Thursday, August 13, 2015

Thursday is for Think Tank: 13 August 2015

Normally Thursday is for Think Tank.
But I'm overwhelmed.
Seven projects to get done in the time it would normally take me to do *mumble, mumble, mumble*
So I'm off to the writing section of Ye Olde Writing Cave.
I'll be back with provocative thoughts about the greater world soon.
Very soon.
I pink-swear.


Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Tuesday Newsday: The News is, there is No News...yet.

Tuesday is for news of writerly stuffs and things which will amaze, astound, or at least entertain you.

We've agreed on this, yes?

The thing is...I wasn't able to keep up with my writing schedule for the first half of 2015.


I fell down on the job, as it were.
So this is me, picking myself up.
You know, fall down eight times, get up nine? It's a good motto. Now I'm working on getting up and getting a whole lotta writing done, so I'm outta here. On my way to make some Newsday stuff and things happen, so I can report them next time Tuesday rolls around. Until then, the news is, there's no news except I'm hard at work. I'll see you sweet babies in a bit, when I hope to have important progress to announce.

Friday, August 7, 2015

Fabulous Friday: 7 August 2015

It's Friday!

All by itself, that's reason enough to feel fabulous...and although I call Fridays, "Fabulous Friday", I really feel that way about every day of the week. 

It's easy to love every day when you're always doing something you love. Also key for me in loving every day is the simple act of getting up and remind myself, every single day, of the many wonderful things there are to see, be, do, and share--with friends, with family, with everyone who is in my life. 

So, here's to Fabulous Friday, my beautiful babies. 

Fabulous Thing #1 
Here's a picture of the Galapagos, Ecuador. My kidlet is freshly home from there, and still chock full of wondrous tales about the island, the people, and how very much she learned on her trip with Sustainable Summer. 

Fabulous Thing #2
My sweet kidlet is out and about with her dear Step-Meredith today...which makes for a supremely chill atmosphere in my beloved writing cave. No looming mama duty. Loads of coffee. Good times, good times. 

...and on that note, I'll leave you to find your own bit of fabulosity for the day. I've got a manuscript calling my name. 

Ciao for Now

Thursday, August 6, 2015

Thursday Think Tank: 6 August 2015

I googled images for Think Tank.

I was thinking, you know, a bunch of brainiac looking sweet geeks. 

Google be blessed, this picture to the left is what popped up on my browser. 

Oh, Google.
You are so winning the internet today, one hot Colin Farrel pic at a time. 

I had all sorts of savvy stuffs and things to talk about, but really? 

Who cares?

Let's have a hot Colin-fest instead. 



 This right here---->

These smoking hot guys cuddled up together.

Oh, now you're just messing with me, Google. Because this picture? I'm pretty sure this picture made my ovaries explode, and I don't even have ovaries any more. 

And last but far from least, this little gem from the Alexander/Hephaestion slash fandom...thank you, Google. 

Do you really need any other reasons?

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Work In Progress Wednesday: SooperSekritStuffs

I am in the final hours of the first draft of a sekrit project. 
A super-duper, secret-squirrel, EYES_ONLY project. 

I realio, trulio want to share this with you.                     

But...I can't. 
I am only an indentured servant, and...
My Squirrel Overlords will not allow it.
Disobedient grunts who unbutton their lips and spill the beans? 
Those fools anger the Squirrel Overlords.
Angry Squirrel Overlords revoke all ident-cards, party passes, and anything resembling fun for their indentured servants. 

Let me put this to you another way.

You know that wacky game, 
Exploding Kittens? Well, it's like when you're playing that game, and you get a certain card. You know the one. ------>
That one right over there. ------>
So instead of grooving along in your lowly indentured servant with a working squirrel ident-card status, you are suddenly whisked out of your happy writing cave--BAM--and thrust into a place where you are irrevocably at the mercy of those infamous Sekrit Squirrel Overlords.

