I like to think of myself as a forward-thinking kind of gal.

When my VCR died, I didn’t replace it with a new one; I bought DVR instead. Always geographically challenged and unable to read a map,  it’s great to be able to simply plug my destination’s address into my GPS and voila! I am there. Despite its flaws, I believe Wikipedia is a better source of information than the decades-old set of encyclopedias I used to refer to and I would rather search on Craigslist than buy a newspaper. I no longer have a landline; I sleep with my iPhone. And does anybody miss dial-up internet?

I tweet. I google. I skype. I wouldn’t trade 411 for a stack of phone books any day of the week. But there are a handful of items now considered obsolete that I hope I am never, ever forced to give up.

1. Mortar and brick bookstores and paper books.

 I love my Kindle. There is something magical about having two hundred books at my disposal in less space than a quality paperback. But I still feel a pang when I see my favorite Borders bookstore sitting empty. And even though I know that digital publishing is the wave of the future, I have that digital books never replace paper books altogether. There is nothing like the feel of a hardcover book with a dust jacket in one’s hand. And I dream of seeing a traditionally published book with my name on the cover at my local independent bookstore. I just hope I’m not too late.

2. CD’s.

 Yes, I have an iPod containing thousands of songs. But I prefer to buy my CD’s as opposed to mp3’s and add them to my music collection that way. I know those jewel boxes are bulky and cumbersome. But I love the cover art and the CD inserts all folded up inside them. I know you can print them out from iTunes and elsewhere. But somehow it just isn’t the same.

3. Phone calls.

I am like a teenager when it comes to texting; I find it to be quick, easy and fun. But sometimes text messaging feels cold and impersonal. Sometimes I just want to hear the sound of another person’s voice – soothing, comforting, reassuring.

4. Handwritten cards and letters.

I use email on a daily basis; obviously, it is a very efficient method of communication. But every now and then I feel the need to like to sift through my large box of handwritten communication dating back to the 1960’s: letters exchanged between my grandmother and me and birthday cards signed by aunts and uncles who are no longer with us; correspondence between my parents and me after I left home, went to college and got married; notes from two of my brothers who are also now deceased; Christmas cards with handwritten notes from other family members and far-flung friends. There is something special about being able to touch the embossed designs on the greeting cards or rub my fingers over the individual’s handwriting; it brings cherished loved ones close in a way that emails never will.

What about you? What keeps you from being totally invested in the technology of 2012?

If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.

~ Emile Zola

March was a roller coaster kind of month. I battled illness, first strep throat and then a stomach bug. Week before last, my 16yo broke his arm, requiring surgery a few days later. Shortly after we arrived home from the hospital, my 20yo called to tell me his car had stalled out completely on the interstate; miraculously, he was able to coast through four lanes of traffic to safety on the shoulder and call for a tow. My spring break started Friday; Thursday night, my home air conditioner stopped working. The repairman’s diagnosis? Rusty copper coils were leaking coolant everywhere; the compressor was shot. The bottom line? $3800. Thankfully, I have good credit. The new unit goes in today.

Now, there was a time in my life when a string of bad luck like that would throw me into the brink of despair. I would question every decision I ever made that brought me to this place, consider the possibility that it was all the consequence of evils committed in a past life, make myself sick with worry over so much responsibility and the ever mounting bills.

But I have been too busy to wallow in self-pity. Because in March I also got to visit the great city of Savannah, Georgia and attend a writer’s conference in Pensacola, Florida. I met with Haywood Smith and received some valuable feedback on my novel. And my vacation in Tahiti is confirmed; a friend of mine won an all-expenses paid cruise for two, including airfare, and invited me to be her travel companion. It’s an opportunity of a lifetime.

What I have come to realize is that every moment of our lives, no matter what is going on around us, we have a choice. We can live in fear, trapped between regrets about the past and concerns about the future, or we can live in joy, letting go of both the past and the future and simply BE where we are, safe in the moment, regardless of the challenges we might be facing.

Now, there are times when fear is a good thing. Like when instinct tells us that we are in a dangerous situation and we need to run, fast. Or when we reach a crossroads in our lives and the fear of things staying the same outweighs the fear of making a change, prompting us to create something better for ourselves.

