Sunday, March 27, 2011

Three for Free!

In celebration of LC Evans appearance at the North Carolina Writers' Conference we are giving away copies of three of our ebooks for the first 10 visitors who sign up at A Moose Walked into a Bar

Please join us as we launch Linda!

Friday, March 25, 2011

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

The Love Investigator Learns a Lesson

Please stop by The Writer's Guide to ePublishing today and read about my early days as the accidental love investigator. Or how to become a successful author the hard way.

The Writer's Guide to ePublishing

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Foxy's Tale - The Reluctant Vampire

                                                                          Foxy's Tale
Authors Karen Cantwell Take the Monkeys and Run and LB Gschwandtner The Naked Gardener decided they would like to collaborate on a project. They wanted it to be a book for and about women, but it had to be fun and they really wanted to throw a vampire into the mix.  But their vampire would be . . . different.  The result, now available for readers on Amazon’s Kindle, is Foxy’s Tale:

Foxy Anders has a list of problems as long as a shopping spree receipt from Neiman Marcus. She’s a retail spender with no money to spare and a former beauty queen with no man in her life. After a nightmare divorce she’s left with one asset, a building off Washington, D.C.’s classy
DuPont Circle
. By turning the ground floor into an antique shop, Foxy figures she has an excuse to spend money … that she doesn’t have.

Foxy also has a teenaged daughter, Amanda, who likes to blog secretly about her biggest problem – Foxy. At least, she thinks Foxy is her biggest problem. But that’s all about to change when she hooks up with Nick, a cute guy at school who evidently has a gift for attracting older women. Amanda just doesn’t know HOW much older they really are.

When Foxy rents the garden apartment to stylish, shoe-fettishista Knot, who turns out to have a knack for talking wealthy Washington A-listers into Foxy’s antiques, it looks as if Foxy will make it on her own after all. Except that Knot is also a genius at creating problems … in his love life.

They’re a quirky threesome to be sure, but when mysterious, bumbling, Myron Standlish arrives on the scene with a suitcase full of Yiddish-isms, he brings along his own set of problems, larger and stranger than all of theirs put together. Oy vey. How will Myron’s personal journey affect their lives? Well … that’s Foxy’s Tale.

A comic, chick lit, coming-of-age, vampire tale (sort of) where family triumphs over adversity and mother and daughter learn how to face the world as grownups – together.
Here’s a little excerpt:

Gdansk, Prussia, 1851

The snow starts to fall harder and faster as the little man scrambles up a small embankment. The air is so quiet that the sound of his heavy breathing seems magnified. Enormous white flakes collect on his eyebrows, but don’t melt. He must brush them away constantly just to see what’s ahead. A thick wool coat is wrapped tightly around his small body. Heavy, brown, leather shoes protect his feet and a knitted cap covers his head. Despite this, he is so cold the snow sticks hard to his skin and clothing, and there is nothing he can do about it.

Once he reaches the top of the embankment on the edge of the dirt road, he stops. He listens intently. Wolves howl far off in the woods and their call echoes momentarily until receding again to silence. The man is beginning to give up hope. And then, there! He hears the faintest sound of wooden wheels crunching the hard earth. Elated that he hsan’t lost the trail, he looks ahead. He knows this road – it leads directly to the port at Gdansk. He trudges on, following the tracks that are quickly disappearing under the heavy blanket of snow. There is no doubt in his mind that if he doesn’t move quickly, the trunk he is tracking will be placed on a boat or a ship to God only knows where. Not again, the man thinks. Not again.

An hour later, tired, freezing, and desperate, the little man limps into the busy port town, past the fish shops, and to the edge of a dock. One lone fisherman’s rig is tied up at the end of the pier, but that is not what he came to see. He watches the ship that has left its pier as it sails into the stormy night too far away for him to reach. The trunk is on that ship and he wonders what he will do now.

A voice rings in his head. He knows this voice. His father. A man with gifts greater – far greater – than his own. Is the voice really that of his father, or just his own memory of it, berating him for failing on this important mission?

It doesn’t matter.

The message is simple.

“Myron. You are such a putz.”