Is it a little clearer now?

I mean, at this point all I can do is bow to them and write as fast as I can. 

Trust me, no one wants to be at the mercy of ANGRY Squirrel Overlords.
Not without a viable Sekrit Squirrel Ident-Card. 

...which brings us right back to why I can't share the current W.I.P. with you.
The Overlords have deemed the project EYES ONLY.

And the only eyes they're letting in on this are their own, my trusty co-author's, and mine. 

On pain of having my secret squirrel card removed if I crack, I must stay strong. 

Because this?
Is serious business. 
Serious squirrel business. 
On pain of punishment sooper sekrit serious squirrel business.

But don't worry. The party of the century, a.k.a. getting hints, sekrits and stuffs about the effing hilarity going down in this current W.I.P.---which by the way, I am expressly forbidden to speak of still---yeah, getting in on all that, plus a Sekrit Squirrel ident-card, some espresso, and various party favors, will be heading your way soon, my precious readers, soon. 

Well, at least for them that's kept their beans buttoned up and not told tales out the side of their sekrit-killing pieholes. 

Those as keep their beans where beans belong are invited. Given party hats and espresso. And this party is going to be THE party of the century. 

So buckle up, babies. Hold on tight. Squint your eyes shut if you must. 

I won't let the tiniest morsel slip. 
Sekrit Squirrel Overlords see everything you know...
I promise, in the end, the party will be worth the price of admittance
I triple pinky-promise on my sekrit squirrel ident-card.

Soon, my precious readers, soon.

Ciao for Now 

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Tuesday Newsday: Upcoming Stuffs and Things

Today is Tuesday. August 4th, and seriously, where the heck did the first half of 2015 go? 
Oh, yeah, that's right, it disappeared in a blur of bad tequila and dodgy brain days. Heh, just kidding about the tequila. That stuff is way too hardcore for me. Realio, trulio.

Anywho, you knowwhat I'm talking about, right? I mean those days where you start to do something, turn around and wonder how the heck you got in the kitchen in the first place? Then you turn around again, and it's 6 pm or 11 pm and you haven't done a damn thing all day. Well, none of the things you planned on doing that day. 


Here I am, and between the doctors and I, we've figured out a tentative plan for keeping my brain-pan from leaking too much. 

*I mean leaking in a figurative manner--no actual brains have been depleted of their juices in the making of my dodgy brain days*

A minimum of 4-6 hours of sleep a day. Plenty of quiet time. Keeping my exposure to overstimulating situations like crowded malls, etc. to a minimum. And the biggest thing of all, getting Kidlet on board with the whole "Help Mom's Brain Work" thing. She waits until I've had my first cuppa joe before she attempts conversation with me. She stops talking is I let it be known I've maxed out on my ability to comprehend conversation. If it's a bad enough for the record books kinda auditory processing day, she switches to ASL and signs to me. 

Eh, the process is not perfect, but at least we now have a working work in progress. 

And on that note, I have a writing newsflash. Heh. I'm writing again. Realio, trulio writng. Over the last week I've been managing to write a minimum of 2k a day. Considering the loooooooooong dry spell I've been through writing-wise this year, 2k a day is cause for celebration. 

And I CANNOT spill the beans entirely yet, but know that Rhae Camdyn and I are heavily engaged in bringing a SooperSekrit project chock full of hilarity to you in the near future. 

That's it for this weeks News. Hopefully I'll have more actual Stuffs and Nonsense to report next week. Barring that, I'll at least have some time to clean up this writing cave. 

*glances around at the somewhat frightening accumulation of suspiciously cobwebby type things and old gidgets and whosiwhatsits lining the walls of the cave...*

Phew. This place really does need sprucing up, doesn't it? I'll get to that as soon as I finish off this pass of working on my current *soopersekrit* Work In Progress. 

Ciao, Cherie

Friday, April 24, 2015

Book Blast Blog Tour for Storming Love: Flood

It's today, it's today!! Woo-hoo! 

