tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56614025797278296242024-02-07T21:41:29.824-05:00Gladiator's PenElisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.comBlogger369125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-55427624371973169592023-04-04T21:16:00.005-04:002023-04-04T21:16:48.263-04:00Cannon a short story <p> <span style="font-family: inherit;">The wait, it was the worst part of war. Ben and his men had held their current position in the wood </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">since well before dawn.</span></p><p></p><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Younger inexperienced soldiers were apt to get antsy, but it had been long enough in one spot the more experienced men had begun to shuffle feet. Ben dismounted his horse to walk among them.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the men moved his musket from left to right as he let out a nervous breath. Ben walked down the line and clasped the man’s shoulder. “Stay strong, the time is near.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://images.fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/mediumlarge/1/union-civil-war-cannon-firing-garry-gay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="800" height="190" src="https://images.fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/mediumlarge/1/union-civil-war-cannon-firing-garry-gay.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">As if on que rider barreled through the wood to their position. “Lieutenant Benjamin Mason.” Ben stepped out of the ranks and nodded. The rider tipped his hat to him. “You have orders to support the 22<sup>nd</sup>, sir.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben mounted his horse and gave the order. The wait was over they were to fight. The men fought to keep their lines as anticipation grew with each step. Ben’s hand slipped into his pocket one more time before they reached the field.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He pulled out the photo of his wife and son to look upon them. He hoped it would not be for the last time. With a breath to steady himself he pushed the photo back into his pocket.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A priest rode across the front line. He recited a prayer of absolution to prepare their souls in case they fell during the battle. Some of them crossed themselves others muttered personal prayers, or made promises of what they would do if God let them live through this day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The sound of gunfire and men’s shouts began to fill air as the moved closer. Soon the sound of the wounded could be heard, the thump of some of them falling to the hard earth. One of the mounted officers near Ben took a shot in the throat.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben dismounted to blend with his men; officers were always the first picked off if Johnny Reb could manage it. His pistols in hand he ordered the men to take positions in the trenches and fire at will.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Several fell before they could get to the lower ground. They cried out as lead tore into their flesh. Ben felt something hot burn through his coat into his shoulder. Then his shirt being soaked with his life’s blood.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He pressed his bandanna to it as he continued to call orders down the line. He looked out into the wheat field in which they fought.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He could hear Confederate officers shout orders to their troops as they took more of the field. Ben could see them fully now they were in a greater number than when he had last met them. He waited for the volley to begin.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The twelve-pound Napoleon cannons would settle the odds in favor of the blue. The Federals were out of range for the Rebs artillery, one fact of the day Ben was more than thankful of.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The enemy still approached, but no volley had begun. Ben looked back, the two cannons were unmanned. His heart fell, he knew this battle would be over quickly if they couldn’t thin out that line. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben turned to the trenches as Confederate fire began to rain down. “Charlie, Dawson with me.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The two men, didn’t hesitate to move away from the trench. Ben ran with them to the artillery wagon. He pulled the sack of primers and attached it to his belt as he gave orders. “Charlie, you’re on the nose. <st1:city>Dawson</st1:city> you run munitions. Do not pause, gentlemen. I want as constant a fire as we can get.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Both men nod. Charlie ran up with the first ball. He set it into the tube then shoved it back with the rammer. Ben punctured the powder bag through the vent before he dropped in the friction primer. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Charlie watched Ben hold his shoulder as he set the sight in place and take aim. “Lieutenant, are you hit?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben moved back cord in hand. “I’m fine.” He let go of a deep breath as he nodded to the men. “Ready! Fire!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He pulled the cord. There was a hiss as the powder ignited. A second later came the blast, sulfur and smoke filling the air. The ground shook under their feet. Ben shook his head to combat the ring in his ears from the explosion.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With in seconds they were rewarded with screams and calls of the wounded. Ben called out. “Reload!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They readied again, and again, they caught an easy rhythm as if they were a full crew. Smoke billowed through the wheat field, made it hard to visualize targets. Ben focused on the light of the enemy’s muzzles and the sound of gunfire.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The battle felt as though it had gone on for days, instead of hours. The day had faded into dusk when they heard the Confederate officers recall their men. When they were out of sight, the men cheered. More for the joy that they still took breath than for the victory.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben surveyed the damage. He was thankful the cannon had dulled his hearing. This night he would get a reprieve from the cries of those fatally wounded, as they called out for someone to take their final words home.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben took count of his men as they began to slowly emerge from the trenches. Their number appeared reduced, but most were still with him. He could see many had been wounded. It brought memory of his own injury and the pain back to his conscience mind.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He attempted to push it back as he joined them, though loss of blood made him unsteady. He swallowed hard as his eyes landed on a fallen rebel. A deck of cards had fallen from his pack and been scattered through the blooded wheat around him by the fighting. Next to the dead man’s hand lay two aces and two eights.</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben’s omen, he knew it was a taunt. He turned toward the surgeon’s tent and spoke to the omen, fate or whom ever was listening. “I owe nothing, I carve my own fate.”</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic24yqVqCy4s-KdTUwNbXN29EvmA3bxQFiGw_OJ2gNJ41LoZKHuAvXxcQnJKCIE5Evoxahg9FwnTOeNZKgwPJxNYbK0SEEWX8LWprfuUfCZdEUf1pz0eQq4KcnsYwUMwk5W76JOiXYNGhdg6vnDlS_nD1BrwA2baHWtUIaC0lMMO2QEnwKeRJRYi_3/s320/C.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div><br />Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-29723079439226058332023-04-03T18:15:00.000-04:002023-04-03T18:15:17.801-04:00Bells of Wesley, a short story <p><a href="https://images.fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/mediumlarge/2/bell-tower-of-christ-church-in-woodbury-new-jersey-linda-stern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="417" src="https://images.fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/mediumlarge/2/bell-tower-of-christ-church-in-woodbury-new-jersey-linda-stern.jpg" width="313" /></a> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They stood together on the balcony of their hotel room that overlooked
the large city. Dirigibles carrying their passengers floating through the sky
in the distance. Sarah grinned. “What a spectacular view. I’m looking forward
to seeing the sights.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jonathon slid his arm around her waist with a mischievous
expression as he kissed his wife. “I have all the sights I need to see right
here.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She laughed and wiggled away. “You saw plenty last night and
if you want to see more tonight, you’ll take me out, Sir Jonathon Adam
Hargrove.” She picked up a brochure. “Take me to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Franklin</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Wesley</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Gallery</st1:placename></st1:place> first.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He smiled. How could he not indulge her? Her life was about
to be cut short. “Wherever you wish my dear.” He kissed her taking a long drink
of her essence. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When they part she blushed feeling a touch dazed. “We should
order breakfast.” Sarah walked over to the bell rope and started to tug when
Jonathon rushed over. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His hand closed over hers to stop the pull. “We should go
out for breakfast. You wanted to see the city.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When Sarah moved away to fetch her coat and hat, he slowly
put the rope back into place as he watched the bell. When it lowered back into
place without so much as a ting he sighed in relief. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His eyes stay on the bell for a moment as he moved away from
it to help Sarah with her coat. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When they stepped outside the paperboy stood on the nearby
corner. He rang his hand bell and called out the headline. “<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state></st1:place> becomes 31<sup>st</sup> state of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place>.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The moment Jonathon heard that sharp ting and tang of the
bell he started to tremble. “Sarah, this way, away fr..from that.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She looked at him, for a second her husband looked as though
he’d seen a ghost. “Are you alright?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, yes, the café is just this way, my darling.” He guided
her down the walk away from the boy and his bell. He attempted not to show too
much haste in his efforts. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sarah noticed he finally calmed when they had gone far
enough the ringing was washed away by the sounds of the city streets. It was a
very odd behavior for him, he was the calm in their marriage. She was always
the emotional one. She dismissed it with a shake of her head. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thankfully they reached the café and Jonathon opened the
door and the tiny bell at the top tinkled to let waiters know patrons had
arrived. He froze in place; his hand trembled on the door handle. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He backed out the door still holding Sarah’s hand. She
followed him; she didn’t understand his reactions to these places. He didn’t
act this way back home. Maybe the city was too much for him. He’d lived his
entire life in the small country town they grew up in. “Jonathan what is the
matter?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He shook his head and wrapped her hand around his arm and
started to walk her down the sidewalk. “Nothing, everything is fine. That café
didn’t seem… clean. We’ll find some place better. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She wanted to protest but didn’t as she gripped the side of
her skirt and lifted to keep from tripping as he moved so quickly away. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They turned the corner and his pace started to slow to a
stroll, which Sarah was grateful for. She looked up and smiled seeing the great
church with its stained glass and tall bell tower. “How beautiful, may we go
inside? I love church glass.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He paused his walk and followed the line of her sight.
“Perhaps later, aren’t you famished for breakfast, my darling?” He would be
able to distract her thoughts during the meal into other locations. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, but we’re here now. I’m sure it won’t take long.” She
gripped his hand and dragged him up the steps to the doors. “This chapel must
be very old, perhaps medieval.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His voice was tight as he stood before the great doors with
large round glass windows with images of Christ in them. “Perhaps. I think it
would be better if we came back later, Sarah.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She opened the door herself since he didn’t seem to be
feeling himself much less gentlemanly. “Nonsense, we’ll get caught up in some
other exploration. Jonathon, you are acting very strange today.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She went inside his hand still caught in hers which gave him
no choice but to follow. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His throat felt tight, and he eased his hand from hers to
keep from venturing further into the building than just over the threshold.
When Sarah looked back to him, he gave her a tight smile. “Go ahead, darling. I
will… wait here.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She cast him back a vexed expression then turned away to
explore and look at the glass. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The longer he stood there the more his skin felt as though
it were going to melt from his bones. It was hard for him to look at anything
for too long it made his eyes ache. He had a great need to rush outside and
back to the sidewalk away from all that these ancient stone walls held. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He saw his wife had finally started to walk back toward him.
