aliciajoseph

Is it Writer’s Block or is the Thrill Gone?

I received a notification from WordPress that this year marks my 11th anniversary with them. No. I didn’t pop champagne bottles. It wasn’t a celebratory anniversary of that kind. The news mostly made me reflect on the last 11 years.

2014.

I knew nothing about blogging. A friend had mentioned I should look into it back in 2005 or 2006. I asked him what blogging was. He told me people just write things, and that Rosie O’Donnell had one.

I liked Rosie. She was funny. I had nothing against her; I just wasn’t interested in reading about her daily musings. I didn’t understand the curiosity one would have in strangers writing about their lives.

If I wanted to read something, that’s what books were for, and books were edited for quality.

Then 2014 came around. I published my first book. A novella called Her Name. My editor at the time told me to start a blog. Get myself out there. It’d take me 8 hours to write less than 600 words. I pondered every word, wanting every post to evoke perfectly the emotion I meant to convey.

I felt a sense of accomplishment after each post, and this new excitement of checking how many people visited my blog, especially those from other countries, was an experience I hadn’t known before.

I went all in. I wrote two blogs a week. I put much effort into deciding what to write about. I had a folder filled with blog ideas and newspaper cutouts. I treated my blog as if it were an assignment.

As I write this blog, nearly four months after my last post, I miss the newness of it all. The excited wonder of who will read my blog and what I will write next. I was new to most of social media in 2014. I had just joined Twitter and discovered the wonderful writing community. It was such a supportive and welcoming space.

Everything seemed so much nicer then. Am I a victim of looking at the past with rose-tinted glasses? Or have things really changed that much? Twitter, now X, still has a writing community, but I’m not as engaging as I used to be.

It’s probably me. I’ve allowed time to make me jaded. I’ve let the enthusiasm I once felt wilder away. Half the year has almost passed, and I haven’t written more than an outline. In the early years of 2014-2017, my passion for writing kept me locked in my room for hours. Now, it takes four months to settle myself into writing a blog. Did I say I used to write two blogs a week?

I’m too young to be so jaded and too old to waste time.

Is it common for writers to go through periods of hating, no, despising writing? Of wondering if it’s even worth it anymore, if the joy is gone?

Is it worth blogging anymore, when vlogging has been the trend for years now? Do people even read blogs anymore? But I’ve always been late to trends. I’ll probably start vlogging in 2033, when everyone else has moved up to the latest technological way people communicate with each other.

I’ve got a little more than 6 months to turn this horrible attitude around and start my book.

What methods have worked for you?

You Used to be my Valentine

You used to be my Valentine. For fourteen years, the sweetest and most loyal Valentine a girl could want. Always ready for a cuddle. Never backing away from a kiss– And there were many of those cuddles and kisses. Yet, somehow, they now don’t feel like enough.

You used to love me. I used to be your world. Your every day revolved around me. You hated when I’d leave the house, even for a quick grocery run. You waited for me anxiously, as if worried you’d never see me again, and then greeted me as though years had passed since you watched me walk out the door.

That’s a hard love to get over, but I’ve been without you for exactly two months. There are moments I still expect to see your beautiful face in your usual spots, but then reality slaps me in the face, reminding me that you’re no longer here.

It’s a heartbreaking moment because my every day also revolved around you. You also used to be my world, and I miss you so fucking much.

The night after your suffering had ended, I went outside in the front yard. I walked around the trees and imagined your body in front of me. I even looked out for coyotes that I was always certain at any moment would jump out of the shadows and attack you.

I was your protector as much as you were mine.

I imagined us walking back to the front door together and then I headed to the place on the counter where your jar of treats used to be. No matter how sick you were in the end, you never forgot that you were due a treat every time you came in from outside, whether you did anything or not.

Uncle had moved those treats immediately after your body left the house, as well as your dish bowls. It was too hard to see any reminder of you, even though your presence had lingered so heavily in the house in those immediate days after.

Months later, you’re still there.

That night, I brought your bed and favorite blankie downstairs to my room. You hadn’t slept down there in many months.

I had washed your bed after I was sure this was the end. I wanted you to die in a freshly cleaned bed. After a week of lying in it and then dying in it, the bed smelled comfortably like you. So distinct. So safe.

Two months later, with the bed remaining in its place in my room, your scent still keeps me close to you.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

You used to be my Valentine.

