Memorial Day

flag_united_states_flag_american_flag_235662

 

I can’t not blog on this weekend and not talk about Memorial Day. I would love to wish everyone a happy and safe weekend, but I also ask everyone to reflect on what Memorial Day is. Yes, we travel, see family, picnic, throw parties, but it’s also a day to think about the men and women who lost their lives for our liberties.

Over the years, I’ve written three non-fiction military books. I’m always amazed at the stories I’ve heard and written about our servicemen and women. One-by-one as our WWII, Korean, and Viet Nam vets age and pass on to another life, we lose their stories, their journeys to protect us. And whether they served during peacetime or war or conflict, they deserve our respect and honor.

The other day I chaperoned my grandson’s second-grade field trip. We walked from their school to downtown, learning about our community along the way. We walked through a large cemetery. The kids were respectful and amazed at all the flags. One student asked why there were flags on some graves and not others. We told them it was in honor of all the men and women who served in the military and have died. “Wow, that’s a lot,” one child said. Another said, “Some day I’m going to be in the Army.”

Monday I’ll proudly watch my seventh-grade granddaughter march in her first Memorial Day parade. I’ll tear up as she goes past. I’ll tear up as our veterans, young and old go by. I’ll get choked up as they play taps and think about my grandfather, father, brother, sister, nephews, and cousins who served.

This weekend take the time to visit a cemetery, not to put flowers on family member’s graves. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s what many people think this day is about. Take the time to look over the cemetery and watch the multitude of flags wave in the breeze and think about the dedication and service to our country.

This post is not about what I write or publish, or what others write and publish. It’s my chance to humbly thank those that have given their lives for us. Bless them.

Posted in Catching Up With Tina S!, Soul Mate Publishing | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Is it Drapes or Draperies?

WRITE DESIGN by Gail Ingis, ASID*

Nope, it’s not working. How do I do this writing thing?

Writing takes more than putting words on paper. Like broadly-scoped art, there are applicable concepts. Writing is creative, right? Creativity and art are parallel, and in all art, there are similarities. Which tools do you use, blank sheet of paper versus blank canvas, keyboard versus sketching pencil,  paint brush,  camera . . .

Albert Stieglitz

Each week my blog will utilize those concepts, like in the books of Dixon and Bickham in their writing or Georgia O’Keefe or Albert Stieglitz or John Singer Sargent in their art. For me, having been degreed and experienced in several arts, such as interior design, architecture, painting, photography, dance, criticism, like the writing of Goldberger or Muschamp, the concepts are similar. Concepts that will impact descriptions in your books.

Today I’m writing about the word “Drape.”

Is it Drapes or Draperies?

I have a bone of contention with the English-speaking world. Drapes is a verb, Draperies is a noun. I’ll explain. I learned the use of the word, drape/draperies at the New York School of Interior design BFA program. I bet you’re thinking it’s jargon. No. It’s grammar.

Me being curious about everything, I checked online to see if this issue had ever been addressed. Low and behold, I found a blog by Mark Scott Drapery Design from December 2009, in total agreement with me, so this post is a reblog. It’s obvious that Mark understands English grammar, and he most likely has worked with NYSID* interior designers. Thanks Mark Scott!

Needless to say that I was delighted to find someone in this world, other than my design colleagues, that understand the use of the words. No more confusion.

Mark Scott’s reblog: Whenever asked this question I unequivocally respond, “Most definitely, Draperies.” You see, drape is a verb. To drape. As in, He draped his coat over the chair and looked menacingly into her eyes, as if to say, ‘Don’t even think about calling those beautiful window treatments drapes!’  Or, She draped her shawl over her shoulder, rolled her eyes while lighting a cigarette, and loudly asked, in an accusatory voice, ‘Where the hell did you get those god-awful drapes?’

Traditional Draperies 19th Century Greek Revival

Now, if you sell window treatments for a living, as I do, keep in mind that people do not want to pay good money for a verb. Verbs are fleeting. Always in motion and seldom ready to stand alone. They need a subject or object to lean on. People want something self-reliant, long-lasting – something that’s gonna stick around for a while – like a noun. It’s stationary, fixed, not goin’ anywhere and proud of it.

