London Broil

The sequel to Wendy and the Lost Boys was released on December 6th.
             Thank you to all my fans and friends! The response has been wonderful.

A little excerpt:

I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious, but when I awoke I really had to pee. My wrists were bound in front of me with plastic strips cutting into my flesh. The strips weren’t real Flex-Cuffs. They were more like flimsy garbage bag ties. The room was moving round me. When it finally slowed, I focused on the face of Dame Judi Dench and then a second Dame Judi. It was enough to make me forget about my bladder. There were two kidnappers with me, both wearing masks. One Judi wore a pinstripe brown suit and was at least fifty pounds overweight; the other wore khaki shorts and had skinny knees like a baby elephant and ears to match.

I jumped to my feet shrieking at them. “Algy Green, I’d recognize you anywhere! And Nobby Seemore? Idiots! Take off the masks! Let me go you fools.” I was looking at a matched set of morons. I rubbed my face. “I must have ‘kidnap me’ stamped on my forehead, or are you all members of some eccentric kidnappers’ cult?”

Algy walked toward me with his hands on his hips. “Keep it down. Nobby may look like a side of beef, but he can be lethal. So just watch your mouth, missy!”

They took off their masks, powder fluming from both heads.

“Is that hair thing genetic?” I asked as I nodded at the clouds around their noggins.

“No… it’s just talcum powder.”

Nobby grabbed me and pushed me back into the wooden kitchen chair.

“We’re experienced at interrogation and will torture you if we have to. If you want to leave here with all your fingernails, you’ll tell us what you know about the Lost Boy.

“My fingernails are acrylic. They pop off.”

The kidnappers looked at each other. “We’ll think of something else. I’m warning you Nobby’s a sociopath.” Algy nodded his head at the tub of lard trying to look dangerous.

“How do you even know what a sociopath is?”

“Psychology is my hobby. I took a correspondence course. I’m rather good at it. Like I could tell from our first meeting you were attracted to me.”

If my hands had been free, I’d have wrung my face, but I smiled on the inside. This was going to be easy-peasy. I checked out the surroundings. We were in a seedy flat with a pull-down bed and a tin kitchen table with three mismatched chairs. A roach scrambled across the floor.

“If you don’t talk, we’ll hold you hostage until that archaeologist brings us the thirteenth Boy.”

“This dump is unacceptable! Couldn’t you find a nicer place to hold me hostage? You’re in violation of the Geneva Convention.”

Nobby looked around as if seeing the place for the first time. “Sorry. We rented it by the day. It was all we could afford.”

“I’ve been held hostage for weeks on a super-yacht with gourmet food. This slum is the best you can do? Untie me or I’ll … well it won’t be pleasant. I have friends in high places.” I struggled with the plastic bindings that held my wrists together.

The room was hot, airless, and aromatic “Wait! I smell fish ‘n’ chips!” I said jumping from my seat.

Nobby snapped, “Shut up, Goldilocks, or I’ll stuff a sock in your mouth.”

Algy and I both did a double take as Nobby tried to talk thug.

I laughed. “I’ll bet you don’t own a sock.” I managed to poke his chest with one finger. “And don’t you touch me again, you bloody ape.”

“That’s not very nice. You don’t know me well enough to call me names,” Nobby said.

Algy’s ears flapped as he forced me back onto the chair.

“You forgot to superglue your ears.” He pushed my chair over, and my head hit the slimy floor. I scrambled to stand up.

I was so woozy, I almost passed out – not just from hitting my head and whatever they used to knock me out, but it was oven-hot in the tiny room. Not a fan or an open window. If it was over one hundred degrees on the street, it had to be twenty more in the flat. I took a deep breath to clear the cobwebs. “Look guys… I don’t know where the Lost Boy is. But I’m to check in with Roger at exactly… what time is it?”

Nobby looked at his watch. “Ten minutes after twelve.”

“Thanks. At exactly ten minutes after twelve. He is going to tell me where the Lost Boy is. Hand me my purse. I’ll call him.”

They looked at each other and shrugged. Algy lifted my purse from the floor and handed it to me.

“How about cutting these bracelets off so I can reach my phone?”