For the first time in fourteen years, I won’t have my Valentine cuddling next to me. But I’m in no hurry to find a new one.

You can’t replace perfection.

Phil, you were your Mama’s greatest love, and I can’t wait to see you again and give you a kiss on the top of your nose.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my love. My boy. My Angel.

Phil, My Baby

Despite my constant intention to be more consistent with this blog, (do people even read blogs anymore?) the months soared with not a word written. As the year comes to a wrap, I have neglected not just my blog writing but also my author writing.

Life got chaotic. A sick dog. An unexpected stay by a family member and her dog. Two dogs-one old and sick. The other-healthy but anxious. A young, fearful, and unpredictable dog can be as stressful as a dog who barks in the night to be cared for.

Phil’s illness started in March. Coughing and wheezing through the night, with a very congested nose. A vet appointment resulted in an upper respiratory infection. Antibiotics cured the infection but not the overly snotty (sorry, will be writing about snots a lot) nose. That got worse.

More medication with an antihistamine. Wait for two to three weeks. Nothing. Then stronger meds. Wait more weeks. Still, nothing. My poor baby could barely breathe. Through the night he’d struggle to hock the phlegm free from his nose. I’d be there with tissue to pull the yellow mucous from his nose, stringy and thick like a pulled mozzarella stick (gross but true) from his nostrils.

This went on for months. I kept tissues all over the house to be ready for the boogers. There were plenty.

After another vet appointment, we tried steroids. With a concoction of prednisone, an antibiotic, and five Benadryl tablets a day, Phil could finally breathe easy. After about three months of sleepless nights, Phil and I were finally able to get some sleep.

As is often the case with prednisone, (I know from experience) the drug may ease the intended health issue, but it also causes harsh symptoms of its own. Phil’s back legs grew weaker. Being fifteen, they weren’t strong to begin with. He could no longer climb stairs and needed help getting up. Even with no-slip booties, he has difficulty walking.

The steroids gave him an insatiable thirst and appetite. He was unable to be calm, constantly panting and pacing. I no longer recognized my dog. While the old Phil would lick me all over the face, the sick Phil turned his head from me. I understood the changes he was going through, (I had the same side effects) but he didn’t.

A month later, I called the vet and told him we needed to wean Phil off those crazy pills. His legs slowly got stronger. He still can’t do stairs and a couple of times when the gate wasn’t up, he tried to go downstairs and fell the entire way down. I hurried to him (cursing myself for forgetting to put the gate back up) and plucked him back to his feet. The old dog shook himself off and slowly walked around the entire basement, taking in what used to be his territory.

Since he was already down there, I lifted him onto the couch. We cuddled together like we used to all of those years–14 years (he was two when I adopted him). He misses his basement. That is where we spent the most time together. It’s where we slept and spent lazy days/nights on the couch. It’s where he stood/ lay next to me on the floor while I did yoga–giving me kisses at every opportunity. Sometimes, he’d lie so close to me that his seventy-pound body pressed against mine and I couldn’t move to do yoga or any exercise.

But that’s where he always wanted to be–next to me.

There’s so much I already miss about him. He was a lazy, calm, loving dog that I used to have to wake up at ten because he’d sleep till noon if I’d let him.

Now he wakes up at six with a bark. If he needs me at night, he barks. Sometimes he barks throughout the day just as he lying on his blanket, not seeming to need anything. Except, for a little attention.

It’s a strange feeling, missing your dog while he’s still alive.

I’m missing the way he used to be. The way we used to be together. I didn’t think time would ever change our relationship. But the dynamics of a relationship never lasts for anyone/thing. Not for siblings. Not for parents. Not for friends. Not for lovers. Not even for dogs and their owners.

Everything changes.

I know I just spent my last Thanksgiving with him, and this Christmas will also be Phil’s last. I adopted Phil from Animal Care and Control on December 26,2010. He is a Pitbull mix. Not the type of dog that usually makes its way out of Animal Control with a beating heart.

Five months ago, I didn’t think he’d be alive come Labor Day. Now I have hope he will be with me to celebrate his 14th Gotcha Day with me. Last year, we had a huge birthday party for him. I turned a post-Christmas party with my siblings, nieces, and nephews into a huge birthday celebration.

