I love writing. I love it even more when it isn't work. That seems to be the case with my recent project. I'm not writing it. Its writing itsself. Each day another piece reveals itself to me and I have to hury up and jot it down. This morning I woke up to so much of the story falling in place that there was no way to write it all in detail. Thus I have rediscovered the note taking/outline process. Ok so I really never lost it. I just never really used it unless i had to give a speach or make a list of to dos. I suppose that's what my story was giving me this morning. My to do list. Each character is shouting for me to tell their side, their angle that they knew I had to write it down in a tangle be way. I'm quickly filling up a notebook with words; with lives, with character development, with a story line that has grabbed my attention and won't let go. I hope I can do it justice. Its such a good story my Muse has given me. I just don't want to let her down.

I wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a blessed Holiday. Below is story written by Laura Jeanne Allen that has stuck with me for many years. It touched me and I still use the saying to this day. I hope you enjoy it and it touches your life. Please appreciate your loved ones not only today but through out the year.

May God bless you and yours!

Best wishes!




Christmas Light Animations provided by MySpaceAnimations.com
SHMILY


Written by Laura Jeanne Allen

My Grandfather and Grandmother were married for over half a century, and played their own special game from the time they had met each other. The goal of their game was to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find. They took turns leaving "shmily" around the house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was their turn to hide it once more.

They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio where they always had warm, homemade pudding with blue food coloring.


"Shmily" was written in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point, my Grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.


There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly
were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows.  "Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as much a part of their house as the furniture.

It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' game. Skepticism had kept some of them from believing in true love-one that is pure and enduring. However, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. It was more than their flirtatious little games; it was a way of life. Their relationship was based on a devotion and passionate affection which not everyone is lucky to experience.

Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could. They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen. They finished each other's sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble.

My Grandmother whispered to one of her friends about how cute my Grandfather was, how handsome and old he had grown to be. She claimed that she really knew "how to pick 'em."


Before every meal they bowed their heads and gave thanks, marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune, and each other.


But there was a dark cloud in the couples' life: my Grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, my Grandfather was with her every step of the way.


He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so that she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go outside.


Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With the help of a cane and my Grandfather's steady hand, they went to church every morning. But my Grandmother grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the house anymore. For a while, my Grandfather would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over my Grandmother.

Then one day, what everyone dreaded finally happened. My Grandmother was gone.

"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my Grandmother's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time.  My Grandfather stepped up to my Grandmother's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby.


Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty.


S-h-m-i-l-y:


See How Much I Love You.

I wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a blessed Holiday. Below is story written by Laura Jeanne Allen that has stuck with me for many years. It touched me and I still use the saying to this day. I hope you enjoy it and it touches your life. Please appreciate your loved ones not only today but through out the year.

May God bless you and yours!

Best wishes!




Christmas Light Animations provided by MySpaceAnimations.com
SHMILY


Written by Laura Jeanne Allen

My Grandfather and Grandmother were married for over half a century, and played their own special game from the time they had met each other. The goal of their game was to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find. They took turns leaving "shmily" around the house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was their turn to hide it once more.

They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio where they always had warm, homemade pudding with blue food coloring.


"Shmily" was written in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point, my Grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.


There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly
were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows.  "Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as much a part of their house as the furniture.

It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' game. Skepticism had kept some of them from believing in true love-one that is pure and enduring. However, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. It was more than their flirtatious little games; it was a way of life. Their relationship was based on a devotion and passionate affection which not everyone is lucky to experience.

Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could. They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen. They finished each other's sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble.

My Grandmother whispered to one of her friends about how cute my Grandfather was, how handsome and old he had grown to be. She claimed that she really knew "how to pick 'em."


Before every meal they bowed their heads and gave thanks, marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune, and each other.


But there was a dark cloud in the couples' life: my Grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, my Grandfather was with her every step of the way.


He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so that she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go outside.


Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With the help of a cane and my Grandfather's steady hand, they went to church every morning. But my Grandmother grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the house anymore. For a while, my Grandfather would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over my Grandmother.

Then one day, what everyone dreaded finally happened. My Grandmother was gone.

"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my Grandmother's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time.  My Grandfather stepped up to my Grandmother's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby.


Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty.


S-h-m-i-l-y:


See How Much I Love You.

As with this time every year, I find myself not only reflecting on the year that is passing but also focusing on the up coming year. This year was my reading revival year. Loving to read is one thing but dedicating and finding time to read hasn't always been a priority. This year I made time to read, even if only for a few minutes (which usually turned into a few hours) at bedtime. With the coming year I want to continue to find the time or rather make the time to read for pleasure and personal growth. With one year left on my degree I'll be focusing quite a bit on required reading in the fun and fascinating fields of Science and Math (never put of your least favorite subjects til the end...it will come back and bite you). However, I plan to squeeze in some leisure reading (as well as writing). With that in mind here's a small list of what I've planned for the very first month of 2010.