“Nope.” Algy gave his head a quick shake, causing his ears to flap. “I’ll get your phone out.”

I tugged the bag away. “Get your germy hands off!”

~



Indie Chick - Heather Marie Adkins

It is with great delight that I introduce a fellow Indie Chick. 

Heather Marie Adkins shares her personal story that led her to become an amazing author. It's an inspiring tale of recognizing the opportunities life hands you... frequently disguised as problems.

Heather Marie Adkins

Latchkey Kid

It isn’t easy being the daughter of a police officer, but it’s even more difficult to be the daughter of a female police officer. I would come to understand this early, and often, in my life.

My mom’s career has always been the whirling force of my existence.

She was sworn into the Louisville Police Department on September 10, 1990. I was five years old. For the majority of my developmental years, I bounced through a succession of caretakers—my grandmother, my father and stepmother, and a kind woman I called ‘Mama Lo’—while my mom was forging her way through her early years as a rookie officer.

I remember late nights—my mom in her uniform, her gun belt digging into my side as she bundled me into a blanket to carry me to the car. I remember mornings getting on the school bus, knowing Mom would be coming home from work just in time for me to leave. But when I remember these things, they are snippets: Only bits and pieces of the woman who is my mother. Her job was demanding and sometimes, you just have to sacrifice to make your dreams come true.

When I was ten, Mom aced the Detective test and was granted her first promotion. Suddenly, we were buying a new house in a nice neighborhood. I was in middle school, which was awkward enough, and Mom began working 4 pm to midnight.

Thus began my time as a Latchkey Kid.

I rode the bus home from school and let myself into the house around 4:30 every afternoon. Under Mom’s strict instructions, I would check to make sure all three doors of the house were locked and then I would set the alarm.

Until bedtime, I was on lockdown. No going outside—not even to the backyard. No answering the door, no looking out the windows. Just me and the dog: A tiny Shih-Tzu named Cinnamon.

I was kind of an odd child. I didn’t care much for television, though I did love to play Nintendo. I could rock on some Mario Bros. I also absolutely loved to read, particularly R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps and Ann M. Martin’s The Babysitter’s Club.

There is really only so much video gaming and reading a girl can do before she wishes she had another hobby. At least, that’s how it was for me. I was lonely. Monday through Friday, every evening alone…it sucked.

It was around this time that my daddy shared with me a novel he was writing. Daddy is a computer guru who does freelance work, but he writes for fun on the side. “Demigod” was one of the most amazing things I had ever read. Not only was I astounded that my dad had such talent, but for the first time I realized there were people behind the books I liked to read.

Armed with nothing more than spiral-bound notebooks and pencils, I began writing.

Between 10 and 16, I wrote seven full-length novels. Today, I suppose they would be considered Young Adult. Some of them were murder mysteries with strong heroines. Many of them had elements of what today is considered Paranormal Romance. Most of my early influences were from authors I enjoyed: Stine, as well as Richie Tankersley Cusick and Christopher Pike. Somewhere in the midst of all this, my mom bought me a laptop and I transferred everything to digital.

I continued to write during high school, though significantly less once I got my driver’s license. I focused mainly on short stories and built up a vast collection that I ended up losing to the nightmare of an erased floppy disk. I majored in English in high school. Earned a couple college credits. And was told multiple times by various English teachers that I had talent.

After graduation, I went away to college at Western Kentucky University. My mother had married a great man who was also a police officer. Between the two of them, I was able to go away to school and thus started several years of BAD DECISIONS. I kicked it off right, as most first-time college teens do. I drank too much and partied too hard, not making it to class, much less spending my time writing. Two years later, I came home to Louisville with my tail between my legs, no smarter than I was before.

Back at my mother and stepfather’s home, I found the situation to be stifling for the girl who had done what she wanted, when she wanted for so long. I was already rebelling—not phoning, disappearing all night—when a chance encounter on the banks of the Ohio River brought a man into my life who was not right for me in more ways than one.

Jason was an ex-con and felon. I was the daughter of two police officers. Cue ominous music.