We had birthday decorations, birthday hats, a birthday cake, and, of course, a birthday song. I’m glad I did that last year. I don’t think my sixteen-year-old doggie will be up for all that commotion this time around the sun. Though, I don’t think he’d mind a birthday cake.

So, Phil is not the same. He barks a lot. He wakes me up at all times of the night/morning. I am sometimes impatient though I try not to be. One day I will miss that bark. I will hear his bark only in my dreams and will wake up hoping it is real, expecting to see him. Then reality will set in. My dog is no longer here. How will I take that?

I don’t yet know. My dog is still here. Upstairs. Sleeping quietly, for now. I will go to him and kiss the top of his nose. Smell is fur. Hold him in my arms. Tonight, I will hear his bark. And no matter how tired I am, I won’t get frustrated, because I’ll remember a time will come when the bark I hear will no longer be real.

It’s Cicada Time Again

I have two trees in my front yard. One is covered with them, the other, only minimally. I took my dog out and felt like I was in a scene from the movie The Birds. One by one they descended upon me, flying into my face and my hair– the way the black birds attacked the kids in the movie. (Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but those flying insects do come at you.)

The cicadas are back in town. Spread the word around. (Pat yourself on the back if you immediately started singing the song.) Though my fun with boys is limited, ’cause I’m a lesbian, I can emphatically say cicadas are not as fun as boys (you’ll get this if you know the song).

Cicadas are a fucking disaster.

My state is one of seventeen states currently experiencing the emergence of these very noisy and very ugly insects. Why couldn’t cicadas look more like lovely butterflies rather than Freddy Krueger with wings.

I’ve been around cicadas since I was a kid. Every thirteen and seventeen years a new brood of cicadas have come up through the trees. I remember the noise. I remember them clustered all over the trees stumps and branches, and the crunch under your shoes as you stepped on a shell or, accidentally, a live one. But I don’t remember the attacks.

I have two trees in my front yard. One is covered with them, the other, only minimally. I took my dog out and felt like I was in a scene from the movie The Birds. One by one they descended upon me, flying into my face and my hair– the way the blackbirds attacked the kids in the movie. (Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but those flying insects do come at you.)

Thankfully, unlike the birds in the movie, cicadas don’t bite. I think they just gravitate to whatever object is moving. That has been my non-expert observation.

Everyone I know is bothered by them. No one was looking forward to the arrival of these red-eyed flying bugs, but I read in the Chicago Sun-Times that people from parts of this country, and other countries, are traveling to my state. Apparently, Illinois is the “hotspot” location for “cicada observers” or “cicada enthusiasts” or just those good old-fashioned nature lovers.

According to the article, central Illinois will have the most tourists because that area will be host to both the thirteen-year and seventeen-year cicada species. I don’t know which species is making all that racket outside my house, I’m just amazed that people are excited to spend money to see these, as my mother likes to call them, “little fuckers”.

“Fuckers! All of them!” A friend texted me today.

I think you get the picture of how the locals feel about the temporary cicada invasion.

My neighbor texted me this afternoon to get a cicada out of her bedroom. It had come into the house the night before. She had slept on the couch. Equipped with a broom and a flashlight, I found the little bugger alive under her bed.

Just today, after coming in from outside with my dog, I thought I had felt something in my hair, but it was very faint, so I went on. Then about six seconds later, it moved and made its high-piercing sound right next to my ear. I dropped my head and shook my hair. The ugly thing fell to the floor.

My mother yelled, “Kill it! Kill it!”

I did not. I picked it up with a paper towel and let it back outside. Even though I’m not a fan of insects and bugs, I don’t kill them when I find them in my house. If I can pick them up with a towel, I will let them outside. If I can’t pick them up, I leave them be. Figure they’ll just crawl back into the walls or something, and I won’t see them again.

But things always don’t end up like that, despite my good intentions. The other day I came in from outside. Went to the bathroom. Sat on the toilet. And then I heard it. That high-piercing screech. I shot up. Shook my hair. Looked in the mirror and saw the thing stuck to the back of my T-shirt.

I flicked it to the floor, grabbed some tissue, and I crushed that son of a bitch.

I’m sorry. But that was neither the time nor the place to make your presence known. RIP, Crushed Cicada.

I hope this post was helpful to anyone curious about these insects. I was going to include a picture of a cicada. I have so many huddled around my tree, but no way was I bending over to take a picture of them. I shudder to think how many cicadas would end up on my back and in my hair.

