I spent the month of December in Florida. Most mornings I was up at daybreak watching the sun climb over the horizon. Not one sunrise was ever the same. How can this be—three-hundred and sixty-five mornings a year with never a repeat? Year after year of sunrises, thousands and thousands of days bursting forth, not one ever the same as the one birthed before it?
During morning strolls on the beach I watched as the waves pummel the packed ground. Some waves gathered strength quickly and pounded the shoreline. Others rolled in slowly and barely kissed the sand. As the waves rolled in I saw its many personalities. Sometimes it was angry and attacked the shore with a vengeance. Other times it was timid and licked at the sand like a kitten lapping up milk.
No matter how many waves rolled in, they were unique in their formation—another amazing spectacle of nature. How many millions of waves have rolled onto the shoreline, not one a repeat of the one passing before it?
That got me thinking that no matter what the sunrise looked like, or the sunset for that matter, or what the wave formations were for any particular day, I didn’t want them to end. They all took my breath away.
Some books are like that. You want them to go on and on. The authors are gifted word-painters whose prose grabs hold of your heart and squeezes firmly, and you have to gasp to get another breath of air in place. It’s that way for me whenever I read Elizabeth Berg. I just finished True to Form, such a simple little book with a sweet message of how important it is to be true to ourselves. Berg’s words positively dance on the page. I knew I was in for a treat as I read the opening pages. The protagonist, Katie is describing her aunt’s kitchen and how people exclaimed they could eat off of the floor. And she says, Why would you want to do that? And I picture my uncle Harry, sitting there crossed-legged with his napkin tucked into his shirt, leaning over awkwardly to lift his scrambled eggs from the linoleum.
There are so many parts in this book to savor. In one particular chapter, Katie is feeling rather distant from her father who has recently remarried. (Katie’s mother died of cancer.) Katie likes her new step-mother who’s name is Ginger. Katie says two miracles have happened. First Ginger has just won second place in a jingle contest. Katie considers the second miracle to be the fact she may be getting a scholarship to the prestigious Bartlett School for Girls. So, Katie and Ginger are sitting out on the back porch. Katie leans back on her elbows and eyes the night sky. She says: Sometimes I get this feeling of a wink coming down from the heavens to me. After a while the screen door bangs shut, and here comes my dad. He’s heard our voices. They’ve called him out. Seems like summer nights just do that to a person, make you kind of sociable. There you are, watching “Rawhide”, and the voice of your wife and your daughter curl around you like pie smells in a cartoon. All he does is sit down and light up a cigarette. But it is a lot.
Katie has a summer babysitting job taking care of the three Wexler boys, Henry, Mark, and David. Only on this particular night Mr. Wexler forgets she is coming and Mrs. Wexler isn’t even there and the boys are at his sister’s house. Mr. Wexler answers the door in his pajamas and invites her in. Here’s the rest of the scene:
“Now I know we hired you for the summer,” Mr. Wexler says, “and I’m going to pay you what you would have earned if you’d worked for me.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay.”
Mr. Wexler holds up his hand and says, “I would feel much better if you’d let me.”
“Well, I don’t really. . .maybe I could help you clean up a little. That way I could earn it.”
He looks around like he is seeing the place for the very first time. And then he says, with a kind of dignity, “It’s all right. I’ll get to it.”
“I could just do the dishes for you.”
“Katie,” he says. “Mrs. Wexler has left me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a loss, here.”
“Well, if you. . .I’d be glad to help you. I mean, clean up. I can help you do that. And also, I. . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, I just want to say I think you’re a very nice man.”
“Ah.” He leans his head back and I get the terrible thought that it’s because he’s crying.
“Mr. Wexler?”
He clears his throat and quick wipes away the tears. “Yes?”
“Do you want me to wash or dry?”
He looks at me with such gratitude it’s as if I have knocked on his door and said I am from The Millionaire.
Katie’s other summer job is helping an elderly man, Mr. Randolph care for his ailing wife. On this particular morning Katie is helping this sweet lady with her morning sponge bath.
I take off her glasses and hand her the washcloth. This part she can do—she washes her face and I wash her glasses. It makes you feel so tender to see someone wash their face with such trembling hands and then hand you back the washrag, looking up at you like they’re waiting for you to grade them.
You can see what I mean when I say her words just dance on the page. She is such a talented and gifted storyteller. And of course there are sooooooo many others out there as well. I marvel at the uniqueness of each of their voices. Though some may sound familiar, they’re never, ever exactly the same. And, of course, the stories themselves bare witness to the creative powers of each of their wondrous minds. Good, golly, Molly, it keeps me ever humble.
J. L. Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne, and Dear Dwayne, releasing in April of 2009. Dating Dwayne will follow. Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com. Write the author at jackie@jlmiles.com.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Where The Heart Is
I’m in the middle of my latest novel and have no idea how to fill up the additional pages I need to complete it. I have two hundred pages that I love and the ending in place that I’m more than satisfied with. I know where the climax is going and what it must contain. I have an understanding of exactly what it is I’m trying to say. Still I’m stuck with eighty blank pages. I’ve reread what I’ve written, so far, thirty-three times. I’ve left the manuscript alone for two entire weeks. Nothing—the pages sit there, large and inviting, but with no spark to ignite them.
I decide I need a distraction, something fulfilling and enriching. My daughter comes up with the perfect solution. She’s coming to Atlanta for a trade show. (She has a clothing line for little girls called Isabel Greika in honor of her firstborn daughter.)
“I’ll leave the kids with you,” she says. “It’s just the distraction you need. It’ll put everything into perspective. You’ll be so glad to get back to your writing the words will fly onto the page—guaranteed.”
