Shannon Esposito – Letter from a Friend

Dear Shannon, writer of light, artist of air, willowy pale sunshine in a state of sun:


I see you dancing in your best bare feet at the ocean's edge, peach toes touching white sand, diaphanous skirts lifting on a salty breeze.


You are grounded, yes. Earth mother, chauffeur of future all-stars, mother of a blushing bride – hard to tell, who was the mother, who was the daughter, thank god for white dresses.


And yet something in you soars, the words, I think, the words. The poetry of your fingertips on  keys of inspiration. 


Write me a story, Shannon. Write me a story as big as your heart, as colourful as your dreams. 


Write me anything. 


Write me a letter.

Dear Cathy,

I hope this letter finds you well and recovered from all the holiday cheer! A new year always brings with it a sense of possibility, doesn't it?  We have a jumping off point with a fresh slate to change anything we want. This year, my resolution was going to be to lose weight, as you were so inspiring with your own weight loss! But, instead I've decided to focus on health and let weight loss be a side effect.

I read a quote that stuck with me about how our body is the vessel that carries us through the world so we must take ownership of how we treat it. I can tell you, I've only been intermittently kind to my own body and have viewed it mostly as a nuisance that must be punished and deprived in order to squeeze it into the proper size jeans. How much nonsense is that? And why has it taken me forty.. ahem... something years to realize this? Instead I've thrown myself into the world of health food. I've discovered things like chia seeds are not just for sprouting scary green hair onterracotta pets. (Is this just an American thing?) The little buggers are actually a super food, high in fiber, protein and Omega 3 fatty acids. And spirulina is not a venereal disease. It's a blue-green algae!

I know, not much better, right? But, it's actually another super food that fights aging, cancer, removes toxins from the body, drives your kids to their soccer games...okay, maybe not that last one. But speaking of the kids, it's so easy to slip some algae into their green smoothie and feel good about taking care of them. How seriously cool is this stuff?

As you can tell I'm excited about changing our eating habits this year and making sure the boys live long, healthy lives( so they can take care of us when we're old).

Sending you some Florida sunshine! If you're ever on our end of the map, we can sit on the beach, drink green smoothies and ogle the dolphins together!

Much love and good health to you and your boys,

Shannon

Shannon Esposito is a Florida-based writer who pens novels and short stories and never ceases to amaze me since I first ran across her work in Friday Flash.
She is the proud author of four novels:

Karma's A Bitch

The Monarch

Strange New Feet

Sahara's Song

They are all available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords. You can find more about them at her blog, Murder in Paradise.

Carrie Clevenger – Letter from a Friend

In her letter, Carrie Clevenger mentions that I am an inspiration to her but, Carrie dahling, you've got things all twisted and screwed up here. 

YOU are the inspiration to me. 

Who's about to publish book number three while I struggle with number one?

Who continues to put out a new Friday Flash short story, every week, on top of editing a novel and working at a job that pays bills, not to mention being a wife and a mother? 

Who has a cool tattoo?

Carrie is, without a doubt, one of my favourite writers on the Friday Flash circuit. Her words are built strong, like railroad tracks laid down in rocky slag – never too many, never too few, all connected to lead the reader to a place Carrie wants you to see. The destination is always different but it never lacks soul. She makes writing look easy, Carrie does, and to me that's the best kind. You never get pulled out of the story, you never have to cheer her along; you just lose yourself in the words.

I have read two of Carrie's books, Just My Blood Type and Blood and Fire (both collaborations with another talented writer, Nerine Dorman). Read maybe isn't the right word because I whipped through them; they were that good. And like all fans of the Clevenger, I am waiting impatiently for the August 2012 release of Crooked Fang. Like everything Carrie does, I know it will be outstanding. 

Some day, when she's a household name, I'm gonna be able to say I once got a letter from her – a letter from a friend.

Dear Cathy: 

I can’t remember the last time I wrote an actual letter.

It’s 2012, that year that everyone has been talking about since they figured out that it could quite possibly be the end of the world. Am I concerned? Not really. Every other date which was sworn to be The End has come and gone, and we’re either left looking incredibly foolish or jaded, I can’t decide which.

I’m double-working, working on work-work, and this letter. A Perfect Circle is playing tonight on loop because it seemed just right to listen to. I wake up with music in my head more often than not. I blame Xan Marcelles for that recent development. Speaking of which, I’m in the real-time edits for Crooked Fang, and I can’t believe I’m about to join the ranks of other novelists out there. I really did it. It’s going to be published and out in the big wide world, and people will love it, and hate it, and I will face one of my greatest fears: receiving attention from people.

I’m a wallflower, always have been. Ever since I was that nerdy girl in school whom no one deemed cool enough to be seen with, to the point that I said ‘fuck it’ and did my own thing, fed-up with the whole trying to fit in with everyone else thing. It happens. Childhood is rarely a full beam of sunshine, but it does build character, for better or worse, and it’s important for me to remember that every day in my life with my daughter.