What people are saying …

“Full of snappy characters, laughs, and mystery, peppered with lively details of Washington, DC., and brimming with enough shoe shopping to satisfy any fashionista. This new joint effort from Karen Cantwell and L B Gschwandtner is guaranteed to please! Can't wait for the next installment in this lively new series!”
– Misha Crews, Author of Her Secret Bodyguard

"Foxy’s Tale is irresistible fun – full of lively characters with a knack for trouble, laugh-out-loud dialogue, and story twists that will keep you reading deep into the night."
– Kim Wright Wiley, Author of Love in Mid Air

From now until April 25th, Foxy’s Tale is available for just .99 cents, so if you’re looking for a light, fun read, give it a try today!

Take the Monkeys and Run

    The Naked Gardener




Sunday, March 13, 2011

Sample Sunday - Fish Flingers in Paris - Excerpt - Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland

                                                                                     ~ Friday January 29

‘Will you walk a little faster?’ said a whiting to a snail,
There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail.

1:30 a.m.  We walked the streets along the river for over an hour, and then circled back to the Bateaux-Mouches boat dock. It was deserted.
 “Someone has stolen the rental car.” Nigel said.
“Nigel, not to offend the rental company, but that little car hardly seems like a desirable automobile. See there are two Mercedes, a lovely Fiat, a BMW and that cute red Volkswagen beetle parked along the curb. I don’t think a thief would have chosen that little nameless rental over these cars. Let’s take a taxi back to the hotel and look for the car in the morning.”
At that very moment, a shadowy figure ran up to us and flung a fistful of what smelled like rotten fish at Nigel, I was collateral damage. Another guy ran up, and swearing in French, flung a second wad of goo.
Nigel took it in his stride. “Jump back on the boat, love. I’ll lead them away.” He turned and sprinted down the road with the fish-flingers in hot pursuit.
I leaped from the seawall to the empty dinner boat managing to get my high heeled feet on the deck while grasping the horizontal safety rope with both hands. My feet slipped and the weight of my butt pulled me off balance. I dangled from the ropes with my nose pressed against the germy hull.
No one saw which was good for my self-image but sucked because it meant no help was on the way. I craned down at the inky black water, a plastic bag floated at my feet in a rain-bowed oil slick.
Think. Think. I pushed off from the hull with my forehead trying to reach the seawall with my feet. I scraped my brow. This had to be my imagination. If I hung on long enough I would wake up.
Using my velvet pumps, I tried to hook onto the seawall but both shoes loosened and fell into the river. My mind raced. If Nigel didn’t return and I hung there, would anyone find me?  I wasn’t about to let go and fall into the Seine in a cocktail dress. Where were my stalkers when I needed them?

2:00 a.m. I had been hanging from the side of the dinner boat for about thirty minutes; my fingers were stiff, permanently formed into claws. My feet were frozen and my bladder was bursting. I heard footsteps. “Alice? Where are you?”
            My voice was scratchy and I had trouble forming the word. “Help… ”
            I could hear Nigel race past me and leap onto the boat. Bully for him. He walked the deck calling my name.
            I had one last breath in me. “Help” I called.
            He ran toward me. Thank you, sweet lord. He laughed and grasped my wrists. My fingers popped when I tried to let go of the rope as he pulled me onboard.
            Nigel held me close to his pinstriped chest and guided me to tarp covered deck chairs. My guy smelled like a third world fish-market-garbage-can on a hot day.
“Who were those guys?” I whispered.
“Paris hoodlums – The Gourmet Gang. They take great delight in throwing rotten fish at Englishmen. There’s been a spate of that lately.”
It took another twenty minutes for me to gain the nerve to leap from the boat back to the seawall. Nigel hailed a taxi. The cabby opened all his windows on the drive back to the Chunnel Chateau.
We burst into our hotel room. I elbowed Nigel for the bathroom and jumped into the shower, turned the water to the hottest, and scrubbed for all I was worth. I finished off with a thick coating of anti-bacterial hand wash over my entire body. And put on a fresh pair of socks.
Nigel tried to beg off showering, he said he was exhausted.
“Are you kidding?” I pushed him into the shower, suit and all. Then I popped two pink pills and fell sound asleep. My White Rabbit had saved me from a slimy death in the Seine.