She’s very convincing. And of course, I’ll be so glad to see them. They live five hundred miles away. It’s not like I can dash down the street like I used to and catch a glimpse of their latest antics. I have a one-year-old grandson and a four-year-old granddaughter coming to my rescue that I haven’t seen in over three months. It’s perfect.
Isabel arrives with her suitcase in hand. She’s a big girl. “I can carry it myself,” she says and drags it across my newly polished hardwood floors. I’m thinking if I can’t write next week when they’re gone I can at least re-polish the floor. This plan is working already.
Dolan, my one-year-old grandson is sound asleep and doesn’t realize he’s being handed over to the grandmother he hasn’t seen since he was nine months old. I swallow the lump in my throat and glance in the mirror in the entry way. My hair is combed and I have lipstick in place. I'm certain he won’t remember me, but hopefully I won’t scare him.
My daughter dashes off to her show. With Dolan asleep, Isabel and I sit on the front steps. It’s a beautiful day. She saunters down the circular driveway and examines a large crack in the cement. A colony of ants is pouring forth from a crevice.
“Nana,” she says, “Ants are really kind of cute, but I just gotta kill’em!” She proceeds to stomp on the crack. I burst out laughing. Kids really do say the darndest things.
Later we’re unpacking her suitcase and she hands me a small stack of photos sealed inside a plastic baggie. “I’m taking gymnastics,” she says proudly and eagerly pulls a hand full of pictures out of the plastic bag. “This is my friend Charlie,” she explains. “She’s taking gymnastics, too. She’s four, like me.”
Charlie towers over Isabel by a foot and a half.
“My, she’s a big four,” I say, realizing it may be true, but noticing also that Isabel is a petite four which makes Charlie’s height all the more pronounced.
Isabel examines the picture. Her brow is furrowed and her lips are pinched tightly together. “Well, next year when I’m five,” she quips, “I’ll be a big four, too!”
Hhhmmmm, wonder how that works? I take hold of her and give her a hug. Dolan’s awake now and crying. I go to the port-a-crib and pick him up. He takes one look at me and starts howling even louder. I decide to start with a clean diaper and go from there. In no time he’ll be used to me. But it’s not to be. Clean diapers and an offer of apple juice and a bottle bring no relief. He continues to howl.
“Don’t be scared, Dolan,” Isabel says. “This is my nana!”
Now that the introductions are out of the way, I spend the afternoon staging a puppet show. It works. Dolan is laughing and running around the family room, his tears long forgotten. Next we settle down on the sofa. Isabel produces a handful of storybooks. One by one I read each of them. Then I read them again. It’s time for a snack. I settle on bananas and crackers and fruit juice. It’s a hit. Movie time follows. Isabel produces her portable DVD player and slips a disk into the slot. Cinderella and Prince Charming
fill the small screen. Dolan’s not impressed. He sits and attempts to stack his assortment of blocks. I join him and show him the way to stack the blocks one on top of the other. He quickly knocks them all down. He thinks it’s hysterical.
“Nana,” Isabel says, “Come and see Dumbo.” She slips another CD into the slot. I plop down next to her on the sofa. These little tykes are starting to wear me out. Maybe it’s time for a nap. I put Dolan back in the port-o-crib and join Isabel on my bed. She’s curled up on her side, her favorite doll beside her. Before long they’re both asleep. I tiptoe down the hall to my office and check my email. I pull up my manuscript expecting a creative burst of energy to spill onto the page. Nothing. I tell myself I need more time with the kids. I’ve simply returned to the project too soon.
Two days later my daughter returns. Now I’m completely worn out and realize, if we’re smart, why we have children when we’re young. We pack the car and say our goodbyes. We load Dolan and Isabel in their car seats and fasten the safety harnesses.
I hug and kiss each of them one last time. I turn and hug my daughter, pat her head and pepper her face with kisses.
“Good luck with your writing,” she says, snapping her seatbelt in place. “I know whatever you do, it’ll be great.”
I wave and watch as they drive away. As the car disappears down the street I realize I don’t care whether or not the experiment worked. I’ve had three absolutely, positively, wonderful days. I’ve staged puppet shows, poured bubble baths, baked cookies; finger painted, played in the park, watched Cinderella three times, and read enough children’s books to know them by heart. I’ve soothed numerous boo-boos and kissed um-teen owies. I’ve tucked tiny toes under the covers and kissed little fingers poking out from above. And, I’ve collected more hugs and received more kisses than I ever thought possible. Nothing can top that—not even finishing a bestseller.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Dear Dwayne, Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River, and Roseflower Creek Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com/. Write to the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com
I decide I need a distraction, something fulfilling and enriching. My daughter comes up with the perfect solution. She’s coming to Atlanta for a trade show. (She has a clothing line for little girls called Isabel Greika in honor of her firstborn daughter.)
“I’ll leave the kids with you,” she says. “It’s just the distraction you need. It’ll put everything into perspective. You’ll be so glad to get back to your writing the words will fly onto the page—guaranteed.”
She’s very convincing. And of course, I’ll be so glad to see them. They live five hundred miles away. It’s not like I can dash down the street like I used to and catch a glimpse of their latest antics. I have a one-year-old grandson and a four-year-old granddaughter coming to my rescue that I haven’t seen in over three months. It’s perfect.
Isabel arrives with her suitcase in hand. She’s a big girl. “I can carry it myself,” she says and drags it across my newly polished hardwood floors. I’m thinking if I can’t write next week when they’re gone I can at least re-polish the floor. This plan is working already.