I’ve been reading lately. My latest read is American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. I wish I hadn’t hesitated so long before trying a new author. I tend to stay loyal to who has always written the fail-safe stuff. It’s like that with a lot of factors in my life. I’m somewhat of a shut-in, and I get teased by Luke, my husband, whenever I get dressed up to actually leave the house.

It’s been a good year so far. I’m hoping to take a trip to Colorado sometime soon, in order to see the area I describe in Crooked Fang which is Pinecliffe. It looks beautiful in the pictures I’ve found online.

I bought a bag of cooked shrimp on sale at Target last week. I wanted to do a stir-fry, but I’m afraid I’ll ruin it. So the shrimp has gone bad in my fridge, due to my reluctance. It’s a symbol, I think. To try new things and not be afraid to make mistakes. I try not to. But I still do.

I hope this letter finds you well, Cathy. You are always such an inspiration to me. Good luck with your cataract surgery.

Kind regards,

Carrie

Alan Davidson - Letter from a Friend

Complete honesty. I'm always calling for it, so here's the honest truth: I have a bit of a crush on Alan Davidson. Oh come off it with your high horse and your even higher eyebrows – I know damned well you do, too. 

It's the hair, for starters. That thick silvery hair and beard, so manly that whenever I think of it the words to Irish Spring commercials leap to my lips: "And I like it too!" Alan's hair and beard bring Kenny Rogers to mind, pre-plastic, when he was, ahem, hot. (Fecking celebrities and their fecking plastic surgery ... give it a REST, people! Here's more complete honesty: you all look like fecking FREAKS.)

So Alan has great hair. He's also got these Paul Newman-ish baby blue eyes, you know, when Newman was still alive, not dead corpse eyes, just so we're clear.  And he's got a fez, which is uber-attractive, as all breathing heterosexual women and homosexual men will attest. Nothing like a man wearing nothing but a smile and a fez. Of all things, the object of my desire sent me a photo of His Handsome Self wearing what looks like the tablecloth from our picnic basket – he explains it all in his letter but, I gotta tell you, this may have been a tactical error, abandoning the fez. It's like Richard Simmons abandoning his silk gym shorts or Tom Selleck shaving his moustache, or worse, me shaving my legs. Still, if anyone can carry off the tablecloth look, it is Alan, the fashionista of Newfoundland.

Looks aren't everything, of course. I tell myself that all the time. When you look like me, it's the only thing that gets you through the day. And even though Al is hotter than an October day on The Rock (it was freakishly hot the day we met. I blamed the weather for my sweaty self but, looking back, it may have just been a reaction to Alan's general hotness), he's got plenty going on in that noggin of his – plenty of smarts, plenty of charm and a wicked-good sense of humour. On top of all that, he's a writer. A really, really talented writer. One of the best I know.

That's how I came across Sir Alan of Newfoundland. Through the writing. Like me, he was a regular participant in Friday Flash, an online community of writers who post flash fiction every Friday. Anyone can do it. Anyone. I hadn't written any fiction, at all, ever, when I started writing flash. It was such a stellar experience that I encourage everyone to give it a whirl. Not only did it train me as a writer, it introduced me to some of the nicest people on the web – including dear, sweet, handsome Alan Davidson. 

The first story I ever read of his remains my favourite, A Tale of Love, Misfortune and Nasty Wee Dogs. A Valentine's tale of love and yappy small dogs that was touching and funny and all the things good fiction should be. From that point on I became a fan and an avid follower of his blog, Conversations from Land's Edge. When Dave and I got married in September 2010 we decided to honeymoon in Newfoundland, partly because we'd never been there and partly because I wanted to lay eyes on the Silver Fox of the Friday Flash circuit.

We had the BEST day. Alan is just as charming in real life as he is online. He is genuinely nice, as nice as anyone I've ever met. Unfortunately for all of us who crush on the suavest man on The Rock, his heart belongs to the fair and lovely Ginny, who is also an amazing cook and makes the world's very best cheesecake. I've had it and it's true. Alan and V, as she is known, have an energetic and handsome teenaged son he calls "The Boy," and a rather lazy rescued greyhound named Jet, who leaves turds the size of station wagons in their backyard.

While I love my husband and would never cheat on him (that, too, is a complete truth), I can't help but crush on the Man in the Fez. Even if he's now the Man in a Tablecloth.

Dear Cathy,

I hope this letter sees you and your family well.

Yeah, I know. It’s been ages since I’ve written. Sadly, I owe a ton o’ letters to friends and relatives that I had promised to write over the holidays. Each year I am sucked into a chocolate and turkey induced ‘holiday vortex’ and each year it takes me longer to fight its heavy current and flounder to freedom.

From about late September (when the stores start peddling their Christmas wares) I begin to fret about the upcoming holidays. I view the season with the same trepidation as getting a filling, or hearing the snap of latex glove at my doctor’s office…or even the presentation of my wife’s famed sweet potato soup at the supper table  *shudders*.