                       Followers Wanted - Apply Within

Monday, March 7, 2011

Author Bumping - PD James

Author Bumping - PD James
 (Newbies:  Please check my blog archives for Author Bumps with the likes of Robert B. Parker, Stephen King and James Michener. Enter Author Bumping in the search bar.)
My gift for bumping into authors frequently proves what a small planet this is or to put a finer point on it, what a small country England is. I’ve done a considerable amount of Author Bumping in the UK.
Murder Mystery Weekends were just becoming the rage. I booked myself into a three day event at the Prince of Wales Hotel in Southport located on the northwest coast of England. A plane flight from Miami and a long, pleasant train ride took me back in time to one of the oldest wooden structures on the shores of Britain. The hotel was a lovely reminder of a proud Victorian heritage
Before I left home I had memorized my instructions. Once participants entered the lobby of the hotel we were all players on a stage. No one would know who was for real and who was a part of the game. Professional actors would be mingling with our group.
On Friday afternoon, I checked into the hotel, received my room key and a participant’s package. Once in my comfy suite, I opened the envelope. Inside were a few preliminary clues, a dining schedule, and a note of caution. “The Prince of Wales Hotel is a historic wooden structure. Please respect the somewhat fragile nature of your surroundings. And do not disrupt the non-playing guests.”
We were to meet in the drawing room on Sunday, the final day of our adventure to offer our individual solutions to any and all murders. Till then we had the run of the hotel, but were asked to conduct ourselves discreetly. We would not know until that “Hercule Poirot” gathering, who our fellow players were.
I was so excited as I threw my suitcase on the luggage rack and dashed from the room. Lurking about, I tried to look guest-like and low key. Curious thing when a woman travels alone she is immediately suspect of many things including being an actress playing a part. Jill and Joe from Idaho scribbled notes on their cards as they watched me enter the pub. May and her sister June from London whispered each time I walked past.  I was a suspicious creature – a lone female.
We sat ten to a table at the six tables in the dining room. A pleasant young man in a sport coat and tie sat on my right.  The couple from Idaho was on my left. Dinner was uneventful unless you include the body that fell in my lap as I finished my dessert. The fellow on my right “died” after one spoonful of pudding. I knew it was pretend, but he sure looked dead. It’s was unnerving.
The police arrived and carried off his body. The other eight diners whipped out their notebooks and scribbled, keeping their eyes fixed on me. I was the closest person to the victim. Did I poison him? I thought about it, but didn’t remember doing so. A lady constable arrived and questioned each one of us before we were allowed to leave the room. I was held the longest. Maybe I did do it.
A note with a clue had been slipped under my door in my absence. I tore it open. Acting on the information, I found myself prowling the corridors of the Prince of Wales till long after midnight, one clue leading to another. I bumped into May and June who eyed me like two cranes checking out a tasty lizard. Walking down an empty hallway I heard a female cry out. I raced to the sound arriving in time to see two shadowy figures carrying off a woman’s body. They stepped into an ancient cage-type lift and descended to the basement.
I clambered down the staircase and located the cellar access. Hesitating, I listened to that small voice inside my head that said…”Are you nuts?” It would have been the perfect setup for a real murder. No one would hear me scream in an ancient hotel basement. I shook off the worry and slipped into the underground. By three in the morning I’d found nothing and had no clear solution to the double murders. Exhausted, I crawled back to my room to sleep.
Saturday afternoon I settled in the lounge for a little tipple. Elderly ladies in hats were sipping port. A woman sat in an arm chair reading a book. There was a small table between us. She looked like Lady Bird Johnson. That didn’t make any sense. Maybe she was an actress who impersonated Lady Bird. My curiosity kicked in. “Lady Bird?” I whispered. I was testing for a response. “Lady Bird?”  The woman didn’t budge but I could sense she was aware of me.
I leaned over to get a better view of her face. No, she was prettier than Lady Bird Johnson. And then it hit me. She looked just like PD James. I’d seen her photo on book covers. I was a big fan. That made more sense. It might be her. I leaned over the table and whispered, “PD?” Nothing. I tried it again. “PD?”
The lady looked up and gave me that distancing look people give crazies on the subway. I tried two more “PD’s?”  Once again she threw me a peculiar look. Thinking I might have spinach on my teeth, I ran my tongue over my choppers. She went back to reading her book ignoring me completely. I didn’t see her for the rest of the Murder Mystery Weekend.
There were a suitable number of incidents over the next 24 hours including a false alarm called into the local fire department. But that’s another story. By Sunday, I thought I had a handle on the murderers and their motives. My solution was off-base and way too complicated. The killer turned out to be a male reporter who was covering the weekend’s festivities. If one paid attention, one would have noticed he was at the scene of both murders. Once the lady constable did her drawing room disclosure, it was all very obvious.
Fast forward six months and I’m at the London Polytechnic Writers’ Workshop. PD James is one of our instructors. She is a lovely lady, very kind and generous with her thoughts. A group of us were gathered in a small lecture hall.  I was sitting smack up front, enthralled. She was instructing us on how important setting is to a story. “Imagine an empty wheelchair high on a cliff overlooking the sea. You have the start of your mystery,” she smiled. We applauded.
After the class, I snuck up to her and asked about the Prince of Wales Hotel and the Murder Mystery Weekend. She fixed me with a funny look. Cringing, I could have sworn she said, “You still have spinach on your teeth.”
For those who’ve been on another planet for the last 50 years, P.D. James is the author of twenty books, most of which have been filmed and broadcast on television in the United States and other countries. The recipient of many prizes and honors, she was created Baroness James of Holland Park in 1991.

