Botox and a Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, a little girl with long, pale blonde curls, rode her bike along the cracked sidewalks of a quaint Iowa neighborhood. 

With skinned knees, she pedaled like the wind as stories funneled her brain. 

She played with Barbies and climbed Oak trees.
She beat the boys at tether ball while wearing her favorite pink shorts and glitter headbands. 

She believed in love even when she doubted the fairy tales. The little girl never trusted the princesses, but loved the evil queens. To her, their flawed characters revealed more about life and relationships. She was imperfect and fairy tales were...bupkis

I was the little girl who rooted for the Red Queen or Maleficent. 

Fairy Tales don't have to be perfect like dental implants and Botox. 


I wrote inside the cover of my World's Best Fairy Tales, A Readers Digest Anthology by Belle Becker Sideman and Fritz Kredel. The year was 1988, I was 7. 
I marked sections with squigeled pencil, creased chapters, I could not help my smile. 
Beautiful memories. 

I scrolled through one of my favorite clothing websites, Shabby Apple. I'm readying my fall wardrobe with a few new pieces. My heart sang when I saw the Bloom Skirt. Blue satin and tulle, modest and romantic. Reminded me of a fairy tale, a quirky, fabulous, imperfect fairy tale. 

Paired with a black camisole and cardigan, the "tutu" inspired skirt makes me want to twirl in the grass, sit beneath the trees, and read stories of Snow White and Rose Red. I will slip into a daydream about my own prince. 

He makes me feel beautiful, whether in a shirt of tulle or flannel pajama bottoms.  


Most days, I wear leggings and sweatshirts, but when I stepped into this skirt, my son suggested, "Wear this to the grocery store, along with your tiara."

Perfect idea.

Logan was the photog behind the pictures above, he counts it as school. And, he suggested I have fake blood on my hands, but sadly I was out. In the words of my son, "You write deadly mob people." 

Maybe next time.

Did you have a favorite fairy tale? Are you a skirt chick? What are your fall fashion favorites? 


Hello September Giveaway

Let's welcome the impending fall season with a fabulous giveaway. I've been working on the 3rd book in the Deadly Series, Deadly Conviction, and this giveaway with shed a bit of light on who Claire Monroe is with the angel wing necklace. The giveaway starts at midnight and ends September 13th. 

My fellow author, Stephanie Pitcher Fishman, has included her book, Finding Eliza to the giveaway. 

Finding Eliza
When Lizzie Clydell agreed to join her grandmother at the church’s genealogy group meeting she expected nothing more than lemon squares and a few stories. Instead, an old diary leads Lizzie down a dusty road of lies, hidden family secrets, and a lynching that nearly destroyed her family. 

Still strug­gling with the loss of her parents two decades ear­lier, Lizzie must con­front a painful past that others hoped was forgotten. Her journey becomes even more difficult as she realizes those around her may not be as they seem. 

Can Lizzie make peace with the past or will it destroy the relationships she holds most dear? 

Joining her is a group of lifelong friends known to Lizzie as The Gals. Headed up by her own grandmother, the group of women guide her through the past with humor, encouragement, and tough love as she learns about grace and forgiveness. 

Set in small town Georgia, Finding Eliza is a contemporary story with flashes of his­tor­i­cal fic­tion as Lizzie digs into the 1930s of segregation, illegal interracial relationships, and the fear of the KKK. 



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This Sums Up Deadly Conviction

Claire Monroe has a fresh mouth and even fresher thoughts.
A sassy taste of Deadly Conviction...




Chapter Five

My mental Go Fuck Themselves list,

Simon Montgomery.
Check.

Sheriff Abbott.
Check.

Whoever discontinued my favorite energy drink.
Double fucking check.



Snip This From Our Book: Mom, I Know I'm Different

My heart bleeds each time I work on my family's story. It's reliving memories I shoved deep down into the dark caves inside of my mind. Not all of them are sad or gut wrenching, we laugh more than we did then. It's our reality. It's shaped our family. Death crept in and threatened to take my child and I stood against it. Logan fought all the odds. He proved every doctor and specialist wrong.

The following snippets are one from me and one from Logan and from different chapters of the book.

Mine

I could no longer watch my son, with tubes and wires flowing from his gaunt frame, struggle to breathe. Each inhale was a battle. Logan’s life slipped away with each exhale.

I had informed the nurse that our pastor would be arriving within the hour. Her gentle hand patted my arm. “Have you eaten? I’ll have a tray sent up.”

I shook my head.

How could I eat? How could I nourish myself while my son couldn’t? He hadn’t kept formula down in days. Small glass jars of sweet potato and carrots were tossed into the garbage.

My vision focused on his oxygen monitor. 77.

How selfish to be breathing and walking about. I cursed myself. I cursed his illness. I curbed heaven and hell.

Anger consumed my heart as fever consumed Logan’s. I was tired. So tired. I marched to the hospital’s chapel, fists filled with crumpled Kleenex and I was going to let out. I had nothing left but fury and in that moment, I wanted to feel anything.


I didn’t want to be numb anymore. I wanted to feel because if I had to say farewell to Logan, he needed to feel the war within me. He needed to know I fought and the only way I could do just that, was to battle the enemy.

Logan

I had a friend, her name was Rain and we sat near each other in 1st grade. She wore cowboy boots everyday. Even with her dresses. Our teacher announced that our school was part of a charity event. We were to ride our bikes around the church and school parking lots to raise money for lung cancer.

During recess, Rain sat down next to me. She looked sad.

“I’m scared to ride my scooter.”
“Why?” I asked.
“What if I fall?”
“Why would you fall?”

Rain pointed. She had half of an arm. I never noticed. I see who they really are on the inside—their souls. Not everyone has a nice one, but I’d like to think they could if they tried.

“Don’t worry, I’ll ride along side of you so you won’t fall.”

And, I did. I didn’t want Rain to feel nervous or afraid. After she showed me her arm, she told me was born with it. I told her I was born different, too.

We’re all different. Inside. Outside. It doesn’t matter. God created us different for a reason. No one has the right to make another person feel bad. Hurting others doesn’t make you better and it doesn’t make you superior.

It makes you a jerk.

I hope Rain is happy where ever she is and still wearing her cowboy boots.

Maybe one day I’ll see her again. You never know.

Author Therapy - YouTube Style

Being an author has been one of the most rewarding, but gut wrenching careers I've ever had. And I homeschool a teenager, so...

We bleed our souls onto our computers, hold our breaths, and give birth publish our stories. I knew going into it, not everyone would love my books. I took the bad with the good, however, when reviews hit below the belt, when they get personal. That's when I have a problem. 

After watching a video about YA authors reading their most negative reviews to the tune of sarcasm, I thought, what great therapy. I decided to do one of my own and afterward I felt a thousand times better. 

The one I chose, the reviewer became personal. The reviewer brought my son and homeschooling into it. I wasn't seeking reprieve from honest reviews, I was simply stating in a past blog post that reviewers should be mindful of what they write. Anyone can say anything behind their computers. For anyone (especially a person who doesn't know my family) to instruct me on how to school...well, as us southern belles say, "Bless your heart."

Please excuse my lion king hair.