But I digress…

We don’t get many visitors here, so it was really nice to meet you in person when you and Dave visited eastern Newfoundland as part of your honeymoon fifteen months ago. It’s crazy…the time has flown by so fast. I am convinced that our lives are best expressed in mathematical terms: our childhoods begin as simple sums, but morph into quadratic equations and then complex exponential formulae in our ‘golden years’. And don’t get me started on the topic of turning 50 this year! 

As noted, it was great to see you folks and tour you about for the day. That guy of yours is a real keeper and I wish your visit could have been longer as there’s so much more to see on this unique island. I hope you both can visit again. Bring your boys, your dog and your camping gear and stay a spell! Also, don’t forget your travel insurance and provincial health cards because the moose do tend to wander onto the highways.

I know, you’re probably saying, “Why is Alan still living on that windswept island if he finds it so isolated?” Good question, my Muskokian friend! It’s that isolation that has kept Newfoundland somewhat ‘insulated’ from the rest of North America, allowing it to maintain its unique culture and language (the islanders have mainly Irish roots with smaller numbers descended from English and Scottish immigrants). 

I suppose that my move here is really just another phase in that accelerating life journey. Life for me began in Scotland, but I was soon relocated to the west coast of Canada (Vancouver Island). As an adult I moved again to Canada’s industrial centre in Southwestern Ontario in search of work—the ‘promised land’ as it’s often referred to by those on the coasts. Over five years ago I chose to move even farther east to ‘The Rock’…to escape that same promised land. Some have jokingly said that I may find myself traveling full-circle and end up back in Scotland. Or at least planted there after I die. Interesting thought, but I think I’ll avoid the family crypt for a few years yet.

Perhaps this moving thing is simply in my blood. My grandfather was a career army man and traveled all over the world with the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. And my dad always used to say, “You’ve got to move to where the work is.” It was kind of a family motto. Then again, dad also used to say, “Run up to the store and get me a pack of smokes” and my personal favourite, “If your pipes are leaky, have them seen to.” 

The old man stayed true to his motto and often worked in remote locations of British Columbia. It was probably for better money…or perhaps it was simply to escape the five screaming kids at home. We Davidsons must have gypsy lineage or perhaps a nomadic streak in our background to account for this constant desire to move—this state of flux. I’ve given this plenty of thought and have decided to put away my fez for a while in place of a new head covering that better reflects this family past (see enclosed photo of Jan. 22/12). I know…a lot of people love me in that fez, but I think my new look is less Peter Lorre-esque and more Omar Sharif-ish. So please…don’t send me any hate mail.

I know that I have enclosed two photos, but please post only the one with me clothed…I may want to run for political office one day.

In closing, I must thank you for throwing me a rope and helping to extricate me from that holiday vortex. For prompting me to write something…anything. Because really, my writing of late has been restricted to grocery lists and work memos hastily jotted on sticky note paper. I’m not prepared to say that I’m now walking tall in the world of writers, but at least this Letter to a Friend is a step in the right direction.

Best Wishes,

~A

Denise Covey – Letter from a Friend

Saturday morning. Dave brings our camp chairs from the garage and I take out my coffee and we sit in the snow for half an hour, listening to the cheerful buzz of chickadees, the cranky lectures of red squirrels, the deep, sweeping hollow of ravens' wings stroking through grey muffled skies, and the sorrowful complaining of the mourning doves. 

This is the sound of winter in Muskoka. People, for the most part, are indoors. Tourists are living their workaday lives in the city. We're alone, we're still, we're listening to what we might normally miss. Without human distractions, winter mutes daily ruckus, slows our moving parts and the pressing business of the day to day.

"I got a letter from Denise Covey," I say to Dave.

"One of your blogger friends?" 

I nod. "She's from Australia and something she said in her letter really struck a chord with me." I take a sip of my rapidly cooling coffee and smile at my husband. "Wanna move to Australia?"

"Sure," he says. Just like that. Humouring me, as usual.

"I mean, here we are, freezing our butts off, dealing with winter because that's who we are, that's what we're used to. But think of it – we could live anywhere we choose on this planet. Somewhere we don't have to worry about freezing rain and snowstorms and bad roads. Or big heating bills. Or splitting wood. Or coffee that goes cold the minute you bring it outside."

"Well if you drank it faster instead of flapping your gums it wouldn't get cold," he says. I make a face at him, which he ignores. "Other than the fact that neither one of us likes hot weather and we'd have to worry about work permits and visas and all that nonsense, you're right. We could live anywhere we want."

I imagine what it would be like to be Denise, to live her life. To swim in the ocean any time I want. To never have to buy a winter coat or scrape ice off the windshield.