But I am talking about that everyday, mind-numbing fear that can become a way of life. We accept our roles as helpless victims, unwilling to take action because we cannot guarantee a particular outcome. We drift like seaweed on the ocean, battered by every wave that passes, tossed eventually onto shore to wither in the sun, effectively dead though our hearts are still beating.

I continue to meditate on the word RELEASE, deliberately letting go of painful memories as they surface, forgiving myself for past mistakes, tossing aside concerns about possibilities that I cannot influence. And I keep reminding myself that every second of every day is precious, to pay attention with all my senses no matter what I am doing, to be fully engaged when I am in the presence of another human being, however insignificant that person’s role might seem to be in my life.

I have stopped flogging myself in penance for things I cannot change; I have stopped asking myself, “what if?”  Instead of imagining a future fraught with loneliness and peril – and why is that always my default? why don’t we envision futures filled with unicorns and rainbows? – I choose to focus on the many blessings I have in right here, right now. Yesterday is gone; I have little, if any, control over much of what is yet to be – besides, of course, what I can do in the present moment.

And I’m going to play that moment for all it’s worth.

The things I love doing most involve sitting in a chair. Whether I’m playing or teaching piano, making a piece of jewelry for my Etsy store, or working on my latest writing project, I am exercising my brain but not my body. Contemplating how best to fight the effects of nature and gravity, I have often wondered what it would be like to be a runner. But walking has always been been my activity of choice.

The first official event I ever attended was a Crop Walk in my hometown of Mt. Carmel, IL way back in October of 1974. I don’t remember much about the day; I don’t even remember how far we walked – just that it was far enough that I was in a world of pain the next morning. Overweight and out of shape, I could barely navigate the flight of stairs down to the basement of my church, where Sunday School was held.

Has it really been almost FORTY years?

Four Octobers later I was in college, thinner and leaner, running occasionally with my friend Pat, who convinced my roommate Robbin and me to do a 5,000 meter run (5K) with her. Although both my friends left me in their dust, I believe I ran more than I walked and don’t remember suffering as much the next day.

Pat and Robbin October 22, 1978

Then just before I graduated from college, my service fraternity organized an event for the March of Dimes called WalkAmerica. Again, I don’t recall many of the particulars, but I know I finished the course and had a great time doing it.

I’m the third from the left. April 25, 1981

Since my divorce ten years ago, my exercise regimen has consisted primarily of walking a three-mile route in my neighborhood, although the past couple of years I have also gone to a nearby Fitness 19 and run on the elliptical machine there. I enjoy it, but I not as much as I enjoy being outside, especially on the many beautiful, sunny days we have here in metro Atlanta. Inspired in part by my friend Denise, who calls running “my prayer, my moving meditation, my saving grace, and now an opportunity to love myself,”(click HERE to read her delightful blog post on the subject), I finally decided to bite the bullet.

On New Year’s Eve, my brother, his wife, and my fifteen year old discussed our fitness goals for 2012, and we agreed to do a 5K run together every month. We started in January with Lakeview Academy’s New Years Resolution 5K up in Gainesville, GA.

My son Nathan and me.

The designated path was hilly, the weather was cold and drizzly, and I was not well prepared for either. Still, I managed to finish in just under 42 minutes – a snail’s pace, I know. But the point is I FINISHED. We did another 5K in February, held at Tribble Mill Park in Lawrenceville, GA and sponsored by Deborah Montgomery Racing. This one was even more brutal. We started shortly after sunrise; the temperature was a chilly 18 degrees, not accounting for wind chill. I never broke a sweat. But it was a beautiful course meandering through the woods and again, even though my time was nothing to brag about, this time I ran more than I walked and received a finisher’s medal for my efforts.

Bling, baby!