Let’s skip the dirty parts and go to the section where I pack my things and flee into the night like a bat out of Hades. My parents change the locks, I cut off all contact, and hole up in a hovel on 3rd Street with my friend, Brent. Oh, and in the meantime, my convict boyfriend ends up back in the Slammer.

I bounced around for some time. To an apartment with my cousin, Ryan. Then to a big, fancy house outside of Nashville, Tennessee with Jason’s family. After severing ties with them, I rented a tiny studio apartment downtown. I moved a couple more times, losing money (and myself) in the process.

Not once in the years I spent chasing something, anything in Tennessee did I sit down to write.

In January 2008, I was in debt and barely hanging on to the apartment I was renting. My good-for-nothing, pot-smoking boyfriend-of-the-moment wasn’t helping with the bills because he couldn’t hold a job. My car was on the verge of repossession. I was going nowhere; the only positive thing I did have was that I was talking with my parents again.

Then the life-shattering, earth-moving event. In North Carolina, January 31st, my cousin Cory—a Marine, a firefighter, one of my best friends—was killed in a car accident. He was 25 years old.

My mom drove from Louisville to Nashville the minute she heard. She told me it was because she didn’t want me to be alone, nor did she want to tell me something so sensitive over the phone. That’s just how she is; no matter how terrible a daughter I could be, she always put me first.

Later that same night after she left, I was alone. My deadhead boyfriend wasn’t home, neither was our equally stoned roommate. I was sitting on our single mattress on the floor, looking around our bare room with its one dresser and a floor strewn with clothes. It hit me.

What are you doing? Really?

Was I just trying to prove I could do it on my own? Because I couldn’t. Obviously.

In a flash of grief and pain, I realized my life had spiraled out of control simply because I was too stubborn to admit my parents were right.

I packed my things. My dog and I climbed in the old Jeep. And we came home to Louisville.

During the upheaval of moving back, I also found something I hadn’t yet realized I had lost—my writing. Whether it was my grief over Cory or simply returning home, I don’t know—but I started writing again.

Even better…I finished the novels I had started years before and I have started (and finished) even more in the time since.

I’ve been through a lot in my life. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as some, maybe it wasn’t as rough…but it shows that a girl can make bad decisions, life-changing mistakes, and still bounce back.

My mom is a Major with the Louisville Metro Police force—the third highest ranking female on the department. She just celebrated her 21st anniversary this month. I am in a stable, committed relationship with a man who will one day be my husband. We live in a small but nice home—I’m a police dispatcher. He’s a police officer.

I was a latchkey kid and because of it, I am now a writer. I am the daughter of a female police officer, and because of that, I’m a stronger, better woman.

***

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.

Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!

My paranormal romance novel, Abigail, is one of the novels featured.

All proceeds go to the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer.

 

Abigail

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble

Smashwords

My Planet or Yours? by LC Evans

Our much loved Moosette, good friend, and super-author Linda Evans is battling cancer. She remains positive, and I can see no other outcome than her total cure.

Please join our chorus of prayers for her quick recovery. Despite the illness, Linda has managed to release her new romantic comedy, My Planet or Yours? I know that she’s hoping the sales will alleviate the burden of her medical expenses. This delightful romantic romp is well worth the .99 cents.

I love you Linda,

Barbara

Nora Bryant is a single Earth woman out to ban men from her life after a recent breakup. Triskam is a strikingly handsome extraterrestrial, who crash lands near her remote Arizona home. Add to this mix, a couple of misguided thugs looking for a gold rush, an overly friendly, not-so-guard dog, and a communications device that thinks it's a nanny, and you have My Planet or Yours?, a delightful new romantic comedy by LC Evans, author of the Kindle bestseller, We Interrupt This Date.

My Planet or Yours?   Kindle version   

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1107216735    Nook version

Keep up the great work Linda!

Is Your Life Whispering to You?

By Cheryl Shireman   

I believe life whispers to you and provides direction. I call that life force God. You can call it whatever you want, but there is no escaping it. If we are open, and brave enough to say yes, life will take us in directions we never expected, and you will live a life beyond your wildest dreams.