Google is a beautiful thing.

Edit: I included a picture of a cicada from the public domain. I did not take this myself.

screenshot_20240605_100020_photos

When Someone Shows You Who They Are …

Believe them? I guess. That’s what we’re told to do, right? Someone behaves in a manner we find uncivil, rude, inappropriate, or has a disagreeable character (values) or personality (attitude), and we write them off, ghost them, block them from our life.

Are there exceptions to this rule? Or are we forever defined by our imperfect moment/s? Is there no consideration to a person’s mindset? How do we decipher if someone’s behavior is actually who they are versus a behavior influenced by many of society’s unjust and unfair ways?

Some people have been treated so badly in personal relationships (abused, used, lied to, cheated on) their learned cynical nature interferes with their true behavior, clouding the person they really are.

I read this saying a lot on social media, “Be kind. You don’t know what people are going through.”

Some people give second chances, even third and fourth chances. While some give none. For those who give none, life must be wonderful to be so perfect.

Yet, Here We Are

Taylor Fitch is not a woman looking for love. She is content spending her nights with random women, but a promise to her late grandmother forces Taylor to try a relationship. She meets Alicia Manson and gives her best attempt at a commitment, but Taylor’s wild ways cannot be tamed.

With no family except her estranged father, Taylor’s roommate and best friend, Carolyn Flowers, becomes everything to her. The only person she trusts. The only person she feels unconditional love for, and from. Carolyn’s strong nurturing instinct and Taylor’s innate protective nature provide the foundation of an impenetrable friendship.

When Carolyn discovers she isn’t as heterosexual as she once thought, she falls for a woman who threatens to destroy the friendship she knows she can’t live without. When faced with a choice, will love or friendship prevail?

Here is an excerpt of my new lesbian romance novel, “Yet, Here we Are.”

“That’s it.” Jeff shot up from the couch. His book and notepad dropped to his feet. “I can’t take this anymore. You said to give it time and things would calm down. It’s been months, and she has not calmed down!” Jeff screamed over the loud music. “I need to study. You need to study.” He grabbed his backpack off the floor and stuffed his books into it. “We should have gone somewhere else.”

“She was supposed to be at her girlfriend’s tonight, but they got into a fight,” Carolyn said.

“Big fucking surprise there,” Jeff scoffed. “And Taylor doesn’t have a girlfriend. Fuck buddy, maybe, but not a girlfriend.”

“It’s none of our business.” Carolyn lowered her voice.

“Why the hell are you whispering?” Jeff opened his arms to the room. “She can’t hear us with that crap blasting! Someone needs to tell her Guns-N-Roses died in 1994.” He shoved his notebook deeper into the bag and zipped it shut. “I don’t know how you can stand a bunch of lesbians hanging around here all the time.”

“She’s my friend,” Carolyn said.

“She’s someone you split rent with.”

“And now she’s my friend.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.” Jeff slung the backpack over his shoulder.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it.” He turned away. “It’s late. I’m not getting into this right now.”

“No.” Carolyn stopped him. “We need to get into this right now because I don’t like the way you look down on her. What bothers you the most about Taylor? That she’s a lesbian or that she’s promiscuous?”

“She’s a bad influence,” he responded.

“Because she’s a lesbian or because she’s promiscuous?”

Jeff straightened his posture, and his six-foot-three frame towered over Carolyn’s five-foot-seven slender stature. “She takes nothing seriously. She doesn’t have her shit together, and I have no patience for incompetence.”

“You’re right. If only she were as put together and mature as the idiots you hang out with. Tell me, who’s winning the ‘I can fuck more bitches than you because my dick is bigger than yours’ battle of the over-stretched egos, Matt or Billy?”

“What are you talking about?” Jeff smirked.

“Don’t do that. Don’t act like you don’t know how they are. Matt videotapes himself having sex with women without them even knowing,” Carolyn said.

“He doesn’t do that.”

“Bullshit he doesn’t. He told me when he was drunk. So you have a lot of fucking nerve judging Taylor with those assholes as friends!”

Jeff took a step back and stared at her. “Before Taylor moved in, you didn’t talk like that.”

“Before Taylor moved in, I used to take a lot of shit.”

“I liked you better before,” he remarked.

“Of course you did.”

Please check out “Yet, Here we Are,” “Her Name,” “Loving Again,” and the rest of my books available on Kindle Unlimited.