I may have forgotten to check...erm, you know, dodgy brain and all that, to see if the various blogs even HAVE comment sections....

So, if you read a blog of mine, or heck, for any of the Storming Love:Flood authors, and want to comment but don't see a comment section? Simply get yourself over here to the Writing Cave, leave a comment HERE, and we'll call it kosher. Just make sure to leave these things in the comment section:

1) Which Blog you are commenting for. Yes, name it by the actual blog NAME and Author Name in the comment.

2) Your contact Information. This means a working email address. If you want to enter but don't like leaving your email address where peeps you don't know can get to it, then say, IN THE COMMENT, "Will pm you on Facebook/tweet you a direct message/email you directly Cherie" *whichever of those apply* I'll leave my links at the bottom of this post. Heh. It'll even say, "my linkys" or something like that, so it will be super easy for you to find.

3) An actual comment. Say something about what you read, what you're hoping to see in the stories, what you ate for breakfast...just say something that will interest and or amuse me. I'll be giving away a bonus prize for the most *according to moi* intersting/amusing/intriguing comment I read today. That bonus prize is ONLY for peeps who comment today, Friday 24 April 2015. 

Hehehehehe. And you are welcome to tell everyone there is a bonus giveaway on my blog. 

Right then, on to the actual talking about the stories from the Storming Love: Flood Anthology...they rock. No, seriously. I had the pleasure of beta reading N.j. Nielsen's and as usual, she rocked my socks right off. Jambrea, Pelaam, AC Katt, and Jenn Dease also joined this fun anthology, and are all such favorites of mine as authors that I pretty much have them on auto-buy...and getting the opportunity to write in an anthology with them has been both an honor and a privilege. 

Did I mention that they are all quite brilliant?

So, here's an excerpt from my story, Patric & Sam, which will publish on May 8th. 


Patric and Sam 

Chapter One 

Sam’s first indication that the damnable duo of Céleste and Delphine Touchet-Smith were plotting about his love life—again—came during Sunday dinner. The twin terrors of Copper Creek, Texas, a.k.a. his beloved maman and mostly tolerated sister, couldn’t go more than six months without interfering in les affaires de coeur, or if you wanted it in plain English, matters of the heart. Sam’s heart to be precise. They called it trying to get him settled. He called it a damned lot of tom-foolery. Seeing as Maman and Del were well into their eighth month without any shenanigans, Sam let himself get a touch too comfortable. He couldn’t help it. He liked the lack of what his maman called—and good Lord did the woman ever lay on the French accent thick as anything when she said it—eligible bachelors showing up out of the blue for Sunday dinner. He really should have seen it coming, though.

Sadly, he didn’t. Instead he tumbled through the weather beaten door of the hundred year old farmhouse where he’d grown up with only seconds to spare—if he was lucky—before his maman decided he was late. Lord help him if that happened, because then she’d start to think up ways to punish his “lack of proper decorum”. His mind firmly fixed on the delicious meal in his immediate future, Sam hot-footed it into the house blind as a new kitten and innocent as a fluffy little baby chick. With his mind more on squeaking in under the wire than being alert to signs and symptoms of meddling, he was ripe for their not-so-subtle machinations.

His wind-milling arms and rubber-chicken legs were half excessive speed on the well waxed floorboards of the front hall, half pure nerves, and one hundred percent Sam. He thanked his lucky stars he wasn’t in Del’s line of sight when he came in, because that would have been fuel for her to heap on the bonfires of their lovingly antagonistic sibling rivalry. She got plenty of mileage out of his clumsiness as it was. His whole life had been plagued by the same trademark lack of grace–it happened anytime he got too nervous. Today’s occurrence made perfect sense in light of his late arrival and the possible revocation of all beignet and crawfish étouffée privileges for a full week. Sam whimpered at the thought.