I prefer terminology that suggests longevity and permanence (and that will increase my income potential, of course). Let vagabonds and Philistines have their drapes. Give me my draperies, sir, or prepare to be publicly draped in insult and shame!

So Mark, maybe now our public will refuse to be shamed because they know how to use the verb drape and the noun draperies. Of course you can save yourself anguish if you say ‘curtain.’ But those are usually shorties that shrink your window, Oops did I say something naughty? Next week, we can talk about the difference between floor-to-ceiling draperies and short curtains covering the window only. Tricks to fool the eye, spoken from a pro. Now we are talking about writing descriptions in your book(s).

Thumbs up Mark!

Mark, may I give you a thumbs up for your skill with draperies? https://www.draperyguru.com/

 

Sheer Curtain Panels, Contemporary design with a draped valance gives these draperies a traditional flare.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*American Society of Interior Designers
*New York School of Interior Design

Indigo Sky for the reader who enjoys historical romance! @AmazonKindle http://amzn.to/2nWqbcq Indigo Sky available on Amazon buy link: http://amzn.to/2j0LXLE
Author page: http://amzn.to/1K4GVQA

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Marisa Makes Memories

I’ll have what she’s having,” said the woman to the waiter in Katz’s Delicatessen from the movie “When Harry Met Sally.”

When Harry Met Sally Pic 1youtube.com/watch

Agreeably, it’s considered one the MOST FAMOUS restaurant scenes in the history of Hollywood. Sally, (Meg Ryan) shows Billy Chrystal’s character, Harry, how a woman can fake an orgasm at the crowded New York eatery.

I love when a scene from a movie reveals so much about character. In this case, Sally questions her relationship with Harry and says she’s grateful they didn’t end up romantically involved. She accuses Harry of cultivating shallow, meaningless, one-night stands.

In his defense, Harry tells Sally that the women he sleeps with get satisfaction and that’s what they want, nothing more. He defends his actions by explaining these are “no strings attached” relationships.

Of course, the pivotal moment is when they disagree about women’s satisfaction and Sally, in a most public display, shows Billy how wrong he is.

For readers and writers, a scene that reveals character is more satisfying than a scene filled with action and dialog info dumps. Of course, with comedic genius Rob Reiner at the helm of this movie, conflict and character are carefully crafted and expertly delivered by Meg and Billy.

One of my favorite author resources for developing character for my story’s stars is “The Complete Writer’s Guide to Heroes & Heroines,” a collaboration from Tami D. Cowden, Caro LaFever and Sure Viders.  In the introduction they set the tone with this warning; “From the earliest days, storytellers have known a simple truth: strong charters may carry a weak plot, but weak characters cannot be hidden by a strong plot.” I highly recommend it for your author’s toolbox.

When your “Sally” meets your “Harry” as you write your pivotal scene, take your cues from some of the best examples of storytelling.  Soon you’ll be on your way to your own rave reviews where you may hear, “I’ll have what she’s reading.”

Let me know if you have a favorite movie scene at inspires you.

Marisa Dillon

https://www.facebook.com/marisadillonauthor/

 

Posted in Soul Mate Publishing | 2 Comments

The Write Word with Wareeze

The Write Word with Wareeze—Flawed Heroes

Hello writers and readers. Thanks for sharing some of your precious time with me. Once again, we are in pursuit of writing excellence. Oh, if only we could reach that lofty goal. Reading about writing is often tedious. I hope you will find this SMP blog interesting and informative.

Today, I want to question the flawed hero. My first published work Conduct Unbecoming of a Gentleman has just such a hero—much hated as referenced by several of the reviewer’s disparaging comments. From the start, I understood a hero should exhibit flaws, but he must grow and change by the end of the book. He must come to understand he is wrong and pursue the means to improve and win the day.