"On Writing" by Stephen King

Technically I've already started this one. So far its great. Fascinating even. I love to learn how people get where they are. King lays it out there and doesn't bother to pretty it up. Which I respect and prefer in autobiographies/how to books.

Since the holidays are in full swing, I more than likely will not get this one finished before the New Year.


The Cape Refuge Series By Terri Blackstock

This is one of her earlier series but after reading the Restorations series, I can't wait to dive into this one. Terri Blackstock writes beautiful real life characters. Blackstock left the mainstream romance genre and dug her feet into the Christian fiction genre and thank God she did because her books leave you laughing, crying, and thinking. Her books aren't all about the sunshine and roses and I have yet to find an Amish settlement in her books. (Just a thing I have about Christian fiction, seems to have to involve an Amish settlement in someway). There's murder, theivery, deception, love, and a whole lot of the characters digging deep inside themselves in very realistic struggles. Terri Blackstock definately has a grasp on being a Christian in modern society.



Queen of Babble by Meg Cabot

Well actually I've already read the Queen of Babble but I indend on reading the second and third books: Queen of Babble in the City and Queen of Babble gets Hitched. These are some seriously light hearted reading. But I love them. I love Cabot's writing because its quick, light, and lets you get lost in a whole bunch of fun and zanniness that I think we as adults forget to have from time to time.

Cabot is best known for her Princess Diaries series.



There's a few others such as:

The Elements of Styl By Willaim Strunk Jr.
The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown
First Drop of Crimson by Jeaniene Frost
Hey Yeah Righ Get A Life by Helen Simpson
Vanish by Tom Pawlik
Already Dead: A Novel by Charlie Huston
Unbreakable by Sydney Somers
The Keeper by Sara Langan
The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance by Tricia Telep

There's at least a good start to the New Year. If it weren't for the whole having to eat, sleep, work, and interact with the real world I could get a pretty good dent in those books. Something I've learned this year after staying up half the night multiple times just dying to get to the end of a good book, is that some books are like a good wine or a warm soup on a very cold day, its better to take your time and savor the good stuff. With that in mind, I am not setting a numeric goal for 2010 but rather a quality goal. I want to read good things and those that are bad I want to finish and figure out what made them bad. Best of luck in the coming year and happy reading!

I've been under some stressful emotions lately. Several aspects of my life are changing rapidly while others are in limbo until I make some decisions. All of which are life changing in one way or another. As per her norm, my Muse came last night at 11:47 pm. Right on time. All my medication for my inner ear infection had kicked in but my Muse will not be ignored any longer. But man or man! She was in full force and I am so glad I did not ignore her. She has brought me an early Christmas present. A story. The story I have been searching for. She brought it and dropped it in my head with her rich characters and appeal. Of course, she also dropped in a setting I know nothing about so I'll be doing research. Other than for papers, I've never really done any real research so this may take me a while. But she's singing in my head even as I prepare the house for the Christmas feastivities later this week. My notebook is close at hand so I can jot down whatever she throws at me before I lose it. Its delightful to have her so excited in my head. I hope I can do her justice. Only time will tell.

Surprisingly, I've been rather productive today. Well, at least when it comes to writing. I had one of those moments where a thought comes to you so you write it down for later but then the pen keeps going? Yes, I had one of those moments. It amazes me how something like a small thought takes you to places not even close to where you started. At least its progress. Not that I'll do anything with it but purhaps it will become something one of these days.

I've been giving a lot of thought into my voice. Not my vocal voice - my pen voice, story voice, whatever you want to call it. My voice. The tone my stories give. I've noticed I write primarily two ways; either very deep and emotional or light hearted and humorous. I suppose that's justified coming from a bipolar brain. I'm just not so sure which way to pursue. I'm temped to figure out a way to merge the two worlds but really, I don't see that working either. They're two seperate worlds, in two seperate universes. My fictional writing tends to be more melodramatic while my semi-autobiographical material finds a lot of humor. That can also be justified since I see my life as very funny if not almost teasing. The only thing I know to do is continue to write what comes out of either the end of the pen or off the keyboard and continue to read everything I get my hands on. I'm pretty sure when I hear the voice I'll know it.

I’m not funny. Not really. I use humor at times to deflect my own insecurities but overall I’m not a candidate for a stand up gig. However, I do at times even crack myself up. I think it’s primarily a warped sense of looking at the world. Mom and Dad instilled that it me and I’ve passed it along to my wonderful offspring. My earliest memory of this family gift was my dad watching the Wide World of Sports. On the fuzzy screen of the floor console appeared a mountain of pure white snow. At the top of this glacier beauty was a man decked out in the most high tech ski gear of its time. The athlete lunged and took off down the side of the mountain – his body swayed left, then right, then left again, then…head over heels…ski poles went flying left and right…all you could see was a human snow ball plummeting down the side of the magnificent mountain side. And all you could hear? My dad rolling with laughter as tears ran down his face. All he could manage to get out verbally was what a bunch of idiots those skiers were. It was small things like that, that shaped my young mind and my view on the world.