We have big plans. The four of us are registered for another 5K the end of March, and my sister-in-law and I are training for a half marathon -that’s 13.1 miles – in April.  The truth? I can’t say I look forward to running – at least, not yet. I literally have to drag myself to the gym or to the sidewalks of my neighborhood every day; I don’t have a clue what “runner’s high” feels like, or if I will ever even experience it. But I get a little thrill every time I get out there and go for it, pushing my body a little bit harder than I did the day before, running longer and longer stretches. And I’m trying not to complain about my aching muscles; they’re just letting me know I’m getting stronger, right? Yes, I’m hoping I shed a few pounds and lose a few inches in the process. But it’s really not about the numbers. It’s about gratitude for two strong legs, flabby thighs and all; for the sunshine on my back, the wind in my face, and the natural beauty that surrounds me wherever I go; and for a family that loves and supports me enough to run with me.

How are you challenging yourself physically in 2012?

~Veronica A. Shoffstall

When you’re single and female, certain holidays pose special challenges. There’s New Year’s Eve, when everyone else is kissing their sweethearts at midnight and all you can do is watch it on television; Halloween when you want to dress up as Wilma Flintstone but can’t because nobody will know who you are supposed to be unless Fred is standing beside you; and your birthday which, depending on your age, serves as only a reminder either that your biological clock is ticking or confirmation that you’re destined to be old and alone.

It’s taken me ten years of single hood to make peace with all of this. Last year, for example, I threw myself a fabulous birthday party. I invited all my besties and their significant others, where applicable, to join me for dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant and to my house for cake and ice cream afterwards. It was a happy birthday, indeed. On Halloween, I turned off the front porch lights, poured myself a bowl of candy corn, and watched It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. I felt like I was seven again. And I brought in 2012 with my brother and his wife and my kids. We listened to 80’s music and played board games and drank champagne. I hugged my dog at midnight and went to bed feeling nothing but joy and optimism.

But now it’s almost Valentine’s Day, and I can’t even go grocery shopping without feeling like I am missing something. I have to swim through an ocean of beribboned balloons just to find a loaf of bread. The gargantuan assortment of floral displays makes it difficult to find the chicken noodle soup. And as I approach the checkout line, it is impossible to avoid the cheerful displays of stuffed animals and heart shaped candy boxes, none of which have my name on them.

Finally, though, I understand that being single is not a punishment for evil doing in a past life, a consequence of any shortcoming of mine, or even a state of lacking something. It simply is what it is. I am complete whether or not I am in a relationship.

So this year, I am going to be my own valentine. Instead of candy, I am treating myself to a five thousand meter run with my family on Sunday. The last time I went to Kroger, I tossed a perfect pink rose into my shopping cart, brought it home and put it in a vase to enjoy all weekend. And on February 14^th, I’m going to light a candle and say a prayer for each of the men I have ever loved as well as for the man I still believe is out there for me.

Whether you’re happily married, unabashedly single, or somewhere in between, I wish you and yours the happiest Valentine’s Day ever!

“So many of our dreams at first seem impossible, then they seem improbable, and then, when we summon the will, they soon become inevitable.” ~ Christopher Reeve

I am sure you know plenty of ordinary people who have done things the world deemed impossible: a gangly little girl who grew up to be a beauty queen; an underachiever who earned a graduate degree; an abused woman who lifted herself out of her misery and created a better life for herself and her children.

Heck, I bet YOU have accomplished things that some folks say they could never do. Crocheted an afghan? Run a marathon? Jumped out of an airplane?

Published a novel?

These last four are dreams of mine, and in the past I created intricate daily schedules and detailed to-do lists to help me reach such goals. In this New Year, though, I am trying a different approach. I want to remain open to adventure and possibility, to spend more time with friends and family, to simply BE. And that can’t happen when my every waking moment is accounted for before I get out of bed every day. After functioning that way for many years, I reached the point that I almost didn’t WANT to get out of bed in the morning. I was so burned out NOTHING brought me joy. And that is no way to live.

So I hereby give myself permission to pursue my passions as a lifestyle as opposed to relegating them to items on a to-do list, to improve my daily habits around diet, exercise and housekeeping and otherwise simply follow the leadings of my heart. This is not the same as aimlessly stumbling through each day not knowing what is going to happen, merely reacting to events as they occur; on the contrary, I know what I want and am willing to work hard to get it. Just not on a predetermined timetable. I want to be free to live in the moment.

Will this decision diminish my chances of success? I don’t think so. Because regardless of whether or not I ever get that publishing contract—and I firmly believe that I will—there are other, equally important aspects of my life that will need tending in order for it to be truly rich and fulfilling.