Awards: International Crime Writing Hall of Fame 2008; Grand Master Award from Mystery Writers of America, 1999; Diamond Dagger from British Crime Writers' Association, 1987

Followers wanted for Barb’s Wire
Unpaid position – Flexible hours

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Sample Sunday ~ The Tea Party

 The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters

~ Saturday February 27

But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
Oh you can’t help that,” said the Cat:
We’re all mad here. I’m mad, you’re mad.”
How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
You must be, or you wouldn’t have come here.”

1:45 p.m.  Less than twenty-four hours after threatening Nigel, Ron and I left for London at Nigel's expense.
“You did it,” Ron said to me over the roar of the jumbo jet’s engines. It was all too weird. I watched Miami drop away as we tore through a cloud bank. Leslie and Sunglasses were both out of the loop on this adventure; they had no idea I was winging it back to Europe. I hoped.
“Anything to drink?” our flight attendant plumped the pillow under Ron’s head. “Bloody Mary?” he asked me.
“Mind reader,” I said.
The attendant took our order and made her way through first class chatting and plumping.
“This is hysterical, you having tea with Nigel’s wife. He must be dying.” Ron stretched and smiled fondly at me.
“He can go on dying until I get to the bottom of this mystery,” I said. The theme music from Mission Impossible played in my mind.
An hour out from Gatwick, the pilot gave the passengers a heads-up. Along with half the ladies in the plane I took this to be my warning to work my way to the potty. Climbing over Ron, who looked every bit as crisp and polished as when we left Miami, I carried my makeup case to the first class loo and joined the line.
I wore a black suit with short pencil skirt and a light blue knit top. My red hair had been recently bobbed and the style was easily tossed back into shape. However, my eyes were a challenge. I opted for double-squirts of drops in each, relined the upper lids, brushed on orchid shadow to bring out the green, smeared concealer under the orbs and finished with a puff of blush. I smoothed on lip gloss and cleaned the ooze off my fingers. Relinquishing the restroom to the next lady, I headed back down the aisle. Ron shot me a wink. I returned it momentarily blinding myself and stumbling into the stewardess.

2:10 p.m.  We were on the ground and taxing to the gate. Ron and I exited quickly and made our way through customs. “Come, Watson,” I laughed. We kept throwing each other conspiratorial grins as we headed to the international arrival area, where I spotted Nigel.
“Darling.” Nigel caught me in a bear hug. I was not in a hugging mood. He looked over my shoulder at Ron. “Where’s your … friend? Didn’t she come?”
I stepped aside, enjoying the confusion registering on Nigel’s face. Ron was perfection even after almost nine hours in flight. His thick black hair, his shiny baby face and his action-figure posture seemed to set Nigel on edge. Good.
Introductions were hastily made. “This time I know exactly where the car is. Let’s hurry.” Nigel swept up my suitcase and we were running once again. We rushed through a mile of parking deck to what remained of Nigel’s car.
“What happened to your car?” I squeaked out the words, fighting for breath. The lovely sedan of my last visit now looked much like a crumpled old beer can. Part of the left front door rested on the left front seat. The hood of the car looked like a rhino had walked through it.
“Skip Lorrie backed into me while my car was parked at the office overnight,” Nigel answered while hefting our luggage into the trunk.
“My god, was he drunk?” I asked.
“Who?” Nigel asked.
“Skip Lorrie. Does he work for you?”
Nigel laughed an irresistible laugh. “A skip lorrie is what you would call a garbage truck.”
“Oh.” I tried to get a visual on what happened.
“Darling, if you would be so kind?” Nigel held open the driver’s door and beckoned me in.
“You want me to drive?”
“No, love, just climb over the console and the gear shift, there. See it? Careful. I can’t get the passenger door open. Just be a dear. There you go.”
I scrambled over the gear shift in my terrifically short skirt. The end of my jacket caught under my knee and I was frozen in mid-console facing the rear.
Ron sat quietly in the back seat. Our eyes locked. I shot him my most menacing look. He glanced away as I tumbled into the front passenger seat, fighting with my skirt.
Once at our hotel in Swiss Cottage, a suburb of London, the doormen were gracious enough to look the other way while Nigel stepped out, making way for me to exit his wounded car. “This could be dangerous,” I carped.
My gallant Brit got back in his car and scrunched down so that all but the top of his head was visible over the steering wheel. He was clearly afraid of being seen, but by whom?