Perhaps the era had something to do with my character failing to gain sympathy with the reader. True, Lord Adron is a jerk most of the time, but, however mistaken his view, he fights for what he thinks is the correct thing to do to protect his ward. Depicting the era where men rule and women must fight in subtle ways to win had many readers objecting. He can’t grow from a jerk to a hero, however hard he tries.

I’ve come to understand, a hero must be a hero from the first moment he appears on the page. He can be mistaken, only slightly, and wrong-headed, but not flawed.

Example: My first hero had the best of intentions—the sorry jerk.

Final Conduct Unbecoming of a Gentleman #b copy

James Adron Gladrey, Earl of Kendlewood rode off at a furious pace, the young boy in his arms. He cursed himself anew and gritted his teeth. The driver said the wheel hit a deep washout and started to tip but if he hadn’t chased the coach, perhaps the horses wouldn’t have bolted when the vehicle began to sway. Adron would never have forgiven himself if either his ward or the widow had been killed or crippled, but thankfully both mother and child were fine. Relaxing for the first time that day, he took a deep breath. The incident had ended well, better than he’d expected when his cousin, Rhonda, alerted him to the widow’s intention to flee with his ward.

The child’s sobs pulled his attention away from his thoughts. He wrapped the boy more securely in his cloak to protect him from the elements and attempted to sooth his frantic cries.

“Hush now. You’re safe with me,” he said in a steady tone.

Jamie calmed to a whimper. Adron’s stomach churned and he glanced over his shoulder. Torn between his actions and concern for the widow, he gritted his teeth and rode forward. He wouldn’t fail Robert again—not as he had in battle. Jamie was his to protect now and he would do so in spite of his sympathy for the heartless widow. If she followed her son, he’d reconsider his opinion, but he judged that to be highly unlikely.

He urged his horse to a faster clip and his mount stepped out slinging mud from his hooves. For his ward’s sake, Adron wanted to be out of the weather as soon as possible. The hazardous condition of the road and the constant need to deal with a frightened child tightened his nerves. Adron had never been more relieved to enter the warmth of his house, bringing the smell of the rain-soaked earth with him. Occasionally, the boy still whimpered and snubbed against his shoulder. Adron pulled his cloak away from his ward and rubbed his back. “We’re home now.”

This was a drastic action, however well-meaning. He grew. He saw the error of his ways, fell in love with the widowed mother, and freed her to follow her heart, or so he thought.

 

Adron tried for a reasonable tone but he couldn’t keep the hard edge out of his voice. “He threatened to kill her if she didn’t hand over the jewel. She didn’t even know the pendant existed until then and thankfully, Horace interrupted before the rogue did too much damage. Oather escaped out the window and down the side of the house before Horace could catch him.”

“But he’s been apprehended once. A reasonable man would make good on his escape with the stolen treasure he has, not try to gain more.”

“Your point is well taken but who’s to say he’s reasonable. Laurel considers him insane.”

George shrugged. “There’s no saying. By the way, why did you send Laurel to Landings in the first place?”

Adron hesitated. He hated to inform George of his good fortune but he’d allowed Laurel her freedom for this very reason. The least he could do was to follow through. “I restored her to her rightful position. She’s free to marry you now.”

“Free to marry me. Are you mad? I offered but she turned me down.”

Adron swallowed heavily. “That was before I allowed her to take Jamie when she marries. I decided to step out of her way. Offer again and she won’t turn you down.”

George threw up his hands in complete frustration. “Nonsense. It’s you she loves. If she couldn’t marry you, she preferred to remain a widow.”

Adron rolled his eyes. He tried to do the right thing and of all people, George kept standing in his way. He’d never thought of George as dull-witted before but his conclusions were preposterous.

“You’re saying she loves me?” Adron questioned and laughed in disbelief. “You have windmills in your head, my friend. She couldn’t possibly love me after the way I’ve treated her.”

“She admitted such when I offered for her.”

“She ran a rig on you, George but I’m not such a slow-top.” He spring into action. “That aside, I must go after her. I only hope I’m not too late.”

“I’ll ride along. You might need my help.”