What “impossible” dreams are you working to achieve in 2012? Leave a comment for a chance to win an autographed copy of Suzanne Brockmann’s “Kiss and Tell.” Happy Third Anniversary, Petit Fours and Hot Tamales!

The Happy Hookers

As the gravity of the situation began to sink in, Désirée could hardly breathe. First her beloved boss and library branch manager Ada Rawlings was brutally murdered in the mystery section on the eve of a cruise where she hoped to find true love. Now Fred Carson, the FedEx delivery guy Désirée had been lusting after, was hanging from a noose around his neck in the historical fiction section. Could it really be that she was the killer’s next target?

Eyes wide with fear, she turned to look at hunky Detective Danny Bonner. Apparently, he had seen the book lying on the floor behind Fred’s body, as well.

“Désirée: the Bestselling Story of Napoleon’s First Love,” he said, reading the title out loud.

“That’s my name,” she whispered.

Scrawled in red lipstick across the cover was the word…“DIE.”

# # #

Once again, uniforms from the Harrow County Sheriff’s Office crowded into Désirée’s library branch, with Detective Danny Bonner at the lead, of course. They worked all through the night and into the next morning.

The library remained closed while the police completed their investigation of the crime scene and made arrangements to dispatch Fred’s body to the morgue. Meanwhile, Désirée caught snatches of sleep on a couch in what had been Ada Rawling’s office.

Bewildered, unable to escape the vision of Fred’s body and the lipstick message, at last she wandered over to the circulation desk and began cross-referencing every list she could think of. Maybe she could find a correlation that would lead to a suspect. It was a tedious task, but she loved tedious library tasks. Besides, she had never had a motivation like this.

It must have been several hours later when her concentration was broken by an insistent tapping on the glass doors of the library. She looked up to see a slender young man peering inside. She found her keys and opened the door a crack, prepared to send him on his way.

“Excuse me, are you Désirée Devereaux?”

“That’s right. I’m sorry, but the library is closed this afternoon. There has been an—uh—incident. I’m not sure how long it will be until we reopen. Your best bet is to come back tomorrow morning after nine o’clock.” She started to close the door.

“But I’m not here to check out books.” He blocked her passage with his Converse-clad foot. “My name is Drew Jordan. I’m your new assistant librarian. Didn’t you get the e-mail from central?”

Désirée studied him closely. He was dressed in dark blue jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, topped with a silky black vest. With his spiky dark hair, a couple days’ stubble on his face, and a large diamond earring in his right ear, he looked more like a punk rocker than a librarian. “No, I didn’t. But I might have missed it in all the chaos the past few days. Come on in.” She opened the door and motioned him inside.

“Monday is officially my first day on the job, but I just got into town, so I thought I’d come on over and—criminy, what’s going on here?” Drew asked, as the crew from the coroner’s office wheeled Fred’s body out on a gurney.

“It appears there was another murder here this afternoon.”

“Another murder?”

Désirée quickly filled him in on the events of the past few days.

“They must have put this building smack on top of an Indian burial ground or something.” Drew shook his head. “It sounds like a curse to me.”

Désirée shuddered. “Let’s hope not. Especially since I’m planning to work here for a good, long while.” Assuming I live that long.

“Me, too. But it wouldn’t hurt to do a little research.”

Bonner walked up, snapping his notepad shut and stuffing it in his back pocket. He raised a brow. “And who is this?”

“Detective Bonner, meet Drew Jordan. Apparently, he’s my new assistant librarian.”

“Pleased to meet you, Drew,” Bonner said, nodding at the young man. “I’m afraid you haven’t picked the greatest day to start your new job.”

“Yeah, that’s what my new boss was just telling me.”

“So, Désirée—I mean, Miss Devereaux.” Bonner cleared his throat. “We’re all finished here for the time being. I need to head on over to the Kitteridge’s to investigate the robbery there last week. Are you ready to go?”

She glanced at her new assistant. “Since Drew is here and the library is quiet, I think I’ll just stay here and show him around. I’m not sure I’m up for any more detective work today, anyway.”

He gave her a meaningful look. “Under the circumstances, I think you should revise that plan.”

