain his bearings. “Mr. Melzer?” “What?” He looked around, glassy-eyed, still groggy. “Davy?” I suddenly felt dizzy and nearly fell down beside him on the porch. “Yeah, it’s me.” “I must have dozed off. Guess the farmer in me still wants to wake with the dawn, but the old man, well, he knows better.” He looked my way. “You’re white as a sheet—you okay, boy?” Actually I was feeling pretty nauseated. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just thought . . .” “What? You thought what?” “Well, when I saw you lying there . . . I just thought . . .” “That I was dead?” I nodded. “Well, no, no, I can see where that might be upsetting for you. Come to think of it, it’s a little upsetting to me. Not that I’m not prepared to meet my maker, mind you. Or to see Margaret again.” He leaned heavily on his right arm, got himself upright, and adjusted his suspenders. “The fact is . . . I do miss the old gal. The way she’d know to take my hand when it needed holdin’. Or how she could make a room feel comfortable just by her sitting in it, breathing the same air. Heck, I even miss her lousy coffee. And I hope, after these two years apart, she might have forgotten what a pain in the rear I could be, and she might have the occasion to miss me a bit, too.” Until that moment, I hadn’t considered the possibility of the dead missing the living. Sometimes when he wasn’t even trying to, Mr. Melzer made me think. And it always surprised me how often he would just say anything that came into his head. He never edited himself like most adults. He was like a kid in that respect, but more interesting. “You believe in heaven?” I asked Mr. Melzer. “Rather counting on it. How ’bout you?” “My mom says that when we go to heaven we’ll be greeted by angels with golden wings.” “Really? Angels, huh?” “And she says that they’ll sing a beautiful song written especially for us.” “Really? Your mother’s an interesting woman, Davy. But I could go for that—I could. Long as they’re not sitting around on clouds playing harps. Don’t care for harp music one bit. Pretty sure it was the Marx Brothers that soured me on that instrument.” “How so?” “Well, those Marx Brothers, in every movie they made they’d be running around, being zany as the dickens, and then Harpo—the one who never spoke a lick, the one with the fuzzy blond hair—always honking his horn and chasing some skinny, pretty gal around. Anyway, in the middle of all their high jinks, Harpo would come across some giant harp just conveniently lying around somewhere, and he’d feel obliged to stop all the antics to play some sappy tune that just about put you to sleep. I could never recover. Turned me sour on the harp, he did. I’m more of a horn man, myself. Give me a saxophone or trumpet and I’m happy. And I’m not particularly opposed to a fiddle either. But harps—I say round ’em up and burn ’em all. Melt ’em down and turn them into something practical . . . something that can’t make a sound . . . that’s what I say.” See, I told you he’d pretty much say anything. I don’t think that Mr. Melzer had many people to listen to him. And just having a bunch of thoughts roaming around in his head wasn’t enough. I think Mr. Melzer chattered a lot so that he wouldn’t lose himself, so he could remember who he was. “Yeah, well, anyway, I figure I’ll go home when it’s my time,” he continued. “Just hope it can wait for the harvest, seeing as there’s no one else to bring in the corn when it’s time.” As far back as I could remember, Mr. Melzer used to drag this little red wagon around the neighborhood on August evenings, stacked to the limit with ears of corn. And he’d go door to door and hand out corn to everybody like he was some kind of an agricultural Santa. “Do you know I used to have fields of corn as far as the eye can see . . . way beyond the rooftops over there?” I did know this, but I never tired of the enthusiasm with which he told it, so I didn’t stop him. About ten years before, Mr. Melzer had sold off all but a few acres of his farmland to a contractor, resulting in what became my neighborhood. “I still get a thrill when I shuck that first ear of corn of the harvest, and see that ripe golden row of kernels smiling back at me. Hot, sweet corn, lightly salted with butter dripping down all over it . . . mmm. Nothing better. Don’t nearly have the teeth for it anymore. You eat yours across or up and down?” “Across.” “Me too. Only way to eat corn. Tastes better across. When I see somebody munching on an ear like this”—the old man rolled the imaginary ear of corn in front of his imaginary teeth chomping down—“I just want to slap him upside the head.” I was starting to run very late, and he noticed me fidgeting. “Oh, yeah, here I am blabbering away, and you got a job to do.” “I’ll get your paper.” I ran back to my bike lying on the sidewalk. “So I see nobody’s bought the Jensen place yet,” he yelled out to me. I grabbed a newspaper that had spilled out of my bag onto the sidewalk, and rushed back to Mr. Melzer. “Not yet. Whoever does, hope they have kids.” I handed the old man the newspaper. “Listen, I’m sorry I scared you,” he said. “It’s okay.” I looked over at a pile of unopened newspapers on the porch by the door. “Mind if I ask you something?” “Shoot.” “How come you never read the paper?” “Oh, don’t know. At some point I guess you grow tired of bad news. Besides, these days all the news I need is right here in the neighborhood.” “So why do you still order the paper?” The old man smiled. “Well, the way I see it, if I didn’t order the paper, I’d miss out on these splendid little chats with you, now wouldn’t I?” I told you you’d like him. I grinned. “I’m glad you’re not dead, Mr. Melzer.” “Likewise,” he said, shooting a wink my way. When I turned around to walk back to my bike, I heard the rolled up newspaper hit the top of the pile.