While enduring a longer span of time than seven days without Maman’s famous étouffée caused severe mood swings, more than three days without beignets might well be a death sentence. That was Sam’s philosophy on the matter and he saw no reason to ever risk such a dire outcome. So he zipped out of his Jeep, sprinted across the front porch, and then yes, tumbled through the front door with no thought to who or what might be on the other side.

Maman and Del’s chattering voices flowed from the kitchen, echoing back and forth down the hall. Paying them all his attention, he tripped over Cletus, otherwise known as Cletus the Lazy, Maman’s old brindle mess of long legs, floppy ears and slobber. Maman insisted he was an example of canine perfection. If you asked Sam the mutt was far from achieving the pinnacle of dogdom. In point of fact, the disreputable lump spent ninety percent of his time masquerading as a throw rug in the front hall—directly in the path of anyone coming in the door. Therein lay the problem. The dog too, or Sam might have gotten all the facts quicker and hightailed it out of Maman’s front door before he got caught in her matchmaking scheme.

All Sam knew in the moment was that he was sweating like a whore in church and praying Maman was in a good mood. Then, he swore he heard Del saying his name with intent as stepped forward to shut the front door. He tip-toed along like a ninja or a spy—at least in his mind—but was foiled by Cletus. The mange infested throw rug yelped out a piteous aaaarrrhhh—oooo—wee and followed that up with a snuffle-whuffle and the doggy sad-side-eye. All sounds from the kitchen ceased. A weighty beat of silence passed, and then Sam’s maman called out. Her dulcet tones dripped false innocence as they echoed along the passageway. Good Christ, he really should have known.

“Samuel, cher, we’re just finishing up in the kitchen. You go on mon fils, wash up now. We be through to the dining room in a moment.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Maman, we ain’t in de Louisiana bayou no more. You gotta use English. Proper American-style English. I know you speak it, what with all the times you done tanned my backside for not speaking proper when I was in school.”

A choked off snort followed by a thwapping sound came from the kitchen. Then the amusing melody of his sister’s indignation. “Maman, you didn’t have to smack me with the spatula. You got to admit, Sam talking his personal proper Texas-American style language is pretty damn funny.”

Another thwap echoed down the hall. Sam snickered. Del yelped, louder than Cletus had, and then Sam’s maman was talking. Her tone, all edge of the bayou Creole haughty with a dash of pure southern belle temper made it clear he’d gone and stepped in a heap of trouble. Between her conciliatory tone, the lack of reprimand for stepping on Cletus, and her handling of Del, the handwriting was on the wall. It was too late for him to escape altogether, but he stood a fair chance of mitigating the damage if he could figure out what the heck those two half-crazy bayou belles were plotting. Waiting in silence should push one of them to fill the void. Maman’s long, soft vowels and deliberate Parisian-style French warned him. Whatever they were planning, he was gonna be madder than a twice baited bull.

“Ah, we-el, mon fils, je suis tres desole. No matter. I will do my best to speak only the finest King’s English, no?”
Delphine appeared around the edge of the kitchen door before Maman stopped speaking. Her soft brown eyes huge in her little heart-shaped face, she hissed at him. Waving her hands back and forth like angry birds picking at a scarecrow, she advanced.
“Oh my gosh. Sam, I swear Maman dropped you on your head every day you was a boy! Lock up your lips tout de suite before Maman kicks us both out without supper. Just think about it. No more homemade beignets, no crawfish étouffée…and a whole week long to wait for another chance at them.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Sam sniffed and pointed at his sister. “I can make my own red beans and rice, little cat, so put your claws away. And…ah, hell, get out of the way so I can go apologize to Maman.”
His vain attempt to camouflage the utter terror of going so long without Maman’s beignets only caused his sister to smile, flip the long tail of her braid over her shoulder, and murmur as she sashayed around him. “Suck up.” 

Sam grunted. “You’re damn skippy I am, cher. Ain’t a body on Earth can cook like Maman…I plan on staying in her good graces forever.” 