He was being Detective Bonehead again. With a huff, Désirée took Danny’s arm and pulled him toward the window. “I can’t leave Drew unsupervised in the library.”

“Désirée, you got a death threat last night. I’m not leaving you alone.”

She shivered. “I know, but I have to do my job. I’ll be fine. Drew’s here.”

Danny squinted over her shoulder. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

“Central sent him.”

“You didn’t mention you were expecting an assistant.”

Désirée ground her teeth. She didn’t need to explain her business to Danny Bonner.

“Look, Detective. I appreciate that you want to protect me, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What? Why, I have a mind to—”

Just then, Danny’s cell rang. “Bonner.” His face twisted as he listened. “Yes, sir. But sir, I…” His eyes blazed. “Right away, sir.” He hung up.

“Who was that?” As if she didn’t know.

“The Chief wants me over at the Kitteridge place now. He wants these murders solved pronto.”

“Well then.” Désirée strolled back to where Drew stood and snapped her fingers. “I just remembered, it’s Thursday. I have to be here at six-thirty to unlock the doors for the Happy Hookers.”

Drew gave her that upturned eyebrow again. “And who, may I ask, are the Happy Hookers?”

“They meet in the Quiet Room every Thursday evening. To crochet.”

Danny rolled his eyes.

“For rizzles? I love to crochet,” Drew interrupted. “Do you think they’d mind if I join them?”

Rizzles? This new assistant was going to take some getting used to. “I’m sure they wouldn’t,” Désirée said. “This is a community event. Everyone is welcome.”

“Désirée,” Danny barked, his neck turning a tad red. “In case you’ve forgotten.  This branch is closed. There will be no Happy Hooker’s meeting. I need to get going.”

She turned back to Bonner. “Well, go then. I think we need to carry on with business as usual as much as possible or both Drew and I will be out of job. So I think you’d best do your job, and catch the killer.”

The red on his neck was spreading over the detective’s face. “Since you put it like that,” Danny said, “I’ll be on my way. I hope you two have a good time with the Hookers tonight.”

# # #

Two hours later, Bonner sat at his desk, scratching his head, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. There were two people dead—the second body belonging to the primary suspect. Now there was reason to believe that the murderer had a third victim in mind, and Bonner had a very personal interest in keeping this one alive. And how the heck did the Tick Tock Bandit fit in with all of this?

The sound of his phone ringing shook him out of his musings. “Bonner here.”

“Boss, there’s a lady here to see you. Her name’s Giselle. She says she needs to talk to you about the murder in the library yesterday.”

Bonner’s heart leapt. What if this was the break he needed? “Send her on in.”

A few moments later a young French woman walked in.

“Please, won’t you sit down, Ms…”

“Giselle,” she said in a thick French accent. “I work for Mr. and Mrs. Kitteridge, taking care of their children. ”

“Thank you for coming in, Giselle.” He shook her outstretched hand. “What a coincidence. I was just at the Kitteridges’ this afternoon. How did I miss seeing you?”

“I take the children on an outing every afternoon. Today we went to the park. But I saw your card on the hall table when I got back and thought I should come in and talk to you.”

“Talk about what?”

Giselle shifted in her seat, looking uncomfortable. “I heard that there was another killing at the library today.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And I heard some mention of a clock?”

“Yes,” Bonner said, being careful not to reveal anything that the media hadn’t already caught wind of. “Do you know anything about that?”

“Peut-etre.” She cleared her throat. “Do you think it might have been the same clock that was stolen from my employer?”

“Based on the description Mr. Kitteridge gave me, that’s a possibility. Why?”

“I don’t have any – je ne sais quoi – hard evidence. But last week Jacques stopped by the house. I’m almost certain the clock was there when he arrived. But after he left, it was gone.”

“And who is this Jacques?”

She grimaced. “Some people call him Skirt Boy.”

Bonner searched his memory banks. Ah, yes. Désirée had told him about the homeless, skirt-and-T-shirt-wearing young man who lived in the lot adjacent to the old library branch. “Go on.”

“Anyway, I have known Jacques a long time, so I have a hard time believing he would do something like this. Steal from a friend.”

