Living the Dream

Well, here we are again, the start of another month, this one perhaps filled with more hope than the previous ones have been, at least it is for me. I’m now fully vaccinated as are the adult members of my family. The children have all had their first doses and will get the second one before school starts.

This month’s question is What would make you quit writing?

I suppose the ultimate answer would be death. That would put a stop to my career quickly enough, but I think there might be a few, less drastic reasons. For one, my age. I’m not a spring chicken and sooner or later, my brain will begin to slow down, the ideas won’t come, and I’ll have to accept that. Another thing, which goes with age, is physical disability. I have arthritis, and while it’s controlled most of the times, I can’t pretend it won’t get worse. It’s true that I could use a speech to text program–I have one–but it isn’t the same. Finally, it could be discouragement. I’ve noticed that sales and pages read have been lower the last year or so. Sure, some of the blame goes on the pandemic and the disasters, both real and manmade, but the fact is people aren’t reading as much. I’ve looked into audiobooks but they are way out of my wheelhouse and financial ability.

But, all things being equal, I’m not ready to quit yet–slow down, maybe, but quit? Not yet.

Check out other opinions here. https://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog where authors share their works in progress with you. I’m working on a Christmas story, Forever in my Heart. Each week, we write to a word or picture prompt. This week, our word is WATCH and I’ve used a form of the word. Enjoy!

Like a robot, Mike ended the call and finished bandaging Cupcake before putting her back inside her cage. The cat would spend the night at the animal hospital under the watchful eye of his night staff.

Moving to the basin, Mike washed his hands before removing his surgical gear. Gritting his teeth to mask the pain, he stepped into the small lobby.

Lucy stood next to his assistant, Danny. From the grim look on their faces, the sheriff had shared the news with his wife before speaking to him, not surprising since the couples were close friends.

“The Madsen cat is ready to go to Recovery. We’ll keep her overnight. Call Mildred to let her know the animal will be fine and she can pick her up in the morning.” He turned to the young vet. “Danny, you’re going to have to take over. By now I’m sure Lucy’s told you about the accident.”

The sheriff’s wife blushed.

“I know you didn’t mean anything by it, and she’s your friend,” he said, his voice filled with concern and sympathy. “Carl’s driving me to the scene, just north of Lake Louise. In this weather, it’s going to take twice as long to get there. Call in Allie or one of the others to help out. The night staff comes on at eight. I’ll let you know what’s what when I get there.”

“Of course, Mike,” Lucy said. “You tell my husband to be careful. Last thing we need is two accidents today.” She reached out her hand and touched his arm. “I hope they’re both okay.”

He licked his lips and nodded. He hoped so, too—but he doubted it. His guts were still on fire, and it was a miracle he could stand, let alone walk. He grabbed his coat and boots, shoved a knitted cap and his gloves into his pockets and was out the door seconds before the sheriff arrived.

The cold cut through him, just as it had that fateful day twenty years ago, the day his parents had been killed in an avalanche while he’d survived. Almost destroyed by guilt and remorse, he’d left Timberton for Calgary and veterinary college, where he’d specialized in large animal care, avoiding coming back to the small town as much as he could, but the bond between him and Jake … His twin had stayed and had taken over the family ranch.

That’s it!

Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales

Welcome to the last week of June 2021. Time seems to fly even if there’s no place to go. This week, I’m starting a new story. The working title is Forever in my Heart. This week’s word prompt is SOLVE. Enjoy.

Mike Branscomb had just finished suturing Mildred Howard’s cat when a wave of pain so profound it nauseated him, washed over him, dropping him to his knees in a manner far more effective than any football tackle had ever been.

Luke! The last time he’d felt anything close to this had been when his identical twin had been thrown from a horse almost thirty years ago … but this was a thousand times worse.

Something had happened to Luke—something bad.

It might only be September, but freak snowstorms were nothing new in this part of the Rockies. Timberton, the small town of less than two thousand or so hardy souls, was ready for anything at this time of year. The temperature had been in the eighties only three days ago, and now it hovered around twenty-nine. Mother Nature couldn’t make up her mind about rain or snow, so she’d solved the problem and had sent both.

The impossibly loud jangling of the phone yanked him upright.

“It’s for you, Doctor B,” his receptionist said, opening the door to the small surgery, her face chalk white.

He reached for the handheld extension on his desk and pressed the call answer icon.

“Dr. Branscomb speaking.”

