I'll announce the winner this afternoon. I'm on the road at the moment. Can't wait to find out who the lucky reader is!

Lips drawn tight. Nose wrinkled up. Her hand moves slowly over the page. She fills in the spaces between  the lines; the graphite of the pencil her weapon. Slowly the number nine loses its shape. Loses its identity on the paper. A slow, small grin pushes its way to the surface. Ah! If only it were that simple. To simply color it all in; make it all just disappear. Visible to none.

An evil plot grows in her mind. Her heart beats slightly faster, excited by the thought of wiping out its existence. Coloring in the spaces. Smothering out the very life each one brings to the page. Her stress eradicated. Her anguish extinguished. Her mind could rest; could be free from the chaos, the torture of this laborious chore.

Her hand moves faster; closing the spaces in each number. First the nine. Then the three. Next to go? The six. Ah! Yes, the six. Her hand flows from one number to the next. Each disappearing with nothing more than the scratching of the graphite on the page. A weight lifting from her chest; transferring to the shapes; to the numbers themselves. Faster the pencil moves on the page. Fanatically it disguises each number. A hum vibrates through her soul. Peace is reaching her. Four is next. She’s almost free. A five. Another nine. A one…A one?

It hits her. The weight; it returns. The tension tightens at the base of her neck. Her heart skips. Her breath catches. A one? A single number. The number one. It cannot be disguised from what it is. Number one. A line. A simple, single line. A line drawn that cannot be crossed. The one.

With disappointment of not reaching her escape, she flips the wooden pencil, ironically the shape of a one, over and begins to slowly erasing the marks. Morning each numbers return. There is no escape from this destiny. With the last number’s release from the graphite, she lets a sigh escape her lips. Her shoulders sink down. It is inevitable. She returns to the page. Faces her anguish. Faces the inevitable.

Problem number one. Her agonizing sentence she must carry out.

Problem number one. Her brick wall she must climb.

Problem number one. The key to her future.

Problem number one. Problem number one of her final College Algebra exam.

Now that I've reminded myself that writing is important to me, I am consumed by all aspects of it. That's understandable since I do this with everything I get into. It's a hazard to being a bit OCDish. I love the excited feeling of my words bringing the voices to life once again but I'm having a bit of difficulty focusing. Why? I think it's that I don't know my voice. I know my voices but not my voice. I have several. I can write anecdotal. I can write humorously. I can write deep, soul searchingly. These three live in very different places. I don’t know how to make the commute between the three and produce quality work. I don’t know how to choose between them either. They’re like children. I love each of them. Each has their own unique place in my heart. Each is a part of me. Now how to I find that happy medium? That place where I can give each their due.


I could continue to give each of their time but I’m finding they’re fighting for center stage more and more. I’m flooded with their voices screaming their stories to me. Do I assign them each a day of their own? Do I give two a time out and spend a week, a weekend, a day, an hour with the one? How do you figure this out? I can’t choose and I don’t know how to tame them? So I suppose I’ll continue to run in circles until either I break or they break me.

This is not a deep literary piece of work but it’s the kind of fluff that makes you forget the real world for a while. There’s just something about her characters that draws you in and makes you feel each of them. I’m a character driven person so her books are addictive to me. I’m also a HEA (happily ever after) kind of person. That made this a good one. Although, I will admit some loose ends were cleaned up a bit to easily but there were a couple of issues left dangling unanswered. Though, these could be holes waiting for life in other books. Overall, a great quick read to lose yourself from reality for a while.

PS I'm looking forward to the second book in The Night Huntress World series: Eternal Kiss of Darkness scheduled for release in August of this year.

Now for some fun. I ended up with two copies of this book. I’m keeping one to reread but I’d like to share one with some lucky reader. So this is my very first contest and here’s how we’ll work it. To enter leave a comment below answering this question, “Which fictional character are you most like and why?” This can be any genre. It’s that simple. BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE…


I’ll throw in more entries for the following:

• 1 for each place you post about the contest on your blog, social network, or anywhere you can. Just make sure to link add a link to it in your comment.


• 1 for any review you comment on, but please make them relevant and meaningful. Let me know which on in your answer/comment


• 1 for following this blog. (Only if you want to though. Don’t be bullied by me to join)

And finally, I’ll give 1 entry for being a member of Frost Cemetary. You know who you are. Just leave me your forum name.

That about wraps it up. I'll select a winner on Friday, April 16th using the Randomizer. Good luck and Happy Reading!! 