“Maybe he doesn’t think of the Kitteridges as friends.”

“But I am his friend. And he knows how fond I am of them.”

“Just how close are the two of you?”

Giselle stared at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. “He is a friend. Nothing more.”

“Well, this is a very serious accusation.”

Giselle looked up, apparently startled. “What do you mean?”

“We have reason to believe that the Tick Tock—er, the thief—is also responsible for the murder of Fred Carson. And quite possibly Ada Rawlings, as well.”

“Mais non!” Giselle shouted. “Jacques is no killer. Of this I am certain.”

“Perhaps you don’t know this man quite as well as you think you do. I would like to ask him a few questions. Can you show me the way to his shelter?”

“D’accord.”

Bonner escorted the lady out to his squad and they drove in silence the ten miles to the old library branch. He pulled along the curb, and strolled with Giselle across the yard of the vacant lot to a ramshackle shed that stood near some trees. Beyond the structure lay a large field, a farm and the town cemetery.

He knocked on the door. No answer. He looked at Giselle.

She shrugged.

He knocked again. “Jacques? This is Detective Bonner. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Still no answer.

Gritting his teeth, he put his hand on the doorknob and gave it a twist. The door creaked open. A thin stream of light shone through a single window. The place was shabby and dark and dank. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Danny’s felt the punch of disappointment in his gut.

Skirt Boy and all his belongings had vanished.

# # #

At six-thirty on the dot, Désirée left Drew to arrange a plate of cookies in front of the coffee pot while she went to unlock the front door of the library. Gertie Johnson, the dispatcher at the police station, and four other Hookers filed in like a mother duck leading her young.

“And who, pray tell, is that?” Gertie asked, seeing Drew through the glass walls of the Quiet Room.

“That is Drew, the new assistant librarian. Turns out he crochets. What a coincidence, right? He is very excited about joining you tonight.”

“Well, isn’t that unusual?” the older woman sniffed, the corners of her mouth turning down.

“Oh, I dunno,” Betsy Thompson, who always stood next to Gertie in the soprano section of the First Pentecostal Choir, interrupted. “My cousin Al crochets. He made me the prettiest granny square afghan for Christmas last year. Truth be told, he crochets better than I do.”

“Well, I never,” Gertie said. “But he looks like a nice enough young man,” she whispered loudly as they walked into the room.

Drew glanced up, an amused look on his face. “You must be Gertie,” he said, spreading the paper napkins into an elegant swirl.

“Now, how did you know my name?” she stammered, plopping down into the nearest chair and pulling a wad of yarn and a crochet hook out of her purple tote bag.

“Désirée told me that you started this group.”

Gertie’s face flushed as her friends flanked her on either side. “That’s right. And I can’t wait to see what you are working on.”

Drew snapped his fingers. “I just need to run out to my car and grab it. I’ll be right back.” He hustled out of the room.

Gertie turned to Désirée. “My goodness, when it rains it pours, doesn’t it? Two murders and a new assistant librarian? That seems like quite a coincidence to me. Makes me wonder if he might be the murderer.”

Deci, the library cat, started chasing Gertie’s ball of yarn.

“Shoo! Bad kitty,” Gertie scolded.

The cat hissed and slunk away.

Drew reappeared, a large recycled plastic tote bag in his hand. He pulled a large striped afghan out of the bag.

“Isn’t that lovely? See, Gertie, I told you men could crochet,” Betsy said, poking her friend with her elbow.

“Ahem. So I assume the library will be closed for the funeral on Saturday?”

“Of course,” Désirée said, standing by the coffee pot and nibbling on a cookie. “It’s important that people have an opportunity to say goodbye. Besides, Ada was more than my boss.” She didn’t want to cry in front of her new employee, but it was hard not to. “She was also my friend.”

“She was my friend too, dear. That’s why I am so thrilled that our choir director asked me to sing a solo during her service on Saturday.”

“Really?” Betsy said, chaining away. “I’m surprised Mr. Ted didn’t figure out a way for Ada to sing her own solo. She always was a favorite of his, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, well.” She looked at the border Drew was adding around the many-colored stripes of his afghan. “Now what do you call that stitch you are doing?”