FIRST: Mile In My Flip-Flops

It is July FIRST, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and her latest book's FIRST chapter! The feature author is: Melody Carlson and her book: A Mile in My Flip-Flops WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008) ABOUT THE AUTHOR: In sixth grade, Melody Carlson helped start a school newspaper called The BuccaNews (her school’s mascot was a Buccaneer...arrr!). As editor of this paper, she wrote most of the material herself, creating goofy phony bylines to hide the fact that the school newspaper was mostly a "one man" show. Visit Melody's website to see all of her wonderful and various book titles. Don't miss her latest teen fiction, Stealing Bradford (Carter House Girls, Book 2). Product Details: List Price: $13.99 Paperback: 336 pages Publisher: WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008) Language: English ISBN-10: 1400073146 ISBN-13: 978-1400073146 AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: I’m not the kind of girl who wants anyone to feel sorry for her. So after my fiancé jilted me less than four weeks before our wedding date, and since the invitations had already been sent, my only recourse was to lie low and wait for everyone to simply forget. Consequently, I became a recluse. If I wasn’t at work, teaching a delightful class of five-year-olds, who couldn’t care less about my shattered love life, I could be found holed up in my apartment, escaping all unnecessary interaction with “sympathetic” friends. And that is how I became addicted to HGTV and ice cream. Okay, that probably calls for some explanation. HGTV stands for Home and Garden TV, a network that runs 24/7 and is what I consider the highest form of comfort TV. It is habit forming, albeit slightly mind numbing. And ice cream obviously needs no explanation. Other than the fact that my dad, bless his heart, had seven quart-sized cartons of Ben & Jerry’s delivered to my apartment the day after Collin dumped me. Appropriately enough, dear old Dad (who knows me better than anyone on the planet) selected a flavor called Chocolate Therapy, a product worthy of its name and just as addictive as HGTV. But now, eighteen months and twenty-two pounds later, I seem to be in a rut. And apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so. “Come on, Gretchen,” urges my best friend, Holly, from her end of the phone line. “Just come with us–please!” “Right…,” I mutter as I lick my spoon and dip it back into a freshly opened carton of Chunky Monkey–also appropriately named, but let’s not go there. Anyway, not only had I moved on to new ice cream flavors, but I also had given up using bowls. “Like I want to tag along with the newlyweds. Thanks, but no thanks.” “Like I keep telling you, we’re not newlyweds anymore,” she insists. “We’ve been married three months now.” “Yeah…well…” “And it’s Cinco de Mayo,” she persists, using that little girl voice that I first heard when we became best friends back in third grade. “We always go together.” I consider this. I want to point out that Holly and I used to always go to the Cinco de Mayo celebration together–as in past tense. And despite her pity for me, or perhaps it’s just some sort of misplaced guilt because she’s married and I am not, I think the days of hanging with my best friend are pretty much over now. The image of Holly and Justin, both good looking enough to be models, strolling around holding hands with frumpy, dumpy me tagging along behind them like their poor, single, reject friend just doesn’t work for me. “Thanks anyway,” I tell her. “But I’m kind of busy today.” “So what are you doing then?” I hear the challenge in her voice, like she thinks I don’t have anything to do on a Saturday. I slump back into the sofa and look over to the muted TV, which is tuned, of course, to HGTV, where my favorite show, House Flippers, is about to begin, and I don’t want to miss a minute of it. “I’m, uh…I’ve got lesson plans to do,” I say quickly. This is actually true, although I don’t usually do them until Sunday evening. She snickers. “Yeah, that’s a good one, Gretch. I’ll bet you’re vegging out in front of HGTV with a carton of Chocolate Fudge Brownie.” “Wrong.” Okay, Holly is only partially wrong. Fortunately, I haven’t told her about my latest flavor. “Come on,” she tries again. “It’ll be fun. You can bring Riley along. He’d probably like to stretch his legs.” I glance over to where my usually hyper, chocolate Lab mixed breed is snoozing on his LL Bean doggy bed with a chewed-up and slightly soggy Cole Haan loafer tucked under his muzzle. “Riley’s napping,” I say. “He doesn’t want to be disturbed.” “Like he wouldn’t want to go out and get some fresh air and sunshine?” “We already had our walk today." Holly laughs. “You mean that little shuffle you do over to the itty bitty park across the street from your apartment complex? What’s that take? Like seven and a half minutes for the whole round trip? That’s not enough exercise for a growing dog like Riley.” “I threw a ball for him to chase.” “So there’s nothing I can do or say to change your mind?” House Flippers is just starting. “Nope,” I say, trying to end this conversation. “But thanks for thinking of me.” “Want me to bring you back an empanada?” “Sure,” I say quickly. “You guys have fun!” Then I hang up and, taking the TV off mute, I lean back into the soft chenille sofa and lose myself while watching a hapless couple from Florida renovate a seriously run-down split-level into something they hope to sell for a profit. Unfortunately, neither of them is terribly clever when it comes to remodeling basics. And their taste in interior design is sadly lacking too. The woman’s favorite color is rose, which she uses liberally throughout the house, and she actually thinks that buyers will appreciate the dated brown tiles and bathroom fixtures in the powder room. By the time the show ends, not only is the house still on the market despite the reduced price and open house, but the couple’s marriage seems to be in real trouble as well. “Too bad,” I say out loud as I mute the TV for commercials. Riley’s head jerks up, and he looks at me with expectant eyes. “You just keep being a good boy,” I tell him in a soothing tone. Hopefully, he’ll stretch out this midday nap a bit longer. Because once Riley starts moving, my tiny apartment seems to shrink, first by inches and then by feet. My hope for an elongated nap crumbles when his tail begins to beat rhythmically on the floor, almost like a warning–thump, thump, thump–and the next thing I know, he’s up and prowling around the cluttered living room. Riley isn’t even full grown yet, and he’s already way too much dog for my apartment. Holly warned me that his breed needed room to romp and play. She tried to talk me into a little dog, like a Yorkie or Chihuahua, but I had fallen for those liquid amber eyes…and did I mention that he’s part chocolate Lab? Since when have I been able to resist chocolate? Besides, he reminded me of a cuddly brown teddy bear. But I hardly considered the fact that he would get bigger. After he climbed into my lap that day, licking my face and smelling of puppy breath and other things that I knew could be shampooed away, there was no way I could leave him behind at the Humane Society. I already knew that he’d been rejected as a Christmas present. Some dimwitted father had gotten him for toddler twins without consulting Mommy first. Even so, Holly tried to convince me that a good-looking puppy like that would quickly find another home. But it was too late. I knew Riley was meant for me, and that was that. And I had grandiose ideas of taking him for long walks on the beach. “He’ll help me get in shape,” I assured Holly. She’d long since given up on me going to the fitness club with her, so I think she bought into the whole exercise theory. She also bought Riley his LL Bean deluxe doggy bed, which I could barely wedge into my already crowded apartment and now takes up most of the dining area, even though it’s partially tucked beneath a gorgeous craftsman-style Ethan Allen dining room set. Although it’s hard to tell that it’s gorgeous since it’s pushed up against a wall and covered with boxes of Pottery Barn kitchen items that won’t fit into my limited cabinet space. “This place is way too small for us,” I say to Riley as I shove the half-full ice cream carton back into the freezer. As if to confirm this, his wagging tail whacks an oversized dried arrangement in a large bronze vase, sending seedpods, leaves, and twigs flying across the carpet and adding to the general atmosphere of chaos and confusion. My decorating style? Contemporary clutter with a little eclectic disorder thrown in for special effect. Although, to be fair, that’s not the real me. I’m sure the real me could make a real place look like a million bucks. That is, if I had a real place…or a million bucks. I let out a long sigh as I stand amid my clutter and survey my crowded apartment. It’s been like this for almost two years now. Overly filled with all the stuff I purchased shortly after Collin proposed to me more than two years ago. Using my meager teacher’s salary and skimpy savings, I started planning the interior décor for our new home. I couldn’t wait to put it all together after the wedding. “Have you ever heard of wedding presents?” Holly asked me when she first realized what I was doing. “Of course,” I assured her. “But I can’t expect the guests to provide everything for our home. I figured I might as well get started myself. Look at this great set of espresso cups that I got at Crate & Barrel last weekend for thirty percent off.” “Well, at least you have good taste,” she admitted as she stooped to admire a hand-tied wool area rug I’d just gotten on sale. Of course, she gasped when she saw the price tag still on it. “Expensive taste too!” “It’ll last a lifetime,” I assured her, just like the Karastan salesman had assured me. Of course, as it turned out, my entire relationship with Collin didn’t even last two years. Now I’m stuck with a rug that’s too big to fit in this crummy little one-bedroom apartment–the same apartment I’d given Mr. Yamamoto notice on two months before my wedding. It was so humiliating to have to beg to keep it after the wedding was cancelled, but I didn’t know what else to do. And now, a year and a half later, I’m still here. Stuck. It’s like everyone else has moved on with their lives except me. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had enough room to make myself at home or enough room for Riley to wag his tail without causing mass destruction…or enough room to simply breathe. Maybe I should rent a storage unit for all this stuff. Or maybe I should move myself into a storage unit since it would probably be bigger than this apartment. As I pick up Riley’s newest mess, I decide the bottom line is that I need to make a decision. Get rid of some things–whether by storage, a yard sale, or charity–or else get more space. I vote for more space. Not that I can afford more space. I’m already strapped as it is. Kindergarten teachers don’t make a whole lot. I feel like I’ve created a prison for myself. What used to be a convenient hideout now feels like a trap, and these thin walls seem to be closing in on me daily. Feeling hopeless, I flop back onto the couch and ponder my limited options. Then I consider forgetting the whole thing and escaping back into HGTV, which might call for some more ice cream. But that’s when I look down and notice my thighs spreading out like two very large slabs of ham. Very pale ham, I might add as I tug at my snug shorts to help cover what I don’t want to see, but it’s not working. I stare at my flabby legs in horror. When did this happen? I stand up now, trying to erase that frightening image of enormous, white thunder thighs. I pace around my apartment a bit before I finally go and stand in front of an oversized mirror that’s leaning against the wall near the front door. This is a beautiful mirror I got half price at World Market, but it belongs in a large home, possibly over a fireplace or in a lovely foyer. And it will probably be broken by Riley’s antics if it remains against this wall much longer. But instead of admiring the heavy bronze frame of the mirror like I usually do, I actually look into the mirror and am slightly stunned at what I see. Who is that frumpy girl? And who let her into my apartment? I actually used to think I was sort of good looking. Not a babe, mind you, but okay. Today I see a faded girl with disappointed eyes. Some people, probably encouraged by Holly, a long-legged dazzling brunette, used to say I resembled Nicole Kidman. Although they probably were thinking of when Nicole was heavier and I was lighter. Now it’s a pretty big stretch to see any similarities. To add insult to injury, Nicole has already hit the big “four o,” whereas I am only thirty-two. Her forties might be yesterday’s twenties, but my thirties look more like someone else’s fifties. And I used to take better care of myself. Okay, I was never thin, but I did eat right and got exercise from jogging and rollerblading. Compared to now, I was in great shape. And my long strawberry blond hair, which I thought was my best asset, was usually wavy and fresh looking, although you wouldn’t know that now. It’s unwashed and pulled tightly into a shabby-looking ponytail, which accentuates my pudgy face and pale skin. Even my freckles have faded. It doesn’t help matters that my worn T-shirt (with a peeling logo that proclaims “My Teacher Gets an A+”) is saggy and baggy, and my Old Navy khaki shorts, as I’ve just observed, are too tight, and my rubber flip-flops look like they belong on a homeless person–although I could easily be mistaken for one if I was pushing a shopping cart down the street. Then, in the midst of this pathetic personal inventory, my focus shifts to all the junk that’s piled behind me–the boxes, the myriad of stuff lining the short, narrow hallway and even spilling into the open door of my tiny bedroom, which can barely contain the queensize bed and bronze bedframe still in the packing box behind it. If it wasn’t so depressing, it would almost be funny. I just shake my head. And then I notice Riley standing strangely still behind me and looking almost as confused as I feel. With his head slightly cocked to one side, he watches me curiously, as if he, too, is afraid to move. This is nuts. Totally certifiable. A girl, or even a dog, could seriously lose it living like this. Or maybe I already have. They say you’re always the last to know that you’ve lost your marbles. “It’s time for a change,” I announce to Riley. He wags his tail happily now, as if he wholeheartedly agrees. Or maybe he simply thinks I’m offering to take him on a nice, long walk. “We need a real house,” I continue, gathering steam now. “And we need a real yard for you to run and play in.” Of course, this only excites him more. And that’s when he begins to run about the apartment like a possessed thing, bumping into boxes and furnishings until I finally open the sliding door and send him out to the tiny deck to calm himself. After he settles down, I go and join him. It’s pretty hot out here, and I notice that the seedling sunflower plants, ones we’d started in the classroom and I’d brought home to nurture along, are now hanging limp and lifeless, tortured by the hot afternoon sun that bakes this little patio. Just one more thing I hate about this place. So much for my attempt at terrace gardening. I’d seen a show on HGTV that inspired me to turn this little square of cement deck into a real oasis. But in reality it’s simply a barren desert that will only get worse as the summer gets hotter. I feel like I’m on the verge of tears now. It’s hopeless. This is all wrong. On so many levels. This is not where I was supposed to be at this stage of the game. This is not the life I had planned. I feel like I’ve been robbed or tricked or like someone ripped the rug out from under me. And sometimes in moments like this, I even resent God and question my faith in him. I wonder why he allows things like this to happen. Why does he let innocent people get hurt by the selfishness of others? It just doesn’t make sense. And it’s not fair. Oh, I’ve tried to convince myself I’m over the fact that my ex fiancé, Collin Fairfield, was a total jerk. And I try not to blame him for being swept away when his high school sweetheart decided, after fifteen years of being apart, that she was truly in love with him. I heard that the revelation came to Selena at the same time she received our engraved wedding invitation, which I did not send to her. She wasn’t even on my list. And I actually believe that I’ve mostly forgiven Collin…and that sneaky Selena too. And I wish them well, although I didn’t attend their wedding last fall. A girl has to draw the line somewhere. But all that aside, this is still so wrong. I do not belong in this stuffy little apartment that’s cluttered with my pretty household goods. I belong in a real house. A house with a white picket fence and a lawn and fruit trees in the backyard. And being single shouldn’t mean that I don’t get to have that. There must be some way I can afford a home. Of course, I’m fully aware that real estate isn’t cheap in El Ocaso. It’s on the news regularly. Our town’s prices certainly aren’t as outrageous as some of the suburbs around San Diego, but they’re not exactly affordable on a teacher’s salary. I try not to remember how much I had in my savings account back before I got engaged and got carried away with spending on my wedding and my home. That pretty much depleted what might’ve gone toward a small down payment on what probably would’ve been a very small house. But, hey, even a small house would be better than this prison-cell apartment. And that’s when it hits me. And it’s so totally obvious I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I will become a house flipper! Just like the people on my favorite HGTV show, I will figure out a way to secure a short-term loan, purchase a fixer-upper house, and do the repairs and decorating myself–with my dad’s expert help, of course! And then, maybe as early as midsummer, I will sell this beautifully renovated house for enough profit to make a good-sized down payment on another house just for me…and Riley. Even if the secondhouse is a fixer-upper too, I can take my time with it, making it just the way I want it. And it’ll be so much better than where I live now. I’m surprised I didn’t come up with this idea months ago. It’s so totally simple. Totally perfect. And totally me! “We are going house hunting,” I announce to Riley as I shove open the sliding door and march back inside the apartment. His whole body is wagging with doggy joy as I quickly exchange my too-tight shorts for jeans and then reach for his leather leash and my Dolce & Gabbana knockoff bag–the one I bought to carry on my honeymoon, the honeymoon that never was. I avoid looking at my image in the big mirror as we make a hasty exit. “Come on, boy,” I say as I hook the leash to his collar at the top of the stairs. “This is going to be fun!” And since this outing is in the spirit of fun, I even put down the top on my VW Bug, something I haven’t done in ages. Riley looks like he’s died and gone to doggy heaven as he rides joyfully in the backseat, his ears flapping in the breeze. Who knows, maybe we’ll find a house for sale on the beach. Okay, it’d have to be a run-down, ramshackle sort of place that no one but me can see the hidden value in, but it could happen. And while I renovate my soon-to-be wonder house, Riley can be king of the beach. The possibilities seem limitless. And when I stop at the grocery store to pick up real-estate papers, I am impressed with how many listings there are. But I can’t read and drive, so I decide to focus on driving. And since I know this town like the back of my hand, this should be easy. But thanks to the Cinco de Mayo celebration, the downtown area is crowded, so I start my search on the south end of town, trying to avoid traffic jams. I’m aware that this area is a little pricey for me, but you never know. First, I pull over into a parking lot and read the fliers. I read about several houses for sale, but the prices are staggering. Even more than I imagined. Also, based on the descriptions and photos, these houses already seem to be in great shape. No fixer-uppers here. Then I notice some condo units for sale, and I can imagine finding a run-down unit in need of a little TLC, but it’s the same situation. According to the fliers, they’re in tiptop, turnkey shape–recently remodeled with granite counters and cherry hardwood floors and new carpeting and prices so high I can’t imagine doing anything that could push them a penny higher. My profit margin and spirits are steadily sinking. Maybe my idea to flip a house has already flopped. Just like the rest of my life. Excerpted from A Mile in My Flip-Flops by Melody Carlson Copyright © 2008 by Melody Carlson. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