Del laughed, just like he knew she would. Warmth spread through his chest. Sisters. Shaking his head, Sam curled one side of his mouth up and flicked the end of her braid. He never got tired of being able to predict how she would react. Chuckling quietly, Sam ambled through the kitchen door. Spreading his arms, hanging his head and gazing up through his lashes, he gave his best little boy grin. “Sorry Maman. I didn’t mean no disrespect.” 

Céleste tossed a small kitchen towel over one shoulder. “Hmmpf.” Sam snuggled up to her, bending down to hug her tight. “Je suis tres desole, Mamam. Ne soyez pas en colère contre moi.”

Laughing, Céleste pushed him toward the dining room doorway. “Delphine is right. You are a suck up. You sit down, cher. I still be serving crawfish étouffée, you terrible boy. Non, non, you were late getting here, Sam, and you think I did not notice? On second thought, you get right back up. Go help your sister set the table if you want to earn your way back into my good graces.”
They waited until he was stuffed fuller than a suckling pig destined for the table before dropping the bomb. When Del met his eyes directly, and Maman cleared her throat twice in a row, Sam froze in place. Del’s smile wobbled ever so slightly as she began to speak.
“Now, Sam, we done paid already, and there’s no refunds possible.” 

Eyes closed to mere slits, Sam waited her out.
“The thing is, you been working too hard. Everybody says so. And wel—”
Maman folded her napkin with small, neat motions, and Sam dropped his head forward to rest his forehead in the palms of both hands. “Just tell me what the two of you have cooked up besides the delicious étouffée I done just ate too much of?” Del turned beseeching eyes toward Maman. The elder Touchet-Smith woman at least had the grace to get a splash of red in both cheeks. “Samuel, cher, we done booked you a little hiking trip. With Carselowey Tours. You work so hard taking care of us, ever since your père et grand-père, ah, father and grandfather passed. We just wanted to say thank you.”

Sam choked, coughed, and sprayed a mouthful of étouffée across the table, missing Delphine by inches. The bright smile Maman wore as she spoke dimmed. She and Delphine both stared down at their plates. Del grimaced. 

“Oh, Sam, it was such a good deal, but because we booked so close to the departure date they can’t offer a refund. Well, except in case of death or extreme medical emergency. And I’m pretty sure bull-headed refusal to take a vacation don’t count.” 

Closing both eyes, Sam sucked in a steadying breath before giving in as gracefully as he could.
“Ah. I guess that clears up the issue of what to do with my vacation days this year. When do I leave?”
Delphine cornered him in the front hall after he’d made his farewells to Maman and before he made good on his bid for freedom. Wrapping a strand of her curly brown hair around one finger, she plunked her back against the front door and pressed both little palms against the center of his chest. “Listen, you hard head—I been hearing some things. I want you to promise me to go on this trip. I know you got some kinda powerful dislike for Patric Carselowey, but Maman put down a heap of money she had put by for something else just so’s you could take some time away from that store. I—just you promise to go, you hear me? Go. And maybe find out if there might have been some reason he did whatever made you come all over fulla hate for him so quick. Can you do that for me, cher?” 

Sam glared down at Del. “You so fulla yourself. One day somebody going to throw a little magic your way bayou girl, and we see how you like that.”
Del huffed out a breath. “I never!”
“Ha. I’m going on this trip. For Maman. But you? Best admire those eyebrows while you still got them.” Sam backed away as he spoke, knowing Del would do the same thing as always in three-two-one…
“I’m gonna tell Maman you threatening my eyebrows again!” she screeched and lunged toward him. Sam dodged around her, jerked the front door open and ran like the wind. He laughed his fool head off all the way to his Jeep, too.

Linky-Dinky stuffs for me: 

The Land of Awesomesauce has a contact for where you can email me. :) Have fun, and be sure to play at all the blogs!!

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