Thank you.

Phil Goes to the Park

Phil is a pitbull/lab mix. He’s 14 years old. Will turn 15 in December. I didn’t expect to have him this long. For him to still be with me is a gift, I’m not certain I deserve but will absolutely take.

Three years ago, almost to the date, Phil had liver failure. Early on, the vet told me she didn’t expect him to make it through the weekend. Days spent in tears; nights spent taking him outside every thirty minutes because of the IV fluids he’d been given. I begged. Pleaded for the universe to give me one more year with him, never thinking I’d get three, and still going.

A week before Phil’s health took a dive, we’d spent the day at his favorite park, with a large pond where children fish and plenty of green grass for picnicking. I’d brought a blanket. Read a book while Phil smelled the bushes and, eventually, rolled in the grass. We walked the path that circled the pond, a sign listed the trail at .45 miles.

Even at 11 years old, Phil had tackled that trail twice. A week later, he was dying. It took a couple of months for him to fully recover. By the time he was ready, I, unfortunately, was not. My own health had taken a hit and knocked me down for a couple of years. I missed doing many things– family functions, ball games, concerts, socializing with friends– but especially, taking Phil to the park.

After three years, Phil finally got to go to his favorite park. I had always brought water for him in a blue thermos. I never had to say a word. The moment he’d see me holding the thermos, he knew he was going to the park.

Three years later, Phil hadn’t forgotten that blue thermos. My 14-year-old dog turned into a tail-wagging, energetic puppy when he saw me filling that thermos with water. He knew. If his old legs would have allowed him, he’d have jumped all over me for taking so long to get him into the car.

The weather couldn’t have been more perfect. Sunny, with a cool breeze. While I was sick, I’d thought about those casual days at the park, sitting on a blanket in the grass, surrounded by water, thick green bushes, and flowers in full bloom, with the sun tingling my skin, and Phil’s doggie kisses wetting my face. I’d missed those days so much.

After three years, we made back to the park together. Though Phil’s legs no longer allow him to walk that trail, not even once, not even halfway, he enjoyed the park just the same. His nose still works, and boy, was he enjoying the scents. His tail never stopped wagging as he sniffed the grass, the bushes, and the trees. We stayed in one general area, as opposed to walking the entire park, but that didn’t bother him.

Dogs aren’t like people. They don’t lament about what they can no longer do but indulge in what they still can. Phil can still walk, albeit slower and not as far. But he took in the sun, the scents, the people…. the moment.

Humans can learn so much from animals.

The car ride there saw a dog perked up in the backseat, face looking out the rolled-down window, mouth open and tongue hanging out with pants of excitement.

The car ride home saw an old dog sprawled out in the backseat–exhausted and sleepy. I wish I had before/after pictures. But I don’t. However, I have other pictures that show Phil enjoyed his day at the park.

No one knows how many days at the park we have left. We should spend them the way dogs do.

My Published Books

I’m (hopefully) a couple months away from finishing my fifth book tentatively titled Yet, Here We Are. I’m at the “wrap up” stage of the story. I am tying up loose ends and resolving all conflict in a way that I hope satisfies readers, because who likes a bad ending?

My plan was to be completed with the book by this time and to already have started the editing process. That obviously didn’t happen. I suppose this is why they say to write your plans in pencil.

My goal is to always write at least one scene a day. Last night, I wrote half of a scene. Tonight, my goal is to finish the rest of it. Shouldn’t be too difficult. I know how the story ends and I know the scenes I need to get me there. So why am I dragging my feet? Why are getting these words on page seem like such a drastic feat?

While I get this fifth book figured out, here’s a little bit about the books I have already finished and published.

Madison Andrews has spent her entire life ~unsuccessfully~ searching for love. She begins having vivid dreams of the same woman every night, and soon, Madison believes this woman is the love she has been searching for. Madison’s dreams become more intense and she realizes the dreams she’s having recreate moments taken from actual events from her life ~~ and this woman is there for all of it. Madison searches for her, but how can she find a woman she knows everything about… and yet nothing? She doesn’t even know her name.

Dana Perkins lost her longtime partner in a tragic accident. Although she still struggles with the loss, her profound loneliness is evidence that it is time to move on. She knows her deceased lover, Casey, wouldn’t want her living this way. Dana begins her slow process of letting go, removing reminders of Casey from her house, and dating again.

