It’s live.  My rickety little book is live.

And while I do have a few regrets with this first book, they’re not major enough to make me wish I hadn’t published it.

Thankfully, I don’t have time to sit and bite away at my fingernails, because the second book is due in just a little over a month.  *sigh*

Onward and upward.

One Fluttering Heartbeat (A Prairie Tale, Book 1), now available at Amazon.  Click here to buy!

quote ofh2OneFlutteringHeartbeat_Full Wrap FINAL


The countdown is on.  And I’m obnoxiously posting about it.  Again. 

Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut.  Published this thing without anyone knowing.  Maybe used a pen name, so if it bombs royally no one will know I’m the untalented hack who wrote it in the first place.  That way, I could have just continued on with life – no harm, no foul.  No one the wiser.


I have a tendency to stick to my comfort zone like glue.  And writing a book, not to mention actually publishing it, sticking my name on it, and sending it out in the world to be *gasp* read by people other than my close friends?  Well, that pretty much effs up said comfort zone. 

And sticking to your comfort zone all. the. time?  Man, that’s just…  It’s not a good way to live.  It’s like what Thoreau says about men leading lives of quiet desperation.  Or Franklin, who claims that “many people die at twenty-five and aren’t buried until they’re seventy-five.”  Sticking to our comfort zones keeps us from living.  It keeps us dead.    

Some days I feel like I’m sitting on top of a mountain – meditation-style, of course – completely Zen with the fact that I’m accomplishing a life-long dream.   But as October 10th drifts closer, I more often than not feel like I’m stuck in the middle of the ocean, during the stormiest storm of the year, without a raft, my feet circled by a pack of sharks, and a box jellyfish at my elbow.

Basically, if I didn’t tout about this thing, I probably wouldn’t be publishing it.  Hell, I probably wouldn’t have written it in the first place.  Accountability.  It’s something I desperately needed so I could push through the self-conscious feelings of doubt and procrastination that have weighed me down over the years and, some days, still tempt me to pull the plug on this whole thing.

But I can’t pull the plug.  Because my big mouth and fat fingers have spouted off so many times about this book that if I don’t publish it, people will notice.  And then, to put it bluntly, I’ll look like a jackass.

Of course, I may still look like a jackass after I publish it.  My rambling prose certainly isn’t Pulitzer worthy, nor is my little contemporary romance book going to hit a bestseller list.  Some people may find it boring, some may hate the foul language or the sex scene or the main character.  They may find it too wordy, not wordy enough, or notice a grammar error that will immediately have them slamming the book shut in protest while thinking one word – HACK.

So yes, by publishing my book I may still look like a jackass.  But at least I’ll be a jackass with a set of balls.



Coming 10/10/17

“… trails his fingers down the back of my neck, grabbing the ties of my halter and yanking them loose. He releases my hand and begins to peel away the wet fabric from my body, sliding his mouth across my cheek and biting my ear as he shoves my dress down, down. I hear a rip as the sodden material stretches over my hips, past my thighs, and then…”

Yeah.  There are some steamy parts in Fluttering.  Not a lot.

Some people might like this.  Some may not.

I’m prepared for the blasts.

Even though this book is considered a romance, the intimacy between the two main characters isn’t really what it’s all about. 

Fluttering is about working through your problems, not wallowing in them.  It’s about being so strong that you allow yourself time to be weak.  It’s about living with loss, the numbness that straddles depression, and taking the first steps toward the light.

It’s not a perfect book.  But it’s my first book.  It’s a little piece of me that I’d like to share with you.  It’s an imperfect story told by an imperfect person who struggles daily with dark thoughts pierced every now and then with tiny flickers of hope. 

Hope that, someday, those flickers turn to fireworks.

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Fear & Art

This is so true. (And so spot on for me lately.) Especially when it comes to art.

People will either love your art or hate it. And it will have nothing at all to do with you. Or so the saying (sorta) goes.

For so long, I’ve let fear stop me from creating. Or, at the very least, creating what I wanted to create. I can’t tell you how many unfinished stories I’ve let fall away into nothingness over the last twenty years because, really, who was I to write words worthy of being read by the masses? Or the number of photo shoots where I compromised my vision and let the client dictate the session, resulting in the types of shots that didn’t define my work and, after the shoot, left me feeling drained and dull rather than inspired and engaged. Or, back in my design days, crafting my work around what I thought the professor wanted to see rather than what my heart wanted to show him. And spending sleepless nights before each graphic design presentation – tossing and turning, my stomach filled with dread at the very thought of standing up and showing my work in class. Because, I mean – gawd! – what if they hated it?!

I think it all comes down to having confidence in your art. Of falling head-over-heels in love with your creation. And truly, truly not giving a good goddamn what anyone else thinks about it.

I’m working on it.