Dolan, my one-year-old grandson is sound asleep and doesn’t realize he’s being handed over to the grandmother he hasn’t seen since he was nine months old. I swallow the lump in my throat and glance in the mirror in the entry way. My hair is combed and I have lipstick in place. I'm certain he won’t remember me, but hopefully I won’t scare him.
My daughter dashes off to her show. With Dolan asleep, Isabel and I sit on the front steps. It’s a beautiful day. She saunters down the circular driveway and examines a large crack in the cement. A colony of ants is pouring forth from a crevice.
“Nana,” she says, “Ants are really kind of cute, but I just gotta kill’em!” She proceeds to stomp on the crack. I burst out laughing. Kids really do say the darndest things.
Later we’re unpacking her suitcase and she hands me a small stack of photos sealed inside a plastic baggie. “I’m taking gymnastics,” she says proudly and eagerly pulls a hand full of pictures out of the plastic bag. “This is my friend Charlie,” she explains. “She’s taking gymnastics, too. She’s four, like me.”
Charlie towers over Isabel by a foot and a half.
“My, she’s a big four,” I say, realizing it may be true, but noticing also that Isabel is a petite four which makes Charlie’s height all the more pronounced.
Isabel examines the picture. Her brow is furrowed and her lips are pinched tightly together. “Well, next year when I’m five,” she quips, “I’ll be a big four, too!”
Hhhmmmm, wonder how that works? I take hold of her and give her a hug. Dolan’s awake now and crying. I go to the port-a-crib and pick him up. He takes one look at me and starts howling even louder. I decide to start with a clean diaper and go from there. In no time he’ll be used to me. But it’s not to be. Clean diapers and an offer of apple juice and a bottle bring no relief. He continues to howl.
“Don’t be scared, Dolan,” Isabel says. “This is my nana!”
Now that the introductions are out of the way, I spend the afternoon staging a puppet show. It works. Dolan is laughing and running around the family room, his tears long forgotten. Next we settle down on the sofa. Isabel produces a handful of storybooks. One by one I read each of them. Then I read them again. It’s time for a snack. I settle on bananas and crackers and fruit juice. It’s a hit. Movie time follows. Isabel produces her portable DVD player and slips a disk into the slot. Cinderella and Prince Charming
fill the small screen. Dolan’s not impressed. He sits and attempts to stack his assortment of blocks. I join him and show him the way to stack the blocks one on top of the other. He quickly knocks them all down. He thinks it’s hysterical.
“Nana,” Isabel says, “Come and see Dumbo.” She slips another CD into the slot. I plop down next to her on the sofa. These little tykes are starting to wear me out. Maybe it’s time for a nap. I put Dolan back in the port-o-crib and join Isabel on my bed. She’s curled up on her side, her favorite doll beside her. Before long they’re both asleep. I tiptoe down the hall to my office and check my email. I pull up my manuscript expecting a creative burst of energy to spill onto the page. Nothing. I tell myself I need more time with the kids. I’ve simply returned to the project too soon.
Two days later my daughter returns. Now I’m completely worn out and realize, if we’re smart, why we have children when we’re young. We pack the car and say our goodbyes. We load Dolan and Isabel in their car seats and fasten the safety harnesses.
I hug and kiss each of them one last time. I turn and hug my daughter, pat her head and pepper her face with kisses.
“Good luck with your writing,” she says, snapping her seatbelt in place. “I know whatever you do, it’ll be great.”
I wave and watch as they drive away. As the car disappears down the street I realize I don’t care whether or not the experiment worked. I’ve had three absolutely, positively, wonderful days. I’ve staged puppet shows, poured bubble baths, baked cookies; finger painted, played in the park, watched Cinderella three times, and read enough children’s books to know them by heart. I’ve soothed numerous boo-boos and kissed um-teen owies. I’ve tucked tiny toes under the covers and kissed little fingers poking out from above. And, I’ve collected more hugs and received more kisses than I ever thought possible. Nothing can top that—not even finishing a bestseller.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Dear Dwayne, Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River, and Roseflower Creek Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com/. Write to the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO GETTING PUBLISHED
My agent is shopping my latest manuscript and let me tell you the waiting is killing me. As a matter of fact, just this morning I noticed my hair is definitely grayer than it was last week.
When she first sent it out, we got an immediate response from a major publisher and boy was I excited. They raved about the author voice and the premise. They asked if the author had another book that could be packaged with it. Then they took it to committee, whatever that means, and the next thing you know they were saying things like, “It’s not for our list after all.”
Bummer. I felt like dumping my head in the washing machine while it was on the spin cycle. That got me thinking about all the authors out there that now have N.Y. Times bestsellers. Did they ever want to stick their head in the washer? I’d call them up, but I don’t have there numbers. Plus they’d think I was crazy so I’d probably just tell them how much I enjoyed their book and not mention their washing machine.
Maybe placing a project is so frustrating because of the way I first got published. I went to this book conference. At the reception I literally bumped into Ron Pitkin, the president of Cumberland House Publishing. He was kind enough not to notice I spilled his drink and asked what I was working on. When I told him fiction, he promptly replied, “That’s a crap shoot.” Definitely not what I wanted to hear. I mean, I’d paid good money to come to this conference and he’s raining on my party, big time. “Well,” I said, “that’s too bad, because I have a dynamite opening line.” I was prepared to walk away, when he gently took hold of my elbow and said, “So what’s your opening line?”
“The morning I died, it rained.” Keep in mind this was long before The Lovely Bones.
“God! I want to see that book,” he said, doing an about face.
“Ah, I don’t have a book,” I said. “I have a great opening line and a hundred pages.”
He asked if I had it with me. “Of course. I’m getting it evaluated in the morning. It costs forty-five dollars.”