She stopped to speak with a priest then carried on to him. It wasn’t Sarah,
Jonathon’s eyes followed but the priest. He saw the man in his long black
cassock disappear behind a door. There was a small brass plate on the door,
inscribed… <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Bell</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>He reached out to Sarah in an effort to urge her to walk
faster. “Sarah, let’s go.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She sighed and looked at him. “What has gotten into you?” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He opened the door and they started to step through when the
first tone rang through the building, echoed by the tall open ceiling. It was a
deep rich bong of the largest bell in the tower, followed by two higher pitched
rings. The sounds began to loop growing in strength. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jonathon trembled at first, then began to hug himself and
crumble trapped in the threshold of the old church. His body shook as he cried
out, the sound of a man as he went mad. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sarah dropped to her knees beside him. “Jonathon… my love
what is…” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her breath caught in her throat, and she scooted backward
away from him against the wall. This just couldn’t be she’s been so weak and
ill through their marriage, surely her eyes had played a cruel trick. This
vision couldn’t be real. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of the parishioners fetched the priest to help the
wailing man. He started to kneel down to try and ease the man’s suffering when
he saw the eyes. Solid black pools of the deepest darkness known to man. The
priest felt his soul tremble as those eyes gazed into his own. He crossed
himself and lifted the gold cross that hung over his heart. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jonathon turned his head away he can’t stand any more
assaults. “Get away.” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The priest stood and ran to the alter. He grabbed the
aspergillum and ran back to Jonathon. The priest began to recite prayers to
protect those present and rid his church of this horror as he flicked the
aspergillum. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Drops of Holy Water fell upon Jonathon. He cried out in
terror and agony as the bells continued to ring. He couldn’t take any more his
body arched, mouth opened wide as if to scream. Instead, something else slipped
out of the body. It was smoky, the scent of sulfur filled their nostrils as it
flew out the door and out to the street. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The priest watched as the demon melted into the cracks. He
knew it wouldn’t be last dark soul the Bells of Wesley would terrorize, and he
said a long prayer of thanks for that. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo30C9HFyHX60Fc3DPMeDa4QsXEZmbh26AsAHtU3pCJTiIHsgLxH2lr99mU39pR9MZFC452lF2eNfhxKbEbfZnVN_wSEGNBMIlwmLIFiVnVFc4othpYU4Tqpesk3w8ajGnzvVzVUbzmZ8AEMOVe20ls9JpZI8k2M4NY5frqQouh4XwSCQZX1cp799Q/s320/participant2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-4564332295930855402023-04-03T17:54:00.000-04:002023-04-03T17:54:09.798-04:00Art as Literary Inspiration <p> Art can be many things to many people, relaxing, stimulating, inspiring. You don't have to be an artist to be inspired by a work. I love to visit my local art museums and spend time with paintings or sculptures and imagine the story that goes with it. </p><p>If you give a group of people a copy of one painting, like the one attached to this blog by artist Andrea Kowch, you will get five different stories. Maybe a bit similar but each writer will see something different that inspired their tale. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVG58sJxZ7pR5ioKPx28WvJG0WUW6IUlKdffqgtYx8R-ZVKqZigemj2exMP3gPj-9P1Dk8ndCsC6MaFthuYpOmCxAoaydHXW5HB6ymDnuN2azU_bOyXedJJ_k2FUn_w0VhzJL3v0_QjsDrdlnkOnQgX9C1YYBhHFbsvC6awX49LBb8aAtPZhWTYFE/s4618/IMG_20230331_133723302.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4618" data-original-width="3464" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVG58sJxZ7pR5ioKPx28WvJG0WUW6IUlKdffqgtYx8R-ZVKqZigemj2exMP3gPj-9P1Dk8ndCsC6MaFthuYpOmCxAoaydHXW5HB6ymDnuN2azU_bOyXedJJ_k2FUn_w0VhzJL3v0_QjsDrdlnkOnQgX9C1YYBhHFbsvC6awX49LBb8aAtPZhWTYFE/w266-h354/IMG_20230331_133723302.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />So my challenge for you today is to get out your laptop, tablet or even on your phone. Google an artist or just a general theme such as paintings of a street in Paris. Take a few minutes to really look at the art. Are there people, what are they doing? Are there actions happening? <p></p><p>Set a timer if you need to. Next open your word doc or notebook and start telling the story of that scene. It doesn't have to be obvious. Such as a woman running from the tornado in the painting. Maybe she's running into the storm to save something or someone. Maybe she doesn't even see the storm and is running to get her pie from the oven before it burns. </p><p>Don't let your inner editor stop you. Set a timer for your writing time as well. Maybe only 10 or 15 minute blocks. Now you don't have time to overthink and make changes to your tale. Your muse has the wheel and drives the story forward. You can edit or make needed changes after you finish. So what are you waiting for. Go get inspired! </p><p>If you like the paintings in this blog by Ms. Kowch, you can see them on exhibit a the Deland Museum of Art in Deland, FL through April. Magnificent pieces that will tickle your muse :) </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYAAdS8oXLORNwbYBULhekWY2aqxIlmFph8Ys5gD9VXVFfuF2w2S0h9WuEL-_bCVehv--nAGDLAfP371bIG1oha9to3hnCrxr1thoATgwgeV2-aD84LEYeQskqT9bpNm2r4Hgl7u_rQLZchMVLJjkToiqrk2d7rVwLqV9xfKk91qz6BnmrsSjt03sq" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-68864004729452883532022-10-24T17:44:00.005-04:002022-10-24T17:44:59.523-04:00Old Lady Creeper's Meat Pies <p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/4/3221/3060417359_10ec01960b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="385" data-original-width="500" height="292" src="https://c2.staticflickr.com/4/3221/3060417359_10ec01960b.jpg" width="380" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /> <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">“What do we do now? You told me nothing could go wrong and look </span><span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="22eb6d92-1098-478a-ae4b-db13f1acb6ad" id="7e2b4976-f221-4002-b3e4-2dfb256728cc" style="color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">what’s</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> happened.” Kurt pushed and </span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="755b9074-f0a7-4a1c-bee2-9aa78ce95570" id="8cb484a4-fc0f-4d1d-930e-52dc4c9edf3a" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">shook</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"> the basement doors again. “We’ll just go in and get the ball, he said, nothing will happen, he said, the old lady isn’t even home, he said.” </span><br /></span><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pete gave his friend a shove. “Shut up! It’s not my fault the wind blew the doors shut.” He gave the other boy another shove to the side. “Stop acting like a baby, they probably just need a good shot of elbow grease.”</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kurt scoffed, “Yeah, my sister can bench press more than you in weight class.”</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pete gave him an evil eye, then rubbed his hands together and pushed on the cellar doors. When they didn’t give he put his back into it, added a grunt or two for good measure. The doors rattled a bit but didn’t budge.</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pete looked to Kurt panic started to rise in both the boys. “Holy crap, Kurt! We’re <span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="ab725696-fe12-46d4-8301-3c97b1ffacec" id="7afaa270-f966-4e42-891a-02ee2e49c72c">gonna</span> die down here!”</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kurt swallowed, then stomped his foot. He wasn’t going to end up in one of Old Lady Creeper’s meat pies. “Shut up, Pete.”</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After a few panted breaths of musty basement air, Kurt squinted as he tried to see in the dark. “There’s got to be another way out of here. We never see the old hag leave ‘<span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="d3258709-a57b-4065-9137-367519209ad2" id="ad9d4ff3-79f1-43ac-a303-32e0c0ecf04a">cept</span> to go to the Piggly Wiggly.”</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pete started to search with him,<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack" style="color: #7d5718; text-decoration-line: none;"></a> both boys took a tentative step further into the dark room. He swallowed. “Do you think this is where she stores the bodies? You know… the ones for the pies.”</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kurt gulped hard and elbowed his pal in the side. “Don’t be stupid, that stuff is just stories to scare kids like us.”</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They took a few more steps into the dark, Kurt squinted again and peered into the dark corner. “Hey, it’s the ball.” He ran over and picked it up. “Pete, here’s stairs. We can get out of here before Old Lady Creeper gets home.”</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pete yelped when his hand hit the edge of a <span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="326cfc51-b0fa-46c3-9ccb-0738b2fef809" id="a4f06c79-7ef8-40ec-a99b-91f2539af935">worktable</span>. His hands crept along the surface. “Yeah, I’m too young to be a pie.”</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He took another few steps, his hands felt along the table for guidance. A box turned over onto his hands and he froze in place. “K..k<span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="b97146de-70a4-45ed-8531-e021552de464" id="0a93156a-2ad6-4a53-92eb-1f58b567fa92">…</span>Kurt…. “</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kurt was done with this freaky place, the old lady would be home soon. She’d call his parents, he would get grounded and miss the carnival this weekend. “Come on, stop being a baby.”</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He walked over to Pete and grabbed at the items that lay over his friend’s hands. It felt…. No, it couldn’t be…</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The sun had started to shift and shine into the tiny <span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="011c5351-c378-4600-90b1-a4ea14730f29" id="54003eae-0709-4426-8b4e-44bae4b79056">filth</span> smudged window. Kurt held up one of the<i>t hings</i>. He swallowed hard and started to tremble as his gaze fell on a skeletal hand. Kurt dropped the hand as Pete joined him in a high-pitched girly scream.</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They ran full steam to the basement doors the force <span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="88d27160-af52-4598-9c21-157967969cc1" id="b25b7e19-bedf-4583-91fd-035e0203a6ec">unjammed</span> them. When the double doors flew open, they ran <span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="37803708-c462-4a12-bb6a-65bee9ee988d" id="96b748cc-6ee2-4e56-a6fc-0462cb51e3cc">for</span> the closest house, the boys emitted that girly scream all the way.</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mrs. Caraway walked down the stairs taking care with her bad hip. When she reached the bottom, the old dear gave out a long breath of relief. She set her Piggly Wiggly <span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="b9e4f62f-1e18-438e-b4b2-39e9996939dd" id="c9b2b7ed-8d7c-446d-9d83-6dd81a6bae16">woven</span> market bag by the deep freeze and looked over at the worktable.</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There were skeletal remains scattered over the surface. With a deep sigh, she walked over and started to clean up the mess. She dropped a skull into the box on top of a witch’s hat and pumpkin tablecloth. “Damn kids, always getting in here and making a mess of my holiday decorations. Maybe I should start putting more mince pies on the window sill.”</span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="NoSpacing" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Happy Halloween! Hope you have many more Treats than Tricks but be on the look out for Lady Creeper! </span></div><div><br /></div>Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-63400572532148765222020-04-06T09:32:00.000-04:002020-04-06T09:32:01.255-04:00Now is the time to make a habit! I know, I know. We're stuck in our houses for the next 30 to however many days it takes to #flattenthe <br />
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curve. That's why this is the perfect time to create a new good habit. For instance... writing everyday or getting in at least 30 minutes of exorcise a day, eating healthier. Yeah, the last two are kind of ick so let's stick with writing habits.<br />
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That way we can eat all the junk we want and create something awesome. You can always have one of those peddle things under the desk. *wink<br />
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How do we build a habit? The experts say it takes 30 days to make an action or life change stick.<br />
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Step One: Get a piece of paper and make a list of what you really want to change in your life or what you want to add. Next prioritize it. Only make one change at a time. If you try to make too many changes at once it can get overwhelming or frustrating.<br />
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Step Two: Now that you have your new habit, we're going to turn it into a goal for the next 30 days.<br />
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Step Three: Allow failure. You aren't going to make that goal or every single day. We're human, life happens or there are days we just aren't up to dealing with it. That's okay. What you do next is what really matters. Yup, you get back on the horse the next day and keep going.<br />
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Take it one day at a time, take care of yourself and family while you create this new habit. Include them in it! If your goal is to write everyday ask your kids to write with you. Maybe younger kids can draw a picture to go with your writing. Make building a new habit a family event. Even if you're the only one that sticks to it.<br />
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There, now you have something to do while we're on Corona Time. :) <br />
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<br />Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-16278647371248185422019-09-26T19:28:00.002-04:002019-09-26T19:28:53.999-04:00Kill your inner critic <div class="MsoNormal">