My daughter is currently reading this book and she'll be guest blogging as soon as she's finished! It's May 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter! Robert Liparulo and his book: House of Dark Shadows: Dreamhouse Kings, Book #1 Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008) ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Robert Liparulo is an award-winning author of over a thousand published articles and short stories. He is currently a contributing editor for New Man magazine. His work has appeared in Reader's Digest, Travel & Leisure, Modern Bride, Consumers Digest, Chief Executive, and The Arizona Daily Star, among other publications. In addition, he previously worked as a celebrity journalist, interviewing Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Charlton Heston, and others for magazines such as Rocky Road, Preview, and L.A. Weekly. He has sold or optioned three screenplays. Robert is an avid scuba diver, swimmer, reader, traveler, and a law enforcement and military enthusiast. He lives in Colorado with his wife and four children. Here are some of his titles: Comes a Horseman Germ Deadfall AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: “A house of which one knows every room isn't worth living in.” —Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa Prologue Thirty years ago The walls of the house absorbed the woman’s screams, until they felt to her as muffled and pointless as yelling underwater. Still, her lungs kept pushing out cries for help. Her attacker carried her over his shoulder. The stench of his sweat filled her nostrils. He paid no heed to her frantic writhing, or the pounding of her fists on his back, or even her fingernails, which dug furrows into his flesh. He simply lumbered, as steadily as a freight train, through the corridors of the big house. She knew where they were heading, but not where she would end up. In this house, nothing was normal, nothing as it appeared. So while she knew in advance the turns her attacker would take, which hallways and doors he would traverse, their destination was as unknowable as a faraway galaxy. And that meant her taking would be untraceable. She would be unreachable to searchers. To would-be rescuers. To her family— and that realization terrified her more than being grabbed out of her bed. More than the flashes of imagined cruelty she would suffer away from the protection of the people who loved her. More than death. But then she saw something more terrifying: her children, scrambling to catch up, to help. Their eyes were wide, streaming. They stumbled up the narrow staircase behind her attacker, seeming far below, rising to meet her. The thought of them following her into the chasm of her fate was more than she could stand. “Go back,” she said, but by this time her throat was raw, her voice weak. The man reached the landing and turned into another corridor. Temporarily out of sight, her son yelled, “Mom!” His seven-year-old voice was almost lost in the shrillness of his panic. He appeared on the landing. His socked feet slipped on the hardwood floor and he went down. Behind him, his little sister stopped. She was frightened and confused, too young to do anything more than follow her brother. He clambered up and started to run again. A hand gripped his shoulder, jarring him back. The boy’s father had something in his fist: the lamp from his nightstand! He past the boy in the hallway. His bare feet gave him traction. Thank God, she thought. He reached her in seconds. With the lamp raised over his head, he grabbed her wrist. He pulled, tried to anchor himself to the floor, to the carpeted runner now covering the wood planks. But the brute under her walked on, tugging him with them. The man yanked on her arm. Pain flared in her shoulder. He might as well have tried pulling her from a car as it sped passed. She caught a glimpse of the bizarrely shaped light fixtures on the corridor walls—mostly carved faces with glowing eyes. The bulbs flickered in time with her racing heart. She could not remember any of the lights doing that before. It was as though the electrical current running through the wires was responding to a disruption in the way things were supposed to be, a glitch in reality. “Henry,” she said, pleading, hopeful. His grip tightened as he stumbled along behind them. He brought the lamp’s heavy base down on her assailant. If the man carrying her flinched, she did not feel it. If he grunted or yelled out, she did not hear it. What he did was stop. He spun around so quickly, the woman’s husband lost his grip on her. And now facing the other direction, she lost sight of him. Being suddenly denied her husband’s visage felt like getting the wind knocked out of her. She realized he was face to face with the man who’d taken her, and that felt like watching him step off a cliff. “Nooo!” she screamed, her voice finding some volume. “Henry!” His hand gripped her ankle, then broke free. The man under her moved in a violent dance, jostling her wildly. He spun again and her head struck the wall. The lights went out completely . . . . but no, not the lights . . . her consciousness. It came back to her slowly, like the warmth of fire on a blistery day. She tasted blood. She’d bitten her tongue. She opened her eyes. Henry was crumpled on the floor, receding as she was carried away. The children stood over him, touching him, calling him. Her son’s eyes found hers again. Determination hardened his jaw, pushed away the fear . . . at least a measure of it. He stepped over his father’s legs, coming to her rescue. Henry raised his head, weary, stunned. He reached for the boy, but missed. Over the huffing breath of the man, the soft patter of her son’s feet reached her ears. How she’d loved that sound, knowing it was bringing him to her. Now she wanted it to carry him away, away from this danger. Her husband called to him in a croaking, strained voice. The boy kept coming. She spread her arms. Her left hand clutched at open air, but the right one touched a wall. She clawed at it. Her nails snagged the wallpaper. One nail peeled back from her finger and snapped off. Her assailant turned again, into a room—one of the small antechambers, like a mud room before the real room. He strode straight toward the next threshold. Her son reached the first door, catching it as it was closing. “Mom!” Panic etched old-man lines into his young face. His eyes appeared as wide as his mouth. He banged his shoulder on the jamb, trying to hurry in. “Stay!” she said. She showed him her palms in a “stop” gesture, hoping he would understand, hoping he would obey. She took in his face, as a diver takes in a deep breath before plunging into the depths. He was fully in the antechamber now, reaching for her with both arms, but her captor had already opened the second door and was stepping through. The door was swinging shut behind him. The light they were stepping into was bright. It swept around her, through the opening, and made pinpoints of the boy’s irises. His blue eyes dazzled. His cheeks glistened with tears. He wore his favorite pajamas—little R2D2s and C3P0s all over them, becoming threadbare and too small for him. “I—“ she started, meaning to say she loved him, but the brute bounded downward, driving his shoulder into her stomach. Air rushed from her, unformed by vocal chords, tongue, lips. Just air. “Moooom!” her son screamed. Full of despair. Reaching. Almost to the door. “Mo—“ The door closed, separating her from her family forever. 1 Now Saturday, 4:55 P.M. “Nothing but trees,” the bear said in Xander’s voice. It repeated itself: “Nothing but trees.” Xander King turned away from the car window and stared into the smiling furry face, with its shiny half-bead eyes and stitched-on nose. He said, “I mean it, Toria. Get that thing out of my face. And turn it off.” His sister’s hands moved quickly over the teddy bear’s paws, all the while keeping it suspended three inches in front of Xander. The bear said, “I mean it, Toria. Get that—” At fifteen years old, Xander was too old to be messing around with little-kid toys. He seized the bear, squeezing the paw that silenced it. “Mom!” Toria yelled. ”Make him give Wuzzy back!” She grabbed for it. Xander turned away from her, tucking Wuzzy between his body and the car door. Outside his window, nothing but trees—as he had said and Wuzzy had agreed. It reminded him of a movie, as almost everything did. This time, it was The Edge, about a bear intent on eating Anthony Hopkins. An opening shot of the wilderness where it was filmed showed miles and miles of lush forest. Nothing but trees. A month ago, his dad had announced that he had accepted a position as principal of a school six hundred miles away, and the whole King family had to move from the only home Xander had ever known. It was a place he had never even heard of: Pinedale, almost straight north from their home in Pasadena. Still in California, but barely. Pinedale. The name itself said “hick,” “small,” and “If you don’t die here, you’ll wish you had.” Of course, he had screamed, begged, sulked, and threatened to run away. But in the end here he was, wedged in the back seat with his nine-year-old sister and twelve-year-old brother. The longer they drove, the thicker the woods grew and the more miserable he became. It was bad enough, leaving his friends, his school—everything!—but to be leaving them for hicksville, in the middle of nowhere, was a stake through his heart. “Mom!” Toria yelled again, reaching for the bear. Xander squeezed closer to the door, away from her. He must have put pressure on the bear in the wrong place: It began chanting in Toria’s whiny voice: “Mom! Mom! Mom!” He frantically squeezed Wuzzy’s paws, but could not make it stop. “Mom! Mom! Mom!” The controls in the bear’s arms weren’t working. Frustrated by its continuous one-word poking at his brain—and a little concerned he had broken it and would have to buy her a new one—he looked to his sister for help. She wasn’t grabbing for it anymore. Just grinning. One of those see-what-happens-when-you-mess-with-me smiles. “Mom! Mom! Mom!” Xander was about to show her what happened when you messed with him—the possibilities ranged from a display of his superior vocal volume to ripping Mr. Wuzzy’s arms right off—when the absurdity of it struck him. He cracked up. “I mean it,” he laughed. “This thing is driving me crazy.” He shook the bear at her. It continued yelling for their mother. His brother David, who was sitting on the other side of Toria and who had been doing a good job of staying out of the fight, started laughing too. He mimicked the bear, who was mimicking their sister: “Mom! Mom! Mom!” Mrs. King shifted around in the front passenger seat. She was smiling, but her eyes were curious. “Xander broke Wuzzy!” Toria whined. “He won’t turn off.” She pulled the bear out of Xander’s hands. The furry beast stopped talking: “Mo—” Then, blessed silence. Toria looked from brother to brother and they laugh again. Xander shrugged. “I guess he just doesn’t like me.” “He only likes me,” Toria said, hugging it. “Oh, brother,” David said. He went back to the PSP game that had kept him occupied most of the drive. Mom raised her eyebrows at Xander and said, “Be nice.” Xander rolled his eyes. He adjusted his shoulders and wiggled his behind, nudging Toria. “It’s too cramped back here. It may be an SUV, but it isn’t big enough for us anymore.” “Don’t start that,” his father warned from behind the wheel. He angled the rearview mirror to see his son. “What?” Xander said, acting innocent. “I did the same thing with my father,” Dad said. “The car’s too small . . . it uses too much gas . . . it’s too run down . . . ” Xander smiled. “Well, it is.” “And if we get a new car, what should we do with this one?” “Well . . . .” Xander said. “You know. It’d be a safe car for me.” A ten-year-old Toyota 4Runner wasn’t his idea of cool wheels, but it was transportation. Dad nodded. “Getting you a car is something we can talk about, okay? Let’s see how you do.” “I have my driver’s permit. You know I’m a good driver.” “He is,” Toria chimed in. David added, “And then he can drive us to school.” “I didn’t mean just the driving,” Dad said. He paused, catching Xander’s eyes in the mirror. “I mean with all of this, the move and everything.” Xander stared out the window again. He mumbled, “Guess I’ll never get a car, then.” “Xander?” Dad said. “I didn’t hear that.” “Nothing.” “He said he’ll never get a car,” Toria said. Silence. David’s thumbs clicked furiously over the PSP buttons. Xander was aware of his mom watching him. If he looked, her eyes would be all sad-like, and she would be frowning in sympathy for him. He thought maybe his dad was looking too, but only for an opportunity to explain himself again. Xander didn’t want to hear it. Nothing his old man said would make this okay, would make ripping him out of his world less awful than it was. “Dad, is the school’s soccer team good? Did they place?” David asked. Xander knew his brother wasn’t happy about the move either, but jumping right into the sport he was so obsessed about went a long way toward making the change something he could handle. Maybe Xander was like that three years ago, just rolling with the punches. He couldn’t remember. But now he had things in his life David didn’t: friends who truly mattered, ones he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with. Kids didn’t think that way. Friends could come and go and they adjusted. True, Xander had known his current friends for years, but they hadn’t become like blood until the last year or so. That got him thinking about Danielle. He pulled his mobile phone from his shirt pocket and checked it. No text messages from her. No calls. She hadn’t replied to the last text he’d sent. He keyed in another: “Forget me already? JK.” But he wasn’t Just Kidding. He knew the score: Out of sight, out of mind. She had said all the right things, like We’ll talk on the phone all the time; You come down and see me and I’ll come up to see you, okay? and I’ll wait for you. Yeah, sure you will, he thought. Even during the past week, he’d sensed a coldness in her, an emotional distancing. When he’d told his best friend, Dean had shrugged. Trying to sound world-wise, he’d said, “Forget her, dude. She’s a hot young babe. She’s gotta move on. You too. Not like you’re married, right?” Dean had never liked Danielle. Xander tried to convince himself she was just another friend he was forced to leave behind. But there was a different kind of ache in his chest when he thought about her. A heavy weight in his stomach. Stop it! he told himself. He flipped his phone closed. On his mental list of the reasons to hate the move to Pinedale, he moved on to the one titled “career.” He had just started making short films with his buddies, and was pretty sure it was something he would eventually do for a living. They weren’t much, just short skits he and his friends acted out. He and Dean wrote the scripts, did the filming, used computer software to edit an hour of video into five-minute films, and laid music over them. They had six already on YouTube—with an average rating of four-and-a-half stars and a boatload of praise. Xander had dreams of getting a short film into the festival circuit, which of course would lead to offers to do music videos and commercials, probably an Oscar and onto feature movies starring Russell Crowe and Jim Carrey. Pasadena was right next to Hollywood, a twenty-minute drive. You couldn’t ask for a better place to live if you were the next Steven Spielberg. What in God’s creation would he find to film in Pinedale? Trees, he thought glumly, watching them fly past his window. Dad, addressing David’s soccer concern, said, “We’ll talk about it later.” Mom reached through the seatbacks to shake Xander’s knee. “It’ll work out,” she whispered. “Wait a minute,” David said, understanding Dad-talk as well as Xander did. “Are you saying they suck—or that they don’t have a soccer team? You told me they did!” “I said later, Dae.” His nickname came from Toria’s inability as a toddler to say David. She had also called Xander Xan, but it hadn’t stuck. David slumped down in his seat. Xander let the full extent of his misery show on his face for his mother. She gave his knee a shake, sharing his misery. She was good that way. “Give it some time,” she whispered. “You’ll make new friends and find new things to do. Wait and see.”