He told me to give it to him, he wouldn’t charge a thing. I immediately went to my room and brought back the pages. I had a prologue, and the last chapter and the epilogue along with the rest of it. It wasn’t finished, but I knew where it was going.
Mr. Pitkin thanked me and went on his way. Come Sunday morning with the conference over, everyone was checking out. I spotted Mr. Pitkin making his way toward me and thought, oh-oh, this is where he’s going to pull the rug out from under me and tell me to get a real job. To my surprise he handed me the manuscript and said, “I want this and I want it yesterday. Go home and finish it!”
I figured if I took forever to finish it he’d never even remember that he liked it. I stayed up and wrote around the clock for the next five days, took the weekend off, stayed up again and wrote around the clock for the next five days and sent it off to Mr. Pitkin. I marked my calendar for three months, thinking it might take that long for him to get back to me. I started in on my second book. Just like all the books on writing said to do. The following Friday evening my phone rang. I answered. A voice said, “This is Ron Pitkin at Cumberland House and we’re going to bring your book out in hardback.” I said, “Ya? And I’m the tooth fairy.” And I hung up on him. The reason I did this is that the only person other than my husband who knew I’d sent off the manuscript was a good friend of mine who can mimic any voice he’s ever heard. He’d been going to this conference where I’d met Mr. Pitkin for years and has heard him speak many times. It had to be this friend playing a joke on me. Not a very funny one either. I wasn’t amused.
I went upstairs to comb my hair and put some lipstick on. My husband was starving and wanted to go and get something to eat. Poor thing, he probably was starving. I stopped cooking when the kids left home and I took up writing. No sooner did I get to the bedroom when the phone rang. This one has caller ID, the others don’t. I leaned over and saw CUMBERLAND HOUSE flashing on the screen. I’d hung up on Mr. Pitkin for real!
I picked up the handset, leaned into it and barely whispered “Hello?”
“What’d you hang up on me for?” he said. “Ah, it’s a long story, a very boring story,” I said.
“Well, we’re bringing out your book in hard back and bumping back our memoir piece on Dale Earnhardt (he’d been tragically killed), to make Roseflower Creek the lead book. What do you think of that?”
I was hyperventilating and finding it impossible to speak. I did my best. “Didn’t you say fiction was a crap shoot?” I asked
“Yes—and it is,” he said.
“Then I think your crazy or my protagonist got herself a miracle. What do you think of that?”
Mr. Pitkin laughed and said he’d be seeing me. This is a true story and a pretty amazing way to get published. I should have known there’d be rocky roads ahead. It brings to mind the old adage if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is. Oh well, maybe after the storms pass, I’ll find a rainbow. One can always hope. In the interim I’ve got everything crossed, including the hair on my husband’s head—all three strands.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River and the newly released Divorcing Dwayne. Dear Dwayne debuts April 1st, 2009. Visit the website at www.jlmiles.com. Write to Jackie at Jackie@jlmiles.com
.
When she first sent it out, we got an immediate response from a major publisher and boy was I excited. They raved about the author voice and the premise. They asked if the author had another book that could be packaged with it. Then they took it to committee, whatever that means, and the next thing you know they were saying things like, “It’s not for our list after all.”
Bummer. I felt like dumping my head in the washing machine while it was on the spin cycle. That got me thinking about all the authors out there that now have N.Y. Times bestsellers. Did they ever want to stick their head in the washer? I’d call them up, but I don’t have there numbers. Plus they’d think I was crazy so I’d probably just tell them how much I enjoyed their book and not mention their washing machine.
Maybe placing a project is so frustrating because of the way I first got published. I went to this book conference. At the reception I literally bumped into Ron Pitkin, the president of Cumberland House Publishing. He was kind enough not to notice I spilled his drink and asked what I was working on. When I told him fiction, he promptly replied, “That’s a crap shoot.” Definitely not what I wanted to hear. I mean, I’d paid good money to come to this conference and he’s raining on my party, big time. “Well,” I said, “that’s too bad, because I have a dynamite opening line.” I was prepared to walk away, when he gently took hold of my elbow and said, “So what’s your opening line?”
“The morning I died, it rained.” Keep in mind this was long before The Lovely Bones.
“God! I want to see that book,” he said, doing an about face.
“Ah, I don’t have a book,” I said. “I have a great opening line and a hundred pages.”
He asked if I had it with me. “Of course. I’m getting it evaluated in the morning. It costs forty-five dollars.”
He told me to give it to him, he wouldn’t charge a thing. I immediately went to my room and brought back the pages. I had a prologue, and the last chapter and the epilogue along with the rest of it. It wasn’t finished, but I knew where it was going.
Mr. Pitkin thanked me and went on his way. Come Sunday morning with the conference over, everyone was checking out. I spotted Mr. Pitkin making his way toward me and thought, oh-oh, this is where he’s going to pull the rug out from under me and tell me to get a real job. To my surprise he handed me the manuscript and said, “I want this and I want it yesterday. Go home and finish it!”
I figured if I took forever to finish it he’d never even remember that he liked it. I stayed up and wrote around the clock for the next five days, took the weekend off, stayed up again and wrote around the clock for the next five days and sent it off to Mr. Pitkin. I marked my calendar for three months, thinking it might take that long for him to get back to me. I started in on my second book. Just like all the books on writing said to do. The following Friday evening my phone rang. I answered. A voice said, “This is Ron Pitkin at Cumberland House and we’re going to bring your book out in hardback.” I said, “Ya? And I’m the tooth fairy.” And I hung up on him. The reason I did this is that the only person other than my husband who knew I’d sent off the manuscript was a good friend of mine who can mimic any voice he’s ever heard. He’d been going to this conference where I’d met Mr. Pitkin for years and has heard him speak many times. It had to be this friend playing a joke on me. Not a very funny one either. I wasn’t amused.