The Inner Critic is that voice in your head that tells you something is worthy of appraisal or not. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Everyone has one; it just seems that writers tend to be the most tortured by this voice.</div>
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If we are not careful, that nasty little voice in our heads will become judge, jury, and executioner to our work. If we allow it that critic can shut a story down and keep us from submitting our work. By listening to that voice in our head saying things such as: “That’s not really good enough to send out.” “No one is going to want to read that.” “You’re no Stephen King, baby. Or we leave a manuscript unfinished because that voice convinced us it wasn’t what readers wanted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When that voice begins to niggle… stuff a sock in it. Tell that inner critic to pack his/her bags and get on the next bus out of town. Put him/her in a bag and toss him in the river. Whatever it takes to silence that voice. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Turning it off takes practice. Some ways to shut that thing up are:<br />
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-Turn up the music, if you listen to music when you write.<br />
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- Find three things you like about the piece you are working on. Even if you don't like the story there is something about the writing you like. A phrase, a certain word, line of dialog, the way you described something. Learn to see the positives in your work not just the mistakes.<br />
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-Remember what Hemingway said. "The first draft of anything is shit"<br />
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-Take a deep breath and know that with every page your skill and talent gets sharper. </div>
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Writers have to stuff that voice down and get the job done. Tell those stories that are aching to be told. Just as we would with a rejection letter or a bad review, we write another page. Write another and another until your work finds a home to adopt it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Don't allow those inner voices to stop you. Instead turn them into a tool. If your inner critic is harping on a certain thing often. Maybe you need to look at that sentence, word, or punctuation a bit closer. That doesn't mean you've done something wrong, but you might be able to make a piece more concise and improve it.<br />
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The inner critic will come back after a while, but, that doesn’t mean you have to let it beat you down. What does a voice in your head know anyways? When I was three he told me dirt might taste good… yeah what does he know.<br />
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Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-20113303117870653882019-04-06T11:39:00.000-04:002019-04-06T11:39:07.804-04:00Forgotten #atozchallenge<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The old shed stood amongst the wild growth. The paint worn, siding rusted with time telling the world it has been </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhU-5n90IvNz4kMXLxD7aG24eLVq_pxW7Ru3SpLUrcIB97d3pM8CvbK3KKGINPmcu1i8nwsxR_GtZfZGM46JEaV0EXz4Z21CXicWxE82EACjYl9hQAvqJRcYE2mJrSavO7P-aVxxtlD2K6Q0pL9WCjOHUZVKddKrfAJGFrTh7iTLObHiYKugcgUnw=s0-d" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhU-5n90IvNz4kMXLxD7aG24eLVq_pxW7Ru3SpLUrcIB97d3pM8CvbK3KKGINPmcu1i8nwsxR_GtZfZGM46JEaV0EXz4Z21CXicWxE82EACjYl9hQAvqJRcYE2mJrSavO7P-aVxxtlD2K6Q0pL9WCjOHUZVKddKrfAJGFrTh7iTLObHiYKugcgUnw=s0-d" /></a></div>
forgotten. What secrets are inside these simple four walls? Old tools, holiday decorations, toys now outgrown or boxes of memories. Or perhaps secrets better left forgotten.<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-57117729317501843172019-04-06T11:35:00.000-04:002019-04-06T11:35:04.795-04:00Eve of Battle #atozchallenge<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Ben rinsed his tin plate with the last sip of his coffee and stepped back inside. The ragged tent did little to keep out the winter winds. He longed for another hot cup of brew but his ration was low and the troop's supplies had not yet made it through the fighting. What he had left would better serve him in the morning.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">His breath fogged the air in front of him as he searched his pack for his last sheet of precious paper. He carefully set out his ink and pen before lighting the nub of a candle he had left. In one hand, he held the pen, in the other his most prize possession a photograph of his wife and young son. He gazed at the images for a moment before he began to write.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><i>My dearest Ellen,</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><i>I wish I could say the war goes well, but it just seems to go on. They say battles have been won but all I can see anymore are the bodies of men. Young and old scattered like torn paper across the fields.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><i>It is cold here tonight. I am grateful for the bit of shelter the tent offers against the climate. Though I would much rather be resting in front of our fireplace watching you work your quilt.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><i>He sighed softly as his thumb caressed the frame of the photo. That spot worn smooth by the times he'd sat and looked at the image of his wife and child, and reminisced of home. It was where he longed to be, teaching his son to keep his heels down as he rode his pony. If he survived tomorrow, he would be another day closer to home.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><i>I am lonesome for home and my family. Perhaps soon this bloodshed will end and I can come home to you, my wife. I must end this letter and try to rest for tomorrow we take to arms again. It may be some time before I can write another note. Remind Henry to keep his heels down when he rides. Tell him his father is proud of him. Know that you and our son are ever in my thoughts and always in my heart.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Yours,</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Ben</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">He glanced back at the noise of his men playing poker for matchsticks. Money had become more precious than it was a night years ago in New Mexico. He was young, full of whiskey and spit when he'd almost lost all he had to a gambler. Ben had been saved by pure luck that night. Watching the men play and jib his memory fell back on that night long ago.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">He gazed at all his money piled in front of his opponent. Ben had to win it back or he would need the spade to dig his grave. Too much whiskey had expanded his ego into the belief he was good at poker.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">His opponent had noticed Ben's distress or at least the sweat that rolled from his brow. The older man took a long drag off his cigar. It was one of the expensive kinds, which smelled of spice, softening the stout tobacco odors. He tapped his cards on the table, closed them, and then fanned them back open again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">With a curt nod, he pulled two cards from his hand and slid them face down over the green felt toward the dealer. The dealer lifted the cards and made note of them as if they held the key to Ben's fate.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">With a practiced flick of thumb, the card sharp tossed out two cards. He inclined his head toward Ben. "Mr. Mason, your bet."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Ben glanced down at the cards in his hand. The edges were warn and yellowed from the many hands that had held them. They gave no help in the crucial decision he must now make. One card could make a difference in his pockets; if they would be filled richly or remaining empty.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">He settled his hat further forward on his brow to keep the nervous sweat out of view of his competition. Ben felt in his gut that the man had a sure hand.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Ben knocked back his last shot of whiskey and pulled three cards from his set. He placed them face down next to the dealer. Too late did he realize he had given away one of his threes. The only pair he held, though it be a weak one, the same as his knees in that moment.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">The dealer thumbed out his three replacements. Before Ben could pick them up and survey the damage, his opponent had an ego ruling moment of his own.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">With a smirk at the corner of his handle-bar mustache, the man pushed all of the money he had taken from the young cattleman into the center of the table. "Winner takes all, rancher."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Ben pushed in the last of his wealth to join the pile of paper and coin. There was no reason to keep his concern hidden now. The gambler knew he had Ben in a tight spot.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">His hand on the three cards, Ben exhaled and set them next to the others he held. He couldn't bear to look as the dealer called and bid them to show their cards.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">A few of the saloon patrons had taken a leisurely interest in the game as players began to drop away from the high stakes table. Now the bystanders moved in closer for the reveal. Ben felt the heat of the room as his pulse beat in his ears.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">The gambler laid out first, his cards fanned out as they left his fingers. The dealer examined them. "Pair of Queens."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Ben sighed sure his hand would have nothing of value after he fumbled and gave away half of his only pair. His eyes gazed at the gambler leaning back with a sated expression as he puffed on his spiced cigar. Ben had a moment of deep hate for the man as he placed his cards to the felt with much less flair.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">The gambler's expression changed as he looked over. Ben turned his eyes down to the cards as the dealer spoke the verdict. "Two pair, Mr. Mason wins the pot."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Relief filled every cell in his body. Ben made a silent pact between him and God not to let 'o be joyful' get to his head like this again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Luck had been at his side that night in his youth or his fate might have been different.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Since joining the war near the middle of 61', Ben had become more adept at the game. There wasn't much energy left the end of the day for more than a few hands of cards. It was a kind of escape for he and the men, a moment of normality amongst hours of bloodshed or tedious march.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Ben had joined some of his men after supper, earlier that night. He had been quite fortunate. His stack of matches had doubled from the night before. Just as he was about to offer a friendly jib about his card sharp skills, he looked down. Lady luck had seen fit to remind him of that one night long ago.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">He felt his gut knot as his eyes gazed upon a king, two aces and two eights. The same hand as that one a decade ago, he took it as an omen. Omens were fickle. They would appear, but then wouldn't tell you what they meant or who for.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">He sighed deeply and closed the cards to hide the dark ones behind the smiling king. "I fold, gentlemen. I owe my wife a long overdue letter."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Ben tossed the cards into the center of the table and quickly moved into his tent. Where he now sat at the small table with the photo in hand as he wrote. His eyes fell to the still discarded omen as it lay next to his pile of matches.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">He admitted those cards unnerved him. With the morning looming closer, it felt as though a bill was about to be called due. Before battle, perhaps he should see the good Reverend for one of those blessings he was so fond of dispensing.</span></span></div>
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Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-65106915854789653142019-04-04T14:02:00.002-04:002019-04-04T14:02:50.720-04:00Death to the inner critic! #atozchallenge<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://njpsychdoc.files.wordpress.com/2017/10/adobestock_54183536-inner-critic-900x620.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="551" data-original-width="800" height="220" src="https://njpsychdoc.files.wordpress.com/2017/10/adobestock_54183536-inner-critic-900x620.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
The Inner Critic is that voice in your head that talks to you telling you if something is worthy of appraisal or not. Everyone has one. It just seems that writers tend to be the most tortured by this voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That nasty little voice in our heads if we are not careful will become judge, jury, and executioner to our work. If we allow it, that critic can shut a story down and keep us from submitting our work. By listening to that voice in our head say things like. “That’s not really good enough to send out.” "Maybe you should rework that second chapter... again." “No one is going to want to read that.” “You’re no Stephen King, baby." "A fifth grader writes better dialog than you." Or we leave a manuscript unfinished because that voice convinced us it wasn’t what readers/publishers want.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When that voice begins to niggle… stuff a sock in it. Tell that inner critic to pack his/her/its bags and get on the next train out of town. Put him in a bag and toss him in the river. Do whatever it takes to silence that voice. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Play loud music, take a walk and get some fresh air, stab your voodoo doll a few times. Be physical about it. Create a paper box write inner critic or something your inner critic said about your novel on another slip of paper. Put that slip inside your box and SMASH! Step on it, toss it in a boiling pot, destroy it in a manner that makes you giddy with the freedom of shutting that thing up. </div>