The women she meets leave Dana uninspired and missing her deceased partner even more. Just as she is about to resign herself to the belief that she will never love again, Dana meets Emily Daniels, a married woman who is deeply conflicted over her attraction to women. Soon, the two women form a friendship that leads to deeper emotions. They discover that one moment in their past had brought them together in a way neither woman could have ever imagined. Is that one moment in time enough to let both women follow their hearts, or will they let their past continue to rule their future?

aliciajoseph11_v2 — A Penny on the Tracks

Lyssa and her best friend Abbey discover a hideout near the train tracks and spend the summer before sixth grade hanging out and finding freedom from issues at home. Their childhood innocence shatters when the hideout becomes the scene of a tragic death.

As they’re about to graduate from high school, Abbey’s family life spirals out of control while Lyssa is feeling guilty for deceiving Abbey about her sexuality. After another tragic loss, Lyssa finds out that a penny on the tracks is sometimes a huge price to pay for the truth

AnnabelandtheBoyintheWindow-hires — Annabel and the Boy in the Window

Annabel and the Boy in the Window is a story set in the mid 1950’s about living against societal norms and expectations. Annabel is a teenage girl who has little interest in marriage or having children. She desires an education and a career, but her alcoholic father stands in her way. Annabel sneaks out of her bedroom window at night and walks the streets of her quiet suburban town, while dreaming of a different life. She peers through peoples’ windows, eager for a glimpse of what a normal and happy family life looks like.

On one of her nightly walks, she sees Danny through his window and is immediately captivated by him. His soothing smile and gentle demeanor give her the feeling of safety and security that living in her own home fails to provide. Danny, the popular high school quarterback, is two years older than Annabel. He and Annabel run in very different social circles, so when Danny approaches her in the school hall one day, no one is more surprised than Annabel that a simple conversation about schoolwork would lead to football games, dances, and affairs of the heart Annabel never experienced before but only read about in books.

Annabel has dreams of her own, but when her abusive father becomes a threat to wreck those dreams, all seems lost until a secret from his past comes out and changes everything.

Thanks for reading. My first three books Her Name, Loving Again, and A Penny on the Tracks are available on Kindle Unlimited.

An Excerpt from my WIP

Taylor Fitch and Carolyn Flowers are roommates who become best friends, despite the stark differences in their personalities and approach to life, love, and relationships.

Taylor sleeps with women whom she doesn’t care to remember their names, while Carolyn is dating a man she intends to marry.

While both women attend college, Carolyn studies hard to maintain the GPA she needs to keep her scholarship, and Taylor doesn’t study at all and is barely passing her classes.

But none of that makes a difference in their friendship. They each give what the other needs. Carolyn is nurturing when Taylor is sick, and Taylor is protective when Carolyn is hurt.

Here is an excerpt from my current WIP titled Yet, Here We Are.

It was Tuesday night. Carolyn was finishing a class assignment due the next day. Jeff sat beside her on the couch, studying the pages of a thick textbook, while scribbling notes on a pad of paper.

Rock music blasted from Taylor’s bedroom. Jeff had already complained twice to Carolyn about the noise, and maybe she should have agreed to go to the campus library when he had suggested it, but Carolyn wanted to study from the comfort of her own couch.

She watched Jeff cast another irritated look toward Taylor’s room, and the muscles of his jaw clenched in spasm-like motions. He popped the cap off his pen with his teeth and chewed the plastic like a piece of gum, showing off the strength of his jaw.

“That’s it.” Jeff shot up from the couch, his book and notepad falling to his feet. “I can’t take this anymore. You said to give it time and things would calm down. It’s been months and she has not calmed down!” Jeff screamed over the loud music. “I need to study. You need to study.” He grabbed his backpack off the floor and stuffed his books into it. “We should have gone somewhere else.”

“She was supposed to be at her girlfriend’s tonight, but they got into a fight,” Carolyn said.

“Big fucking surprise there,” Jeff scoffed. “And Taylor doesn’t have a girlfriend. Fuck buddy, maybe, but not a girlfriend.”

“It’s none of our business.” Carolyn lowered her voice.

“She’s my friend,” Carolyn said.

“She’s someone you split rent with.”

“And now she’s my friend.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.” Jeff slung the backpack over his shoulder.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it.” He turned away. “It’s late. I’m not getting into this right now.”