He prayed it was a mistake, but the unbelievable pain still making him weak said otherwise.

“Mike, it’s Carl Madsen. The RCMP just called. There’s been an accident just outside of Lake Louise, along the Icefield Highway.” The sheriff paused, his tone ominous. “No way to sugarcoat it. It’s Luke and Cassie. They got caught in a blizzard on their way back from Jasper. Not sure what happened. Might’ve swerved to avoid an oncoming car or an animal. Anyway, he slammed into a rockface. They’ll be air-lifted to Calgary as soon as the weather clears.”

“That could take hours. I’m on my way. Can you let whoever’s in charge know?”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll pick you up at the clinic. My vehicle is better equipped to travel in this weather than yours.”

“The girls?” He could barely utter the words.

“They aren’t in the car. I asked. I assumed they’re back at the ranch with a babysitter.”

“Of course. Luke had mentioned taking Cassie away for the weekend. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales

Welcome to another edition of Tuesday Tales. Summer is here, and with it comes all the anticipation of getting closer to as normal as we can get. This weekly blog takes you into the current manuscripts of a select group of authors including myself. We write to a word or picture prompt. This week, our 400 word scene is based on the word QUESTION. This will be the last post from this story since the paperback version goes to the publisher today. Make Mine a Manhattan.

Enjoy.

The sirens blared once more, making me jump.

When I get my hands on him…

I reached for the phone before the alarms sounded again and checked the call display.

Crap! It was my agent. She would have questions, and I had no answers. My latest romance novel, Afternoon Delight, the one I’d started well over a year ago, had soured on the page, the victim of poor planning on my part and the pandemic on the other. For weeks, the situation had been so dismal that it had been impossible to write anything. Once I’d started again, the deadline looming, threatening to crush me, I’d rewritten the same chapters over and over again—the chapters she’d described as poorly written and snooze-worthy.

In her words, If this is a contemporary romance, what planet are you living on? What the hell, Robin? Where’s the damn sex? This is as exciting as watching paint dry.

Hardly a vote of confidence. Unfortunately, she was right, which was why I was in such a bad mood, as my mother put it, and hoping for a miracle.

Groaning, I pressed the call answer button and put her on speaker.

“Gina, good morning.”

My voice was so saccharine sweet and bubbly it made me want to barf. I glanced at the clock. It was just after eight. How could one day start off so badly? The coffee fiasco, the blaring phone ring, and now this.

Swallowing my distress, I resumed the call.

“It’s rather early, even for you. To what do I owe the honor?”

She laughed, the sound lacking the slightest twinge of humor.

“You know damn well why I’m calling, Robin. My inbox is empty. Why is that? Let me guess. You don’t have the revised chapters and the rest of the first draft you promised me. You probably haven’t added a word to that literary disaster since we spoke a month ago.”

“Wrong. I’ve been plugging away at it,” I lied, picturing her in some sleazy, black leather, Dominatrix outfit, befitting her current tone of voice, the cheeks of her well-rounded ass hanging out while she cracked her whip.

The research into shall we say more unusual sex play was getting to me, although I hadn’t unboxed the dildo I’d bought online, the truth of the advertising claim, better than any man, yet to be verified—not that I’d had many to compare it to.

Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales

My father is no longer with us, but I know he would appreciate a humorous look at one of the recent controversies. I’m all for political correctness, but sometimes, people go too far!

Have you read the recent posts suggestion the word mother be replaced by birthing parent? Not sure about the accuracy here. Usually a birthing assistant is someone who helps with the delivery. Maybe it would be more fitting to consider the baby carrier, or the Incubator, but all those words apply to something else too.

But if they are going to change good old mother to hatcher or something along those lines, then they should be changing father, too. I have a couple of suggestions they could consider.

The first, sperm donor, has been around for decades, ever since artificial insemination became a thing. Let’s face it, the hen carries the eggs, but it’s the rooster than turns them from breakfast entree into Sunday dinner. Essentially, a father does the same thing–donates sperm to the female to create the child.

My second name suggestion could be a new Marvel superhero. The Ejaculator. A shot in the dark and nine months later, voila! Now if that isn’t a superpower, I don’t know what is.

But all nonsense aside, it takes more than conception to make a Mom and a Dad, and while any male can be a father, not all of them can be a dad. It takes love and nurturing. My dad may not have been the most affectionate man on the planet, but he loved us and made sure we had everything we needed. I still miss him.