That, right there, is the reason I love blogging. It's one thing to watch Oprah visit the land Down Under. It's quite another to put a face, like Denise's, on a place that would otherwise be nothing but a spot on a map. Like so many of my blogging friends, Denise and I hooked up writing Friday Flash. She's an aspiring novelist who writes short stories by the boatload and an avid blogger with more than spot where you can find her: L'Aussie Writer is home base for this adventurous writer, teacher and traveller; Romantic Friday Writers is rather like Friday Flash but all the writing is romantically themed (and boy, are these writers enthusiastic and fun!); and Reading at Dawn, a scintillating book review blog.

Yes, Denise is right there, at the click of a mouse. But I would love to join her on one of those sand dunes overlooking the ocean, a salty breeze in our hair and lots of writerly ideas putting brilliant smiles on our tanned faces.

Oh, and Hugh Jackman, of course, bringing us another round of fresh drinks. No worries about cold coffee in Australia.

My dear friend Cathy 

If I was writing you a special little story I’d call it Out Far, In Deep - my tribute to bush and beach. I wonder – do you ever think of Australia? Up there in the Northern Hemisphere when you’re being buried deep in snow, and as you shovel it aside (or whatever you do) do you crave a warm climate just for a change? Can you imagine what it’s like to grow up in a place which is nearly always warm and whose inhabitants have probably never seen snow fall? Do you think people are shaped by where they live? I think we definitely are.

Aussies project an image of bush people, wildly independent, innovative - Hugh Jackman in ‘Australia’. Well, the truth is, we’re basically hard-working beach bums. Our country is big, dry and empty. Our small population hugs the coastline (83% of us live at the beach). We take a dip at lunchtime, go for a surf after work and spend whole weekends on the beach, picnicking, barbequing, reading. There’s only a couple of weeks of the year when it might be a bit nippy for a swim, so we have to forego our rituals. But there’s always tourists who think it’s warm enough all year round and we shake our heads and mumble bloody idiots when we see them frolicking around in what we consider Arctic conditions. 

I’m an exception to the beach rule, or used to be. I spent my early childhood running wild and free in the Queensland bush, where my father was a horse whisperer (true) when he wasn’t droving cattle, and my mother killed snakes that threatened her brood. I wrote about it here and called it fiction, lol! We kids ran around bare foot, rode horses bare back to school and swam in creeks and dams (when there was water). As much fun as that was, nothing compared to my delight when I first caught sight of the beach. Once seen never forgotten. My family eventually moved to a little country town not far from the beach, population 300, not including the cows and horses. My dream was to live right on the beach. And I achieved that dream. Too easy here.
Now I have the best of all worlds. I live in two places – a small apartment right in the inner city of our capital city, Brisbane, for work (I tutor English when I’m not writing), and a large two-story beach house overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Peregian Beach, (60 miles north) for play. I travel a lot, but it’s hard to beat these two places. I saw a little poem the other day and it says it for me:

 The people along the sand

All turn and look one way. 

The turn their back on the land. 

They look at the sea all day. 

I do my best writing at the beach. There’s nothing like having our own special spot, is there? I know you like to shut the door to your bedroom Cathy, and it becomes your writing throne. I like to sit on the dunes above one of the longest stretches of beach on the Sunshine Coast here at Peregian and conjure up stories. Seeing the ever-changing nature of the landscape is inspirational; words must be found to describe such glittering beauty and majesty. It is a creative writing course of the imagination. 
One day soon I’ll be in Canada I hope, my friend, and must look you up on the Muskoka River. And if you visit Australia anytime soon, you’ll find me gazing at the beach, pen in hand, (a laptop just doesn’t seem right) trying to capture the beauty of this marvellous creation. And there’s a bed for you at the beach house where you can hear the crashing of the waves as they lull you into the best sleep you’ll ever have.

Until then,
Your Aussie mate
Denise

P.S. Have enclosed a picture of Peregian Beach just to show you what I’m doing now! See if you can find me in there! 

Interview with a Sex Kitten, er, Vampire

It's rude to ask how old you are but do you remember staring at album covers? For hours? Man, I do. That's the thing about electronic music. There's nothing to stare at. No long, lean bodies tipped into blue jeans with a shoe horn. No tangled, bedworthy hair sliding down any tatted, muscle-bound backs.

And musicians today – don't get me started. Wearing baggy-ass pants around their knees, for crissakes? That's sexy? 

Old-school rock stars, now they know sexy. Led Zeppelin, back in the early '70s, Robert Plant's long curly hair, his tight butt, jeans that were painted on. Keith Richards, always looking like a leftover bender, a guy you'd never bring home to mama but, boysohboys, would you be laying awake some nights thinking about him. Even Tom Waits, looking like he just graduated from the school of hard knocks and sounding like he had a lung full of secondhand smoke from the toughest bars on Wrong Side of the Tracksville.

One of the album covers I used to stare at was The Guess Who's Greatest Hits. Those boys were Winnipeg-purty, rough tough Canadiana rock stars. I loved 'em fierce. Spent way too much time thinking about 'em. I still hear No Time or These Eyes and I get the shivers.

Xan Marcelles makes me feel like that. 