Today is frustrating. Today is the day that an annual literary conference is held where I work. Creative people will gather and discuss the writing process, hear readings, attend workshops, and be surrounded by others who understand the very odd world of writing. I, on the other hand, will sit at my desk and do the work that is the least creative of all. I’ll watch the people enter the hall smiling and excited with the possibilities of the day. It’s frustrating because I feel as if I live in a world that my creative side must be hidden, a dark insane secret. Very few know that I yearn to write, that I want to be a writer. I want to perfect the very thing I love the most. Yet, no one would understand my desire to do something that to the outside world sees as fruitless. This is why I would love to sit in a room where the air is filled with the energy of the creative. A place where people understand the sometimes lonely, sometimes dark places we are led by our muses. Feeding off each other. Perhaps someday I can be there but today I smile and direct the creative ones to their workshop. I’ll smile and hide my jealousy, my wanting.

I'm distracted. This is common. Usually I'm either distracted from the creative process, the writing, the getting the words down. Or, I'm distracted from the "work"-homework, housework, work work, life work. Either way I'm usually distracted from one and focus on the other. Today, this day, I'm distracted by it all. I need to be doing all of it. Well, I suppose I really need to be doing the work work, the school work, the house work, but I want to be doing the creative work. It's all right there at the gate crammed together so tight not one cell of any of it can break free to win their own time. My mind simply winds around and around at what it should be doing, what it wants to be doing, what it could be doing. The end results? Nothing. I have nothing to show for any of it. I haven't accomplished any work work, we won't even talk of the house work, the homework sets safely bound in its binder, and the story of the moment, the story that's been bursting to get out sets tightly tucked in the recesses of my mind. I can't accomplish anything because I can not let it all begin. Its the matter of which comes first? The Chicken? or the egg? At this point, I'm simply preparing a whole mess of scrambled eggs.

It's Monday. It's Monday after a wonderful Easter weekend. I have to admit while I dreaded parts of the weekend it turned into a celebration beyond my desires. My son was Baptized, a good friend came forward and was saved, and my other half...my Lobster as he's called...came and was actually moved to the point of wanting to return to church. I'm not under any delusions though. It'll be a while before he's sitting beside me regularly in church. It'll still be a battle to keep him headed in the right direction but at least his heart was opened up yesterday. He's eyes were unblinded and he felt the presence I've been talking about. He heard it, he felt it, he knew it. That was the best Easter present I could receive.

Now its Monday and while I am still riding the high from yesterday, I am trying to focus on the here and now. The math returned. The work day has begun. I'm tired. I'm hurting. I'm struggling not to whine. All this is going on and I realize that the true reason I'm dissatisfied is because tucked in a manila folder in my bag between the Algebra and Psychology books is a bundle of pages with pencil marks and red pen scribbles that I want to pour my attention into. It's a part of me that is unfinished. The story put on hold for a reason I didn't understand before but have a more clear picture of why now. It is the story of the girl and the boy and the sanctuary she seeks in a tree. I want to pour over the pages, dig, explore, why is she so hung up on that tree? What is going on in her mind regarding him? and why does he humor her with the tree when he thinks it's just a tree? I have so many questions they need to answer for me. But I have to be in the here and now. I have to eat so I have to do my daily job. I want to be on that hill with them. I want to know what it is they both seek. But back to the phones, the emails, the homework in between. I'll visit with them soon. I'll find out their secrets and I'll share them with you. Until then back to the real world with sweet anticipation of returning to their world.

 Three little letters...W-O-W! That's what I have to say about this book. Wow! This is a powerful book. I've loved every moment, every word, every letter. This a powerful book with no true happy ending nor sad ending. It's the story of several woman in 1960's Jackson, Mississippi. Told mostly by the colored help but also by one lone white woman who feels the winds of change coming; or at least hopes they are coming.

The characters in this book are so strongly written that they stay with you when you aren't in the pages of the book. I found myself during the day when not able to read wondering if Mini was going to be alright or if Ms. Skeeter would ever find happiness or acceptance for being herself. I worried for each of the characters. Feared for them. Cried for them. Even laughed with them.


There are always books that stick with you but this one has been written so well that you can almost smell the cotton in the fields and the chemical hair dye at the salon. Katheyn Stockett has a wonderful understanding of how to make words bring people to life. I was transported from my reading spot to right smack dab in the middle of Jackson Mississippi in 1962. It's truly amazing. The dialog is written so that you can feel the vernacular just roll off you tongue. At times, I found myself struggling not to talk out load with a southern twang. The accents, the descriptions, the emotions, and overall power of the 1960s changing South are so well written you can't help but be there in the moment.

This is easily not only one of the best books I've read all year but of all times. For a first novel, Kathryn Stockett came out of the gate leading the pack. I look forward to watching for her talents to produce some amazing work in the future.