I went upstairs to comb my hair and put some lipstick on. My husband was starving and wanted to go and get something to eat. Poor thing, he probably was starving. I stopped cooking when the kids left home and I took up writing. No sooner did I get to the bedroom when the phone rang. This one has caller ID, the others don’t. I leaned over and saw CUMBERLAND HOUSE flashing on the screen. I’d hung up on Mr. Pitkin for real!
I picked up the handset, leaned into it and barely whispered “Hello?”
“What’d you hang up on me for?” he said. “Ah, it’s a long story, a very boring story,” I said.
“Well, we’re bringing out your book in hard back and bumping back our memoir piece on Dale Earnhardt (he’d been tragically killed), to make Roseflower Creek the lead book. What do you think of that?”
I was hyperventilating and finding it impossible to speak. I did my best. “Didn’t you say fiction was a crap shoot?” I asked
“Yes—and it is,” he said.
“Then I think your crazy or my protagonist got herself a miracle. What do you think of that?”
Mr. Pitkin laughed and said he’d be seeing me. This is a true story and a pretty amazing way to get published. I should have known there’d be rocky roads ahead. It brings to mind the old adage if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is. Oh well, maybe after the storms pass, I’ll find a rainbow. One can always hope. In the interim I’ve got everything crossed, including the hair on my husband’s head—all three strands.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River and the newly released Divorcing Dwayne. Dear Dwayne debuts April 1st, 2009. Visit the website at www.jlmiles.com. Write to Jackie at Jackie@jlmiles.com
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Monday, July 21, 2008
I’ve noticed lately I’m getting more and more wrinkles. If this keeps up my face will look like a roadmap. I saw this ad on TV that said I could turn back time—just by buying their product. I bought three jars. They lied. The only thing that got turned back was the check I wrote to pay for their products. It didn’t quite clear my bank. I called them up (the product people, not the bank) and told them it would be alright. I was going to ask for a refund anyway. They weren’t amused.
I think that any and all products being advertised should do exactly what they say they’ll do or the people advertising them should immediately suffer serious and permanent consequences, like getting a case of incurable dandruff, or developing uncontrolled facial ticks. Take the skin care folks—at the very least they should be hit with a terminal case of zits.
The problem is, before long thousands of people would be running around with dandruff and pimples and facial ticks. I say this because it seems everyone selling something lately exaggerates and gets away with it. I went to this laser clinic for hair removal. They promised with six treatments I’d never shave my legs again. They said it was virtually a painless procedure. Always listen up when someone uses the word “virtually”. It means the same thing as when a doctor says there might be some discomfort.
The only thing the laser clinic didn’t lie about was the price. It would be three mortgage payments, payable in advance. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after that fiasco, but oh no, I’m still out there reading and believing all the hype slick advertisers hand out. Just last month, I read an article in the newspaper—well, it looked like an article, but was actually an ad for weight loss camouflaged to look like an article written by some prominent doctor I’d never heard of. Anyway, their product guaranteed that you would lose seven pounds in your sleep the first week alone. I bought some of that, too. And I did lose seven pounds, just like they said. Mostly because I lived with my head stuck in the toilet for eight days straight. The product made me sicker than my cat when she swallowed a year’s supply of fur balls in one setting.
And that’s just one of the weight loss products on the market. There are approximately three millions others that claim you can achieve the same results. In addition to weight loss, skin care, and hair removal, there are scads of other companies promising to remove cellulite, firm your under arms and whiten your teeth, not to mention give you fingernails stronger than nails, erase under-eye circles and stop you from ever passing gas. Right, like I believe that. But, you name it, and there’s a product out there promising to fix it. And that’s just products. What about all the procedures being touted as a total cure-all for what ails one. There’s liposuction, micro-dermabrasion, Botox, silicone and collagen. The list goes on. Basically, the entire human body can be re-done so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Now, why would I want that? It’s taken me all these years to get her to notice me in the first place. But that’s another story. Right now I think I’ll just stop believing in all the hype I read about or see on television and be content that I’m getting older (and hopefully wiser), and I have the looks to prove it. In the meantime, be careful what you believe in. There are a lot of advertisers out there with a lot of hype and mostly they can say what they want and charge what they will. Buyer beware!
J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Visit her website at http://www.jlmiles.com/ or write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com.
I think that any and all products being advertised should do exactly what they say they’ll do or the people advertising them should immediately suffer serious and permanent consequences, like getting a case of incurable dandruff, or developing uncontrolled facial ticks. Take the skin care folks—at the very least they should be hit with a terminal case of zits.
The problem is, before long thousands of people would be running around with dandruff and pimples and facial ticks. I say this because it seems everyone selling something lately exaggerates and gets away with it. I went to this laser clinic for hair removal. They promised with six treatments I’d never shave my legs again. They said it was virtually a painless procedure. Always listen up when someone uses the word “virtually”. It means the same thing as when a doctor says there might be some discomfort.
The only thing the laser clinic didn’t lie about was the price. It would be three mortgage payments, payable in advance. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after that fiasco, but oh no, I’m still out there reading and believing all the hype slick advertisers hand out. Just last month, I read an article in the newspaper—well, it looked like an article, but was actually an ad for weight loss camouflaged to look like an article written by some prominent doctor I’d never heard of. Anyway, their product guaranteed that you would lose seven pounds in your sleep the first week alone. I bought some of that, too. And I did lose seven pounds, just like they said. Mostly because I lived with my head stuck in the toilet for eight days straight. The product made me sicker than my cat when she swallowed a year’s supply of fur balls in one setting.