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Writers have to stuff that voice down and get the job done. Tell those stories that are aching to be told. Just as we would with a rejection letter or a bad review, we write another page. Write another and another until your work finds itself happily nestled in a reader's hands. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The inner critic will come back after a while. That doesn’t mean you have to listen to it. What does a voice in your head know anyways? When I was three he told me dirt might taste good… yeah what does he know.<br />
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<a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="#AtoZChallenge 2019 Tenth Anniversary badge" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4Kt9yHto9UDhaA8vU91QjjW-FbIhuiEIhsM9u6XXQnfKFe__Sq1rHvbcDo6sUY9-FzQvxlZUJWYultB9Sr8v_jscIvZJR5hFMzTQBHJYOP2Fia4LnLzBRZYgCrvsloxFmjCy-B0ZyLQ/s320/AtoZ2019tenthAnn.jpg" width="320" /></a>Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-6459091707473894532019-04-03T18:25:00.000-04:002019-04-03T18:25:06.242-04:00Cannon #AtoZChallenge<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The wait, it was the worst part of war. Ben and his men had held their current position in the wood</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">since well before dawn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Younger inexperienced soldiers were apt to get antsy, but it had been long enough in one spot the more experienced men had begun to shuffle feet. Ben dismounted his horse to walk among them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the men moved his musket from left to right as he let out a nervous breath. Ben walked down the line and clasped the man’s shoulder. “Stay strong, the time is near.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As if on que rider barreled through the wood to their position. “Lieutenant Benjamin Mason.” Ben stepped out of the ranks and nodded. The rider tipped his hat to him. “You have orders to support the 22<sup>nd</sup>, sir.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben mounted his horse and gave the order. The wait was over they were to fight. The men fought to keep their lines as anticipation grew with each step. Ben’s hand slipped into his pocket one more time before they reached the field.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He pulled out the photo of his wife and son to look upon them. He hoped it would not be for the last time. With a breath to steady himself he pushed the photo back into his pocket.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A priest rode across the front line. He recited a prayer of absolution to prepare their souls in case they fell during the battle. Some of them crossed themselves others muttered personal prayers, or made promises of what they would do if God let them live through this day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The sound of gunfire and men’s shouts began to fill air as the moved closer. Soon the sound of the wounded could be heard, the thump of some of them falling to the hard earth. One of the mounted officers near Ben took a shot in the throat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben dismounted to blend with his men; officers were always the first picked off if Johnny Reb could manage it. His pistols in hand he ordered the men to take positions in the trenches and fire at will.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Several fell before they could get to the lower ground. They cried out as lead tore into their flesh. Ben felt something hot burn through his coat into his shoulder. Then his shirt being soaked with his life’s blood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He pressed his bandanna to it as he continued to call orders down the line. He looked out into the wheat field in which they fought.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He could hear Confederate officers shout orders to their troops as they took more of the field. Ben could see them fully now they were in a greater number than when he had last met them. He waited for the volley to begin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The twelve-pound Napoleon cannons would settle the odds in favor of the blue. The Federals were out of range for the Rebs artillery, one fact of the day Ben was more than thankful of.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The enemy still approached, but no volley had begun. Ben looked back, the two cannons were unmanned. His heart fell, he knew this battle would be over quickly if they couldn’t thin out that line. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben turned to the trenches as Confederate fire began to rain down. “Charlie, Dawson with me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The two men, didn’t hesitate to move away from the trench. Ben ran with them to the artillery wagon. He pulled the sack of primers and attached it to his belt as he gave orders. “Charlie, you’re on the nose. <st1:city>Dawson</st1:city> you run munitions. Do not pause, gentlemen. I want as constant a fire as we can get.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Both men nod. Charlie ran up with the first ball. He set it into the tube then shoved it back with the rammer. Ben punctured the powder bag through the vent before he dropped in the friction primer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Charlie watched Ben hold his shoulder as he set the sight in place and take aim. “Lieutenant, are you hit?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben moved back cord in hand. “I’m fine.” He let go of a deep breath as he nodded to the men. “Ready! Fire!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He pulled the cord. There was a hiss as the powder ignited. A second later came the blast, sulfur and smoke filling the air. The ground shook under their feet. Ben shook his head to combat the ring in his ears from the explosion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">With in seconds they were rewarded with screams and calls of the wounded. Ben called out. “Reload!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They readied again, and again, they caught an easy rhythm as if they were a full crew. Smoke billowed through the wheat field, made it hard to visualize targets. Ben focused on the light of the enemy’s muzzles and the sound of gunfire.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The battle felt as though it had gone on for days, instead of hours. The day had faded into dusk when they heard the Confederate officers recall their men. When they were out of sight, the men cheered. More for the joy that they still took breath than for the victory.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben surveyed the damage. He was thankful the cannon had dulled his hearing. This night he would get a reprieve from the cries of those fatally wounded, as they called out for someone to take their final words home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben took count of his men as they began to slowly emerge from the trenches. Their number appeared reduced, but most were still with him. He could see many had been wounded. It brought memory of his own injury and the pain back to his conscience mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He attempted to push it back as he joined them, though loss of blood made him unsteady. He swallowed hard as his eyes landed on a fallen rebel. A deck of cards had fallen from his pack and been scattered through the blooded wheat around him by the fighting. Next to the dead man’s hand lay two aces and two eights.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben’s omen, he knew it was a taunt. He turned toward the surgeon’s tent and spoke to the omen, fate or whom ever was listening. “I owe nothing, I carve my own fate.”</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="#AtoZChallenge 2019 Tenth Anniversary badge" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4Kt9yHto9UDhaA8vU91QjjW-FbIhuiEIhsM9u6XXQnfKFe__Sq1rHvbcDo6sUY9-FzQvxlZUJWYultB9Sr8v_jscIvZJR5hFMzTQBHJYOP2Fia4LnLzBRZYgCrvsloxFmjCy-B0ZyLQ/s320/AtoZ2019tenthAnn.jpg" width="320" /></a>
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Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-65834696914042110072019-04-02T16:18:00.000-04:002019-04-02T16:18:21.179-04:00Blast Writer's Block<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSDhnrBJwQU2Oi8ScDUxJGOCw93yNgS4J0XhMuazrfmy1yEAbEktQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSDhnrBJwQU2Oi8ScDUxJGOCw93yNgS4J0XhMuazrfmy1yEAbEktQ" /></a></div>
There is only one way to actually break writier's block. <b>Write.</b> Take an active role in getting past whatever is blocking your prose. Instead of binging on Netflix and chips try one of these ideas to get wake up your muse.</div>
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<br />
<b>Snoop</b></div>
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We all have looked in someone else’s medicine cabinet, so why not your main character? Write about what they find in there. It could be mundane everyday stuff, something tawdry, or a hidden secret.</div>
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It doesn’t have to be a medicine cabinet. He/she can look in a drawer or the glove box in a car. Just open something up and take a long gander at what’s inside. You’ll be quite surprised at what he or another character is keeping stashed away. Somewhere hidden in the back of the junk drawer of your character’s boss’ desk is what will get you back on track with your manuscript.</div>
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<b>Loser</b></div>
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A lost object is another way to trick the muse into walking around that block. While searching for lost keys, phone, cigar clipper, or the hamster that escaped his cage you can find all sorts of things to fluff your plot. Use it to explore a bit more of your character’s personality, or, that of another character helping in the search.</div>
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<b>Disasters</b></div>
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All else fails have disaster strike. It’s amazing how much a lightning strike or freak tornado ripping across the front lawn can get the creative juices flowing again. In real life these things can come out of no where so why not use a cyclone to drop a house on your block.</div>
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<b>New View</b></div>
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Open a new document and pick any character but your hero/heroine. A background character such as the guy in the parking garage, the waitress with the great smile, someone who is mentioned but really isn’t a player in your story.</div>
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Now take that person and write a page about them. What where they doing before meeting your MC? Do they have a cat or is she slinging hash until she’s discovered as the next Marilyn Monroe? Once you’ve gotten a few paragraphs or a page you can go back to your WIP, you’ll find your muse is now ready to take off again.</div>
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Writer’s block can feel as though a huge wall in front of our muse. Looking up, it seems impossible to get over that wall. Put your fingers on the keyboard and write until that wall crumbles. When it does the sun will shine, the forest animals will surround your desk in song…. Okay, not really but you will be celebrating with your muse as the story picks up speed again.<br />
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Do you have any tips or tricks to break a writer's block? Share it in the comments section below!<br />
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This blog was written during April during the A to Z Blogging Challenge. The challenge is to post a blog daily, Monday through Saturday. Each post begins with a letter of the alphabet. Want to know more click on the logo below and find other great blogs to read/follow!<br />
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<a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="#AtoZChallenge 2019 Tenth Anniversary badge" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4Kt9yHto9UDhaA8vU91QjjW-FbIhuiEIhsM9u6XXQnfKFe__Sq1rHvbcDo6sUY9-FzQvxlZUJWYultB9Sr8v_jscIvZJR5hFMzTQBHJYOP2Fia4LnLzBRZYgCrvsloxFmjCy-B0ZyLQ/s320/AtoZ2019tenthAnn.jpg" width="320" /></a>
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Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-49127307790595933292019-03-31T00:00:00.000-04:002019-03-31T23:18:19.648-04:00A Gallant Night #AtoZChallenge<br />
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Lucinda stood in the gallery and sipped her wine as she gazed
at the veduta. The landscape was <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilRSMJ5b6-zQD1fnfYv7bNkmIa4F8RQWp4SPyq-szVOHLqQ-sAKDcdIMlceorha3egpdb2BzLglgAO6Jtps-989cuNBaXsVNHeMdusEiFXq-EtHwZZ3qBBH08IqhsFCHDzkwOzpt9iwB4/s1600/woman-1283009_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="640" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilRSMJ5b6-zQD1fnfYv7bNkmIa4F8RQWp4SPyq-szVOHLqQ-sAKDcdIMlceorha3egpdb2BzLglgAO6Jtps-989cuNBaXsVNHeMdusEiFXq-EtHwZZ3qBBH08IqhsFCHDzkwOzpt9iwB4/s320/woman-1283009_640.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
timely, done in earthy oils. The artist
expressed great elocution in his work. As she moved on through the gallery, to
another painting. This one seemed so real, as if the man standing at the
parapet could tumble out of the work. <br />
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Applause erupted as the artist raised his glass in a toast
to critic Phillip Glazer. Pronounced fee-leep glass-a-er. The schmuck probably
wasn’t even French. Lucinda had a premonition that all the artist’s efforts to
impress the great critic were all a fallacy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In her mind’s eye she could picture the review in which
uppity Fee-leep would eviscerate the young artisan. At the very least sever an
artery. <o:p></o:p></div>
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With a sigh, she moved into the exhibits. Lucinda couldn’t
help a quiet laugh as she passed a couple. The gentleman was trying to impress
his lady friend, badly. He stood back from the painting with a distant
expression. Then proclaimed that the artist was ocular. Oh yes, the young man
had a vision alright. A vision of getting that petite blonde between the
sheets. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Next was a classic view of the medieval hero Robin Hood. The
outlaw stood in disguise lined up with the other archers. Arrow knocked ready
to fly true and win the legendary contest. With a grin, she entertained the
notion of being able to step into the painting and blow in his ear as he let
fly. Let’s see him make that shot.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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An odd coupling by the same artist the next painting held a
limo in the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Nevada</st1:place></st1:state>
desert. A man dressed forties gangster style stood against the side of the car.
