Archive for the 'Inspiration' Category

January 1, 2006 | Inspiration

Well guess what? 2006 has arrived. I’ve been anxiously awaiting the first day of January. Last year was very traumatic and I learned what a supportive group of family and friends I truly have. My mother died suddenly on February 26th, fifteen months after my father died. It has taken me almost a year to accept I won’t be hearing her voice or feeling the loving touch of her hand on me. Now, I’ve cleaned and feng shui’d my writing space and am rearing to go. I haven’t made any real new year resolutions. Don’t believe in them. There is no use in my denying my unflinching addiction to potato chips. So I’m going to keep eating them ( in moderation and no baked chips PLEASE)
I’m taking the route of new beginnings, continuing with what matters, and learning.
Beginnings means develop new writing projects, taking control of my health by eating regularly, including vegetables in my diet (that includes carrots with ranch dressing), embracing our daughters’ soon to be new life as a college graduate, and see the power in each day, even if the sun isn’t shining.
Continuing, finish the line editing for my book so I can submit it, fine tune my website with Karen’s every present guidance, work on my tennis singles game and get my team to the playoffs, and when the time permits decorate my house (ok, so that could be Christmas again).
Learning, writing is always about learning. I’m so thankful for my online vixens, FF&P, Passionate Ink, Chicago North RWA and Pro-Org. What a wealth of information and strong opinions.
And the beauty of all three, is I have Beth and Sloane to journey with me.
Sloane ended the year with a contract for Teddi Turns On from Triskelion. I’m still celebrating her success. You should see Sloane in action. Once she identified her voice and what she wanted to write, she was methodically in her approach. She learned her genre and wrote, then rewrote and wrote it again. Beth, a multi-published author, was the one who saw our potential (now I know why she was staring at me), asked us to write with her and has gently (stop snickering Sloane) taught us. Of course, that big 2X4 lurking in the corner takes me back to Catholic grade school, and has a lot to do with our getting it. At least on the fifth try, as is my case.

So to all my fellow writers, tennis players, and friends stay tuned. I’m coming out swinging!

December 23, 2005 | Inspiration

I’ve told you my goals for 2006. Right now, I’m finishing line editing my book, enjoying my family and honoring my deceased parents. I wish you all a great Holiday celebration whatever you choose. I’ll return to my blog on January 3rd. On my Writing Humps, Dumps and Lumps page, Hotclue is going to start the year off answering quesitions on point of view. So until then:

Twas the night before Christmas and all through my house,
Every creature was stirring, including my computer mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney in disaray
Cause there weren’t nothing in them, so what the hey
My 22 year old had slept in her bed all day,
While visions of night time juking danced in her head
Now she and her AKA sisters have primped and prepped,
Cause by eleven pm sister girls, out they will step,
They all look so hot and want to have to have a good time,
Make some unsuspecting brothers spend their last dime.
Our son was grooving watching Adult Swim in his room,
Venturing out only for food and the bathroom.
He’s only fifteen and girls give him the frights,
And for this Mommy, that’s alright.
One day too soon, he’ll discover the opposite sex,
Making Mommy reach for a shot gun, shovel and Kleenex.
Hubby is snoring in the Lazy Boy, holding tight the remote,
Poor me, on this I’ve got no vote.
I’ll wait till he’s sleep, from his fingers I’ll pry it,
Then set reminders to pop up every hour, he’ll have a fit.
I’d just fallen asleep when I heard a great noise,
For a moment I thought it might be some hot boys.
So, I hobbled from my bed and peaked out the window,
Couldn’t see anything, no really couldn’t see anything – no glasses, but it was twenty below.
I stepped over our guard dog (yeah right a beagle) down to the first floor,
Wondering if the noise came from a window or door.
I heard some tapping up on the roof,
“Oh crap,” I said, “I don’t think the roof’s holeproof.”
Then suddenly the fireplace grew bright,
And I thought maybe ET’s stopping by for a bite.
Then black boots, red pants shimmed down the flue,
I didn’t know what to do.
Should I start a fire and burn him up?
Or get out the champagne and offered him a cup?
I braved the outside, since no one would wake up,
I stared at the roof, wishing I had backup.
Then I caught sight of a brand new red convertible Mustang,
All I could say was “Dang.”
Filled with bags, the strap of a Louis Vuitton handing out one side,
I yelled, “Oh Baby come on inside!”
I hurried back into the house, stood by the fireplace clapping with glee,
That jolly old man had brought me some LV!
He made it down the chimmey, tossed his bag on the floor, took a deep breathe and said,
“Woman, those bags are heavy.”
I eyed the LV bags all for me, smiled my best smile and said, “Oh Santa, don’t be so funny.”
He shuffled the bags and unloaded all the loot,
For my family what a hoot.
But, just as I went to touch a bag, my hand he gave a sharp wack!
“Not so fast,” he said, “Ms Smartaleck.”
“Have you finished line editing your book?”
He gave me a harsh look.
I bowed my head and shook it no.
He said, “To your desk, now go.”
“But it’s late”, I begged.
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that damn proscrasination line from Sloane.” He smirked.
Boy, Santa was becoming a jerk!
“I’ll take the Vuitton back, the Mustang too.
If you don’t do what you’re supposed to.”
“Oh no Santa, not the LV and my brand new ride!”
“I’ll write, I’ll edit, I’ll submit, just don’t take away my bribes!”
He paused for a moment, I was scared
I was going to have to beat Santa and hide his carass under my bed.
Then he leaned back and laughed so loud,
I thought he’d wake hubby – Not!
“Girlfriend, make me proud.”
“Success awaits you, now say it loud.”
“I’m black and I’m proud! Oops, my bad.”
I raised up my hand and said, “I got it Santa. I know what you’re saying.”
“Sit my ass in that chair and keep writing.”
“I’ve got potential, I’ve got promise, I’ve got stories to tell.”
“Millions of books to sell.”
He said, “Now, you’ve got it.” He reached down in his bag and said, “I’ve got one more thing to
make you happy.”
“Your own personal tv remote. It won’t work for anyone else, not even your hubby.”
Now I was feeling rather froggy and bubbly.
So with a short salute and a tap on my hubby’s head,
He waddled to the front door, outside sat a bobsled.
On top of a black Hummer.
As he gunned the motor, I said, “What a bummer.”
Those big rim spinners,
Just kept him grinning.
He roared around my block, turned the sound system way up loud,
My daughter and her friends would have been proud.
I could have sworn I heard him yell, “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!”
But the bass was so loud all I saw was headlights.
So I’ll say it for Santa, my vixens and friends,
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

December 21, 2005 | Inspiration

A few years ago, actually 1998, I was doing the Weight Watchers plan (still am) and one of the components is exercise. So I headed to the nearest health club, a wonderful facility, joined and started the aerobics class. That lasted a few months and then I became bored. So still following Weight Watchers, I took a beginners tennis program, called 1 2 3 Tennis taught by a tennis pro. Now, the first time I picked up a tennis racquet was when I lived in Washington, D.C. I did it because it was taught at a singles complex and I was single. It was really fun learning in the warm summer evenings. I even got a couple of dates out of it. I was born and raised in Virginia and the first time I saw Arthur Ashe I fell in love/lust. He overcame so many racial barriers to become a great professional tennis player, and although I never got to meet the man, I remain in awe of him. Especially his dignity in dealing with AIDS, and how he handled John MacEnroe’s temper outbursts. The next time I picked up a racquet was in Chicago after the birth of our daughter, and stopped when I returned to work. Then, 1998. Nancy, the pro, made tennis so much fun to play. For two hours twice a week, we sweated our butts off on a hot court. Little did I know this woman had an ulterior motive. Took me a little over a year to figure it out and by then, I was hooked. She suggested, after we finished the class, we join a team. Now, bear in mind a team of anything, including a writer’s group, can consist of beginners and experienced people. In our case, it was more like the beginners on one team and the experienced players on the other. It was especially clear when we played and they wiped our asses off the court. Of course not to be totally embarrassed, we kept taking lessons, found other women willing to play on our team and we got better. Then we discovered tennis outfits, which at any age gives a woman the right to wear very hot short skirts, skimpy tops and not feel bad. We continued to work as a team, bring in new members and learn to play better. At some point, a few years ago, the team I was on decided to split up. I’m not going to go into details, but the breakup left the advanced players on one team and the no so advanced on the other. Well, guess what team I ended up on. It caused a lot of hurt feelings, but again, here comes Nancy and she suggested I captain the not so advanced team. Since I had captained our summer teams and I was pissed at how the entire breakup was handled, I agreed. The first couple of years were down right ugly. We got our butts kicked, but we really liked each other as teammates AND as women. We also discovered a common love, clothes. As I put it then, we may look bad out there on the court, but we always looked good. To add to our team, Nancy sent a couple of new players our way. The team gelled, our tennis pro was patient and taught us well. Then we got better. MUCH better. My teammates have been there for me through the loss of both my parents. When a lady suffers, we are there for her. We’ve had teammates have children. Funny, how one half of our team is raising children, and the other half are finished. We party together, we have lunch on Saturdays after practice and for the last two years, traveled to Miami for the NASDAQ 100 Tennis Tournament. Our tennis wardrobes have expanded. If we choose a color to play in on any given weekend, everybody can find an outfit in that color in their closet. This year our colors are purple and black. We’ve had matches at other clubs scheduled for 3pm and we get there at 1pm because we know they’ve got a pro shop and we need to ‘look’.