 

I admit Lord Adron was very flawed. Family and duty meant everything to him. He changed, but I can see how he would have been much improved without so many flaws and harsh actions. You live and learn. From here forward, my heroes will exhibit heroic traits from the first page—I hope.

Below is an excerpt from my work in progress. I hope I’ve reached my goal with this hero.

The locomotive puffed into the station at Bittersweep, Texas belching ash from the smokestack. Elizabeth Campbell, her neck and shoulder muscles bunched with tension, folded the newspaper dated August 10, 1897 and positioned it under her arm. Curling her fingers around the handle of her carpetbag, she stepped out of the passenger car onto the wooden platform and drew a deep breath. The warm mid-day sun of late summer washed the scene in heat and vivid light, but did nothing to lessen the dark apprehension or the pain in her heart. Perhaps, I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. I didn’t want to return, but I’m back. I need this teaching position desperately.

She followed her shadow into the shade afforded by the overhang of the roof to the train station’s ticket office. At least I may have a chance to discover what really happened fifteen years ago. Will my mother’s box still be there?

Allowing her gaze to survey the little settlement nestled deep in the piney woods of East Texas, she found much had changed. The sleepy community had grown into a small township. The once familiar dry dust kicked up by horses’ hooves, the creak of saddle leather, the rumble of wagon wheels rolling past, and boots tramping along the boardwalk remained relatively the same, only more so—more of everything—noise, people, and shops. Faint odors of roasting meat floated out from the inn dining room across the street and pummeled her with memories. Memories she couldn’t shake. Memories were one of the reasons she’d been afraid to return to Bittersweep. Still, now that she’d returned, she must find answers.

Tormenting glimpses from fifteen years ago flashed inside her head. The sounds of crackling, consuming fire, the acrid smell of smoke rising above the trees from where her home once stood, and the rattle of wheels beneath the wagon carrying her away from Bittersweep rose up to drag her back into the past. Her stomach knotted and she fought down the need to heave up the few bites of apple she’d eaten on the train. She swallowed forcing herself to relax.

She stepped off the platform and stared at the distant trees. For a brief moment, the noise faded, smells ceased to exist for her, and even the heat failed to penetrate. Tremors of pounding hooves vibrated through her feet coming closer and harder until the rattling of wagon wheels jerked her out of her reverie with a start, but in that confused instant she couldn’t move. The hammering of her heart obliterated all sounds again and the air swished from her lungs when she saw the out-of-control team bearing down on her. She tried to move out-of-the-way, but she remained paralyzed with fright.

Gloved hands grasped her shoulders jerking her back against a hard, lean body as the crazed horses stampeded past. Weak with relief and trembling from head to toe, she gradually gained control enough to realize she rested against a muscled male chest. The pounding of his heart echoed in her ears and against her back matching the rapid beat of her own. She glanced over her shoulder and looked up—way up into his hazel eyes, grim, hard and sparking with cold anger.

His gaze seemed to see everything, delving into her darkest secrets. Hostile, even repelled by the thread of tension he’d created, she still couldn’t break free. Her skin prickled with irritation and awareness where his fingers gripped her shoulders. She flinched, wanting to brush his touch away, to move out of his embrace, but she couldn’t break the contact, couldn’t find her voice, or prevent the heat of annoyance from covering her face.

“Lady, are you aiming to die?” he thundered. “You came mighty close to it.” He twisted her around to face him, his hands gripping her upper arms.

His sharp words brought her out of the trance. She blinked up at him, silent, stunned with reaction to her close call. When she failed to answer, the pressure of his hands on her shoulders increased, and she winced. “You’re hurting me.”

He dropped his hands, dipped his head with a little shake and exhaled heavily before gazing directly into her eyes again. “I don’t know how this came about—me apologizing to you. But I do beg pardon for the rough handling.”

FullSizeRender

Until next time, keep well, live long, and prosper.