Another favorite past time of my dad’s was attempting to scare me to death and I shared in the pursuit of giving him a good jolt to the ticker as well. Unfortunately, there was an innocent bystander. My mother. It never failed that my mother would walk into one of our well thought out schemes. It’s amazing that the woman isn’t on a wide range of tranquilizers after all the years of torture we put her through. While my dad would jump out from behind doors to scare me and I would shake up some carbonated beverage for him, it was always my mother who ended up the recipient of our trickery.

But there was one particular incident that was strictly a bonding moment for my dad and I. Oh yes, it involved my mom in the biggest way. One in which just the very mentioning of it to this day, causes her lips to pull together so tight they look like one completely straight line and her eyes bead up like she could shoot lazars out of them. It was an innocent enough prank; especially, since it was an impulse move on my part.

Here’s the back story. My mother has a fear of lightning. A sever fear. She grew up in Southern Florida and to her credit there are some pretty intense and freaky lightning storms there from time to time. My entire life I’ve heard the warnings from her not to take a shower when its lightning and don’t talk on the phone when its lightning because a light pole could get struck and the lightning would travel through the line into the phone and strike you while you talked on it. Mom had a ton of warnings but these two were always included and she was adamant that if we performed either of these acts the curtains would be closed on our existence. I often wonder if that would happen by an act of God or by her for disobeying. I never tested it. Until one fateful night…

This was in the time when cordless phones had first become all the rage. We had one and loved it. Especially mom because she could move about the house working and talking on the phone without hanging one of us with 50 foot of phone cord. On the night in question, Mom & Dad & I were sitting around the den watching TV and cutting up. It was storming really good outside; the window shaking kind of thunder. Mom got up on her soapbox about the evils of appliances and lightning. Dad and I picked up on her phone issue. I remember the debate went a little like this:

“You can’t talk on the phone when its lightning…it’ll hit a pole and travel through the line and strike you right then and there” stated mom firmly. My response: “What about the cordless phone? How can it travel to it when there’s no line?” Dad chimed in with “Yeah, I guess it would chase you around the house until it could strike you down deader than a doornail”. The last two statements were followed by giddy laughter from my dad and me. We teased her for a few minutes. Then, as if on cue, the phone rang. Me being the teenager I was at the time, was the closet to the phone. Mom promptly advised me not to touch the phone. Dad and I looked at each other and an unspoken pact was made in our eyes. I reached for the phone and as I picked it up, bringing it to my ear, I shook my entire body making a “zit…zit…zit” sound. Two things happened spontaneously. My mother swore like a drunken sailor and my dad and I burst in to laughter as hard as he had laughed at the downhill skiers. Afterwards, my mom stormed up stairs swearing with every step she took and she didn’t return down until the next morning. A few years later, a friend of mine’s husband was thrown across the room when lightning struck a transformer and the current traveled through the lines ending at the other end of the phone he was talking on. I don’t answer the phone when it’s storming now.

I've been reading a very lame book but can't seem to quit simply because, like a bad movie, I have to see the end with a small hope that there will be something that ties all the lack of plot and substance together. I wonder if the writer ever used an outline? There's a ton of gratiuitous sex but nothing substantial. It simply makes the heroine appear as slut. Each male she encounters becomes her next escapade. I suppose reading bad writing is as helpful as reading good writing. I'm hoping that'll I take away the knowledge of what not to do. This is at least what I'm attempting to convenience myself. I'll have to make a note to remember to make the story meaniful and not just colorful.

I've been drowning in school work lately but my Muse decided to drop in and inspire me. I've noticed a pattern. When my brain is on overload she pops in, my Muse that is. I suppose she's a she. I suppose she could be a male. After all, I tend to dream in a masculine point of view. Well as masculine as a female can be. Actually, (really noticed I use that word quite a bit and I really don't like the use of Actually, humph)I wonder if everyone views things in the opposite sex POV from time to time? There I go getting side tracked again. My original thought was that when I get so much on my mind that I can't control it any longer the Muse arrives large and in charge. I'm taking advantage of the visit while still trying to focus on the task at hand. So off I go to ponder the Quadratic Formula for a few hours while the Muse dances ideas around in my head. But I'm a step ahead this time...my writer's journal is close at hand.