# # #

Detective Bonner glanced at his watch, speeding down the two-lane road that went to the library. Rats. The Chief had kept him in his office, grilling him on the progress of the case until his wife called and told him his dinner was getting cold. He glanced at the time. The Happy Hooker meeting at the library had ended ten minutes ago. And he didn’t like the idea of sexy Désirée Devereaux walking out into that dark parking lot all alone when there was a killer on the loose. A killer who might be looking for just such an opportunity to do her harm. So far, every path had led to a dead end. His prime suspect was at the county morgue with noose burns around his neck and Skirt Boy was nowhere to be found.

At last, he pulled the black and white into the library driveway with a squeal, hoping to find Désirée’s car, but it was nowhere to be seen.

He took in his surroundings, his detective instincts in full gear. When he turned toward the library building, an icy chill went down his spine.

# # #

Who’s this Drew Jordan guy? Funny he should show up now… And what about those Hookers? Let us know who you think the killer is. And will Désirée be next?

Remember what you’re supposed to do – leave a comment for a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card today, and the $25 Amazon gift card or the Petit Fours and Hot Tamales cookbook on Saturday!

FORTUNE’S SON

 By Emery Lee

http://www.authoremerylee.com/

ISBN-10: 1402256442

ISBN-13: 978-1402256448

From the back cover:

Love is the ultimate gamble…

Seasoned gambler Philip Drake knows every trick and uses most of them. After years of infamy, he’s ready to accept the mantle of respectability with his earldom– until a devastating racing loss and the threat of debtors’ prison force Philip right back into his gaming ways…

Susannah, Lady Messingham, is a woman with a past who refuses to belong to any man again. But Philip’s skill catches her eye and she persuades him to teach her how to win at the tables. Their new partnership turns into an exhilarating high-stakes game that entangles them in terrifying risk and unimaginable rewards…

Immerse yourself in the risky side of Georgian England with a pair of lovers who aren’t afraid to risk it all on a toss of the dice…

Emery Lee brings Georgian England to life in her recent release Fortune’s Son. With its cast of colorful characters and a love story rife with twists and turns, this meticulously researched book is a captivating from start to finish. Not your typical beach read, it accompanied me everywhere I went on a recent cruise vacation: poolside, afternoon tea, even to the beach in Cozumel. I simply couldn’t put it down.  It’s that good.

After you finish this one, you will want to go back and read Emery’s debut novel, The Highest Stakes, for more background on some of the characters.  I can hardly wait to find out where this gifted author will take us next!

Suddenly, the traffic broke free; once again, I was speeding toward my performance venue when I saw the errant mini van balanced on its front end in the Peach Pass lane, folded up like an accordion. Sad for their misfortune but feeling vindicated in a sick sort of way, I kept my eyes on the road ahead until I reached my destination.

The rest of the musicians were already on stage, tuning up; frantically, I searched for my long black gown but I couldn’t find it anywhere. However, with the assistance of my son and my gentleman friend, I eventually located my dress and zipped it on. Unfortunately, the hem was a good six inches too long since I had apparently forgotten to bring my high heels with me and I stumbled over it as I attempted to walk out on stage. Then I tripped completely and fell right on top of my clarinet, splintering my well broken-in size two reed. Since I had no spares available, I was forced to borrow a size six reed from a colleague. But the only sound I could get out of that piece of bamboo was a squeak.

A disaster, right? I’d call it a nightmare.

* * *

Indeed, this is an exact retelling of a horrifying dream I had Saturday night. And I didn’t have a clue what this one meant. An all points bulletin on Facebook revealed nothing until an old friend from high school finally replied with his wisdom. This is what he had to offer.

The mini crashing into your car, then having a fatal accident is your way of showing that you are OVER that guy who moved in with you a while ago. The car represents a big family; that you knew it was a fatal crash means that you accept that it is OVER.

The dress and clarinet represent your anxiety about being a desirable woman, as well as good in your chosen field.

The heels and wrong reed size are your acknowledgement that you do in fact “get by” in both areas.

Your son and the unknown guy are the men you care about in your life. Your son, is well, your son; the unknown guy is the guy you will meet, your future happy hubby. That means you have not given up, and you think you can find him.