And that’s just one of the weight loss products on the market. There are approximately three millions others that claim you can achieve the same results. In addition to weight loss, skin care, and hair removal, there are scads of other companies promising to remove cellulite, firm your under arms and whiten your teeth, not to mention give you fingernails stronger than nails, erase under-eye circles and stop you from ever passing gas. Right, like I believe that. But, you name it, and there’s a product out there promising to fix it. And that’s just products. What about all the procedures being touted as a total cure-all for what ails one. There’s liposuction, micro-dermabrasion, Botox, silicone and collagen. The list goes on. Basically, the entire human body can be re-done so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Now, why would I want that? It’s taken me all these years to get her to notice me in the first place. But that’s another story. Right now I think I’ll just stop believing in all the hype I read about or see on television and be content that I’m getting older (and hopefully wiser), and I have the looks to prove it. In the meantime, be careful what you believe in. There are a lot of advertisers out there with a lot of hype and mostly they can say what they want and charge what they will. Buyer beware!
J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Visit her website at http://www.jlmiles.com/ or write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
When it comes to words, whether written or spoken, I believe women automatically need more of them to convey whatever it is they wish to convey. I’m not trying to be sexist, mind you, just honest.
If I want my husband to take out the garbage I might say, “My hands are full and the kitchen trash is overflowing the bin! Can you be a sweetie and take it out for me?”
Were the situation reversed he’d say, “#%!! damn!” And of course I’d come running. That’s his two words to my twenty-three.
And if I’m feeling rather tired and don’t feel like attending the neighbor’s ballyhoo, I might say, “You know I’ve had a tough week and I’m feeling really beat. Do you mind if we send over a bottle of wine and our apologies?” If he were the one not wanting to go he’d simply say, “Tell’em we’re not coming.” His four words to my twenty-six.
When I share my thoughts with him on why I feel the world has gotten too commercial and ask him why that is—hoping to coax him into a meaningful conversation about the shifting times—he says, “Dunno.” One word and he’s back to his newspaper.
A woman’s need for an abundance of words not only includes the ones spoken, but those written, as well. I read this story that totally supports this hypothesis. Apparently, Sally and Frank—both writers by profession—kept daily journals. Upon their untimely demise my friend was sorting through their papers and discovered the following entries dated January 26th.
Sally wrote:
The New Year is not even one month old and Frank is acting very strange. We made plans to meet for a drink right after work. I got tied up and arrived late. He didn’t say anything, but seemed very distant. I asked if anything was wrong. He said, “No.” I asked him if he was upset that I was late and hadn’t called. He said, “No.” When we got home, he immediately turned on the television and started surfing channels. I’d counted on a romantic evening in front of the fireplace. I sat down and tried to cuddle up to him. He smiled slightly, but never said a word. I felt like he definitely had something on his mind, but was hesitant to discuss it. The silence was too much for me. I went to bed. Soon he joined me and much to my surprise he responded to my caresses and we made love! But afterwards, he fell asleep immediately. I lay there and cried. I’m almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else. It’s like he no longer wants anything to do with me. My life is a disaster. I just know I’m losing him and I don’t know what to do.
Frank wrote:
Didn’t get the promotion, but had a great roll in the hay.
Words—too many or not nearly enough? Either way, I rest my case.
J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne (April 2008, Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne to follow), Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek.
http://www.jlmiles.com/
Jackie@jlmiles.com
If I want my husband to take out the garbage I might say, “My hands are full and the kitchen trash is overflowing the bin! Can you be a sweetie and take it out for me?”
Were the situation reversed he’d say, “#%!! damn!” And of course I’d come running. That’s his two words to my twenty-three.
And if I’m feeling rather tired and don’t feel like attending the neighbor’s ballyhoo, I might say, “You know I’ve had a tough week and I’m feeling really beat. Do you mind if we send over a bottle of wine and our apologies?” If he were the one not wanting to go he’d simply say, “Tell’em we’re not coming.” His four words to my twenty-six.
When I share my thoughts with him on why I feel the world has gotten too commercial and ask him why that is—hoping to coax him into a meaningful conversation about the shifting times—he says, “Dunno.” One word and he’s back to his newspaper.
A woman’s need for an abundance of words not only includes the ones spoken, but those written, as well. I read this story that totally supports this hypothesis. Apparently, Sally and Frank—both writers by profession—kept daily journals. Upon their untimely demise my friend was sorting through their papers and discovered the following entries dated January 26th.
Sally wrote:
The New Year is not even one month old and Frank is acting very strange. We made plans to meet for a drink right after work. I got tied up and arrived late. He didn’t say anything, but seemed very distant. I asked if anything was wrong. He said, “No.” I asked him if he was upset that I was late and hadn’t called. He said, “No.” When we got home, he immediately turned on the television and started surfing channels. I’d counted on a romantic evening in front of the fireplace. I sat down and tried to cuddle up to him. He smiled slightly, but never said a word. I felt like he definitely had something on his mind, but was hesitant to discuss it. The silence was too much for me. I went to bed. Soon he joined me and much to my surprise he responded to my caresses and we made love! But afterwards, he fell asleep immediately. I lay there and cried. I’m almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else. It’s like he no longer wants anything to do with me. My life is a disaster. I just know I’m losing him and I don’t know what to do.
Frank wrote:
Didn’t get the promotion, but had a great roll in the hay.
Words—too many or not nearly enough? Either way, I rest my case.
J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne (April 2008, Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne to follow), Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek.
http://www.jlmiles.com/
Jackie@jlmiles.com
Monday, April 14, 2008
HAVE BOOK. HAVE AGENT!