I was looking for a photo of him, just now, and of course I couldn't find one. He's not party to photo shoots. Likes to hang around a bar named Pale Rider, the kind of bar where Waits would hang out in if he was in the neighbourhood. Whiskey's cheap. Beer's cheaper, but not as cheap as some of the chicks who hang out, waiting to meet Xan's eye, maybe meet more than that.

Xan plays bass in a band called Crooked Fang. Nah, you won't find 'em on American Idol so don't bother looking. They're just a bunch of guys, y'know? Dudes, Xan says. When he's not onstage, he's working at the bar, cleaning toilets, making sandwiches, taking out the trash. When he's not doing that? You might find him in a back alley, or in the austere apartment on top of the Rider, sinking his teeth into some nubile young woman willing to give blood.

And I'm not talking about the Red Cross, here.

Yup, Xan's a vampire. Not a pretty boy Robert Pattinson-Twilight kind of vamp. There's nothing twinkly about him. Imagine Keith Richard, or Robert Plant, with fangs. Or Burton Cummings, while he was still with the Guess Who, before he went solo and turned all Vegassy and Mr. Showbiz. Back when his hair was long and his jeans were tight and ...

Sorry, that's how I get when I think about Xan Marcelles. Kinda crazy, if you know what I mean. Pretty, um, hot under the collar for an old broad. Hey, I'm not the only woman with a thing for Xan Marcelles. Carrie Clevenger is WAY worse than me – she even has a Crooked Fang logo tattooed on her back. (I might have put one on my arse ... ) She also writes about him.

Carrie Clevenger

Texas Carrie is as talented a writer as they come. I'm not exaggerating here. I first caught wind of her work through #Friday Flash. Her stories killed me. I'd be, like, all proud of something I had written and then I read hers and I felt like somebody had kicked me upside the head and said, "See? THAT'S good writing!" Carrie was away from FF for a while but she's been back these past few weeks and one of her stories just blew me away. She's so freaking good it's scary.

Right now, as we speak, she's in the final throes of putting Crooked Fang together, a novel all about Xan. I'm looking forward to it and that's no word of a lie. I'd read anything Carrie wrote. Probably her grocery list is prize-worthy. 

In the meantime, there are two other Xan books on the market. Both are collaborations with another fantastic writer, Nerine Dorman of South Africa. Somehow these two dark word queens found each other and found a writing vibe that has resulted in Just My Blood Type and Blood and Fire.

I read both of them. Really fast. That's saying something because these days I don't read anything really fast, for a whole lot of reasons. These two books, though, you'll fly through them, flipping one page after another because you just gotta know how they turn out. Don't believe me? Check 'em out. Just My Blood Type is a free download so if you don't like it, you're not out anything. (But you will.) And Blood and Fire is up at Amazon for, like, $2.99 or something ridiculous. Pretty cheap thrill, I gotta say. 

I flew through Blood and Fire. Not only has it got hunky rock star vampire Xan Marcelles, it's got an equally hunky magic dude named Ash. The two pair up for a thrill-ride of an adventure, an all grown-up buddy story that'll have you beggin' for more. Carrie writes Xan; Nerine writes Ash. One chapter is all Xan, the next is Ash. There are two points of view, two well-rounded hunks-a-burning lust and enough F-bombs and bad whiskey and spilled blood to put a smile even on this jaded face.

A while back I fired off some questions for Mister Marcelles. I had to wipe the drool marks off the e-mail before I hit send. I hope he doesn't realize I kinda got the hots for him. Maybe it was obvious, though, me calling him a sex kitten and all. 

Here's the interview. See for yourself.

Q: First of all, you scare the crap outta me. OK, not literally, but pretty close. Good thing you hang down there in the Pale Rider and I'm a goodly number of kilometres north in Canada, where we don't see many bass-playing, whiskey-touting, long-haired, sex-kitten vampires. Also, I'm not a sweet young thing, the kind of chick you occasionally like to gnaw on when the hunger hits. So I think I'm relatively safe. Still, you intimidate the heck out of me.

XM: Sex kitten? Lady, I’m not sure how to take that. I’ll assume that means ‘studly-man-types’ up there in the frozen north.

Q: Is it because you're so tall? So strong? So smart? Could it be the length of your hair? More likely the length of your fangs? I dunno, Xan, do you have this effect on all people? Or just silly, wobbly-kneed, middle-aged women who have an appreciation for '70s rock stars as well as the finer things in life?

XM: I dunno, I’m just a dude. That has some weird situations I keep running face-first into. Some are ordinary, some…not so much, but yeah. I got fangs, but really. Promise. I’m just a dude. That has fangs. And a bass.

Q: Where did you come from, anyway? Who's the sire that put you in the spot you are now, and are you happy about eternal life as a vampire or is that just the hand you've been dealt? And why is it an undead dude like yourself, who could pretty much rule the world if he wanted and live in some Transylvanian castle, hang out in a place like the Rider? Cleaning toilets? Making egg salad sandwiches? Sure, it's part of what makes you so appealing in Carrie and Nerine's latest book, but is it really how you want to (not) live?