Wareeze Woodson

for more information about my writing visit http://www.wareezewoodson.com

Posted in Soul Mate Publishing | Leave a comment

The Write Word with Wareeze

The Write Word with Wareeze—Flawed Heroes

Hello writers and readers. Thanks for sharing some of your precious time with me. Once again, we are in pursuit of writing excellence. Oh, if only we could reach that lofty goal. Reading about writing is often tedious. I hope you will find this SMP blog interesting and informative.

Today, I want to question the flawed hero. My first published work Conduct Unbecoming of a Gentleman has just such a hero—much hated as referenced by several of the reviewer’s disparaging comments. From the start, I understood a hero should exhibit flaws, but he must grow and change by the end of the book. He must come to understand he is wrong and pursue the means to improve and win the day.

I’ve come to understand, a hero must be a hero from the first moment he appears on the page. He can be mistaken, only slightly, and wrong-headed, but not flawed.

Example: My first hero had the best of intentions—the sorry jerk.

Final Conduct Unbecoming of a Gentleman #b copy

James Adron Gladrey, Earl of Kentwood rode off at a furious pace, the young boy in his arms. He cursed himself anew and gritted his teeth. The driver said the wheel hit a deep washout and started to tip but if he hadn’t chased the coach, perhaps the horses wouldn’t have bolted when the vehicle began to sway. Adron would never have forgiven himself if either his ward or the widow had been killed or crippled, but thankfully both mother and child were fine. Relaxing for the first time that day, he took a deep breath. The incident had ended well, better than he’d expected when his cousin, Rhonda, alerted him to the widow’s intention to flee with his ward.

The child’s sobs pulled his attention away from his thoughts. He wrapped the boy more securely in his cloak to protect him from the elements and attempted to sooth his frantic cries.

“Hush now. You’re safe with me,” he said in a steady tone.

Jamie calmed to a whimper. Adron’s stomach churned and he glanced over his shoulder. Torn between his actions and concern for the widow, he gritted his teeth and rode forward. He wouldn’t fail Robert again—not as he had in battle. Jamie was his to protect now and he would do so in spite of his sympathy for the heartless widow. If she followed her son, he’d reconsider his opinion, but he judged that to be highly unlikely.

He urged his horse to a faster clip and his mount stepped out slinging mud from his hooves. For his ward’s sake, Adron wanted to be out of the weather as soon as possible. The hazardous condition of the road and the constant need to deal with a frightened child tightened his nerves. Adron had never been more relieved to enter the warmth of his house, bringing the smell of the rain-soaked earth with him. Occasionally, the boy still whimpered and snubbed against his shoulder. Adron pulled his cloak away from his ward and rubbed his back. “We’re home now.”

This was a drastic action, however well-meaning. He grew throughout the book. He saw the error of his ways, fell in love with the widowed mother, and freed her to follow her heart, or so he thought.

Example of his change of heart:

Adron tried for a reasonable tone but he couldn’t keep the hard edge out of his voice. “He threatened to kill her if she didn’t hand over the jewel. She didn’t even know the pendant existed until then and thankfully, Horace interrupted before the rogue did too much damage. Oather escaped out the window and down the side of the house before Horace could catch him.”

“But he’s been apprehended once. A reasonable man would make good on his escape with the stolen treasure he has, not try to gain more.”

“Your point is well taken but who’s to say he’s reasonable. Laurel considers him insane.”

George shrugged. “There’s no saying. By the way, why did you send Laurel to Landings in the first place?”

Adron hesitated. He hated to inform George of his good fortune but he’d allowed Laurel her freedom for this very reason. The least he could do was to follow through. “I restored her to her rightful position. She’s free to marry you now.”

“Free to marry me. Are you mad? I offered but she turned me down.”

Adron swallowed heavily. “That was before I allowed her to take Jamie when she marries. I decided to step out of her way. Offer again and she won’t turn you down.”

George threw up his hands in complete frustration. “Nonsense. It’s you she loves. If she couldn’t marry you, she preferred to remain a widow.”

Adron rolled his eyes. He tried to do the right thing and of all people, George kept standing in his way. He’d never thought of George as dull-witted before but his conclusions were preposterous.