“She’s a bad influence,” he responded.

“Because she’s a lesbian or because she’s promiscuous?”

Jeff straightened his posture, and his six-foot-three frame towered over Carolyn’s five-foot-seven slender stature. “She doesn’t take anything seriously. She doesn’t have her shit together and I have no patience for incompetence.”

“What are you talking about?” Jeff smirked.

“Don’t do that. Don’t act like you don’t know how they are. Matt videotapes himself having sex with women without them even knowing,” Carolyn said.

“He doesn’t do that.”

“Bullshit he doesn’t. He told me when he was drunk. So you have a lot of fucking nerve judging Taylor with those assholes as friends!”

Jeff took a step back and stared at her. “Before Taylor moved in you didn’t talk like that.”

“Before Taylor moved in, I used to take a lot of shit.”

“I liked you better before,” he remarked.

“Of course, you did.”

Thank you for reading my excerpt from a story that has been over twenty years in the making. I hope to finish it soon and set these characters free.

Writing pen and paper

Sharon Ledwith’s Tips for Promoting Your Novel.

4 Successful Ways to Promote Your Novel From Sharon Ledwith

It’s not all about book reviews when promoting your novel these days. Yes, book reviews are valuable and securing them should be on any author’s book promotion to-do list. However, your book deserves more widespread, long-term, and on-going exposure than it can garner through reviews alone. And every writer knows that getting your novel to be talked about month after month is no easy feat. So, what can authors do to get their books into the hands of their readers?

You need to generate the ongoing chatter your book deserves by seeing the publicity and promotion value in your fiction. There’s no question that promoting fiction is harder than promoting nonfiction—but because of that, it’s also more rewarding. Here are four ways to help you promote and manifest sales:

Find the nonfiction gems in your novel to use in creating newsworthy material for relevant media outlets. For example, in The Last Timekeepers and the Arch of Atlantis, I set the novel in Medieval Nottingham around the time Robin Hood was suspected to have lived. I found interesting tidbits that could be used for an opportunity to be featured on travel blogs. If you’re writing your novel now, make sure you work in some nonfiction gems you can capitalize on later.

Use your content to identify promotion allies. In Lost and Found, Book One of Mysterious Tales from Fairy Falls, I wrote about the local animal shelter in the fictional town of Fairy Falls, and the tough task of continual fundraising to keep the shelter from closing. I contacted shelters and rescues in my area with the hopes of working with them and bringing awareness to the ongoing struggle of lost and abandoned pets. Don’t just send them a note that says, “I’ve written a book your members will love.” Meet with them or send a copy of the book with a letter outlining promotional possibilities and what’s in it for them.

Engage first. Focus on one or two social media networking sites. My two preferences are Facebook and Twitter, but there’s a whole slew out there to choose from these days. Make sure you master the most effective and appropriate ways to use social media to promote your book before spreading yourself too thin on several sites. Sometimes less is more.

Make the connection. Help readers connect with you by blogging (you do have a blog, right?) about your writing process and experiences. Get excerpts up on your website (you definitely should invest in your own cyber real estate) and read portions from your books via podcasts or YouTube videos so potential readers can get a feel for your writing and decide if the story is worth their investment. Give readers enough online (website, blog, YouTube videos, podcasts, free downloads) to convince them they’d like your book enough to hit the buy button.

Authors—how do you keep readers buzzing about your books? Can you add anything else to this list? Readers—what makes you want to invest your time and money in a certain book or author? Would love to read your input and comments.

Cheers, and thank you for spending time with me by reading my post!

Sharon Ledwith is the author of the middle-grade/young adult time travel adventure series, THE LAST TIMEKEEPERS, and the award-winning teen psychic mystery series, MYSTERIOUS TALES FROM FAIRY FALLS. When not writing, reading, researching, or revising, she enjoys anything arcane, ancient mysteries, and single malt scotch. Sharon lives a serene, yet busy life in a southern tourist region of Ontario, Canada, with her spoiled hubby, and a moody calico cat. Learn more about Sharon Ledwith on her WEBSITE and BLOG. Look up her AMAZON AUTHOR page for a list of current books. Stay connected on FACEBOOK, TWITTER, PINTEREST, LINKEDIN, INSTAGRAM, and GOODREADS. BONUS: Download the free PDF short story The Terrible, Mighty Crystal HERE /div>