I have an agent! Somebody who believes in me. Well, in addition to my mother, that is. Her name is Rachelle Gardner—my agent, not my mother (her name is Lois). Rachelle’s with WordServe Literary and if you look on Google under agents that are incredible, you will find her. And she has a great blog. Check it out at My Blog.
Having no representation, I was sort of desperate, but not completely. I mean, I had an agent, once. She left the industry when she birthed two babies back-to-back at age thirty-nine. Personally I would have killed myself—I always left at least twenty-one months in between child tearing, ah, I mean child bearing, but we’re talking New York, so what can I say? They move real fast up there.
But that was then; this is now! And I’m in heaven. Rachelle is shopping my latest project The Heavenly Heart, which was inspired by an actual CBS News program where a man received his daughter’s heart. You can read more by clicking on this link: Saved By His Daughter's Heart - CBS News. Of course my story is fiction. The tagline is as follows: After a fatal accident, sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father who gets her heart. Lorelei’s untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She finds she is unable to move on without first letting go. And letting go is the last thing on her agenda.
It’s kind of like It’s a Wonderful Life in reverse. Lorelei gets the opportunity to view her life as though she hadn’t died and makes some remarkable discoveries in the process.
While Rachelle and The Heavenly Heart make the rounds, I’m busy launching the first in my Dwayne Series: Divorcing Dwayne debuted April 1st. It features Francine Harper, who’s under felony assault charges for shooting at her husband Dwayne and his stripper/lover Carla from the Peel ‘n Squeal. Francine discovers her strengths and regains her dignity via a trail and many errors. Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne will follow.
In Dear Dwayne Francine’s not doing too well after the divorce. Her therapist suggests it might be helpful to her recovery if she pretends to write letters to Dwayne and gets everything off her chest. But it’s not her chest that has her worried. It’s her belly; she’s pregnant. And if that’s not bad enough, while divorcing Dwayne she had a fling with a Hollywood cad (as portrayed in Divorcing Dwayne). She also had a close encounter of the intimate kind with Dwayne during that same period. And wouldn’t you know? She’s expecting twins. WHO’S THE FATHER??? I should say fathers. But, not to worry, Francine’s now dating the mayor, a Danny DeVito-type character who Francine insists is good husband material, “even if he does only come up to my navel.”
In Dating Dwayne things don’t work out for Francine and the mayor. On their wedding night, in all the excitement, he has a heart attack. (Think Goldie Hawn in Private Benjamin). Soon Francine takes solace in Dwayne’s company. Good grief! Well, not good but, lots of grief. Ray Anne, her best friend since first grade says, “Francine, have you got a boulder in your head, or what?” Will the struggling new widow with toddler twins come to her senses or end up, once again, married to Dwayne?
You can check out my touring schedule by going to my website at http://www.jlmiles.com/. Hope to see you! In the interim, please excuse me. I need to call my mother and let her know she was right. I do have some talent. It just took the right person to notice. Praise the Lord! I feel like Rodney Dangerfield. I’ll finally get some respect.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Life and Death in a Big City
My daughter-in-law just died. She was thirty-two years old. Not an up subject, I know. But, there it is, right in your face—for real—as in dead and she’s gone, and it hurts so bad, and how can we stand it, and will this never end, and we’re all gonna be there someday, so get ready.
Alana came into my son’s life when she was fifteen and he was seventeen. She had the smile I wanted all my life. Big and bold and beautiful with perfect teeth. She was traveling with her dance company that she’d been part of since she was five years old. My son was traveling with his wrestling team. Amidst a backdrop of teenage ballet dancers and wrestlers they made an undeniable connection. Several conversations and a farewell breakfast at Perkins later all my son had was her address on a piece of hotel stationary and an empty bottle of Sundance Raspberry Sparkler they’d shared the night before.
They each went back to their respective home towns. A week later a long-distance romance began with a flurry of letters flying back and forth. For a year and a half the letters and a handful of phone calls sustained them. Then the unexpected happened. Alana’s Grandmama offered to pay the airfare for my son to visit. She put him up in her condominium, probably to keep a watchful eye on the lovebirds. The sparks were flying.
He brought back all these really cute pictures of them, but my son moaned around the house, one lovesick pup. Then we’d grant permission for another phone call—long distance charges in those days were horrendous—and he made pancakes for breakfast and whistled Dixie—okay we lived in the north, he whistled something else I can’t remember—and then they’d be back to their letter writing and so it went.
My son graduated high school and went on to college. More time passed. The young couple never wavered in their devotion. Alana graduated from high school six months early and they decided to move to Salt Lake City. There she would continue her dance career at the University of Utah, and my son would decide what to do when he got there. Being with Alana was all that mattered to him at the time.
They were doing great and then sort of great and then not so great. Alana had many goals in her life that included becoming a professional ballet dancer, traveling the world, and earning a PhD in medicine or science. And my lovelorn son aspired—well, frankly—to be with her. Young love is like a soap opera. You never know what will happen next.
She ran off with a professional football player. And she became a professional dancer and she went on to get her undergraduate degree in Biology. My son kept in touch as best he could. Years went by. They exchanged two letters, eight phone calls and got together for a single twenty-five minute visit when she had a lay over in Phoenix where my son was living at the time. Then Alana went about pursuing her dreams. Meanwhile my son mostly went into depression. He recovered from the heartbreak of his first grown up love but never married and continued to compare all the other women in his life to her—sad and so futile, right? I wrote many letters to no avail.
Then, the unexpected happened. When he was in his thirties, still a bachelor, he typed in her name and did a google search, but used her maiden name for Petey’s sake. Good luck! But up she popped, freshly divorced and back to her maiden moniker. Go figure. They conversed. Thirteen years had gone by—lots to talk about. She never married the football player. She married and divorced a doctor. She was in Minneapolis. He was in Phoenix. They flew back and forth. They clicked. Here’s where the drama comes in.