A Treasure Hunt

In May, one of the books the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) Book Club will be reading is A Soldier's Family by Cheryl Wyatt. Cheryl is a wonderfully talented writer, but I may be slightly biased since she's been in my crit group, with the other ladies posting blogs for this treasure hunt (Pammer, Syn, Dream), for several years now. She's a great friend even though we've never really "met." So, since we're reading Cheryl's latest book, we're giving away some free books. For this giveaway, we're having a treasure hunt. Four questions were posted to the Book Club and on Wednesday, I'll draw a name from everyone who got the correct answers and sent them in. ALL members of the book club are eligible. Joining the book club is easy and FREE! Simply send an blank email here! When I first met her, Cheryl liked to write suspense novels, but she sold her first book to Steeple Hill's Love Inspired line. Her first sale was quickly followed by a second! Her first book, A Soldier's Promise, was released in January and her second book, A Soldier's Family, in March. Both are great books and a MUST READ for anyone who enjoys romance or military stories. Cheryl lives just a few hours from where my husband was born and grew up. But until recently I didn't realize she had even more in common with my husband. A few years ago my husband underwent a surgery where the doctors removed a veterebrae in his neck and replaced it with a cadaver bone. Turns out Cheryl's been an organ donor recipient also - of bone also! It's really neat how many things people who've never met actually have in common. Cheryl is one of the best writing friends I have. Always encouraging and self-effacing. For a good laugh, check out her blog and read one of her Blush And Cringe postings. Personally, I like to keep those embarrassing moments to myself, but she puts them out there for the whole world to see. But then, what else could we expect from a Squirrel who skitters in and out of her treehouse writing romance novels? So, if you're looking for a good, clean read, be sure to pick up this book. It will definitely be a keeper! And don't forget to check out the other blogs (Pammer, Syn, Dream) for the rest of the answers.

Blocked at every turn!

I’ve sat in front of my computer with a blank page and a project I’m working on and nothing happens. No words. No ideas. No thoughts. Nothing. I used to have story ideas floating around in my head all day every day. But lately, I’m stuck. Not sure if it’s the move, stressed from life or getting the rejection on Sarah’s Hope from Steeple Hill, but lately I have nothing to write.

Big or Little - Does it really matter?

I guess it depends on what you're looking for. For over thirty years I lived in a large city. Lots of things to do, stores open all night, plenty of choices for shopping, lots of traffic. Now, I live in a small town - one red light, two grocery stores, one pharmacy, one movie theatre with one screen, and the sidewalks roll up by 9 PM. But you know what, I'm thinking the small town wins out. The people who don't know you are more freindly. A very nice lady I'd only met in the hardware store helped us get a house to rent. Another guy, the first time we met him gave (not sold) us a stove. Sure, I can't just run down to the corner Wal-Mart and grab a gallon of milk at midnight, but I also don't have to drive thirty minutes and go through a dozen traffic stops to get to the bank. I said all of that to get to this point, the next time you feel God leading you in a direction you really don't want to go, or you're not completely sure about, remember, He sees the whole picture and you just may be better off and happier in that place you don't want to go.

Settling In

Well, we're here. The house we were supposed to get into wasn't ready, so we had to scramble to find another one. But, after making what seemed like a hundred phone calls each day for almost a week, we got a phone call from a gentleman who said he had a house for us. Turns out he wasn't one of the calls I'd made, but someone else had referred us to him from a card we posted at the hardware store. Definitely God's hand working things out. It's a great house and we were able to get a refrigerator at a REALLY good price. Now we're just on the lookout for a stove and washer. So, we've been here almost three weeks and we're getting settled in. Then, we got another shock. We got up Monday morning and everything was WHITE! Only an inch or so and it melted before noon, but still the kids had fun. Okay, if I'm honest, so did I. Then, today it started snowing again. More this time around, so we were all back outside enjoying it again. Check out the slideshow below to see how much fun Florida kids can have in a little snow. Hopefully, now that we're settling in pretty good I'll be able to get back to writing.

Sometimes It's Hard

Following God. If you had told me last year that I’d be moving out of Jacksonville, I’d have said you were crazy. But, on February 10th, not only will my family and I pull out of Jacksonville, but we’ll leave Florida and move to Hugo, Oklahoma. Once there, we’ll be helping his dad who is the pastor of a church in Antlers, Oklahoma.   I’ve always lived in Jacksonville. With the exception of a couple of years, I’ve lived within 10 or 15 miles of the first house I ever lived in. Most of my family lives here. I’d never considered moving. Not because we are such a close family that we can’t imagine moving away from each other, but because it was comfortable. Over the last year or so things have happened and I catch myself asking God, “Why are You letting this happen to me? I’m doing what You want me to. I’m serving You. Why aren’t You stopping all of this?” Now, looking back, I realize that God was preparing me for this move, because now, living in Jacksonville isn’t comfortable anymore. I can’t sit around and say “I can’t leave. I have things to do. I have jobs, responsibilities.” God has taken all of those things away from me and given them to other people. I’m free to choose – follow Him or don’t. My family and I have chosen to follow God. It’s not easy. My husband has lived in several other places, but my kids and I have only lived here. We’re leaving all we’ve ever known. But you know what? I have peace about it. I know this is God’s will and that following it will only lead to more blessings. It reminds me of a poem I learned way back when I was in high school. I’m trusting God to fill my up-stretched hands with His blessings as we embark on this new phase in our lives. Treasures One by one He took them from me, All the things I valued most, Until I was empty-handed; Every glittering toy was lost. And I walked earth's highways, grieving. In my rags and poverty. Till I heard His voice inviting, "Lift your empty hands to Me!" So I held my hands toward heaven, And He filled them with a store Of His own transcendent riches, Till they could contain no more. And at last I comprehended With my stupid mind and dull, That God COULD not pour His riches Into hands already full! -Martha Snell Nicholson

Looking For A Good Read?