XM: I lived in Denver before. Stopped for a beer on the way to see my girlfriend at the time, and there she was. Little bitty thing (I politely refer to her as ‘The Bitch’ or maybe Satan’s daughter) with something about her that was damn-near irresistible. Well, I’m here, so you know that already. No, I’m not exactly thrilled with the hand I’ve been dealt. Good analogy by the way, because that’s how it went down. It was out of my hands. She chose me, even though she lied and said it was an accident, I know better than that. She was always good at lying.

I lived a fast life at first after I became what I am now. Did lots of things I didn’t want to do. Living at Pale Rider is me doing what I want. When I walked out of her life after taking her shit for about twenty years? Hell yes.

Making sandwiches, cleaning toilets, playing my guitar? It’s life. Normal life. And though it’s temporary, I’m gonna enjoy it for all it’s worth, sweetheart.

Q: Speaking of Blood and Fire, how's that going for you? I read through it lickety-split – couldn't put it down. Loved the action, but also loved the humour. You've got a self-deprecating style that makes you even more interesting. Sometimes, though, you take a real psychological beating at the hands of that Ash character – throughout a lot of the book he didn't give you much respect for your brain. Although it's clear to me that you're not just muscle and tooth. Did you ever want to just reach out and smack the guy? And once you got a taste of his magic blood, you must be lusting for a little bit more.. tell the truth - would you like to get your fangs into him one more time?

XM: I dunno, after the mess it got me in last time? As good as it was, I’m thinking I’ll pass. But the smacking? I’m thinking he wanted to deck me more than me him. Ha. It was cool running into another immortal, weird as he was. 

Q: And how do you feel, by the way, about Mizz Clevenger and her apparent need for writing about you all the time? Is that OK with you? Are you liking the idea of becoming an increasingly popular subject in increasingly popular books? 

XM: Popular? That’s real generous of you, there. Maybe I chose C.C. for a reason. You know she killed me off in the first story she wrote about me? I’m still a little pissed about that.

Q: I'm hoping you like it, because I'm hoping for more. Your character is rather addictive and I'm looking forward to more tales with you in it. What's next? Dying to hear…


XM: Next stop is Crooked Fang, baby. The book I’ve been through Hell and back for. It’s been a long time coming, and I’m stoked to see what everybody thinks because it’ll just be me you’ll be riding with. Oh, and one more thing: It’s not the last you’ll see of me.

Thanks a million Cathy, for your hospitality and your time. Really appreciate it. I know we’re all busy, but if people are interested in knowing more about what I’m up to for some reason, best stop is my Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/CrookedFang

And I also got a website, strangely enough it’s crookedfang.com, how about that? Along with a twitter station at @crookedfang

And Blood and Fire, yeah there’s a story you can pick up for the price of a beer over at Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Blood-and-Fire-ebook/dp/B006SD3F2S/ Don’t worry, I’ll put that money to good use, promise.

The writer ladies, Carrie Clevenger and Nerine Dorman are also on Twitter, respectively as @carrieclevenger and @nerinedorman. Telling you, they got no creativity.

Thanks for checking out my shit and for your time.

Lates,
X 

THIS JUST IN: Mizz Clevenger just sent me a photo of Xan. More eye candy, ladies. Enjoy... (No, that's Keith Richards, back when he was just born, practically... Xan is the long-haired beauty below.)

Linda Simoni-Wastila – Letter from a Friend

Once upon a time, when my jean size was enormous somewhat larger, Linda Simoni-Wastila sent me a jar of homemade peach jam. I gobbled it up, so fast the postage stamp wasn't even dry yet. It looked, and tasted, like she had reached out into the sky and captured sunshine with a butterfly net, then mixed it with crystalline sugary sweetness and preserved it, with love, in a pretty glass jar. 

The jam is long gone but its flavour lingers. When I think of Linda, my thoughts are tinged soft with peach.

I know a number of Lindas (when I was in school there were as many Lindas as Cathys and Susans) so sometimes Dave has a hard time knowing who I'm talking about. "Which Linda?" he'll say, when I mention a story she has written, or something witty she has posted on one of her blogs, leftbrainwrite or bluetruedream. All I have to say is, "The jam Linda," and he nods and says, "Ahhh."

Funny, isn't it, how we come to identify our blogging friends with such labels. I'm glad that it's jam that labels Linda with Dave, because I have a much more sobering label that forever links me with her. We've both lost our fathers; me, a few years back, hers, not all that long ago. Whenever I write about my dad, Linda is there with a reassuring comment. The same when she writes about hers. I realize that everyone in the world can be connected by grief, but somehow our own connection has solidified over the last couple of years by this sadness.

We understand each other. And that's good.