I don’t know how you feel about dream interpretation, but this one totally works for me.

The moral of the story? Keep your eyes on the road ahead. Stash an extra pair of high heels in the car. Always have an extra broken in clarinet reed at the ready (incidentally, there is no such thing as a size six reed.)

And never, ever, ever give up.

I can’t think about that right now. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow. (Scarlett O’Hara)

We all use coping mechanisms help ease the pain of everyday life. Take displacement, for example. I know better than to send a nasty email to a contest judge who just dissed the three chapters I sweated blood over; instead, I get angry all out of proportion when one of my sons leaves a mess in the kitchen table. (Sorry, guys.) Or I use rationalization, and tell myself it didn’t matter whether or not I was a finalist in the stupid contest, anyway. Yeah, right.

Are you one of those people who needs to have something to look forward to? I know I am. I booked a cruise the week of Thanksgiving, and thoughts of five days on board that big ship have gotten me through many stressful moments. Turns out that’s a defense mechanism too: fantasy. Whatever it is, I’m holding onto it.

Then there’s denial. An old boyfriend used to call me the queen of denial, and I don’t mean Cleopatra. The truth can be staring me in the face and I refuse to see it. Like when said old boyfriend would down an entire six-pack of beer dinner and then insist he was fine to drive me home. Looking back, I can see the danger in that situation. But in the moment, it was easier to take his (slurred) words at face value. Live and learn.

My favorite of all the defense mechanisms is repression. I have developed an almost supernatural ability to pretend that a thing never even happened—to the point that some of my most painful memories are completely obliterated from my conscious memory. They say that the problem with repression is that the memories aren’t really gone, but continue to affect us in subconscious ways. Maybe I’m in denial about that. Whatever.

Click HERE to take a quiz that will reveal your go-to coping mechanism. I was happy to discover that mine is actually sublimation—“channeling negative energy into positive energy, turning bad events into opportunities.” Like when I take my anger and frustration and run it off on the elliptical machine as opposed to punching holes in the walls.

The fact is that eventually must come to the place where we face our problems head-on and no longer rely on our defenses to protect us. But I can’t think about that right now. If I do I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow.

Have you ever had an amazing experience and realized afterwards that your life would never be the same again? The Georgia Romance Writers 2011 Moonlight & Magnolias Conference was such an experience for me. I made lots of new friends, strengthened existing relationships, acquired knowledge that will sharpen my skills as a fiction writer, and gained insights that are changing the way I approach every new day.

Here is a small sampling of what I know now that I didn’t know before.

1. Volunteers have more fun. (Sally Kilpatrick)
2. Note cards are not necessary when pitching to agents and editors. (Maria Geraci)
3. Don’t let a harsh critique stop you from writing, editing or brainstorming. Use it to help you make your manuscript better. (Nicki Salcedo)
4. Theme is not characterization or plot, but once determined it can further your understanding of your own work, improve your story and even help you write your synopsis. (Gabi Stevens)
5. To write a great novel you first have to know how to dissect one. (Pamela Varnado/Mary Barfield/Tamara DeStefano/Connie Gillam)
6. Treat your writing like a business and take every income tax deduction the law allows, even if you aren’t making a profit. Yet. (Diane Kelly/Becke Turner)
7. Don’t enter writing contests if you are looking for praise and admiration. Enter contests in order to receive feedback that will help you strengthen your writing. (Megan Kelly)
8. Done properly, writing from multiple points of view can deepen and broaden your story, help you expand your subplots, and create more opportunities for your readers to identify with a character. (Wendy Wax)
9. World building is not just for werewolves. (Tanya Michaels)
10. Men and women think and behave differently, and understanding these differences can help us create more believable characters. (Leigh Michaels)
11. Reading books give us permission to experience emotions that might be too painful to experience directly. Writing books gives us an opportunity to provide that outlet for others. (Eloisa James)
12. There is no such thing as too much bling. (Karen White)

Thanks to each of you for sharing so freely of your time and yourselves. I am already counting the days until next year’s conference!

What is the best tidbit you have brought home from a conference, writing or otherwise? Share it in a comment and you will have a chance to win a pair of sterling silver birthstone earrings handmade by yours truly! Good luck!