Continuing with the Paranormal Romance Genre (as well as the Series Theme), the next series is the oober-hyped Sookie Stackhouse Series by Charlaine Harris. First let me address one issue. As with the Twilight world many people compare the literary works and the visual media with one another. This is impossible to do fairly. No one can visualize exactly what we see in our mind’s eye; therefore, for the avid reader there is no director, producer or script writer that can satisfy our territorial sense of the original work. Because of that, I try very hard to separate the two as individual works and not compare them. That being said, True Blood, the HBO series based on the series is good for its medium, but please don’t base the books on the show. They are similar but there are many, many difference in the two.
Now that I have that out of my system, let me say I was hesitant at first when I read Book 1: Dead Until Dark. I realized it was from all the hype of the television series. Plus I had just finished a very addictive series. I gave Book 2: Living Dead in Dallas a shot just to be fair to the series and the advice of a few people on one of the forums I frequent. I admit it, I was pleasantly surprised. It was just the withdraw that comes from finishing one series and jumping into another.

Charlaine Harris writes with that southern humor I grew up with. The words flow easily and you can hear the twangs and drawls of the southern language as you read through the story. You become so attracted to her characters you find yourself sometimes rooting for the guy/gal you don’t thing you should. However, Harris lets you off easy by making each character both flawed and engaging so you don’t have to feel guilty for it.

The premise of the story starts with Sookie Stackhouse herself. She’s a waitress with the "gift" of being a telepath (not psychic). She’s tried her entire life not to eavesdrop on the residence of Bon Temps but she slips from time to time. This makes the town think she’s not quite right. However, everything changes in Sookie’s world when the Vampires “come out” thanks to the invention of synthetic blood called True Blood. They are marketed as having an “illness” that makes them allergic to sunlight, etc… Sookie saves the new Vamp in town and her world is never the same afterwards.

In the series of nine books, Harris introduces us to more mystical creatures including weres, shape shifters, witches, fae, some serious fang-bangers and a few others. Throughout this world, it isn’t always the supes who are the villains which makes the storyline all the more interesting. There’s a ton of humor, personal imperfections, hot scenes ((blushing)), and characters that you love one minute, hate the next, and love again. It’s a great light read and a wonderful escape from reality.


The books so far include:

Book 1: Dead Until Dark
Book 2: Living Dead in Dallas
Book 3: Club Dead
Book 4: Dead to the World (My FAVE)
Book 5: Dead as a Doornail
Book 6: Definitely Dead
Book 7: All Together Dead
Book 8: From Dead To Worse
Book 9: Dead and Gone

There’s a few short stories as well but I haven’t had the chance to touch them yet. They are as follows:

A Touch of Dead (Sookie short story collection)
Must Love Hellhounds Anthology (short story of Sookieverse)
Strange Brew Anthology
Unusual Suspects Anthology
Many Bloody Returns Anthology
My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding Anthology
Bite Anthology
Night’s Edge Anthology
Powers of Detection Anthology

For more information on these and other works by Charlaine Harris check out her official site. HERE

Once in a while you run across a series that captivates you to the point that your dreams are full of the characters. I’ve found such a series in the Black Dagger Brotherhood. This unique adaptation of vampires brings the paranormal genre to a whole new level. JR Ward has brought this intriguing world so vividly to life that you close your eyes and picture the massive warriors in great detail.



The series centers around a secret band of brothers who defend their race against a society hell bent on wiping the vampires out. The Brotherhood is made up of six of the most damaged, ruthless, but loveable vampires ever. With names like Wrath, Rhage, Zhadist, Phury, Vishous, and Thorment, they exude masculine strength and a “don’t fuck with us” vibe. Both the Vampires and the Lessers fight this war discretely to keep both their existences secret from the human world.

While the storyline follows their fight against the Lessening Society, it also goes in to great detail about both their personal demons and the one thing none of them expected to find, true love. Each book tells the story of a different Brother, their dramatic past that leads up to their “curse” (whatever that may be), and the unlikely heroines that they fall in love with whether they want to or not. But these heroines are anything but plain. They are dynamic enough in their own right to carry the story as well. JR Ward hasn’t set up the perfect Happily Ever After though. These characters are so raw and vivid because Ward allows them to be flawed; hard but compassionate; arrogant but loving. Some of the characters make you want to curse at times while at other times you just want to weep for them.

I have become mesmerized by the enchanting and dark world JR Ward has created and I am counting down the time until the next installment comes out in April of 2010. Here’s a rundown of the books so far:



DARK LOVER   
Book One




Book Two




Lover Awakened
Book Three
Zhadist’s Book (Everyone’s favorite)






Lover Revealed
Book Four
Butch’s Book






Lover Unbound
Book 5
Vishous’ Book






Lover Enshrined
Book 6
Phury’s Story






The Black Dagger Brotherhood: An Insider’s Guide
Book 7 so to speak
A great guide to how JR Ward met the Brothers and how they came to life as well as a wonderful Novella of Zhadist and Bella.






Lover Avenged
Book 8
Rhevenge’s Book












And the much anticipated:

Lover Mine
Book 9
John Mathews
Coming in 2010