Those whisperings often come in the form of a “crazy” idea or a nudge to move into a certain direction that seems odd or silly or daring. Then there is that moment when you think, Well, that’s weird. Where in the world did that come from?

And then there’s the second moment, when you have to make a choice. You can dismiss the crazy notion, and probably even come up with a dozen reasons why it’s a bad idea. You don’t have the time, the money, or the resources. Besides, who are you to do such a thing? What in the world were you thinking? So, you dismiss the idea. We always have that option - to say No.

But it comes back - that whisper. Sometimes again and again. But if we are practical, and safe, we can squash the notion until it is almost forgotten. Almost.

Such a notion came to me a couple of months ago. I began to think of an anthology composed of women writers. An anthology that would be published before the rapidly approaching holiday season. The title came to me almost immediately - Indie Chicks. It was a crazy notion. I was working with an editor who was editing my first two novels, and was also in the middle of writing a third novel. Working on three books seemed to be a pretty full plate. Adding a fourth was insane.

But the crazy notion kept coming back to me. It simply refused to be dismissed. So I sent out a “feeler” email to another writer, Michelle Muto. She loved the idea. I sent out another email to my writing buddy, J. Carson Black. She loved the idea, too, but couldn’t make the time commitment. She had just signed with Thomas & Mercer and was knee deep in writing. I took it as a sign. I didn’t have the time for the project either. Perhaps after the first of the year, when final edits were done on my own novels. I dismissed it, at least for the present time. I’d think about it again in another couple of months, when the timing made more sense.

A week later I surrendered, started developing a marketing plan for Indie Chicks, and began sending out emails to various indie writers - some I knew, but most were strangers. I contacted a little over thirty women. Every one of them responded with enthusiasm. Most said yes immediately, and those who could not, due to time commitments, wished us well and asked me to let them know when the book when the book was published so they could be part of promoting it.

One of the first writers I contacted was Heather Marie Adkins. Earlier this year, while I was browsing the internet, I came across an interview with Heather. The interviewer (oddly enough, Michelle Muto) asked Heather, When did you decide to become an indie author? Heather’s answer was:  About a month ago. My dad had been trying to talk me into self-publishing for some time, but I was hesitant. One night, I sat down and ran a Google search. I discovered Amanda Hocking, JA Konrath, Victorine Lieski; but it was Cheryl Shireman that convinced me. This is the field to be in. I was shocked (Astonished! Flabbergasted!). I had no idea that I had ever inspired anyone! To be honest, it was a bit humbling. And,okay, yes - it made me cry. So, of course, I had to invite Heather to be a part of the anthology. Heather not only said yes, but she also volunteered to format the project - a task I was dreading.

As Heather and I exchanged emails, I told her about how I had been similarly inspired to become an indie writer by Karen McQuestion. My husband bought me a Kindle for Christmas of 2010. Honestly, the present angered me. I didn’t want a Kindle. I wanted nothing to do with reading a book on an electronic device! I love books; the feel of them, the smell of them. But, very quickly, I started filling up that Kindle with novels.

One day, while looking for a new book on Amazon, I came across a title by Karen McQuestion. I learned that McQuestion had published her novels through Amazon straight to Kindle. Immediately, I began doing research on her and how to publish through Kindle. I had just completed a novel and was ready to submit it through traditional routes. Within 48 hours of first reading about McQuestion, I submitted my novel, Life Is But A Dream: On The Lake. Twenty four hours later, it was published as an eBook on Amazon. Within another couple of weeks it was available as a paperback and through Nook. Did I jump into this venture fearlessly? No! I was scared to death, and I almost talked myself out of it. Almost. The novel went on to sell over 10,000 copies within the first seven months of release.

As I shared that story with Heather, another crazy notion whispered in my ear - Ask Karen McQuestion to write the foreword for Indie Chicks. Of course, I dismissed it. We had exchanged a couple of tweets on Twitter, but other than that, I had never corresponded with McQuestion. It was nonsense to think she would write the foreword. I was embarrassed to even ask her. Surely, she would think I was some sort of nut. But, the idea kept whispering to me and, with great trepidation, I emailed her. She said yes! Kindly, enthusiastically, and whole-heartedly, she said yes. Karen McQuestion had inspired me to try indie publishing. I had inspired Heather Adkins. And now the three of us were participating in Indie Chicks, that crazy whisper I had been unable to dismiss.