We like each other, there have been very few arguments among us. It’s not allowed. No back biting. We’re particular who wants to join our group of 14. Must be able to get along with other women, must be willing to promote team first, must be able to listen (still working on that one ladies), must be willing to play with others, must be willing to practice and practice hard, and must be willing to shop. Our tennis pro, John drives us and he also is my sons’ tennis instructor. I treasure these women, their friendship. Each one is unique, different. We are an integrated group and proud of it. So many of the other clubs we play at can’t say that. We are protective of each other and listen to the opinions of our group. Tennis is more than an exercise. It can be a life long sport activity and you can build friendships that last a life time. Tennis for me is a way to relieve stress, get my aggressions out and return to writing after my body’s recovered. It is mental and physical exercise, and in my paranormal series, one of the main characters is a tennis player.

Watch a major tournament, the Australian Open comes up in January. Check out the legs on the men players. Check out how their firm, taut muscles gleam with sweat. Check out their facial expressions of passion when they win a point. Check out, how one minute they’re full of rage and the next crying because they’ve won the match. Talk about Alpha males all over the place. Think about it, if Andre Aggassi at his age chase down balls for four hours, is it any wonder he and Stefi have two children?

December 11, 2005 | Inspiration

Richard Pryor died this past weekend. I was sadden hearing about his death. For me, he was a great comedian. Not like Bill Cosby, although one could argue Bill’s kinda moving in Richard’s direction as he gets older. Richard was raw, his humor biting, but he hit the truth every single time. Raunchy yes. But not the way other comics tried to imitate him by using profanity for profanity’s sake. Chris Rock comes close to being a new Richard Pryor. Racism, poverty, drug and alcohol addiction, Richard could dig out the pain, mine the humor and make one laugh and think. Richard had many movie roles, but as Piano Man in Lady Sings The Blues, he was awesome. When his character died I remember holding my breath and crying. When he almost died in real life from freebasing cocaine, and had the nerve to deny his drug addiction to Barbara Walters and then later tell her he lied to her, I cracked up when he took his addiction and turned it into standup that demonstrated how powerful drugs can be. In Richard Pryor Live on Sunset Strip, his comic genius was in full force. He talked about how drugs made him believe he could fight Jim Brown and tell him where to f**k off. Interesting how the talking drug pipe sounded like Richard Nixon. At the end of the concert he lights a match and tells the audience he knows what people have been saying about him. He moves the lit match around and says, ‘Yeah, there goes Richard running down the street.’ He turned the mirror on himself and saw what everyone else saw. He wasn’t pathetic he was damn funny. I forgave him for movies such as Superman IV(?) and The Toy. His comedic partnership with Gene Wilder was hysterical. I didn’t know he helped write Blazing Saddles. His ability to act out his talent waned in the multiple sclerosis that weakened his body, but the mind still appeared to be active. In 1998, he received the first Mark Twain Prize for Humor. Richard’s gone, but MudBone lives forever.