He might have been attractive but for the horrendous scar down the side of his
face. Something caught her eye and she started to laugh at the artist’s morbid
sense of humor. A man’s shoe lay just under the edge of the limo’s trunk. The
scared man wasn’t alone in the desert after all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next piece was a collage of calendars. It was quite
impressive how he managed to encapsulate so much history into the piece. There
was a calendar from the year JFK was assassinated the date circled in red.
Little pictures of historical events speckling many of the dates.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lucinda actually liked the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Florida</st1:place></st1:state> landscape. The beach with its white
sands that seemed to stretch on forever. Palm trees bent to shade a group of
sunbathers as the waves licked at their feet. A dog with a Frisbee in his mouth
ran along the shore, which made her a smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Hanging next was a peep inside a brothel. Ladies enticed men
with their unmentionables and pretty smiles. They hoped to make a few dollars
that night. Some danced, others drank, a few couples locked in romantic
endeavors but all laughing and gay. All but one. At the corner window seat a woman
with long golden locks stared at the moon. Her sapphire eyes held a longing,
perhaps of dreams lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Lucinda sighed as someone behind her made loud comments. She
had lost patience with the crowd growing in number and noise. The wine no
longer able to quench her thirst she poured it into the potted tree. Lucinda
glanced around as she slipped the flute with its gallery charm that dangled
from the stem into her purse. On her way out, she over heard Fee-leep tell
another patron an artist should have stuck to flipping burgers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The valet brought her car and Lucinda tipped him before she
drove away. On the way home, she listened to Mozart drift through the speakers.
Once inside her apartment the illusion was shattered. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She toed off her shoes then walked to the wall by her dining
table. Lucinda pulled the flute from her purse and set the glass on a shelf
turning the charm to dangle from the front. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She stepped back and looked at her collection. There was a
glass from almost every gallery in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New
York</st1:place></st1:state> and LA. Since the move to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">California</st1:place></st1:state>, Lucinda had found the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Beverly Hills</st1:place></st1:city> posh
galleries a lot of fun. It was her little escape from her mundane life as a
post office clerk. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Once a month she would dress to the nines walking among the
beautiful people. Experiencing the world in their eyes for a couple of hours,
tasting fine wines, foods she would never be able to afford. Walking to her
bedroom Lucinda took off her dress she’d saved for six months to buy it. There
were three fine gowns in her closet just for her little trips. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As she slipped on the less glamorous cotton pajamas with
coffee and kittens imprinted, Lucinda thought about the gallery and all she had
seen tonight. She rested her head on, her pillow Lucinda made note to check the
listings for next month so she could plan her next gallant night. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="#AtoZChallenge 2019 Tenth Anniversary badge" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4Kt9yHto9UDhaA8vU91QjjW-FbIhuiEIhsM9u6XXQnfKFe__Sq1rHvbcDo6sUY9-FzQvxlZUJWYultB9Sr8v_jscIvZJR5hFMzTQBHJYOP2Fia4LnLzBRZYgCrvsloxFmjCy-B0ZyLQ/s320/AtoZ2019tenthAnn.jpg" width="320" /></a>Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-60935784091665604212019-03-13T21:06:00.000-04:002019-03-13T21:06:29.549-04:00Readers, we need YOU!<br />
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<b>Can Readers Participate in Blogs?</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Absolutely! Readers, we need YOU!</div>
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Authors <a href="https://www.facebook.com/RoseKellyWrites/">Rose Kelly</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/EliseVanCise">Elise VanCise</a> will be penning a continuing series together as part of the <a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/">A to Z Challenge</a> that begins on April 1<sup>st</sup> 2019.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Written by Rose Kelly in 2012 and originally titled "Torn Paper", the short, standalone piece received positive feedback and requests for the story to be continued. Rose and Elise will continue the story, now titled “Then He Was Gone”, as a series for the <a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/">A to Z Challenge</a> and each chapter will be inspired by a letter in the alphabet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And now for the twists:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Two Blogs</b></div>
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Rose and Elise will each be writing from the POV of our two lead characters. On “<a href="http://gladiatorspen.blogspot.com/">Gladiator’s Pen</a>”, you’ll read the story from the perspective of our female character as written by Elise VanCise. For our male character’s perspective, you’ll find him on “<a href="https://rosekellywrites.blogspot.com/">Rose Writes</a>” as written by Rose Kelly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Reader Votes</b></div>
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We thought it would be a fun writing experiment to include aspects of the story that have been voted for by our readers. We’re starting with the poll below that will ask readers to vote for the main character’s names and the state where the story will be set.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This won’t be the only choice we will ask you to make! Periodically, we will be posting polls and getting your input for the story. Links for <a href="http://gladiatorspen.blogspot.com/">Gladiator’s Pen</a>, <a href="https://rosekellywrites.blogspot.com/">RoseWrites</a>, and the polls will be included with all posts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You’ll have to read the blogs to find out if your vote appears in the story! <o:p></o:p>This poll will end on March 29th, 2019. So, what are you waiting for! Vote below!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-4JozAF0njDO6NlsD954W3aiXuj1SczzUdiDXdGm4OMO-GmWOSuI6b2YZbYDTM5oFkHUUjVgf59gkjIspu95r6AtcNT5-mq9GHt8NTzoI2k7-kK79XXDkT9esxDudIIBgZqATnK5ZTE/s1600/Then+He+Was+Gone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-4JozAF0njDO6NlsD954W3aiXuj1SczzUdiDXdGm4OMO-GmWOSuI6b2YZbYDTM5oFkHUUjVgf59gkjIspu95r6AtcNT5-mq9GHt8NTzoI2k7-kK79XXDkT9esxDudIIBgZqATnK5ZTE/s1600/Then+He+Was+Gone.jpg" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Then He Was Gone</b></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
After realizing the mistakes that caused her relationship to fail, a woman travels across continents in search of a second chance with the love she lost. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh I hope she finds him! Nice evocative piece</i>.” -<a href="https://www.blogger.com/profile/12748128819820230841">Helen Howell</a> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Very nicely crafted. The story elicits sadness and a sense of loss, yet at the same time has the underlying sense of hope, and feelings of things that may be repaired and put right…The story just begs to be given closure.</i>” -<a href="https://www.blogger.com/profile/18414279461366098783">Steve Green</a> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I have been swept away in your world and really want to know more! Great emotional feeling within this piece!</i>” -<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5767344.C_M_Brown">C.M.Brown</a></blockquote>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Continuing story series for the <a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/">A to Z Challenge</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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Written by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/RoseKellyWrites/">Rose Kelly</a> & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/EliseVanCise">Elise VanCise<o:p></o:p></a></div>
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Coming in April 2019</div>
<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="1284" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" src="https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSeAvFb3ae1ZywHDOHWSawMw4M_c6UZlai-6fQUI-0-nflN0MQ/viewform?embedded=true" width="640"></iframe>Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-14217982499113670702019-01-01T22:08:00.000-05:002019-01-01T22:08:01.270-05:00Does your novel need to go on a diet? Everyone likes big books, you can't lie... yeah, I went there. Seriously though, an author tends to write on the 'meaty' side of things during the first draft phase. We write with a ton of adverbs, repetitive nouns, prepositions, verbs, its, and and, the list goes on.<br />
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All that makes for a chubby novel. One that needs a hand to cut those extras from it's diet and trim down to a sexier sized manuscript. Yes, I know your novel isn't going to sport an itty bitty yellow polka dot bikini at the beach, but, it is going to go to publishers, editors, and readers hands.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinmkao0NSj9Yiql1SyOsgEhJ9q-bbtcnt4GAldbXFAOmmsM-9NNQQly9PfWPax2h0KwbXYxSIX0cXo5keaU16lcgdHElieJ17LHevjLL8skR377PD3dV1XNgQ5yZiNGZAurMsB4i3eQaM/s1600/weight-loss-2036967_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1020" data-original-width="1600" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinmkao0NSj9Yiql1SyOsgEhJ9q-bbtcnt4GAldbXFAOmmsM-9NNQQly9PfWPax2h0KwbXYxSIX0cXo5keaU16lcgdHElieJ17LHevjLL8skR377PD3dV1XNgQ5yZiNGZAurMsB4i3eQaM/s400/weight-loss-2036967_1920.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Why should your care if your writing is a little on the husky side? Just like bon bons too much of a good thing can be damaging to your figure, or in this case it can muddle the picture you want to create for your reader. Over description can be boring, too many adverbs or pronouns can get confusing and mess with tenses.<br />
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Too many of those little connector words such as and, it, that, this, like, or as (or is one too!) can clutter your sentences. You want your writing be create a clear and concise.<br />
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Don't worry you don't have to squeeze your novel into those skinny jeans hanging in your closet. Here are a few tips to help tip the scale in your favor.<br />
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Channel Mark Twain, he is one of my favorites and gave great writing advice. He once said, "Substitute 'damn' every time you're inclined to write 'very'; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should."<br />
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It really is a good idea. The first step is to determine which words you tend to over use. Once your bad habit words are determined substitute damn in its place or just dashes. When edit read the segment in question without the habit word and with it.<br />
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Doing this will help you decide if you actually need to use the habit words and where you can drop them from your diet. Just like eating less carbs or Heaven forbid cutting out chocolate in your real diet.<br />
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How do you determine what words your novel tends to over eat? There are tools in Word or most word processing programs have the option to search and count a certain word throughout the book. Yeah, that can be a lot of work and you can miss leg day (a habit word) and end up with thunder thighs in chapter six.<br />
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The easy way to do the deed is to use an editing aid such as Grammarly, Ginger. These products have free options as well as paid subscriptions to their services and tons of features and tools to make your novel strut the runway with it's fit and trim body. My personal favorite is to take a trip over to <a href="http://writersdiet.com/" target="_blank">The Writer's Diet webpage</a>.<br />
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The Writer's Diet is also a fabulous book by Helen Sword that helps you trim your writing without sending it to the Biggest Looser. You can even test your writing fitness level right on the site under the Test tab. Just copy paste no more than one thousand words and click Run the Test.<br />
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You will get a rainbow colored page that highlights your habit words and shows if you need to put that book on the treadmill. It will also tell you if you're dieting too much. (Your book, not you. Put down that cookie!) Now, this is just a feedback tool. It won't tell you if your writing is good, bad or needs cheese.... everything is better with a little cheese on top. It will help you determine those high calorie words that possibly need to be nixed.<br />
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Play with it and try different samples of your writing, if nothing else it's like that cake over there; pretty to look at just like that big slice of cake with the pretty piped rose on top.... <br />
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*takes a bite of cake and sighs happily.... Oh well, so much for that New Year's resolution. Maybe my novel will look good in those skinny jeans.<br />