Check out these new releases! 1. A Passion Most Pure, Book 1 of the Daughter of Boston Series by Julie Lessman from Baker Publishing Group, Revell. Rival sisters with strong faith--one in God, the other in herself--turn the head of a heart breaker who proposes to one and falls in love with the other. 2. A Whisper of Freedom, Book 3 in the Chronicles of the Spanish Civil War series by Tricia Goyer from Moody Publishers. In the exciting third book in the Chronicles of The Spanish Civil War series, the characters we've come to love are in greater danger and yet filled with greater hope than ever before. 3. Awaken My Heart by DiAnn Mills from Avon Inspire. When mestizos kidnap Marianne Phillips, they hope that her wealthy Texas rancher father will trade land for her freedom. 4. Bayou Corruption, Book #2 in the Bayou Series by Robin Miller writing as Robin Caroll from Steeple Hill, Love Inspired Suspense. Alyssa LeBlanc returns to Louisiana, almost running over a body. She works to expose corruption while racing to "scoop" rival, Jackson Devereaux. When their stories collide, they join forces to expose the truth. 5. Blessings, #3 in the Sommerfeld Trilogy by Kim Vogel Sawyer from Barbour. Trina Muller has a gift for treating God's lowly creatures, but to pursue her dream of veterinary college means leaving her Old Order Mennonite faith. 6. Day Omega by Craig Harms from Lighthouse Books. A thriller about the end-times and one man's redemption. 7. Four LIttle Blessings by Merrillee Whren from Steeple Hill. Four little children bring happiness and love to a most unlikely pair. 8. Homicide at Blue Heron Lake, Book 1 in Mainely Murder series by Susan Page Davis and Megan Elaine Davis (mother and daughter) from Heartsong Presents: Mysteries. A reporter returns to her home town and rediscovers love—and finds an old neighbor lying dead in his island cottage. 9. Joanna's Adventure (#3 will later be included in a Barbour 3-in-1 titled Kansas Brides) by Mildred Colvin writing as M.J. Conner from Barbour Books. When Joanna prays for an adventure, Clay returns bringing more excitement, danger, and love than she expected. 10. Murder on the Ol' Bunions, A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery by S. Dionne Moore from Barbour Publishing, Inc. When LaTisha Barnhart discovers the body of her former employer, her bunions tell her somethings afoot. 11. On Sparrow Hill, Book 2 of 2 by Maureen Lang from Tyndale House. On Sparrow Hill explores how love and servanthood can change and develop the relationships in our lives. 12. Only Uni, Book 2 in the Sushi Series by Cami Tang from Zondervan. A flirty biologist vows to turn her life around with three rules from First and Second Corinthians. 13. Picket Fence Promises, sequel to Front Porch Princess by Kathryn Springer from Steeple Hill Cafe. A second chance with her first love? 14. Promises, Promises, Book 1 in Delaware Brides by Tiffany Amber Stockton writing as Amber Miller from Barbour/Heartsong Presents. Raelene Strattford believes God has forsaken her, but her neighbor proves just the opposite while giving her a voice in a world where women have none. 15. Return to Baragula, Book 3 in Baragula series by Mary Hawkins from Ark House Press (Sydney, Australia). For Emily, coming home to the small rural town means she has to overcome present danger as well as face the past to find real forgiveness and a lasting love. 16. Stuck in the Middle, Book 1 of the Sister-to-sister series by Virginia Smith from Revell. Joan Sanderson's life is stuck -- what she needs is a little help from God, her big sister, and an enormous mutt with bad manners. 17. Sweet Caroline, 1st in South Caroline lowcountry books by Rachel Hauck from Thomas Nelson. Caroline Sweeney discovers love and destiny at a small, broken down lowcountry Cafe. 18. Sweet Forever, First in the Indiana Brides series by Ramona K. Cecil from Barbour/Heartsong Presents. A young woman who believes God hates her is befriended by a young minister who doubts his calling. 19. Symphony of Secrets by Sharon Hinck from Bethany House Publishing. A professional flutist sets out to solve the mystery of her symphony's sabotage, while also keeping the relationship with her teen daughter in tune. 20. The Rogue's Redemption, #4 in Regency Series by Ruth Axtell Morren from Steeple Hill. A Waterloo hero and London rake meets a Yankee woman of faith who decides to put her faith in him. 21. Truffles by the Sea by Julie Carobini from Bethany House. Gaby Flores is determined to be "gullible no more!" But can a young woman prone to disaster in both work and love finally find happily ever after? 22. Uncertain Alliance, book 1 of 3 of Heartsong historical Washington State series by Mary Davis from Heartsong/Barbour. Though circumstances force Alice under Ian's employ, her wounded heart is afraid to trust this gentle man who is wooing her to love him. 23. Vendetta, Book #2, Snow Canyon Ranch series by Roxanne Rustand from Steeple Hill. The Snow Canyon Ranch series--where sinister family secrets lurk in the majestic Rockies. Happy reading ~ And don't forget to check out Jill Eileen Smith's new Spotlight on author Roxanne Henke.

It's Finally Here - Cheryl Wyatt's Debut Book!

DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE A COMMENT TO ENTER THE DRAWING FOR A FREE COPY OF A SOLDIER'S PROMISE! I'LL DRAW A NAME ON MONDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 2008! BACK COVER BLURB "My name's Bradley. I'm eight and have cancer. I want to meet a Special Forces soldier more than anything. Well, almost anything. Having a family would be nice." U.S. Air Force pararescue jumper Joel Montgomery promised to make a sick child's wish come true. Well, not the family part—not with Joel's past. And so despite vowing never to set foot back in Refuge, Illinois, Joel parachuted onto the boy's school lawn to a huge smile. But another smile unexpectedly stole Joel's heart: that of Bradley's beautiful teacher, Amber Stanton, who was trying to adopt the boy. And trying to show Joel it was time for new vows. I’ve been waiting for this for so long! Cheryl Wyatt is the first in our crit group to be published and it’s so exciting. Her debut book was a Romantic Times Top Pick! Here’s what they said: "Cheryl Wyatt infuses A Soldier's Promise (4.5) with kindness, compassion and love. Plus, each character in this strong story is multilayered. When young Bradley, a boy dying of cancer, writes to the Air Force Pararescue team, he gets to meet jumper Joel Montgomery, who connects with Bradley and feels an instant and shared attraction to the boy's teacher, Amber Stanton. This absolutely fantastic debut novel proves that while challenges and boundaries are not always easily resolved, they're definitely worth the work." ---Robin Taylor-Romantic Times Reviewer I caught up with Cheryl recently via email and here’s what she had to say: When did you begin writing? I've written all my life, but didn't pursue fiction until about seven years ago. I took courses through the Institute of Children's Literature (Long Ridge Writers) and Jerry Jenkins' Christian Writers Guild. On bedrest with a pregnancy, I stumbled across Steeple Hill's message boards on the eharlequin site by reading something about it in one of their books and was hooked. Those ladies kept me laughing and encouraged about my writing through a difficult time. I joined RWA, FHL and ACFW shortly afterward. I, too, love the eHarlequin site. You meet great people there. That’s actually where I got involved with you guys in our crit group! Who was the greatest influence on your writing? Definitely my mother, since she always encouraged me that I had a gift. She's always been my greatest encourager, and still is. She has always believed in me, even times I didn't believe in myself. Moms are great that way, aren’t they? How much of your real life do you include in your stories? Rarely any. My life isn't as exciting as some of my characters' lives. LOL! I do put a lot of funny things I hear from the people around me in stories though. I always warn them, "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say and do can and will be used against you in the craft of fiction." I always get permisson before putting their words in my characters' mouths though. I do try to put some of my relationship with God in every story. How I connect with Him and view Him and try to capture how He responds to me. Guess it’s a good idea to think about what you say before you say it when you’re around. LOL What one piece of advice would you give aspiring writers? One piece? Write as worship. Wow, that’s great. I’ve actually never gotten that answer, but I love it. What's the craziest thing you've ever done? Lots of crazy things...what crazy thing haven't I done? LOL! I answered this in another interview, so I'll give you a different "crazy thing" in case the same readers are listening. LOL! I once went to another continent, by myself, meaning sans my family, where I didn't know the language, to research a book and ended up without communication in a no-civilization-in-sight-REMOTE-locale. Definitely crazy. And you know, those pre-paid international phone calling cards you can buy at Wal-mart? Don't. Many countries won't accept them no matter how much you beg and cry that you haven't talked to your family in weeks. LOL! Here's a pic of me there. India, that’s great. God has really blessed you, and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. AUTHOR BIO Cheryl Wyatt's closest friends would never dream the mayhem she plots during announcements at church. An RN-turned-SAHM, joyful chaos rules her home and she delights in the stealth moments God gives her to write. She stays active in her church and in her laundry room. She's convinced that having been born on a Naval base on Valentine's Day destined her to write military romance. Prior to publication, Cheryl took courses through Christian Writers Guild. An active member of RWA, FHL and ACFW, she won numerous awards with multiple manuscripts. Visit her on the Web at http://www.cherylwyatt.com/. Sign up for her newsletter for news and chances to enter contests with great prizes. Hang with her on the web at http://www.scrollsquirrel.blogspot.com/. You can also find her skittering around Steeple Hill's message boards as "Squirl" at http://www.steeplehill.com/. Cheryl’s book is available anywhere Steeple Hill’s Love Inspired books are sold, but here’s a link to pick one up from Amazon. Even though I had already critiqued the book, I still devoured it when I got my hands on it. If you like stories about soldiers, if you’re a fan of inspirational fiction, if you like to read a story where God’s hand is seen throughout the book, then this is a MUST read book!

Moving And Everything's Gotta' Go!

I’m moving to Hugo, Oklahoma – a small town near the Texas border. Unfortunately, my books aren’t coming with me, so I’m selling them all for the unbelievable price of $.50 each plus shipping. So, if you’re interested in inspirational fiction (especially romance) check out my website for a list of the books available.

Praise and a Call To Prayer

Hi! Kristy Dykes blogged! She’s been having problems with her reading and writing, but she was able sit at her computer yesterday and type out a blog post. You can read it here.   Her husband is asking everyone to say a special prayer at 3:30 EST Monday. Kristy will begin her radiation treatments at that time. His idea is that while she is being bombarded by the radiation treatments, she’ll also be bombarded by prayers. So, if you can, say a prayer for Kristy at 3:30 EST Monday afternoon.