The book began to develop, and as it did, a theme began to form. This was to be a book full of personal stories from women. As women, one of our most powerful gifts is our ability to encourage one another. This book became our effort to encourage women across the world. Twenty-five women sharing stories that will make you laugh, inspire you, and maybe even make you cry. We began to dream that these stories would inspire other women to live the life they were meant to live.

From the beginning, I knew I wanted the proceeds of this charity to go to some sort of charity that would benefit other women. While we were in the process of compiling the anthology, the mother of one of the women was diagnosed with breast cancer. Almost immediately upon learning that, Michelle Muto sent me an email. Hey, in light of *****’s mother having an aggressive form of breast cancer, can I nominate The Susan G. Komen foundation for breast cancer? I mean, one of our own is affected here, and other than heart disease (which took my own mother’s life), I can’t think of anything more worthy than to honor our sister in words and what she’s going through. A daughter’s love knows no bounds for her mother. Trust me. I know it’s a charity that already gets attention on its own. But, that’s not the point, is it? The point is there are 25 ‘sisters’ sticking together and supporting each other for this anthology. I say we put the money where the heart is. We had our inspiration. All proceeds would go to the Susan G. Komen foundation for breast cancer research.

The stories started coming in. Some were light hearted and fun to read. But others were gut-wrenching and inspiring - stories of how women dealt with physical abuse, overwhelming grief, and a host of bad choices. It was clear; these women were not just sharing a story, but a piece of their heart. I felt as if I were no longer “organizing” this anthology, but just getting out of the way so that it could morph and evolve into its truest form.

Fast forward to just a few days before publication. Heather was almost done with the enormous task of formatting a book with twenty-five authors. We were very close to publishing and were on the homestretch. That’s when I received an email. An unlikely email from someone I didn’t really know. Beth Elisa Harris and I were involved in another indie project and Beth sent an email to all of the authors in that project, including me. She attached a journal to that email. For whatever reason, Beth had been inspired to share a journal she wrote a few years ago. She cautioned us to keep her confidence and not share the journal with anyone else. I tend toward privacy and don't tend to trust easily. This is a HUGE step for me. I've only read it once since I wrote it. Intrigued, I opened the journal and began reading. It dealt with her diagnosis, a few years back, with breast cancer! Before I was even one third of the way through the journal, I felt I should ask Beth to include this journal in the Indie Chicks anthology. It was a crazy notion, especially when considering her words about privacy and trust. We didn’t even know each other, how could I ask her to go public with something so personal? I tried to dismiss the notion (are you noticing a pattern here?), but could not. I wrote the email, took a deep breath, and hit send. She answered immediately. Yes. Most definitely, yes.

Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories, with foreword by Karen McQuestion and afterword by Beth Elise Harris, is now available through Barnes and Noble and Amazon. The book includes personal stories from each of the women, as well as excerpts from our novels. And it began as a whisper. A whisper I did my best to ignore.

What whisper are you ignoring? What crazy notion haunts you? What dream merely awaits your response? I urge you, say Yes. Live the life you were meant to live. Say yes today.

Stories included in Indie Chicks:

