I’m always looking for ways to improve my social media skills and be as engaging as possible with my readers, and fellow authors, on Facebook. I want to get the most out of every single thing I post, and I have a super obsessive need to reply to EVERY single comment anyone makes on my posts, sometimes in takeovers that can be over 100!!
Anyways, I’m always wanting to improve, so I’m always looking for articles or advice on what I can do better, I came across . . .
I was the little nerdette with a library card in my kindergarten hand, reading the kiddie books and planning what I would write. Come college time accounting seemed a more certain way to bring in a dollar so journalism was a minor. Writing was put on the back burner while dollars were made and kids and parents were raised, however, reading was always on the front burner. Probably my biggest influences would be Susan Howatch, Diana Gabaldon and Margaret Mitchell. A conversation with my husband 20 years earlier about suicide vs. murder percolated in the back of my mind and then announced it wanted to be written. I obeyed and out came The Doctor’s Daughter: Journey to Justice. The history of Nashville during the Civil War is just so interesting and so important at that time but most people won’t sit down with a history book so I sneaked the history and the antebellum law and medicine in with a good story. The story continues with a second book, The Doctor’s Daughter: The Choice.
Curiosity got the best of me. I just had to know. “Is it true you cut up dead people for practice?”
He seemed entertained by the question. “Yes, that’s true.”
I turned toward him. “Where do you get them?”
“I don’t know. It’s against the law to dig people up but there is no law against importing bodies from somewhere else. They arrive at the school in some odd packages. You never know what you are going to find when a crate or big bag arrives. So we just don’t ask any questions.”
“I really enjoy the surgery on live people much more. I was one of hundreds who got to watch a brain tumor being removed recently.”
I had no idea what the appropriate response to seeing a brain tumor removed would be so I sat silently, watching the familiar buildings go by as we got closer to town. I spoke this time. “So why did you go to the bee and why did you invite me tonight?”
“The usual reasons,” he said with a hook on the end, like I was asking a redundant question.
“What usual reasons?”
“The same reason any other man would. You understand.”
“Actually no, I don’t,” I said sharply, fearing what he was going to say, wondering what horrible things he had presumed of me, perhaps making assumptions due to my notoriety.
Okay so I’m sure you’re all much better with Twitter and hashtags than I am, but I always struggle to know what the best hashtags are and how to make the most of Twitter, so of course that means I have to research it!
I love romance in all its multitude of forms. Romance is wistful, poignant, and classic. It makes the heart beat faster; it brings a twinkle to the eyes, a tear drop, and a smile. Romance is love, joy, pain, and loss. It is endearing and lasts throughout time for all eternity.
Whoever said, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry,” didn’t know what they were saying. Love means never saying goodbye. Even after all this time, it still holds true for me. You love someone; you never say goodbye. No matter where they are, or what has happened, they are always with you by your side. At least that’s how it was with Harley and me.
When he messed up and hurt my feelings, he was fond of saying, “My purpose is to love you. I guess it slipped my mind. I never said I was good, but I hope you can forgive me.”
I invariably did forgive him. I never could stay mad at him for very long. Even when I was upset, Harley found a way to make me smile or laugh. He brought such joy into my life. He could be a devil, but he was my devil.
His other favorite line was, “If you share my bed, you must share my name.” And he meant it. Boy, did he mean it! But it didn’t mean he had never made love only that it was worth waiting for when you finally found that special person.
He also said, “There’s more to love than the physical act of making it. If you love someone, you are in it for the long haul. You stay with that person through broken dreams, heartache, love, and everything that goes with a long term relationship. Not even death can separate you because with real love two people become one person.”
The mid-1970’s in Ohio were a memorable time. The state was still overcoming the aftermath of the Kent State Massacre over five years earlier. Gasoline rationing was in effect. Social Security funding was set to dry up.
Bands such as America, Elton John, Captain & Tennille, Linda Ronstadt, Hamilton, Joe Frank & Reynolds, Neil Sedaka, Jigsaw, Ozark Mountain Daredevils and KC & The Sunshine Band were all on Billboard’s top hits chart. Harley’s favorite band, Steppenwolf, had just released ‘Hour of the Wolf’ in July. Two tracks on that album rapidly became Harley’s all-time favorite songs, ‘Another’s Lifetime’ and ‘Just for Tonight’ along with the classic biker anthem ‘Born to be Wild’ on an earlier album.
The first time I laid eyes on Harley, it in was September on the Commons at Ohio State University-Lima. It was a warm day for Ohio, with temperatures somewhere in the seventies. The noon sun beat down upon the grounds. Clusters of students sat on the grass around the Commons. Some were reading, others talking, and a guy was playing his guitar. He was playing ‘Sister Golden Hair’ by America.
When I was seven, I was bored. That happened a lot when I was a kid since I’m an only child! 🙂 I whined to my dad, “I’m bored!” His response, with a magnanimous wave of a hand, “There’s a bookcase. Go get a book.” So, I grabbed the biggest, brightest book there (a college biology book) and began from the beginning. It took a long time, a looong time to finish that book. Never one to do anything by halves, I wanted to be an actress, a vet and an astronaut–simultaneously, of course–but decided to be a horse trainer instead. (Really? A horse trainer? Yes, what of it?) No, I’m not a horse whisperer. A horse doesn’t care what you whisper at it. A horse wants apples, carrots and cookies. Especially cookies. Just like people. 😉 I’m also not a cowgirl (cows scare me!) and I don’t race my horses. Sigh . . . I’ve heard it all a million times! LOL Anyways, my mom was a reader, books tucked everywhere around my childhood home, and my dad was a writer, little half-finished stories under the coffee table and between the cushions. I’ve acquired both habits on a grander scale (remember, nothing by halves? LOL) and have boxes of books above your head filling up a whole room and my computer hard drive filled up with bits and bytes of half-finished stories. It’s a disease, I kid you not!
“Come on, honey. We have to go.” Dread curled low in her gut, the urgent words a catalyst for fearsome change. “Right now.”
When she pulled the covers back from the sleeping child, the ten-year-old’s eyes had snapped wide and the girl took a startled breath. No other sound escaped her small frame. She understood the girl’s fear. Their shared anxieties, more often than not, justified with grim result in the dark of night.
As the child nodded her assent, it struck her odd how they both woke from their enforced dormancy of slumber. Holding out to the last possible moment, sleep more a time of vulnerability than of rest and recovery, they both woke fully aware, senses edged like those of a wild animal threatened by some unknown danger. Survival of the fittest. The fastest.
The fucking scaredest…
The thin child clung to her waist a moment but with the speed of rising tension, shrugged into the clothes thrust upon her.
She whispered directions and helped the waif-like child stuff money into her pockets, the waistband of her tucked in shirt, and down the jacket sleeves. Settling the backpack full of more money and clothes on the girl’s narrow shoulders, she checked the straps for maneuverability and fit.
The girl would be the mule. The one carrying all their worldly possessions. She herself would be the defense. Light for speed. Only weapons and deadly intent.
The girl’s slight form turned to face her and she briefly considered the child’s quietness. The lack of questions about motives or plans. No need-to-knows…no what-abouts…just the willingness to submit. To obey. Certainly, not a typical kid.
‘Course, this isn’t a typical life we lead. Or flee.