4:30 p.m.  Elizabeth was to meet me at my hotel at five for tea. I unpacked my small suitcase and studied the contents. What does one wear when meeting the cooperative wife of the single man who has been romancing you? I decided to look wholesome and perky in a gray skirt, black boots and a black turtleneck. I threw some powder on my face, dribbled red-out eye drops in my eyes, and slickered on pink lip gloss.
The combination tea room and lounge was just off the bank of elevators in the hotel lobby. I scanned the battle field. The tables were either empty or occupied with small groups of chatters. A gray haired woman sat across the room, near the exit. She looked like a tired fox. Now I felt really bad.
My boot heels clicked across the marble floor.
“Yes, Alice.”
I sat, my knees knocking against themselves. I felt like I had stolen something from this woman.
Elizabeth measured me with her eyes. “I can see why Nigel is besotted with you. You have given him back his youth.”
She caught me off guard with her compliment.
Not waiting for me to answer, she continued. “Do you know I hid his passport before his trip to Miami? He was frantic. So I finally gave in.”
“In your fax you wrote to me that you and Nigel haven’t lived together for years. Why would you hide his passport? Why would you care?”
“I knew something was up with him,” she answered smugly. “I saw the photographs from your trip together. I asked about you. He said you were a business client.”
“If you didn’t care about him –”
“Even when the caring stops, the curiosity continues.” She reached down and pulled a hat, a fedora, from under her chair and popped it on her head. “Did you enjoy the Eiffel Tower? And the Sacre’Coure?  You looked a tad bit distressed.”
“You followed us around Paris?”
“I was on assignment, following you both for someone.”
“Who?”  I could think of at least two characters. I wanted to ask her if she had thrown the caviar at us, but if she hadn’t, why give her any extra information.
A waiter delivered a small silver teapot. “Shall I be mother?” Elizabeth asked as she lifted the pot to pour. She was a wacky vision pouring tea while wearing her fedora.
She continued, “You see there’s this frightful thing about Nigel. Even when you stop caring, you still care about beating him at his dodgy game. You become addicted to being right. It’s very attractive – being right. Isn’t it?”
I nodded weakly. “That’s why I’m here.”
“I know,” she said almost sympathetically and passed the plate of cookies.
I tried to collect my thoughts. “You have me very confused. First you fax me your marriage license, and then you tell me your marriage wasn’t annulled, and then you tell me it was. Nigel says it was a marriage of convenience. I don’t know what to think. But I will not be involved with a married man – so tell me, are you divorced, annulled or what?”
Elizabeth ignored my question. I wanted to strangle her.
“I found your clothes in his Coral Springs villa; he said they were his mother’s things.” I was curious how she would handle this information.
“His mother’s clothes in our bedroom?” She raised her nose an inch. “His mother’s never even been to the villa.”
Tit for tat. “The clothes were in the guest room.”
She gritted her teeth. “That sneaky devil. I was at the villa a few weeks ago. He must have moved my clothes after I left.”
I felt my throat tighten. “You were there? When?”
“I was there with Nigel for a week. I left on Monday, the 15th.”
“But that’s not possible. That’s the day I picked Nigel up from the airport and went to the villa with him. He had just arrived from London on February 15th. He got in around seven.”
 “He didn’t fly into Miami that day, he was flying out. My flight left at supper time. He was leaving shortly after me on a flight to Prague,” she said.
“So that’s why he was out of breath. He didn’t want me to meet him at the gate...”
 Elizabeth was quiet for a few seconds. “I know exactly what that bugger did and when he did it. I went over to the neighbors to say goodbye. I wanted to go back inside the house and grab my sweater. Nigel wouldn’t let me. He rushed me into the car. He must have moved all my clothes while I was at the neighbors.”
I did a quick visual in my mind of Nigel in his pinstripe suit racing back and forth, dumping his wife’s clothes in the second closet. It was a scene right out of a British comedy. A laugh began to rumble in the deepest parts of me. It was like a volcano, I couldn’t keep a lid on it.
Elizabeth turned the color of a micro-waved chicken. “He’s a Walter Mitty, that's what he is. I advise you to stay away from him,” she warned. “I can be a formidable enemy.”
I couldn’t stop laughing. Each time I thought I had it under control; I would burst out laughing again. The thought of Nigel in his pinstriped wool suit, sweat dropping from his thinning hair, racing back and forth with arm loads of tacky summer dresses just broke my funny bone.
Elizabeth smiled cunningly. “We were married in the U.S. The marriage was annulled in the U.S.” The wife who wasn’t a wife watched me, “Nigel is divorcing me.”
“Wait. Wait. I thought you said the marriage was annulled?”
“It was annulled in the U.S. but it was never annulled in England. So, as I said, Nigel is divorcing me in England, but he will take care of me. At my age one has to be practical. But I will have my revenge.” She fiddled with her butter knife.
“So your relationship with Nigel is over?” I asked.
She nodded. “Nigel and I were through a long time ago. I’m out of his life as long as he continues to provide for me. It’s you who should worry.”
She sipped her tea. I thought about this information. Perhaps she was just after his money?
Elizabeth got a sly look on her fox-like face. “How was the sex with Nigel?  Was he good in bed?”
“How rude.” I pushed away from the table. I would have killed for a Xanax at that moment. “I cannot tell which one of you is the liar and so this tea party is over.”
Elizabeth rose quickly. I looked at her rigid frame. She was at least five feet ten inches and built like a quarterback. “What will you do?” She asked.
I gave her a blank look and plunked some notes onto the table to cover the check. I hoped my shaking legs could get me to the elevator and up to my room.