She’d been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. That’s how he happened to find her. The article on google said she’d defied the odds, gone on to Princeton, and gotten her master’s degree as a Molecular Biologist all the while smitten with a brain tumor. All the while my son was still smitten with her.
They married. She moved to Arizona. They bought a house. And the cancer grew. Two years went by. The doctors said, “Look’n good.” And the cancer grew. They decorated their home. They met the neighbors. The doctors said, “Doing fine.” And the cancer grew. They painted and laughed and cooked spaghetti. The doctors said, “No problem.” And the cancer grew. They bought two miniatures dachshunds. They named them Dave and Jack. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “Way to go!” They climbed Mount Sonoma and camped out and made love. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “You’re amazing.” And the cancer grew. They danced and planted their yard and bought a new car and had company visit. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “You’re doing great.” And the cancer grew.
But, one day her back hurt, and her head hurt, and she collapsed, and they took her to the hospital, and the doctors said. “It’s bad. The cancer’s back. And the cancer said, “That’s right! And I’m going to kill you.”
And it did.
If you’d like to read Alana’s story go to www.helptgen.org. Scroll down to the bottom of the screen and click on Alana’s Story.
J. L. Miles is the author or Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River, and Roseflower Creek. Email her at jackie@jlmiles.com. Or check out her website at www.jlmiles.com.
My daughter-in-law just died. She was thirty-two years old. Not an up subject, I know. But, there it is, right in your face—for real—as in dead and she’s gone, and it hurts so bad, and how can we stand it, and will this never end, and we’re all gonna be there someday, so get ready.
Alana came into my son’s life when she was fifteen and he was seventeen. She had the smile I wanted all my life. Big and bold and beautiful with perfect teeth. She was traveling with her dance company that she’d been part of since she was five years old. My son was traveling with his wrestling team. Amidst a backdrop of teenage ballet dancers and wrestlers they made an undeniable connection. Several conversations and a farewell breakfast at Perkins later all my son had was her address on a piece of hotel stationary and an empty bottle of Sundance Raspberry Sparkler they’d shared the night before.
They each went back to their respective home towns. A week later a long-distance romance began with a flurry of letters flying back and forth. For a year and a half the letters and a handful of phone calls sustained them. Then the unexpected happened. Alana’s Grandmama offered to pay the airfare for my son to visit. She put him up in her condominium, probably to keep a watchful eye on the lovebirds. The sparks were flying.
He brought back all these really cute pictures of them, but my son moaned around the house, one lovesick pup. Then we’d grant permission for another phone call—long distance charges in those days were horrendous—and he made pancakes for breakfast and whistled Dixie—okay we lived in the north, he whistled something else I can’t remember—and then they’d be back to their letter writing and so it went.
My son graduated high school and went on to college. More time passed. The young couple never wavered in their devotion. Alana graduated from high school six months early and they decided to move to Salt Lake City. There she would continue her dance career at the University of Utah, and my son would decide what to do when he got there. Being with Alana was all that mattered to him at the time.
They were doing great and then sort of great and then not so great. Alana had many goals in her life that included becoming a professional ballet dancer, traveling the world, and earning a PhD in medicine or science. And my lovelorn son aspired—well, frankly—to be with her. Young love is like a soap opera. You never know what will happen next.
She ran off with a professional football player. And she became a professional dancer and she went on to get her undergraduate degree in Biology. My son kept in touch as best he could. Years went by. They exchanged two letters, eight phone calls and got together for a single twenty-five minute visit when she had a lay over in Phoenix where my son was living at the time. Then Alana went about pursuing her dreams. Meanwhile my son mostly went into depression. He recovered from the heartbreak of his first grown up love but never married and continued to compare all the other women in his life to her—sad and so futile, right? I wrote many letters to no avail.
Then, the unexpected happened. When he was in his thirties, still a bachelor, he typed in her name and did a google search, but used her maiden name for Petey’s sake. Good luck! But up she popped, freshly divorced and back to her maiden moniker. Go figure. They conversed. Thirteen years had gone by—lots to talk about. She never married the football player. She married and divorced a doctor. She was in Minneapolis. He was in Phoenix. They flew back and forth. They clicked. Here’s where the drama comes in.
She’d been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. That’s how he happened to find her. The article on google said she’d defied the odds, gone on to Princeton, and gotten her master’s degree as a Molecular Biologist all the while smitten with a brain tumor. All the while my son was still smitten with her.
They married. She moved to Arizona. They bought a house. And the cancer grew. Two years went by. The doctors said, “Look’n good.” And the cancer grew. They decorated their home. They met the neighbors. The doctors said, “Doing fine.” And the cancer grew. They painted and laughed and cooked spaghetti. The doctors said, “No problem.” And the cancer grew. They bought two miniatures dachshunds. They named them Dave and Jack. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “Way to go!” They climbed Mount Sonoma and camped out and made love. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “You’re amazing.” And the cancer grew. They danced and planted their yard and bought a new car and had company visit. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “You’re doing great.” And the cancer grew.
But, one day her back hurt, and her head hurt, and she collapsed, and they took her to the hospital, and the doctors said. “It’s bad. The cancer’s back. And the cancer said, “That’s right! And I’m going to kill you.”
And it did.
If you’d like to read Alana’s story go to www.helptgen.org. Scroll down to the bottom of the screen and click on Alana’s Story.
J. L. Miles is the author or Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River, and Roseflower Creek. Email her at jackie@jlmiles.com. Or check out her website at www.jlmiles.com.
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