While I feel like I know her intimately, what I actually know about Linda wouldn't fill more than a couple of paragraphs. She lives in the United States, somewhere near Baltimore, Maryland. She's a part-time writer, like me, only she's way more committed and has actually finished a book, and we hooked up through Friday Flash. She's a mom, she's an academic, she's a minister's wife and she's a fabulous cook. She takes writing classes, she's on board with the Weight Watchers program (but I mean, pffft, she's like Twiggy next to me) and apparently she's as bad at cross-country skiing as I am. She struggles with the business of the everyday, like all of us, and somehow she keeps the many and varied aspects of her life in balance. 

Linda is observant, intelligent and sensitive. She has a quality of dignity about her; a gentle strength, that shines through every word she writes. 

One of the words she writes the most is "peace." She signs every comment with it. And when you see it, that signature word, that peace, you feel her spirit, her quiet goodness, her offer of friendship, and sometimes, when you're feeling low, it is powerful enough to make you weep.

Hello friend!

I hope this letter finds you happy, writing like a mad woman on your novel, and not pondering funeral songs. I am, per usual, in the midst of chaos, but what else is new? Busy suits me, the alternative not a healthy one. Mostly I am consumed with work and this smorgasbord I am hosting for church folks. A friend is helping, but when we came up with the idea, we forgot the point of a smorgasbord is a LOT of food, which means a LOT of baking and curing and saucing. So, I write to you in between bread risings and cookie batches. Please forgive me if I sound confused—I likely am.

*

It is late here. Three loaves of Pulla cool on wire racks. The house smells of yeast and cardamom and I want to saw off an end, smear butter over the still-warm bread, but I think – what would Cathy do? You would walk-away; after all, you can walk away from Christmas cookies. You are a better woman than me, so I compromise: a small piece, no butter. Good enough for company, and still within my daily points.

Tomorrow will tempt me. But to be safe, I planned low-fat options (ta-da!), like cucumber rounds topped with salmon and a dab of wasabi-infused cream cheese. Tomorrow I will blow Weight Watchers, but that is what bonus points are for. Come Sunday, back to salad and veggies. By the way, I don’t think I would have returned to Weight Watchers without your public bravery, so thank you. Knowing you are battling similar temptations helps, a lot. And now the oven timer is dinging, I thought I was done baking…

*

It is early morning. The sun slants low over the treetops. Lea, my baby girl, practically a tween (when did that happen?!), sits beside me while I write to you (she says hi), watching robins pull worms and grubs from the grass. There are a hundred birds at least. A red-headed bird flies into their midst. The flock rises in a chattering cloud and flies to the safety of the pear tree. Lea runs upstairs for ‘the bird book’ and finds the woodpecker page. We deduce, based on size and shape, the intruder is a red-bellied wood-pecker. My aunt gave me that book when I was my daughter’s age. I feel the tug of family and history, of people I have loved in this life, and the morning turns bitter-sweet.

*

To sit, at last, to sit. The smorgasbord went well—the guests laughed and talked, their tongues looser from the beer and glogg. They left with full, happy bellies, the best I could hope for. My family has scattered to other corners of the house. I sip a small glass of white wine while I write. Peace. Yes.

Making this meal took more work than I ever imagined. Preparing these foods, many for the first time, I felt kinship with my grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts and uncles, cousins. Kneading the Pulla dough, infusing the milk with cardamom, braiding the tubes into loaves, I imagined Mumu beside me, whispering the steps, guiding my hands. Brewing the glogg reminded me of my grandfather simmering the mixture of wine, port, and brandy in a soup pot in the week before Christmas. After he died, my mother continued the tradition, and now I make the ancestral potion. The sweet smell of glogg on the stovetop will always connect me to my mother and her father.

Food plays such an integral role in my memories. I love food, to make it, to eat it, to write about it. In one novel, my character Phoebe makes Pulla and remembers her mother, dead over a decade, and feels overwhelming grief. But as she massages the dough, sadness turns to the realization that everything she needs from her mother she has already received—a strength she can invoke anytime by the simple act of making bread, by remembering.

Preparing these ‘memory’ foods feels like small sacred acts, like resting flowers at gravesites. A way to honor my family and how they have shaped me and, in turn, passing memories to my children.

Anyway, enough of this sentimental mush. One more week before classes start, enough time to research snipers, Afghanistan geography, and hammer out Jeremiah’s story. Who is Jeremiah? You’ll find out soon enough, once I get down his bones. And I can’t wait to meet the characters you have cooked up this past year. So lucky, aren’t we, to love who we love, and to live as we do. For that I am grateful, just as I am grateful for your friendship. So take care, you. Hug your boys close, then tell them to hug you for me.

Love and peace, Linda

Sue Harding – Letter from a Friend

Oh Sue. You're so much like me it isn't even funny. You and me could form our own Writer's Angst group only we'd have to arm wrestle over who was gonna be club president because we're both equally unsure of our talents as writers.