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<br />Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-18332554025640594352018-04-25T13:08:00.000-04:002018-04-25T13:08:15.260-04:00The Wall <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: 1.125px;">His back was up against the wall, literally and figuratively. The rain damp brick soaked through his shirt as he pressed against the rain damp brick to peek around the corner. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: 1.125px;">Two men skidded around the corner beyond headed in his direction unconcealed weapons in their hands. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: 1.125px;">The alley where he stood was a dead end. He let out a slow breath and checked the clip in his gun. Empty. He leaned against the wall, his lungs burned from the run, his heart pounding in his ears, as, the footfalls of his enemies moved closer. The only way out was the hard way. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Tahoma, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5px; letter-spacing: 1.125px;"><br /></span></span>Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-16176998763945083582018-04-23T00:00:00.000-04:002018-04-23T00:00:14.689-04:00Ten ways to squeeze out those creative juices <div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCUZlqxYjEVXoXCq-MK6URFc6137ysGYUV6PuH87NyxZBfJjkxzTDdBV8SFxT5DgIhHfacS3IqAFkH7CxMtd-qvlPhJlNIKTcSkJusXwpOZ2OIIg7eIbeXdkInUIJZjNg0FxfABijEjs/s1600/OJ05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1194" data-original-width="1593" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCUZlqxYjEVXoXCq-MK6URFc6137ysGYUV6PuH87NyxZBfJjkxzTDdBV8SFxT5DgIhHfacS3IqAFkH7CxMtd-qvlPhJlNIKTcSkJusXwpOZ2OIIg7eIbeXdkInUIJZjNg0FxfABijEjs/s1600/OJ05.jpg" width="320" /></a><b>1. Eat Breakfast<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Breakfast really is the most important meal of the day. You
don’t have to have the full meal if that’s not your thing, but try to eat
something protein in the morning. Try a breakfast drink like Carnation Instant
Breakfast if you’re not a regular breakfast eater. They have a low amount of
calories, high protein and the right kinds of sugars to boost your brain and
get those creative juices ready to work.</div>
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<b>2. Doodle<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Sometimes the mind needs a bit of distraction. If you come
across a block in your writing whip out a note pad and start doodling. Try some
shapes or just draw a circle or pattern something non conforming works best to
clear and relax your mind. A few 3-D boxes later and ideas will start to flow
again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>3. Watch a movie <o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Pick a DVD from your collection that has some similarity to
what you’re writing. It can only be one element a similar character, setting,
or plot. Pop some corn and kick back. Don’t just veg out, use your writer’s
brain to look for elements that might add an extra dimension to your work. If
something clicks rewind and watch that element again. It’s amazing the little
things we can pick up watching with our writer’s eye. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>4. People Watch<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Pack up your writing gear and head out to a public place,
coffee shop, park, library, the mall. People watching can be very entertaining
and educational for writers. What better way to study characters in real life.
Try some more unusual places to sit and just watch for a while. A train
station, find a corner with a stop light and watch people in their cars. Talk
about entertainment!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>5. Listen to Music<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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All music can be inspirational but soundtracks are the best.
They’re made to set the tone for a scene. You can find exactly the right tone
you need whether it be suspenseful, romantic, action/thriller, or saddened.
Playing this while writing can help you stay focused on the scene. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>6. Old Photos </b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Pull out some of the old family albums and take a stroll down
memory lane. There are so many stories in pictures of any kind. What could be
better inspiration that some of your own family tales and traditions. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>7. Visit a Museum<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Museums are some of my favorite places. There are stories
and characters in every exhibit waiting to be told. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>8. Writing Prompts <o:p></o:p></b></div>
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This is one you know, but it bears mentioning because it is
tried and true. There are many online sources to grab a writing prompt. A short
blurb to start you off or a photo prompt. Some great places to find good
prompts are WritersDigest.com, OneWord.com, and PhotoStreet.com. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>9. Writing Buddy<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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You don’t have to write with a partner to have a writing
buddy. A writing buddy can be any fellow writer or willing <s>victim</s> friend
that will toss ideas back and forth with you. Maybe even pick characters in
your book and role-play the scene. Not only with the creative juices start
flowing but it’s fun too! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>10. Have a Uniform<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Specify a special shirt or outfit that is your writing
uniform such as a special tee shirt, your favorite bunny slippers, a special
hat. When you put it on your brain automatically kicks into writing mode ready
to work. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There you have it 10 ways to move the muse. What do you do
to get those creative juices flowing? <o:p></o:p></div>
Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-24537216757875233402018-04-20T00:00:00.000-04:002018-04-20T00:00:15.156-04:00Rudiarius<div class="MsoNormal">
His blade sang as it cut through the air of the arena. The gladiator growled as its edge sank into the<br />
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flesh of his target. A soft spray of warm blood spattered his chest and arm as he turned to meet the next opponent.</div>
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He could smell the fear of the Murmillo even though the opponent was the one to advance. His lip curled as he watched his fellow gladiator swing the trident in an effort to intimidate.</div>
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He easily stepped back from the sharp points. The trouble with pole arms and using them for their length is the time it takes to reset for the next blow. He took full advantage of the Murmillo’s position and stepped into the fighter as the gladiator’s blade came down upon the wrist holding the trident.</div>
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The Murmillo cried out in pain and tried to back away, but the gladiator wasn’t going to give his opponent the chance to get any footing. He grabbed the leather strap of the Murmillo’s arm guard and gathered his strength as he drew his other arm back. He drew in a deep breath of the Murmillio’s sweat and thrust his sword forward.</div>
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The Murmillo gasped as the blade sank into his fatted belly and thrust further up into his heart. The gladiator held the Murmillo close as he drove the blade as deep as the man’s body would take it.</div>
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The crowd stood on their feet and roared their approval. The gladiator was victorious, he had survived the match, he held back his elation until the Murmillo went limp in his arms.</div>
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He lay his fellow warrior upon the sands and said a prayer then stood to raise his sword high the blood glistening as it dripped from the edge. The mob in the stands erupted once more and he let their excitement fill him. The roar of his name echoing through the arena.</div>
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All at once the mob quieted and took their seats. The gladiator feared another opponent had been loosed, it was not uncommon. The wealthy in their boxes would often pay for another round if their bloodlust had not yet been satisfied by the games.</div>
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He turned and readied for the gate to open. Instead of an armored beast he was greeted with the sight of a senator and his wife.</div>
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He watched them still wary. Could it be a trick? Gladiators dressed to fit this part for the mob’s entertainment? No, he remembered the senator.</div>
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The senator was his master, his owner. He would come to the ludus and watch him train. He dropped to one knee and lowered his eyes.</div>
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It was the senator’s wife that stepped toward him, she rested her hand on his shoulder. The sweet perfume on her skin filled his senses. Her soft fingertips rested on his blood-spattered chin and raised his face to meet hers.</div>
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She wore a soft smile, her face glowing with pride. “You have made our house proud, your debts have been paid and it is time for you to walk <st1:city>Rome</st1:city> a freedman.”</div>
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He heard the words, but surely, it was some kind of hallucination from the heat and excitement of battle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The senator stepped forward now and took him by the shoulders raising him to his feet. The woman was as lovely as her scent as she handed her husband a leather pouch. The senator thanked her and offered the pouch to the gladiator.</div>
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The mob seemed to understand before he did, they erupted once more. Cheers and chants began through</div>
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the arena. The gladiator opened the pouch and pulled the concealed object from it. A rudius. His freedom.<br />
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No longer forced to fight, it would be his choice to be Rudiarius. His hands curled around the inscribed wooden sword and prayers of thanks fell from his lips to both his gods and his masters. A new kind of victorious joy filled him as he raised the rudius high for all to see he was free.<br />
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Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-39242286633809229862018-04-19T00:00:00.000-04:002018-04-19T00:00:31.889-04:00Quitting is never an option for writers <div class="MsoNormal">
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When life gives us lemons, as often it does, don’t be content making lemonade. Throw those sour bastards back and demand chocolate!</div>
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Don’t give into the stress and pressures going on that make us say, “I can write later.” Put your boxing gloves on and fight through it. Duck life’s left hook and counter with a powerful uppercut by finishing off that next chapter or blog post. </div>
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Quitting a current project or giving up even temporarily is not an option. When the writing gets tough the writer needs to kick ass. We change goals and pound out pages of words through writer’s block, <span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="1e79bc6f-f8e6-4235-8ee6-b8136725616e" id="0bf6cd69-9ee6-4044-a223-d0f0483f53ef">character</span> frustrations, plot holes, appointments, and real world tasks screaming to be done. Whatever is attempting to hold us back from our story we will fight back.</div>
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This week down that pot of coffee, eat the whole bag of peanut butter M&M’s, order take out, or duct tape the kids to the wall. Okay, maybe not that last one, though you have to admit some days it’s tempting. Just don’t lose heart, or give in to that urge to say, "well, I’ll make it next round." There is still plenty of time this round to make our goals. I’m ready, how about you?<br />
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Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-6684211123966912292018-04-18T00:00:00.000-04:002018-04-18T00:00:54.774-04:00Pocketwatch <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/iguasu/iguasu1002/iguasu100200005/6439269-antique-pocket-watch-on-vintage-newspaper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" height="213" src="https://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/iguasu/iguasu1002/iguasu100200005/6439269-antique-pocket-watch-on-vintage-newspaper.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I bought a cheap watch from a crazy man, who stood in front of the five and dime with a box full of junk. Trinkets maybe, from his better days.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I tried to walk by and pretend I didn’t notice him, but something made me look up. Our eyes met, a shiver coursed down my spine. His eyes held the cold weight of some kind of dark knowledge. I didn’t want to know what he knew, yet I couldn’t turn away. I felt fate’s hand push me toward him.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">“Is there something you like, miss?” His voice was older than his grizzled face. The old man tipped the box so I could see the contents closer.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I tried to look away, my eyes turned themselves to the box. I shook my head gently. “No, thank you. I don’t have time, I’m late.”</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">He reached out and grabbed my hand. “I have just the thing for seeing time.” He pulled a pocket watch from the box. Its age showed on the engraved metal. Rubbed smooth where it had been held and touched most often.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">“That’s a lovely watch but….” The moment he placed it into my hand I felt a tingle of energy flow though my hand and up my arm. Suddenly the air around her felt charged, like before lightning strikes.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">When I tried to pull my hand from his my fingers brushed the release. The case opened and my eyes fell to the face of the watch. The hands ticked on minutes and hours as the air thickened around me. It seemed like an ordinary thing, just a cheap watch on the outside but there was something else.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I could feel it becoming part of me. I tried to let go of it but my fingers curled tighter around the thing instead. I pulled five dollars from my pocket and placed it in his old withered hand. When I looked into his eyes this time, I saw relief.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I would soon find out what curse he had passed on to me.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-54313350784145799692018-04-17T00:00:00.000-04:002018-04-17T00:00:09.213-04:00One word in sixty seconds: Gears <br />