“You’re saying she loves me?” Adron questioned and laughed in disbelief. “You have windmills in your head, my friend. She couldn’t possibly love me after the way I’ve treated her.”

“She admitted such when I offered for her.”

“She ran a rig on you, George but I’m not such a slow-top.” He spring into action. “That aside, I must go after her. I only hope I’m not too late.”

“I’ll ride along. You might need my help.”

 

I admit Lord Adron was very flawed. Family and duty meant everything to him. He changed, but I can see how he would have been much improved without so many flaws and harsh actions. You live and learn. From here forward, my heroes will exhibit heroic traits from the first page—I hope.

Below is an excerpt from my work in progress. I hope I’ve reached my goal with this hero.

The locomotive puffed into the station at Bittersweep, Texas belching ash from the smokestack. Elizabeth Campbell, her neck and shoulder muscles bunched with tension, folded the newspaper dated August 10, 1897 and positioned it under her arm. Curling her fingers around the handle of her carpetbag, she stepped out of the passenger car onto the wooden platform and drew a deep breath. The warm mid-day sun of late summer washed the scene in heat and vivid light, but did nothing to lessen the dark apprehension or the pain in her heart. Perhaps, I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. I didn’t want to return, but I’m back. I need this teaching position desperately.

She followed her shadow into the shade afforded by the overhang of the roof to the train station’s ticket office. At least I may have a chance to discover what really happened fifteen years ago. Will my mother’s box still be there?

Allowing her gaze to survey the little settlement nestled deep in the piney woods of East Texas, she found much had changed. The sleepy community had grown into a small township. The once familiar dry dust kicked up by horses’ hooves, the creak of saddle leather, the rumble of wagon wheels rolling past, and boots tramping along the boardwalk remained relatively the same, only more so—more of everything—noise, people, and shops. Faint odors of roasting meat floated out from the inn dining room across the street and pummeled her with memories. Memories she couldn’t shake. Memories were one of the reasons she’d been afraid to return to Bittersweep. Still, now that she’d returned, she must find answers.

Tormenting glimpses from fifteen years ago flashed inside her head. The sounds of crackling, consuming fire, the acrid smell of smoke rising above the trees from where her home once stood, and the rattle of wheels beneath the wagon carrying her away from Bittersweep rose up to drag her back into the past. Her stomach knotted and she fought down the need to heave up the few bites of apple she’d eaten on the train. She swallowed forcing herself to relax.

She stepped off the platform and stared at the distant trees. For a brief moment, the noise faded, smells ceased to exist for her, and even the heat failed to penetrate. Tremors of pounding hooves vibrated through her feet coming closer and harder until the rattling of wagon wheels jerked her out of her reverie with a start, but in that confused instant she couldn’t move. The hammering of her heart obliterated all sounds again and the air swooped from her lungs when she saw the out-of-control team bearing down on her. She tried to move out-of-the-way, but she remained paralyzed with fright.

Gloved hands grasped her shoulders jerking her back against a hard, lean body as the crazed horses stampeded past. Weak with relief and trembling from head to toe, she gradually gained control enough to realize she rested against a muscled male chest. The pounding of his heart echoed in her ears and against her back matching the rapid beat of her own. She glanced over her shoulder and looked up—way up into his hazel eyes, grim, hard and sparking with cold anger.

His gaze seemed to see everything, delving into her darkest secrets. Hostile, even repelled by the thread of tension he’d created, she still couldn’t break free. Her skin prickled with irritation and awareness where his fingers gripped her shoulders. She flinched, wanting to brush his touch away, to move out of his embrace, but she couldn’t break the contact, couldn’t find her voice, or prevent the heat of annoyance from covering her face.

“Lady, are you aiming to die?” he thundered. “You came mighty close to it.” He twisted her around to face him, his hands gripping her upper arms.

His sharp words brought her out of the trance. She blinked up at him, silent, stunned with reaction to her close call. When she failed to answer, the pressure of his hands on her shoulders increased, and she winced. “You’re hurting me.”