Say hello to Sue Harding, everyone. Sue, this is everyone.  Just about every one of the four people (!) who read this blog are also card-carrying members of the writer's-angst-society of those who feel the need – deep down in the bowels of their souls – to put words on a page and yet we all berate ourselves with the notion that we don't deserve the title "author." That our work isn't good enough. That we're fooling ourselves if we think otherwise.

Sue is a very talented writer. She needs to know this. She needs some encouragement to pick up that pen again and start writing. And Sue, please don't get mad at me for this – we all need encouragement along the line. Heck, I am extremely needy in this department. I can't even tell you how many people I have kicking me in my frozen white arse on a regular basis to keep writing. I feel like I'm a sled dog and all my writer friends are in the sled with the reins and they're yelling, "MUSH, MUSH, MUSH!" 

Sue's a retired librarian. She's an avid reader and a rabid knitter. She's a wife and a mom to two grown kids who need her now more than ever. She lives somewhere in the U.K. and I imagine her to have a lilting accent that would absolutely charm the bejeebers out of me. She is kind and she is encouraging. She thought she was going to be able to participate in National Novel Writing Month and we were going to be writing buddies but her busy, busy life put a kibosh on her own involvement – still, she managed to send me much appreciated words of encouragement along the way.

Sue is one of my Friday Flash friends, one of the small circle of talented writers I have somehow glommed onto. They're the best people – my friends in every sense of the word. Sue lives so far away that unless I win a lottery it's unlikely I'll ever make it over the pond for a visit. Still, she's on my bucket list of folks I'd like to have tea with. Maybe even a scone with a nice pot of jam and butter. Because if it's a bucket list, who cares about calories?

Dear Cathy:

We’ve known each other for a while now, keeping up with each other’s lives in snippets and snaps, via Twitter and blogs but as we can’t exactly pull up a chair and have a cup of tea and a natter, given the vast geographical distance between us, perhaps a letter will have to do for now!

Just how long have we known each other? It seems like for ever, but in reality it can have only been a couple of years at most. I ‘blame’ that Alan Davidson – I’m pretty certain I first noticed your name whilst I was reading his blog. But perhaps ‘blame’ is a bad choice of word – after all, it was only through reading his work and then being nosey enough to trawl through to yours that I found your blog and came to know a little about you and what makes you tick. Incidentally, the family photo on your blog always makes me smile!

I’ll always remember the first comments you made on my blog, responding to some flash fiction I’d written. What a breath of fresh air and encouragement – I swear I could hear a chuckle in your ‘voice’!

Writing has been an on-going pursuit, right from way back in school. That’s not to say I’ve stayed true to it since then, it sort of comes and goes in cycles. There have been a number of times I’ve grown disillusioned with it and I don’t know how many novels (finished and WIPs) that have been discarded in mad purges over the years when my ‘sensible’ head convinced me that I’d never get published so what was the point!

Well, setting up a blog a few years ago gave me a platform to display my wares, so to speak. However, it was a while before I took the plunge and was brave enough to let anyone actually see what I’d written. Thanks to encouragement from people like Matt Hilton and David Barber (and you, madam!) I began to investigate different online writing groups – and what a diverse bunch I found!

Meanwhile I plugged away with a couple of novel-length pieces, hawking them round various agencies…..but I think I am resigned to never getting anything published, having lived through the process vicariously as other writing buddies had their hopes repeatedly raised and then dashed.

But, hey – life’s too short…!

In fact, at the moment my life is seriously far too busy for the single-minded obsession of writing, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids, but just as the nest emptied and I got used to time and space that hadn’t been there for so long, back come the fledglings, along with their problems and their needs (and their furniture!) and I’m back into Mum-mode.

Even though I’ve now given up my job in the library (and just as well, as far as coping with the family issues are concerned!) my life is still very firmly entrenched in the world of books – though rather more reading them than writing them, for the time being.

So, now, (in between being nurse-maid, cat wrangler, general housekeeper and library-runner for my daughter recovering from major eye surgery, whilst also being counsellor, soundboard and ‘spirit-buoyancy’ mentor to my currently unemployed son) the few treasured moments to myself are often occupied with reading or knitting – or both at the same time! (a multi-tasking action achieved with the discovery of a book-easel!)

My husband laughs as I knit away regardless – he once said I should have needles surgically implanted – but it is a great stress reliever, and I often find myself weaving plots and arguing the merits of proposed characters as I knit1, purl 1, pass slipped stitch over……

Besides, the wonderful David Barber once dubbed me the ‘Knitting Assassin’ as needles and wool occasionally drifted into my stories – it is a moniker I have adopted for my identity on certain forums, and even the title of a sister-blog I set up.

Well, that’s all for now, dear; if I’m quick I can snatch a couple more chapters and another few rows….given the financial recession, if ever I can’t afford the heating bills I can always wrap myself in wool and lose myself in a good book!

Bye for now!

Regards, Sue

You can check out Sue Harding's work in three places on the web:

http://www.irefusetogoquietly.blogspot.com/

http://knittingassassin.blogspot.com/

http://onesmallcogwheel.blogspot.com/