7:30 p.m.  I lay on my hotel room bed licking my wounds. Ron lounged in the armchair looking like an ad for scotch. He’d spent the day wandering the antique shops on Portobello Road. One of us had had a good day.
“Watson, what am I to do with this mess?” I asked. Ron sipped his drink before he spoke. “Nigel lied to you. He appears to adore you; maybe he’s afraid that if he told you the truth he would lose you.”
“But he’s going to lose me anyway.”
“Maybe you want to drop the whole adventure right now. Go back and face Leslie and Marc Hare. Then again, maybe you want to give Nigel one last chance. Enjoy the game. I know you well enough to know that it will always bug you if you don’t follow this to its conclusion, whatever it is.”
“Elizabeth is somewhat frightening. She wore a fedora and insinuated she had followed us around Paris. She’s like the Mad Hatter.”
“Stop with the Alice in Wonderland resemblances. You’re making yourself crazy.”
It was as plain as the nose on his face, but he didn’t get it. I stopped talking to him.
            Ron went back to his room and I curled up in a ball.

11:30 p.m.  I slept lousy that night. I dreamed Nigel came through the airport gates dressed in drag. He would not tell me why he was in disguise but he made an ugly woman.
In my dream, we hailed a cab and arrived at Nigel’s house. There was a large gray horse inside. It clopped from room to room looking for me. I kept hiding from the animal, knowing it meant to harm me. I awoke during the night in a cold sweat. It had nothing to do with hormones.

Followers Wanted - Flexible Hours

Friday, March 4, 2011

I can fly...

I have to share this lovely post from my page on the Kindle Boards... from a new fan:

Just bought this book, Barbara, and I can't wait to read it!!! (The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland)

Sounds like a real hoot!!!

Congrats on your success!!!

And boy, I can't wait on your Wendy and The Lost Boys (from Peter Pan)...

I was Wendy in a stage production of the show, and we even used the actual rigging people who flew Sandy Duncan when she was Peter Pan...OMG those flying harnesses are killers!  I was bruised for three weeks!!!  But darn it was fantabulous fun!!!  Still catch myself singing the "I'm Flying" song sometimes!!!  The crew only ran me into one set-wall and that wasn't bad...LOL!!!

Anyhoo...these books sound beyond terrific!!!