The Hard Things

Parenting can be hard. You want to spare your child as much pain as possible, but unless they make mistakes of their own, they won’t learn. You want to give your child everything you didn’t have, but unless they earn some of it themselves, they’ll never understand the value of hard work or a hard-earned dollar.   Sometimes writing is hard. I was plugging away on Emily’s Faith. I hit a good stride and was adding to the story every day, but now it seems like writing one word is like pulling teeth. I just can’t come up with anything.   Waiting is hard. I sent a full ms of Sarah’s Hope into Steeple Hill earlier this year. I know it takes a while to hear back on a full, but still waiting is hard. I keep coming up with questions. What if they don’t like it? If they don’t like it, what do I do with it? And, what do I do with the follow-up stories for it? Am I really cut out for this writing thing? What if I’m not?   Sometimes life is hard. Kristy Dykes was going along, enjoying her life, her family, her church and all the things God has blessed her with. Then one day her whole life changed from one doctor visit. Thankfully, she’s home from the hospital now, but she still has a long uncertain road ahead of her.   Sometimes following God is hard. It’s easy when He doesn’t ask us to step outside our comfort zone. I’ve never lived anywhere else. Same town, same state all my life. It’s comfortable. But sometimes He asks more, and now I’m embarking on a new adventure – halfway across the country. To a city smaller than some schools. To a state where they actually have FOUR seasons (here we have mostly hot and a few days of cold).   But the hard things are what make life worthwhile. Seeing your child grow into the man or woman you prayed they would be. Typing “The End” on the page. Receiving “THE CALL”! Having God heal you when doctors couldn’t. Seeing people come to know Christ because you chose to do what He asked instead of staying where you were comfortable. All of this blessings come about when we go through hard times. So, the next time you want to complain about the things life is throwing at you, imagine the end result and thank God He knows your capable of surviving the Hard Times of Life and coming out stronger on the other side.

Happy Thanksgiving!

As we sit around our tables today enjoying Turkey and all the trimmings, remember those who are away from their loved ones today. The police officers and firefighters who are on duty protecting us and keeping us safe. The soldiers here and around the world protecting our freedoms. The missionaries spreading the gospel to those who’ve never heard.   This past Saturday, as I was getting ready to prepare the bulletins for Sunday’s service, I did a search for a Thanksgiving poem to include in the bulletin. I found several poems and stories, but nothing was quite what I was looking for. Then, God put these words on my heart and I wrote them down. I included them in the bulletin Sunday and posted them here earlier this week, but I’m posting them again. I hope they touch your heart as they did mine.   BE THANKFUL By: Michelle D. Rodgers   Be thankful for the valley, It means you’ve just come off one mountain and are heading towards another. Be thankful for illnesses, Without them good health wouldn’t mean as much. Be thankful for the time, however long or short, you had with your loved one before God called them home, Those precious memories will be with you until you see them again. Be thankful for your family, even when they drive you crazy, Without them you’d be alone in this world. Be thankful for the lean times, They make the wealthy times that much sweeter. Be thankful for your sins, They’re why Christ died for us.

What A Difference A Day Makes

I have a friend I’ve only met online. Her name is Kristy Dykes and she’s a writer who lives here in the same town I do. On Monday, November 5th, her blog title was Weather’s Nice in Florida. On Wednesday, November 7th, her blog title was My Brain Tumor. Such a big difference in only two days. I’ve been following her blog and her attitude amazes me. She has been through surgery, and her husband is now blogging for her. If you get a chance, you really should check out her blog – Christian Love Stories.   But, the reason for this posting is Kristy’s friends at the American Christian Fiction Writers are putting together a prayer chain. Kristy’s tumor has been removed and they’ve said it was malignant. We’d like to get people praying for her around the clock. So, if you’re interested, please email Tracy Ruckman to be added to the list.   God can and does heal people, and the power of prayer is amazing!

Be Thankful

Be thankful for the valley, It means you’ve just come off one mountain and are heading towards another. Be thankful for illnesses, Without them good health wouldn’t mean as much. Be thankful for the time with your loved one before God called them home, Those precious memories will be with you until you see them again. Be thankful for your family, even when they drive you crazy, Without them you’d be alone in this world. Be thankful for the lean times, They make the wealthy times that much sweeter. Be thankful for your sins, They’re why Christ died for us.

The Begotten and The Betrayed Winner!

Congratulations to Vader’s Mom. She won a copy of Lisa Bergren’s The Begotten and The Restorer. Send me your mailing information by Sunday and I’ll get the book out to you. If I don’t hear from you by Sunday, I’ll draw a new name on Monday. Thanks to everyone who stopped by and to Lisa for the great books!

Lisa Bergren's The Begotten and The Betrayed

I was supposed to do this last month, but due to a move and loss of internet for nearly two weeks (MAJOR WITHDRAWS!!!), it’s just now getting up. ABOUT LISA Lisa Tawn Bergren is the author of 28 books, with over 1.3 million sold. She is a publishing consultant, writer, Bible study leader, mother and wife. Her hobbies include travel (mostly from an armchair), reading, watching movies, cooking and exploring with her family. Lisa's most recent books include The Begotten, The Betrayed, God Gave Us Heaven, What Women Want and The Busy Mom's Devotional. She resides in Colorado Springs, Colorado. To sign up for her monthly email (which includes a new, unpublished devotional) go to www.LisaTawnBergren.com and join her newsletter list. ABOUT THE BOOKS The year is 1339, and a secret a half millennium old is on the brink of being exposed. Centuries ago, Paul’s letters became part of the foundation of the Christian canon. Only a few know of another letter, potentially written by Paul. Kept secret for generations, suppressed by the authorities of the Church, it speaks of men and women who, though begotten of men, possess mysterious spiritual gifts. The letter survived. So has the Church’s fear of it. The time has come for the Gifted to gather. Even as they grow in power, so do their enemies. They must race against time to find the rest of the Gifted, and to decipher the prophecy that foretold of their coming. For only by combining their powers will they vanquish those determined to destroy them and uncover the secret of the letter that will determine the fate of the Church. . .and the world. The Year of Our Lord 1340 The secret, a half millennium old, has been revealed. An illuminated letter, long buried by the Church – prophesying a fellowship of men and women possessing pwoerful spirtiual gifts – is the catalyst for a profound war that will bring either a new age of enlightenment or a darkness the world has never before seen. As the Gifted gatehr and gain strength, and find further clues as to where God is leading, their enemies grow more intent on controlling them. Watching the Gifted from afar in Venezia is Cardinal Boeri, who is determined to use the blessed powers of the Gifted to secure his own place in the hierarchy of the Church. The doge, the duke of Venezia, has reasons of his own to seize control. But the greatest menace is the evil Lord Abramo Amidei, driven to turn the healer Daria d’Angelo to his own fold or destroy her in the process. He is determined to tear apart the firm fabric of her faith as he preys on the weaknesses of those she loves. For Amidei knows that together the Gifted are undeniably strong and growing stronger. But if he succeeds in dividing them, the Gifted – and then the world – will be his. MICHELLE AGAIN I had barely started these books when I had to pack them up to move. Now, I’ve pulled them out again and am in the process of starting over. Imagine, a letter written by Paul, long lost and then found. This is a great “what if” book that takes you to another time and place and makes you wonder what could have been – or what could be. I can’t wait to delve into these books. If you’d like your own copy of The Begotten and The Betrayed leave a comment and I’ll draw a name on Friday.

Today We Remember

Today we remember those people who climbed onto a plane, rode an elevator to work at their desk, walked into a building for a meeting, or simply decided to take a tour of a building and were killed by terrorists. Men, women and children from nearly every nation in the world who were simply doing what we do everyday. Traveling, working, eating. They left home not knowing they’d never see their loved ones again.   Today we remember their families who watched the TV in horror knowing their husbands, wives, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, and friends were on those planes and in those buildings.   Today we remember the brave men and women who walked into a burning building while everyone else was running out. Those whose jobs made a life and death difference for people every day and who knew doing their job could mean sacrificing their own life to save another.   On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, nearly 3,000 people got up and went about their day not knowing it would be their last.   Remember their sacrifice. And when you see a serviceman, police officer or firefighter today, thank them for the sacrifices they make every day they go to work!

Check Out These Great New Releases!