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She slathered more grease on the actuating arms and a few of the more rusted teeth of the gears.</div>
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"I'm not sure this is going to help. This piece of junk has sat far too long without any care."<br />
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She closed the cover of the mammoth war machine and stepped back. "Punch it Louis!"<br />
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He turned his cap backward and pumped diesel through the veins of this metal creature. When Louis pressed the ignition switch the gears and plates trembled before breaking their bond of rust and years of dirt.The armored suit took one step then another.<br />
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She let out a yell and raised her grease smeared arms in victory. If they can revive a few more of these beasts, the allies may yet have a chance.<br />
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<i><a href="http://oneword.com/" target="_blank">OneWord.com </a>is a website for getting the muse warmed up. Each day you get one word and sixty seconds in which to write what it inspires.This is my entry for today's One Word. What's yours? For more of my past One Word entries, check out my One Word <a href="http://www.oneword.com/stats/?stats_author=EliseV" target="_blank">Profile EliseV.</a></i><br />
<b>Your turn, 60 seconds. Go!</b><br />
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Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-41393290487965258882018-04-16T00:00:00.000-04:002018-04-16T00:00:08.274-04:00New York Can Wait <div class="MsoNormal">
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Cynthea walked though the airport and sighs. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s late, he wanted me to come to </i><st1:state><st1:place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York</i></st1:place></st1:state><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> and he’s late.</i></div>
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Five more minutes she decided to give him before getting a taxi. Then she heard him call her name and wave as he hurried though the crowd. In his hand was a large bouquet of white roses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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He rushed to her, his arms sliding around her as his lips pressed to hers in a passionate kiss. Cynthea sighed into the kiss hugged him back. Emotions and memories flooded though her.</div>
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His fingers curled into the back of her hair as the kiss deepened… and a small child plowed into them skating on his Heelys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The boy grabbed around their legs to keep from falling. Connor tried to keep his balance and hold onto Cynthea at the same time. The magic of the moment interrupted Connor peeled the boy from their legs.</div>
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The boy’s mother rushed over. “Bobby, Bobby honey, are you alright?”</div>
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Connor sighed a bit aggravated. He wanted the moment to be special, it had already been delayed by a traffic accident on the way. “We’re fine too, thank you for asking.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The mother gave him a look as though they shouldn’t have been in her son’s way. Cynthea nudged him and grinned. “You’re late.”</div>
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He laughed that wonderful staccato laugh and offered the flowers with a hand over his heart. “I’m sorry, there was an accident on the freeway and we were held up for miles.”</div>
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Cynthea took the roses inhaling their sweet scent as she watched him pick up her suitcase. She missed him, maybe they should give it another try. Maybe.</div>
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They settled in the back seat of the taxi. As they make their way though the streets Connor covered her hand with his and laced their fingers. “Have you missed something, in <st1:state>New York</st1:state>?”</div>
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She turned her from her view of the cityscape Cynthea nodded with a grin. “That pizza place on 8<sup>th</sup>. I could really go for a slice right now.” When Connor’s head tipped forward to hide his grin, she reached over and gently pulled her hand though his hair. “I kind of missed you too.”</div>
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His dark eyes looked up at her as he leaned forward. Their lips almost touching as the cabbie slammed on the breaks. The cab skidded forward on the pavement, Cynthea slipped off the seat into the floorboard and who knows what had been there before her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Arrgh… gross.”</div>
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Connor helped her up back to the seat and glared up at the cabbie. Not for the rough stop. He opened his back door and handed their fare to the driver. “You’ve got a suitcase with wheels don’t you?”</div>
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Cynthea stepped out and looked at him.” I didn’t pack that much, but yes.”</div>
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When she turned to step up on the sidewalk, he saw the back of her coat. Connor looked at her softly. “Um, sweetheart… “</div>
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She looked back and then tried to see what he’s pointing at. He helped her off with her coat and she grimaced seeing the back. “I don’t even want to know just toss it in the trunk. He can have it as a bonus.”</div>
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He pulled off his coat for her, he grined softly as he helps her roll the sleeves up. “This one is cuter on you anyway.”</div>
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She grinned and kissed his cheek. “It smells like your cologne.”</div>
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They laugh it off and start down the street hand in hand. After about two blocks, Connor slid his arm around her waist and walked with her against his side. She relaxed against him and everything felt right again.</div>
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They stopped at the corner across from his building. He reached over and pressed the crosswalk button. “We’re almost there.”</div>
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She grinned and stepped forward nuzzling his neck. “Finally.”</div>
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He looked down into her eyes; they were dark shimmering pools he could get lost in for hours. His fingertips caress her cheek as his lips brush over hers before….</div>
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A car sped around the corner and splashed them with water from the earlier rains. Cynthea squeaked in surprise then looked down. They were both drenched.</div>
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Connor swore, he couldn’t even get a kiss in edgewise. The light changed and they could walk across. He took hold of her hand and case hurrying to the center of the street.</div>
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Cynthea was thoroughly aggravated now. This was an omen that this whole trip was a bad idea. When he stopped half way across the street she wasn’t in the mood for anything else. “Connor…”</div>
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He stopped her speech when he turned and pulled her close. His lips pressed to hers gently then deeper until her arms wrapped around him. They kissed passionately in the middle of the street. Their hearts racing, cars honking, people yelling and whistling.</div>
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Cynthea didn’t hear any of it only the beat of his heart the feel of his kiss. This is why she fell in love with him. He made her feel as though there were nothing else in the world.</div>
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Everyone else wanted to interrupt their moment. He was going to take it right there and the rest of <st1:state>New York</st1:state> could wait.</div>
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Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-29377757228483327892018-04-14T00:00:00.000-04:002018-04-14T00:00:00.166-04:00Movies with the write character<div class="MsoNormal">
Writers write stories but they make great characters too. Quite a few movies have been made with writers as the staring character. Here are a few of my favorites, and many of them started life as a book. :) </div>
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<b>Swimming Pool</b></div>
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Mystery Writer Sara Morton needs a change of view. Her publisher offers the use of his French villa for her to write and relax. (yes at this point I’m insanely jealous.) The beautiful villa has a large swimming pool which becomes a common element between Sara and the young Julie claiming to be the publisher’s daughter shows up out of the blue, bringing chaos and intrigue into Sara’s well ordered world.</div>
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I enjoyed watching Sara go from being a strict well ordered woman to finding her self doing things far out side her comfort zone.</div>
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<b>Secret Window </b></div>
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Demented John Shooter accuses mystery writer Mort Rainey of stealing his story. Claiming he wrote it first. Shooter demands restitution and for Rainey to tell the world the truth.</div>
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Through out the film you’re never quite sure what the truth is. There are hints of it if you really know where to look. Johnny Depp portrays Rainey with is usual witty and entertaining way. With a conclusion with a twist that will tickle any mystery buff.</div>
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<b>State of <st1:state>Play</st1:state></b></div>
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This is the American adaptation of the British series. Of course there is no way to pack all the great stuff from the series into a 2 hour movie but I think we did a pretty good job representing the spirit of it with this version.</div>
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Russell Crowe (*sighs dreamily*) plays journalist Cal McCaffery. He’s assigned to a story which involves his old college buddy turned politician, played by Ben Affleck. The more <st1:state>Cal</st1:state> digs into the truth the more dangerous it becomes. For he and his side kick Della.</div>
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Of course it doesn’t help that <st1:state>Cal</st1:state>, had an affair back in the day with said buddy’s wife. You’ve got a powerful story of politics, cover ups, romance, and murder. Who done it, who’s still doing it, and who’s going to cover it up.</div>
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<b>True Crime</b></div>
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Clint Eastwood plays the hard core, boozing, skirt chasing reporter Steve Everett. <st1:city>Everett</st1:city> is sent to San Quentin to interview a man on death row. The inmate claims to be innocent, the evidence against him was all circumstantial.</div>
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Something about the story rings in <st1:city>Everett</st1:city>’s ears. He sets out to find the truth, did the man awaiting execution in a matter of hours murder that woman or was it mistaken identity. Something else that appeals to me, this story is based on a real life event. It’s a thrilling tale not just about the inmate and his truth but the revelations <st1:city>Everett</st1:city> has about his own life.</div>
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There you have it four films to sink your writer’s teeth into. So pop some corn and heat up the DVD player for a night of great writing on screen.<br />
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Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-36214168317465807812018-04-13T00:00:00.000-04:002018-04-13T00:00:16.988-04:00Ladies Never Cheat <br />
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The rowdy noise of the saloon floor rose up to where Caroline and some of the girls leaned on the balcony rail. Caroline took a long breath as she gazed down at the floor.</div>