He dropped his hands, dipped his head with a little shake and exhaled heavily before gazing directly into her eyes again. “I don’t know how this came about—me apologizing to you. But I do beg pardon for the rough handling.”

FullSizeRender

Until we meet again, stay well, live long, and prosper.

Wareeze Woodson

For more information about my writing visit http://www.wareezewoodson.com

 

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Remembering Mom by Susan Hanniford Crowley

wedding photo

(Photo of John and Sultana Hanniford and me and my husband of 38 years now.)

Mother’s Day is coming up. My mom passed away in 2001. In her time, she saw me married and have little girls but missed much of what my present day life is like. When she was alive, she was a mother, wife and the maritime artist Sultana Hanniford.

My dad was in the Navy, so while he was out at sea, she painted on a little easel on the kitchen table. She painted in oils with a tiny palette knife and sometimes little splatters of paint went flying when she worked.

As a teen, my sister and I were my mom’s crew for setting up her displays at outdoor art shows. I still remember how proud she was selling her first painting for $35 and hanging an envelope with the money inside on the wall for my dad to see when he arrived home. After a while, she was invited to gallery shows. Then she had patrons. Near the end of her career, her paintings sold for a lot and she helped me pay for college.

Then one day, my dad called me up because he was afraid something was wrong with her. She was in the kitchen painting as usual. I walked in and she asked me to look at the painting because the rigging on the schooner was off. Maybe I could advise her. There was no ship only a canvas painted in solid blue.

A doctor’s diagnosis said Alzheimer’s and slowly she faded from life until she passed away in 2001.

Besides being a loving mother, she taught me to never give up. Being an artist was hard. There were times when it seemed nothing went well, but she persevered. She wouldn’t give up. Mom taught me that. If you have a passion in life, don’t give it up!

I know she would be proud that my newest novel Vampire Princess of New York is scheduled to come out in print on July 4th.  Thank you, Soul Mate Publishing, and thank you, Mom!

-Susan
Susan Hanniford Crowley, Amazon Kindle Bestselling Author of Vampire Romance
www.susanhannifordcrowley.com
Where love burns eternal and whispers in the dark!

NEW: Vampire Princess of New York, Arnhem Knights of New York, Book 2 available in Kindle! Anticipated Print Release on July 4th! YAY!

vampireprincessofnewyork1  top10novelr
Vampire King of New York, Arnhem Knights of New York, Book 1 available in Kindle and Print and  Barnes and Noble Print

vampyrekingofnewyork_600from-blog  2014-Nominee

 

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SCHOOL FIELD TRIPS

Good morning everyone! I should have had this post up before now but life has been pretty crazy for me lately. My family and I are moving into a new house in less than 2 weeks, school is out in 8 days, and field trips are out of control! 🙂

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Speaking of field trips, I went on one yesterday and I have one today.

Yesterday my family went to Silver Dollar City with our youngest two kids. Talk about crazy!! Imagine 7 hrs of 5 groups of 5th graders taking off in different directions getting soaking wet, riding terrifying roller coasters, and eating gooey, sticky foods….Yay, you get the idea. 🙂

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Today I’m riding a school bus with my oldest to the Pea Ridge National Battlefield Park. It to s a great place to learn about the “olden days”. We get to visit actual homesteads from the 1800’s and see how people lived and survived back then. Plus, we get to watch a reenactment of a great civil war battle. Pretty cool right?

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Field trips are noisy, hetic, and nerve racking. But they are fun. I highly recommend you go on as many field trips as possible if you don’t already.

Think about it. You get to do fun things with your kids and see new things, have great experiences. I wouldn’t miss them for the world. Your kids are only little once and then you blink your eyes and then they are adults. I dont like that at all. But I love field trips with my kids!

I apologize if this post is shorter than most but even as I’m typing this, I’m on a school bus. I have not been on a school bus since I was in school and that’s been…well, let’s just say its been several years. 😉

I hope you enjoyed this post and please make sure to make the most of the crazy, fun field trips at school. They don’t last forever! 🙂

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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