Are you looking for a good book to read? Check out these new releases from some great authors! 1. A Big Apple Christmas by Vasthi Reyes Acosta, Gail Sattler, Lynette Sowell, and Carrie Turnasky from Barbour. A contemporary collection of four novellas that captures the sights and sounds of Christmas in New York City. 2. A Mommy In Mind, A Tiny Blessings Tale, Book 3 of 6 by Arlene James, from Steeple Hill Love Inspired. A single woman trying to adopt an infant eventually realizes that the attorney behind a nightmarish custody suit is God's chosen mate for her. 3. A Shadow of Treason, 2nd book in The Chronicles of the Spanish Civil War series by Tricia Goyer from Moody Publishers. Sophie must leave behind the man she loves and return to the person who betrayed her. Another layer of war in Spain is revealed and nothing is as it seems. 4. A Texas Legacy Christmas, Texas Legacy series Book 4 by DiAnn Mills from Barbour Publishing. Snuggle down between the covers of A Texas Christmas Legacy, where the miracle of love and life awaits you on every page. 5. Boo Humbug, The Boo Series by Rene Gutteridge from WaterBrook Press. The zany characters of Skary return in this Christmas novella. 6. Finding Marie sequel to Frasier Island by Susan Page Davis from Harvest House. Marie Belanger witnesses a murder and runs for her life not knowing why, eluding her pursuers so well it’s nearly impossible for her husband Pierre to help her. 7. Long Trail to Love 2nd in the Vermont Contemporary series by Pamela Griffin from Heartsong Presents. Carly loses her boyfriend, her job, and the town’s respect in one crazy moment while out-of-towner Nate suffers a similar fate, but when they become “team mates” during a hike into Canada, the trek doesn’t allow for a smooth climb – in more ways than one! 8. Mason's Link by Bill Andrews from Xulon Press, recounts he fictional discovery of a link used to communicate with a departed loved one, considered by Heavenly powers to be the most important event since the Resurrection. 9. Montana Mistletoe by Lena Nelson Dooley, Lisa Harris, Debby Mayne, and Kim Vogel Sawyer from Barbour Publishing. Four friends make a pact to marry by their twenty-eighth Christmas, but as the deadline looms, careers and experiences threaten to douse their Christmas spirit — and their chances for romance. 10. Shadow of Danger by Jeanne Marie Leach from Mountain View Publishing. Sent away from home because of an undisclosed danger, a woman locates an old friend to help, but will she find love or will the danger get her first? 11. Sushi For One? by Camy Tang from Zondervan. Will Lex Sakai be able to surrender her "perfect man" list and give Mr. All Wrong a chance? 12. The Restorer’s Son by Sharon Hinck from NavPress. A new, reluctant Restorer is asked to sacrifice for his people—if he can find a way to yield to the One. 13. When the Morning Comes by Cindy Woodsmall from WaterBrook Press. Wounded by her family, doubted by her fiance, Hannah Lapp plunges into life outside her Old Order Amish community. 14. When the Nile Runs Red by DiAnn Mills from Moody. An Arab Christian dedicated to helping the Southern Sudanese is hunted by his Muslim brothers. Happy reading~

In Case You're Wondering

I am still here, but things have gotten a little busy and writing seems to have taken a back seat to life. Since April, my husband has had six surgeries requiring general anesthesia and I’m not sure how many office procedures. Then, he’s had appointments 3-5 days a week. Now, on September 15th, we’ll be moving. But, in all of this, God gave me a verse last night. 2 Corinthians 12:9 And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. I’ve taken this verse to heart. It’s nice to know that no matter what things come our way in life, God already knows about them and has promised to give us the grace to face the trials and come through them stronger.

Brenda Coulter's Latest Release

I absolutely loved Brenda Coulter's first two books, Finding Hope and A Family Forever. Now, she has a new book, A Season of Forgiveness available September 25th, or, you can order it from Amazon.com. If you can't wait that long, you can read the first chapter on Brenda's website. For a preview of the book, check out the trailer below!

August 2007 Releases 1. Abomination by Colleen Coble from Thomas Nelson. A young woman flees from a serial killer who leaves his victims at geocaching sites. 2. Family for Keeps and Sadie's Hero reissued as one book by Margaret Daley, from Steeple Hill Love Inspired. This Love Inspired Classic captures two touching stories that were favorites of readers. 3. Jacob's List by Stephanie Grace Whitson from Bethany House Publishers. Facing the challenge of their lives, the Nolans learn that their son's list is about a lot more than youthful adventure. Jacob's List: a story of reconciliation. . . against all odds. 4. In His Dreams from the Michigan Island Series by Gail Gaymer Martin from Steeple Hill Love Inspired. Two widowed in-laws meet again on Beaver Island after a few years absence and find joy in the sense of family, especially the hero's emotionally impaired pre-teen daughter, but the familiar friendship goes far beyond what they expected. 5. Massachusetts Brides by Lisa Harris from Barbour Publishing. Three old-fashioned romances bloom in the heart of New England. 6. Missionary Daddy Book 4 of A Tiny Blessings Tale by Linda Goodnight from Steeple Hill Love Inspired. A single missionary battles to adopt two boys from Africa and discovers the woman of his dreams is not who he thought she was. 7. Murder by Mushroom by Virginia Smith from Steeple Hill Love Inspired Suspense. A potluck on the lawn of Heritage Community Church brings out the usual pests: ants and flies, gossips and murderers. 8. Off the Record by Elizabeth White from Zondervan. A hidden past with journalist Cole McGaughan could end Laurel Kincade's judicial career...Or will the truth set them free to love again? 9. The Restitution 3rd book in The Legacy of the King's Pirates series by MaryLu Tyndall from Barbour Publishing. When Lady Isabel Ashton's only son is kidnapped, she is forced to enlist the aid of the boy's father, the pirate who ruined her life and stole her virtue. 10. To Love Anew Book One of Three by Bonnie Leon from Revell. When Hannah Talbot is banished from London and transported to Australia on a prison ship she's certain God has turned his back on her. 11. Trusting Him by Brenda Minton from Steeple Hill Love Inspired. A woman learning to trust, a man longing to be trusted, and a love that takes them by surprise... Happy reading~

Prayers

Okay, this is another little story that was handed out at church last week. Hope you like it.   A little boy in church was sitting with his mom and dad and kept acting up. His mom shushed him a couple of times and he’d stop fidgeting and playing for a minute or so, then he’d get started again. Finally, after several reprimands from his mother, the father picked the little boy up and headed down the aisle. As they reached the back door, the little boy called out to the congregation, “Pray for me!”   Aren’t we so often like that little boy? God tries little things to get our attention and get us to stop doing things and we straighten up for a little bit and then return to what we were doing, or we ignore Him. Or, often when things are going good, we don’t have time for God or what He wants. God might nudge us to do something and we put it off. But then, when God ‘takes us to the woodshed’ so to speak, or when things start to go wrong, suddenly we pray and ask God for help. And, if things are bad enough we get everyone we know to pray too. Wouldn’t it be so much easier and better for us if we just followed God all along instead of waiting for Him to let something drastic happen to get our attention?

Cell Phone VS. Bible

This was handed out at church last week. Really makes you think about what’s important!   Cell Phone VS. Bible   I wonder what would happen if we treated our Bible like we treat our cell phone. What if we carried it around in our purses or pockets? What if we flipped through it several times a day? What if we turned back to go get it if we forgot it? What if we used it to receive messages from the text? What if we treated it like we couldn’t live without it? What if we gave it to the kids as gifts? What if we used it in case of emergency? This is something to make you go “hmmm, where is my cell phone?” Oh, and one more thing, unlike our cell phone, we don’t have to worry about our Bible being disconnected because Jesus already paid the bill, and no dropped calls. Makes you stop and think “where are my priorities?”

Thanks!

Today our country celebrates its 231st birthday! I spent the day relaxing (no doctor appointments since the offices are all closed today), grilling, and setting off a few fireworks with the kids.   Imagine if the patriots all those years ago had chosen to live under England’s rule and not fight for their freedom. I am thankful to God that I live in a country where we are free to speak our peace and worship as we choose; and, I am thankful to each and every man and woman who has ever served in the armed forces to protect those freedoms!     Happy Birthday America!

The Hardest Part

I used to think the hardest part of writing was actually putting the words on paper (or computer screen as the case may be J). But, lately I’ve come to see an even more difficult area – waiting to hear on a submission and working on something else and leaving the subbed ms alone until you hear back. Sarah’s Hope is currently at Steeple Hill. I was so excited to get the request and to actually get it sent off. Then, I started working on the follow-up book, Emily’s Hope. But now, I keep wanting to go back to Sarah’s Hope and make changes. I have a new found respect for those authors who routinely sub, do rewrites and edits and write new stories all at the same time.   Then, I got to thinking that we’re kind of like that with God. We struggle with a problem and finally turn it over to Him and focus on what He wants us to do. But, in our human selves what do we do? We worry about the first problem and come up with ideas to “fix” it, when all along we should be focused on the task God has assigned us. We often want to look back at the accomplishments we’ve made or the problems we overcome. Sometimes we focus on those problems as an excuse for what’s wrong in our lives today. “If only that hadn’t happened, then my life would be perfect today.” Ever heard that? What we often don’t realize is that as good or bad as our life has been, the best is yet to come. Focus forward, not backwards.