Foreword by Karen McQuestion

Knight in Shining Armor by Shea MacLeod

Latchkey Kid by Heather Marie Adkins

Write or Die by Danielle Blanchard

The Phoenix and The Darkness by Lizzy Ford

Never Too Late by Linda Welch

Stepping Into the Light by Donna Fasano

One Fictionista’s Literary Bliss by Katherine Owen

I Burned My Bra For This? by Cheryl Shireman

Mrs. So Got It Wrong Agent by Prue Battten

Holes by Suzanne Tyrpak

Turning Medieval by Sarah Woodbury

A Kinky Adventure in Anglophilia by Anne R. Allen

Writing From a Flour Sack by Dani Amore

Just Me and James Dean by Cheryl Bradshaw

How a Big Yellow Truck Changed My Life by Christine DeMaio-Rice

From 200 Rejections to Amazon Top 200! by Sibel Hodge

Have You Ever Lost a Hat? by Barbara Silkstone

French Fancies! by Mel Comley

Life’s Little Gifts by Melissa Foster

Never Give Up On Your Dream by Christine Kersey

Self-taught Late Bloomer by Carol Davis Luce

Moving to The Middle East by Julia Crane

Paper, Pen, and Chocolate by Talia Jager

The Magic Within and The Little Book That Could by Michelle Muto

Write Out of Grief by Melissa Smith

Afterword by Beth Elisa Harris

Indie Chicks is available for your Kindle on Amazon and your Nook on Barnes and Noble. You may also read it on your computer or most mobile devices by downloading a free reader from those sites.

Stop by our Facebook page -  http://www.facebook.com/IndieChicksAnthology

Follow our Indie Chicks hash tag on Twitter!  #IndieChicksAnthology

Trick or Treat Blog Hop!

Join us for fun, games, and gummy pirates!

Trick or Treat Blog Hop starts here!

Lots of Authors, Lots of Games and Prizes!

Author Bumping - John Locke and Winslow Eliot

Virtual Bump – by Winslow Eliot

What’s it like to bump into a famous author in the air?

My own experience was like a fairy-tale. At the time of my first encounter with John Locke, I was lost in a strange, dark forest.  He was a knight in shining armor, who greeted me with a chivalrous smile and gentle greeting.

The gentle greeting was, of course, spoken in a strange language of 140 characters that I barely knew. Still, we understood each other. It was as though I patted his steed’s friendly nose, and picked up my dew-drenched skirts, and realized that now everything would be okay. Right from the start I felt we were kindred spirits in a world that was crazy, upsidedown, no-one-understands-me…

At the time, my agent was sending out A Perfect Gem to all the remaining traditional publishers, while bemoaning the fact of the hopelessness and strangeness of what was happening in the publishing world. She described editors and publicists being fired daily; she’d see them walking along the New York sidewalks, clutching their briefcases, their faces shell-shocked. Discouraging, as usual. She’d always been discouraging. She had a lot of confidence in my books though, and even after this one was rejected six times, she valiantly persisted.

By fall I’d had my twelfth rejection and I wrote my most-read-post ever: “Waiting for the Call that Never Comes…”

John read it too.

He told me my book was beautiful, which of course is enough to turn any girl’s head. He reminded me of my talent; he gave me courage.

Throughout the winter of my discontent, my brave knight gently removed my hands from the bloody brambles I was trying to climb through, and led me toward a sunny clearing: he showed me I could be independent of the messy, dark, and thorny old publishing world. He forged a path for me toward light and pleasure in creating the writing world I had been seeking all my life.

In a shimmery forest of virtual encounters, our fairy-tale-like bumps came and went, regardless of time of day, or weather, or the real distance between us. Our conversations, although spoken in Twitterese, were like two people bumping in a story and getting to know each other.

And so I followed my knight into the land of self-publishing. I’ve already published four gorgeous, exciting, romantic tales and, thanks to Good Knight John, I’ve found not just success but happiness in being in control of my writing destiny.

John stands for courage, truth, integrity, and has led so many of us – not just me – into a new land, and a new era.

It was a good bump, friend.

Winslow Eliot

Winslow Eliot is the author of (among others) Pursued, Heaven Falls, A Perfect Gem, and Bright Face of Danger (originally published by St. Martin’s Press 1993). Her WriteSpa - An Oasis for Writers welcomes visitors from all over the world and offers rejuvenating practices and virtual encouragement. She also teaches      high school, writes poetry, and loves belly-dancing,singing and playing guitar, Tarot, sacred places, reading, and people.

A Perfect Gem

Pursued

                   

Author Bumping in Australia by Prue Batten

Is author bumping the same as stalking? Depends on the POV I suppose. But if I want to see a favourite author, of course I’m stalking, no doubt!

That said, did I stalk Irish writer, Cathy Kelly when I bought a ticket to ‘Afternoon Tea with Cathy Kelly’ from my local bookshop?