My husband is also a great dad. He has always done his best by me, by our children, and by our grandchildren. He worked tirelessly back when they were small to give them everything they needed, if not everything they wanted, and continues to do so.

To all the men and the occasional women who have stepped up to the plate to be a dad to a child, you have my respect. It takes a lot of love to set your own well-being aside for the welfare of others. You walked the floors with crying babies, held the bike until their balance was strong enough to ride on their own, taught them to play catch. You bandaged knees and drove to the ER when things were beyond your ability–and yes, you cleaned the poop and the vomit, even though it made you sick.

You are the real heroes, the dads your kids will love for the rest of their days. Maybe they should just forget about changing names and stick to the basics. As long as they don’t try to change dad, I’ll be fine with it.

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So far June is promising. Let’s hope the summer’s the same. Welcome to this week’s episode of Tuesday Tales. Since we have a picture prompt, we’re limited to 300 words.

I’m continuing with Make Mine a Manhattan. Here’s the picture I chose.

Enjoy!

I’d just finished feeding the cat when an idea sent me racing upstairs to my computer. After weeks of not being able to write a single word, my muse was alive and well and raring to go. I opened my laptop to a new page and settled down to write, the scene in the coffee shop taking on a far more sensual life of its own.

The raucous sound emanating from my cellphone—screeching sirens—obliterated my train of thought.

“What the hell … Nooooo!” I wailed and banged my head on the desk, before sitting back and covering my face with my hands. “Why me, Lord? Why me?”

For days now, not a single thought, and just when I finally had one … Gone, snatched by my seven-year-old nephew’s prank. That was the last time I let the little scamp play with my cellphone.

Shakespeare, hair standing on end, tail high in indignation, raced out of the room. The cat would find another place to settle shortly, while I … Why was it each time I managed to get my creative juices flowing again, something happened to stop me in my tracks? This book was cursed.

I pushed back a strand of hair that had escaped the confines of my bun. For some reason, when summer had officially arrived three days ago, Colorado had become tropical, with even the needles on the pine trees wilting. The windows were open, but there wasn’t a hint of a breeze, even the fan blew only hot air. How the hell was I supposed to get any work done? My brain was fried. It was time to consider air conditioning, but with the luck I’d been having, we would have snow before it could be installed.

Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.

Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog post where a select group of authors share their work in progress with you. I’m working on a romantic comedy entitled, Make Mine a Manhattan. This week’s word is PASTE. I used PASTING, a variation of the word. Enjoy.

Pasting a fake smile on my face, I turned to the man and began rubbing at the stain on his shirt and pants, praying they wouldn’t stain; otherwise, I would be expected to cough up for replacement designer clothes that cost more than my annual tax bill. My new t-shirt was probably ruined, and that annoyed me more, causing me to rub harder.

I stopped dead, my heart pounding out a primitive beat, my lungs refusing to function.

While the stranger had to be at least six foot six, I was barely five feet tall. Most of the coffee stain was on his crotch, a fact my addled brain had ignored. My hand was essentially massaging that area of his anatomy, and I could feel something cylindrical growing hard under it.

I jumped away as if I’d been tasered. The old, Is that a flashlight in your pocket or are you happy to see me? joke ripped through my mind, and I smothered a giggle.

“Robin, you’re just making it worse,” my mother said, handing the man the pile of napkins. “Perhaps you would like to step into the washroom, sir?”

The man grunted and reached for the napkins. I couldn’t help noticing his hands. Whoever I’d collided with had the hands of a pianist, with long tapered fingers. What would it be like to have hands like that caress my body?

Mother of God! What is wrong with me?

As soon as he moved away, I rushed out the door, jogging the three blocks home faster than I’d ever run them before, grateful that at seven in the morning, the street was all but deserted.

The minute I stepped inside the house, I collapsed into the chair, a sudden fit of giggles taking my breath away. I laughed until my sides ached. In my mind’s eye, I pictured the scene and dissolved into giggles again.

Of course Mom would place the blame for this squarely on me … the wayward daughter who never did anything right.

Shakespeare wandered into the living room and meowed a welcome.

“It served him right,” I began explaining the incident to my companion. “Had he been the requisite six feet away, he would’ve escaped his fate, and I would now be finishing my iced cappuccino.”

I pulled off the damp and badly stained t-shirt, dismayed to find my new sports’ bra equally stained.

Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales