Living the Dream

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.

Just in time for your summer reading!

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Mimi Barbour – Special Agent Makayla: Makayla hears the cries of children in trouble. USA Today and NY Times Bestselling Author

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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

Each month, I try to participate in the IWSG’s monthly blog hop. Some months the questions are easier to answer than others. This month’s is really a complicated one for me and it’s not a writing style that will work for many although it does for me.

June 2 question – For how long do you shelve your first draft, before reading it and re-drafting? Is this dependent on your writing experience and the number of stories/books under your belt?

The simple answer is never. I commit what many authors and editors believe is the greatest mistake in writing with every single book I write. I edit as I go. I’m a pantser. I don’t work from an outline, a synopsis, or goals and motivations chart. Each time I sit at my desk to add to my story, I go back over the material previously written and edit it for content, if something struck me later in the story, for spelling, grammar, sentence structure, or even simply to move sentences and paragraphs around if I think the story will flow better. Then, I’ll move on to the new content and flesh out the scenes. At least a dozen times in every book, I will stop where I am and go back to the beginning, rereading, and where necessary rewriting what I have written.

When I get to the end of a book, I may rewrite the ending a couple of times until I’m satisfied that all the plot threads have been tied. I’ll go back to the beginning once more and revise the draft until I can’t find a single change to make. If I’m satisfied that it’s the best it can be, I will send it to be critiqued. If my critique partner suggests a change, I’ll act on it, and then I’ll publish the book.

How long the whole process lasts depends on the complexity of the book and whatever else is going on in my life. Writing this way isn’t for everybody, but it’s what works for me. Having written 33 books to date, and expecting to publish at least three more this year, I prefer to stick with what works for me.

How about you?

Read other posts here. https://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

Welcome to June and this week’s Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog post where a small group of authors share their Work in progress with you, the readers. Today’s word prompt is SALT. I’m continuing with my romantic comedy, Make Mine a Manhattan.

Since I work better with inspiration, here’s the cover.

This was the icing on my sucks-to-be-me day! Wouldn’t the mayor be happy knowing he’d avoided setting up his big buyer with the Queen of Klutz and Bad Luck?

“Oh my God,” Mom cried. “What have you done? I swear when God was handing out clumsiness, you asked for a double dose. Don’t you ever watch where you’re going?”

Where I’m going? Injured party here!

Speechless, I gaped at the huge, wet spot spreading across the man’s tan shirt and khaki pants, scarcely noticing the fact that my white cotton t-shirt was as wet. Tilting my head up, I stared at the face hidden behind his mask, mirrored sunglasses, and the brim of his Panama hat. When had I ever seen a man with such broad shoulders? To rub a little salt into the wound of my humiliation, despite my mask, the aroma of his aftershave tickled my nose, and I sneezed.

Heat filled my cheeks. No doubt the top half of my face was as red as a ripe tomato, and considering I had carrot-colored hair, currently pulled up into a messy bun on the top of my head, it wouldn’t be a good look on me. I peered at the mess I’d made, suddenly aware of the fact that my tightened nipples were poking out of my wet shirt.

Mortification mixed with indignation, and my brain clicked into gear. I set the empty cup on the table beside me and tried to cover my wet chest with my arms.

The stranger just stood there, looking down on me.

Not known for my patience and diplomacy, I lashed out at him in a tone worthy of Katerina in The Taming of the Shrew.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were there. Of course, if you hadn’t been standing right on my ass, we might’ve avoided the collision. Or don’t you know what six feet away means?”

He hissed in a sharp breath but didn’t speak, no doubt because he knew I was right.

Mom raced around the counter with a damp cloth and a pile of napkins.

“Don’t just stand there, do something.”

Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the damp cloth from her and started dabbing at the coffee on my t-shirt.

“Not you, for heaven’s sake,” Mom barked.

So much for motherly love and compassion!

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

Have you ever purchased a lottery ticket? Have you ever dreamed of a surprise inheritance? Have you ever imagined what your life might be like if someone suddenly dropped a fortune in your lap? You aren’t unique. We all dream of enough money to allow us to do whatever we want to. It’s human nature to want to be happy, well fed, well clothed, well cared for, and maybe help others along the way.

Over the years, fortunes have come and gone. Wars have been fought over land, gold, fishing rights, religion–you name it. One day you pick a rising stock on the market, the next day, you don’t. Everything that happens to you is a combination of hard work and fate.

The Golden Legacy traces a stolen treasure and the way if affects the lives of those who touch it. Amassed by an ancient civilization, blood is shed when it’s stolen, and a shaman curses it. Those who murdered for it die, but those who sacrificed to save themselves from those pirates, are given a second chance. Do good with the treasure, and you will prosper; do poorly, and it will be lost until someone worthy comes along.

FIVE stories of passion and excitement, all the result of THE GOLDEN LEGACY.

The legacy of a pirate treasure is either a curse or a blessing depending on if it’s used for good or evil.

Early in the 1700s, a modest merchant ship sailing the Caribbean is attacked by pirates. Although smaller, The Golden Fleece bested the brigands’ craft loaded with a treasure trove of gold and jewels. The last words of a dying pirate claimed the Incas had cursed anyone who misused the treasure but anyone who used it for good would be blessed. The greedy merchant captain was killed during the battle, but his 18-year-old daughter survived. Mindful of the curse and to thank God for their salvation, she asked the crew members to split the treasure equally. They made a binding pledge to keep only twenty percent for their own use and give ten percent to help others. With the rest, each was to buy something of great value that could be given to their descendants. The curse, though, would be passed onto anyone who broke the oath and used the gains selfishly.
Love survives despite the trauma of pirates, kidnappings, and murder; villains and slave uprisings, lies and deceptions. Travel from the eighteenth to twenty-first century and find what perils and pleasure await in this box set collection of romance stories based on the purloined pirates’ treasure of THE GOLDEN LEGACY from USA Today and NY Times Bestselling Authors.

THE PRISONER RETURNS by Nancy Radke: His love for her means more than his inheritance. He’s willing to lose it all to save the woman he loves.

TWIST OF FATE by Susanne Matthews: Can a cursed treasure unite two lonely outcasts?

RACE FOR THE GOLD by Rebecca York: Can they stay alive and out of harm’s way long enough for her to enjoy her inheritance?

DANGEROUS INHERITANCE by Nancy Radke: Great wealth can bring great problems – including kidnapping and murder – and may make it harder to protect the woman you love.

THE PRICE OF LOVE by Katy Walters: Two couples find love as they deal with murderous family members and a mysterious time portal while trying to stay alive long enough to enjoy a generous inheritance.

The saga begins with Twist of Fate. An outcast from the streets of Scotland finds a difficult but rewarding life for himself aboard a merchant ship. His life isn’t easy, but over time, he’s earned the respect of his captain and the crew. When the ship is forced into battle with a pirate vessel, he risks his live to save the captain. Alas his brave attempt is doomed as the captain dies and Overton loses an arm. Out of respect fro his sacrifice, the captain’s daughter gives him a share of the unexpected treasure. What will the one-armed man do with his bounty? Read Twist of Fate and begin the journey!

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5.0 out of 5 stars Great Historical Boxed Set

Reviewed in the United States on March 27, 2021Some pirates are good. Some are great.

A Twist of Fate

Five out of five fairy kisses for this reader

This is a grand story of love that shouldn’t have happened. An ex-pirate with a sense to make things right, well before his time, and a blind orphan who’s grown into a lovely young woman but overlooked and forgotten as not good enough.

Welcome to the last post for the month of May. How time flies! This weeks word prompt is PICNIC. In the past we often at picnics at this time of year. Not sure when those activities will happen again. I’m continuing with Make Mine a Manhattan

“Good Lord, don’t tell me you’re watching porn or chatting with some stranger who could well be a serial killer.”

“Mother! I don’t know where you get your ideas, but no!”

I shook my head, rolled my eyes, and reached for my cappuccino. And here I thought I was the one with the wild imagination. It was perfectly acceptable to send me on a blind date with a stranger who had money and might invest it in the town, but if I were to meet anyone online, he would be the next Jeffrey Dahmer.

“Forget it. You wouldn’t understand. You never have.” I stepped back. “I have to get home and feed Shakespeare.”

My mother turned and glared at me.

“You treat that cat better than you treat the members of your own family. Fine. I’ll call Franklin and make some excuse, but you’ll regret not helping out when the town needed you. If Stargazer Enterprise does reopen the mountain, having a close personal relationship with the CEO would be quite advantageous.”

Would she never give up? On the defensive now, I harrumphed.

“Since when does a blind date barbecue picnic I have no intention of attending morph into a close personal relationship? Forget it, Mom. I’m not the sacrificial virgin ready to be tossed into the volcano to save the town. Unless you agree not to harp on this again, I’m not coming back for lunch with Callie and Mickey.”

The bell rang announcing the arrival of another customer.

Thank you, Lord.

“Fine,” Mom agreed, but her tone made it clear she wasn’t happy about it. “Maybe he doesn’t need a date per se. There will be plenty of single women there. I’ll see you at one thirty sharp.”

She frowned, her mask moving up her face almost obliterating her eyes.

I sighed, knowing full well that this wouldn’t be the end of it, but if I didn’t make lunch, I wouldn’t survive the lecture that was sure to follow.

“I’ll be here.”

Turning abruptly, I collided with the mountain behind me, splashing my iced capp all over both of us, the beige froth settling and melting on top of his loafers.

A collective gasp filled the room, and I was suddenly aware of the dozens of gazes fixed on me. There was Frank, the town mechanic and Sylvia who ran the dry cleaners. Was that Mayor Loucks?

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