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Miners had started to fill the room, their pockets filled with gold nuggets and ready to spend their new found fortunes. Caroline was ready to relieve them of it. One man burst with laughter, her husband had laughed that way. May he rest in hell.</div>
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With that thought it was time to get to work. She checked her bodice and her gun hidden in her skirt, and then walked down the stairs. A young miner eager for company caught her hand <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="b95ce334bfb5a0d2d4c3d8399e2bea9c7484bb33" grtype="null" id="GRmark_b95ce334bfb5a0d2d4c3d8399e2bea9c7484bb33_at:0">at</span> the landing. “How much for your time? “</div>
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She raised a brow was he referring to her as a … she tilted her head with a <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="62176664731bbcfe9b6087675999ea840c8a673d" grtype="null" id="GRmark_62176664731bbcfe9b6087675999ea840c8a673d_sassy:0">sassy</span> grin. “Sorry, <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="fc3fdc02721cf90251d14141a4f4ee4644685498" grtype="null" id="GRmark_fc3fdc02721cf90251d14141a4f4ee4644685498_darlin:0">darlin</span>’, you can’t afford me?”</div>
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Caroline paused at the bar to pick up a bottle. After a glance around, she sat near the poker table to watch the players for a few hands. After the fourth hand played one of the men folded, closed his cards and gathered what was left of his wealth.</div>
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When he vacated the table with the remainder of his cash to the bar, Caroline smiled as she takes the seat. “Evening boys, mind if I take some of your money?”</div>
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A few laughed heartily as she poured herself a drink and tossed her ante into the pot. The pot was well stocked with cash and gold bits. She would be able to move out of this stink hole and into the hotel for a few days on this kit.</div>
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The dealer began the ritualistic shuffle and toss of cards before he passed them round. Caroline waited until all five were dealt before she picked them up in her dainty gloved fingers.</div>
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The player to her left a well-to-do rancher leaned over with a grin. “Just match the numbers, honey.”</div>
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Caroline closed her cards and held them to breast, with an innocent expression. “Thank you, for your advice. I’m such a novice at the game.”</div>
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Three hours later….</div>
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The dealer called for the final time and Caroline laid a straight flush across the table top. Two of the men swore and sighed as they tossed their cards back to the dealer. The third shook his head. “You must have that beginners luck or <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="d63ba4c32bd4ff21d5ed838b538eadb215375447" grtype="null" id="GRmark_d63ba4c32bd4ff21d5ed838b538eadb215375447_somthin:0">somthin</span>, Miss Watson.”</div>
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Caroline grinned and reached out to pull the large <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="e327a76b33b3cf6bcd2b02de4041359866b90d49" grtype="null" id="GRmark_e327a76b33b3cf6bcd2b02de4041359866b90d49_pot her:0">pot her</span> way. “Thank you, gentlemen. It’s been a true pleasure meeting your acquaintance this evening.”</div>
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The rancher scoffed and grabbed her wrist. “You’re not taking my money. This was a <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="65d8f534149a451af41b89c07e5cb5a0e4f299b5" grtype="null" id="GRmark_65d8f534149a451af41b89c07e5cb5a0e4f299b5_con:0">con</span> of some sort.” He jerked her sleeve up searching; the pearl buttons snapped off and tumbled into the cash.</div>
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Caroline tried to pull her arm back but his grip was too tight. “Sir, I assure you, my game has been honest. Or do you question my skill as to deflect attention from the real cheat?”</div>
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“Lady, I don’t know what your scheme is but I know a cheat when I see one.” He squeezed her wrist tighter just to make his point as the other men around the table started to question and protest.</div>
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Calmly she reached <span class="GRcorrect" grphrase="37d50d1ce7dc59bedb36203befd3833b13871662" grtype="null" id="GRmark_37d50d1ce7dc59bedb36203befd3833b13871662_to:0">to</span> his far vest pocket with her free hand. Caroline slipped the ace from her cuff. From the view of the other men around them, it appeared she pulled the card from his pocket. “So do I, sir. I think these gents do as well.”</div>
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One player grabbed the rancher, another swung, it didn’t take long before Caroline was forgotten. She plucked the rancher’s hat from the back of the chair and swept everything from the table with her arm into it. She’d sort chips and shot glasses from the take later.</div>
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Caroline hurried upstairs for her bag and an exit out the window. It was a new year and time to find another town, she’s been too naughty here.<br />
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Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-78989417030380077362018-04-12T00:00:00.000-04:002018-04-12T00:00:07.794-04:00Kiss: Half Excerpt <div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">
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<b>About HALF<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.2px;">Guarding CEO Alex </span>Blazen<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.2px;"> during a charity gala was an easy job for Valeska Gorstef</span><span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="417f10f0-eaa1-4abc-b723-f50da53bc8ef" id="279cf6fa-3f54-4590-8be3-d621ce0fe1ff" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.2px;">...</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.2px;">until all hell breaks loose</span><span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="417f10f0-eaa1-4abc-b723-f50da53bc8ef" id="164bd34f-4e81-48a3-b7e5-deb66fefd302" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.2px;">...</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.2px;">literally. Forced to face her own darkness, Valeska may lose her only chance to live a human life. Two sides of her soul will be at war. Which HALF will win?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Purchase links:</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Elise-VanCise/e/B0031AP2ZY/ref=as_li_ss_tl?qid=1358560851&sr=8-1&linkCode=sl2&tag=hubpages0367-20&linkId=XB5257ZOTKEGUM2K" style="color: #7d5718; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Amazon </a></div>
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<a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Elise%20VanCise/_/N-0" style="color: #7d5718; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble </a></div>
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<a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/elise-vancise/id452370126?mt=11" style="color: #7d5718; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">iTunes</a></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; line-height: 18.2px;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/elisevancise" style="color: #7d5718; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Smashwords</a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/elisevancise" style="color: #7d5718; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Lulu</a></div>
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<b>EXCERPT</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Valeska stood within the darkness of the room and felt it breathe. The dark was a living creature part of what she was. Her darkness, her vampire, and she hated it. A bit of dust and the stain was all that was left of her father. Once she had thought killing him would free her to live a normal life, but that was just a pretty lie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After all this time, she still had to exist in the twilight between two worlds. Trapped. She was lost in the past when she heard footsteps and smelled Alex’s cologne before he reached the room. <i>Good. He’ll see the darkness and <span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="4ab571a8-2801-48bd-984f-04f63a86bd5e" id="571f1a38-bf67-4365-82b6-28c716984b8f">run</span>. It would be that easy to stop this before I want any more than I can have.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Alex didn’t run. Instead, he walked over, embracing her and kissing her blood covered mouth. All he cared about was showing her it didn’t matter. That he loved her human or not. Plying her lips with his tongue, he gently pushed into her mouth and met sharp fangs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She tasted fresh blood and pushed him away roughly. “Alex stop! I haven’t fed enough.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He gazed at her and the concern she saw there was more than she could bear. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t take an unwilling victim, not even a four-legged one.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He looked beneath the splatters of blood to the pain her eyes held. <i>What horrors she must have endured to survive over six hundred years of life.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She wanted to push him <span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="f74addb8-12a0-4aa7-a43b-5c8158c60b38" id="fbe08e0a-8353-4082-b141-861731327e5a">far</span> away. “Don’t you see me? This is Valeska Gorstef. Alex, I can’t change what I am. I can smell the sweet copper scent of blood in your mouth. I can hear your heart pumping more through your veins and I want it. I want to taste you in ways that have nothing to do with passion.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The video flashed in his mind. “I see the beautiful woman who walked into my office three days ago. I see the dark desire in your eyes. Blood isn’t all you want.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She shook her head. “Alex, you don’t know what you’re asking.” Valeska felt her control starting to slip.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“No, I don’t.” Alex unbuttoned her shirt, peeled the blood soaked fabric from her shoulders. He pulled off his own shirt and tossed it in the pile. She was dizzy from <span class="GINGER_SOFTWARE_mark" ginger_software_uiphraseguid="69010ebd-7b25-4000-8895-386877259a52" id="dd3a42b6-11bb-4dad-b632-e87f080b5147">bloodlust</span> and need. Need to give in, need to love him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She stood stiff as he embraced her and kissing, caressing first one lip then the other. He was more careful exploring the warmth of her mouth. He licked her fangs tasting the sweet copper in her mouth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Weakening with the scent of his body so close, she kissed him back him feeling his warm clean skin. They fell to the floor, she rolled over him. “We can’t do this. I have to feed.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He grabbed her face as he kissed her again. “Then feed.”</span></div>
Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5661402579727829624.post-54877595185084106662018-04-11T00:00:00.000-04:002018-04-11T00:00:13.142-04:00Judging a book by its cover<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;">I admit I do. Many, many times I have picked up a book because the cover caught my eye.The cover for a book is like the model for a swimsuit.</span></div>
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The thin sexy beauty gets up there and struts her stuff across the stage. Clad in the designers swimwear. Sure we like the bikini, but what sells us on going to the store and trying it on is the model.</div>
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She shows us how good it makes her look and we think, “I would look so hot in that.” At least until we get into the dressing room. Once we get our not so modelish form squeezed into the bits of spandex will we know for sure if we really like it.</div>
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The same goes for a book cover we look at it and say ooo that’s a great cover. Caught by color or image and reach out to “try it on.”</div>
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Opening the book becomes stepping into the dressing room. We read the synopsis, the first few pages. Maybe give it the old page 99 test. Then we know if it’s a keeper or makes our butt look too big.</div>
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But it was the cover that got us that far. The best covers are simple, to the point. Eye catching colors or a stark image that says, “I’m the perfect fit.”</div>
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As a designer myself it’s very important to find the perfect image to capture the feel or meaning of the book. I want the reader to know what kind of story their looking at. At the same time I want it to grab attention and say, “Pick me, pick me!”</div>
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Not an easy task. Having a good designer is as important as having a good editor. You want a designer that will choose materials to bring your work to life.</div>
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Readers judge books by their covers, just like we do clothing on a model. The perfect cover design is just like that swimsuit. It will make you look sleek and sexy for all to oogle on the beach… er the bookshelf.</div>
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Elisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12567420139472596391noreply@blogger.com1