She was publicizing Once in a Lifetime and I excitedly turned up at the venue, a large reception room in a gracious hotel in Hobart (Australia). It was hot, the room stacked to the brim with women who buzzed like bees in a bottle, drinking tea, eating the sumptuous spread on each table and anticipating seeing a star from the writing world. Cathy bounced into the room, all blonde Irish vivacity, and began to talk about life for an hour with barely a breath, taking questions from the floor and walking and speaking the whole time. A whirlwind in motion.

I remember I wore an orange silk knit cardigan, a tiny thing, very sweet… loved it. I also remember that I had just had my first book published in the UK – a fantasy called The Stumpwork Robe. And being gauche and green, I took a copy of my book along with Cathy’s latest in my handbag. My idea was to shanghai her in a corner, get her to sign her book and then give her a copy of mine to read!

I had no need to shanghai her. As she went to sit at the table in order to sign books, she said to me as she passed, ‘I LOVE the colour of your cardigan, it caught my eye through the whole afternoon.’ We chatted about colours that we liked and both being blonde, what suited us and then I held out her book for her to sign. I passed my own book over in a brown paper bag and doesn’t that smack of something tacky! I whispered that I was a new writer and she tipped the book out of the bag and said in a loud Irish brogue, ‘Be proud of this and sign it for me!’ in front of the line of readers waiting for their turn with her. I flushed red with embarrassment, not a good look with orange, and sweat trickled under my arms as I walked past them all later, my eyes downcast, their whispers reaching my ears. ‘Who is she? What’s she written?’ Gaaah!

The other bump was at another author talk – Australian writer Posie Graeme Evans after her historical fiction The Dressmaker was published. A gregarious woman, she talked spontaneously and with great charm for ages and then sat to sign. When I reached the table, she said ‘I know you! I worked with you!’

I thought Crumbs, did you? And madly trawled back through my working life to think when and where?

‘You were at the ABC,’ she said. (Think Australia’s version of the BBC)

It was true… I had worked as a researcher/journalist years before, a lifetime before. And what frustrated me but made me realise what a memory for faces she has, is that she remembered me but (absolutely no offence to her at all) I could not remember her. She had meanwhile become a famous TV producer responsible for the globally popular Mcleod’s Daughters and the author of four best-selling hist.fict novels and yet she still recalled my face after all that time… 20 to 30 years ago!

My response in the queue? I flushed red with embarrassment (not so bad this time because there was no orange cardigan to clash with) and sweat trickled under my arms. I turned away at the end of our chat, eyes downcast, aware of the whispers. ‘Who is she? What’s she done?’ Double gaaah!

Despite me having another book published for print and both that title and the previous one released as e-books, the flush factor, let alone the confidence factor, doesn’t appear to get any better as I get older. Ah well, as they say, that’s life!

Prue just released a wonderful new book, a fantasy called A Thousand Glass Flowers as an e-book in the first week of September with the print version following later in the year.   

                       
A Thousand Glass Flowers UK               A Thousand Glass Flowers US

Side note:
I LOVE this book!
Barb

Prue on Prue ~

The best way to describe myself would be to use a quote written about me on a recent blog (http://markwilliamsinternational.com/)

Here it is: ‘I live in Tasmania, have a pet Tasmanian Devil called Gisborne, eat kangaroos’ testicles, have the most ridiculous one-star ever awarded on Amazon, and wrote a novel on Twitter…’

Believe it or not, most of it is true. My husband and I own a farm so we do have lots of kangaroos around, but the testicles? Ugh! As to the Tasmanian Devil? I wish I did have one for a pet, but as recently reported in the Huffington Post, http://huff.to/f3zxSd the poor little things are suffering the ravaging effects of a disease that is bringing them to the edge of extinction. Better the scientists and conservation zoos look after them than me. And I do have a one star on Amazon… a woman bought my first book thinking it was an embroidery book despite the blurb and then gave ME a one star despite her mistake. And yes, myself and 50 others wrote a Jane Austen style novel on twitter which was mentioned by The Times (UK) no less. Me in a nutshell!

Thank you, Prue! This has been a real delight!

Prue can be reached at Mesmered's Blog and at Prue Batten.com