Holding Off Publishing Road Kill for 6 Weeks
I've lined up my first pre-publishing review! Clare Toohey, the editor of Criminal Element.com, has agreed to have one of her readers review my mystery if I can hold off publishing for around 6 weeks. Reviews are really important to garner reader attention, so I'm thrilled, especially since mine will be the first self-published book Criminal Element is reviewing. Yeah!
Wednesday 26 September 2012
Monday 24 September 2012
Ladies Don't Fart: The Heart of the Problem
Do you remember Kindergarten? The smell of Play-Doh and crayons, the painting easels with big pots of primary-coloured paints, the upright piano and round floor rug for reading circle.
As I understood it, you needed to do three things to be a success at St. Joseph’s Catholic School Kindergarten class: recite the “Hail Mary,” the “Our Father,” and be able to tie your shoelaces. The prayers were a cinch – we said them at home as part of our nightly family sessions – but the shoelace tying was tough.
One day I thought I had it licked, even though my way was different from the teacher’s. I got in line behind Susan S. to demonstrate my skill to the teacher, and then something terrible happened. I was a healthy child, and I'd had a bologna and tomato sandwich for lunch. Michael B. was standing behind me. He pinched his nostrils shut and wailed, “I heard that, Cathy. Ew, you stink.”
The teacher, a seven-year kindergarten veteran, leaned forward and admonished me in a prim whisper, “Ladies don’t break wind, Cathy.”
This confused me. “Is that the same as ‘fart,’ Miss Benton?”
Michael pointed an accusing finger at me. “Cathy just swore!”
I blushed beet red. “I did not.”
“Did so!”
“That’s enough, Cathy and Michael. ‘Fart’ is not a swear word, but it isn’t very nice. Polite people say ‘break wind.’”
I bowed my head in shame. To make matters worse, when I had shuffled my way to the front of the line to show Miss Benton my prowess, I got flustered and couldn't tie my shoelaces.
I learned a valuable lesson that day. Ladies don't fart, unless they can do it soundlessly and with no odour.
When I became an adult lady and got married, I discovered that my husband came from a different camp, the "better out than in" school of thought. Not that he had been raised that way. If his mother ever heard him do it, she'd stare at him in disbelief. "You were never raised that way," she'd say.
Many years of wedded bliss have passed. Our bodies have aged, and so has our plumbing. About a year ago, I started farting back in self-defence. Especially in bed. Maybe if I can envelope myself in a cloud of poisonous gas, it will shield me from his disgusting man-smell. This only works if no one turns over, however.
Not that I'm not a lady, but I'm a hell of a lot more laid back than I used to be. I still wouldn't dream of "breaking wind" in public, but now I'm beginning to let it rip in public bathroom stalls. And in private with my husband.
By the time I'm in my eighties, the good Lord willing, practically deaf and with everything I eat disagreeing with me, I may be farting all the time. Maybe this is the primary reason children put their parents in old folks' homes?
Do you remember Kindergarten? The smell of Play-Doh and crayons, the painting easels with big pots of primary-coloured paints, the upright piano and round floor rug for reading circle.
As I understood it, you needed to do three things to be a success at St. Joseph’s Catholic School Kindergarten class: recite the “Hail Mary,” the “Our Father,” and be able to tie your shoelaces. The prayers were a cinch – we said them at home as part of our nightly family sessions – but the shoelace tying was tough.
One day I thought I had it licked, even though my way was different from the teacher’s. I got in line behind Susan S. to demonstrate my skill to the teacher, and then something terrible happened. I was a healthy child, and I'd had a bologna and tomato sandwich for lunch. Michael B. was standing behind me. He pinched his nostrils shut and wailed, “I heard that, Cathy. Ew, you stink.”
The teacher, a seven-year kindergarten veteran, leaned forward and admonished me in a prim whisper, “Ladies don’t break wind, Cathy.”
This confused me. “Is that the same as ‘fart,’ Miss Benton?”
Michael pointed an accusing finger at me. “Cathy just swore!”
I blushed beet red. “I did not.”
“Did so!”
“That’s enough, Cathy and Michael. ‘Fart’ is not a swear word, but it isn’t very nice. Polite people say ‘break wind.’”
I bowed my head in shame. To make matters worse, when I had shuffled my way to the front of the line to show Miss Benton my prowess, I got flustered and couldn't tie my shoelaces.
I learned a valuable lesson that day. Ladies don't fart, unless they can do it soundlessly and with no odour.
When I became an adult lady and got married, I discovered that my husband came from a different camp, the "better out than in" school of thought. Not that he had been raised that way. If his mother ever heard him do it, she'd stare at him in disbelief. "You were never raised that way," she'd say.
Many years of wedded bliss have passed. Our bodies have aged, and so has our plumbing. About a year ago, I started farting back in self-defence. Especially in bed. Maybe if I can envelope myself in a cloud of poisonous gas, it will shield me from his disgusting man-smell. This only works if no one turns over, however.
Not that I'm not a lady, but I'm a hell of a lot more laid back than I used to be. I still wouldn't dream of "breaking wind" in public, but now I'm beginning to let it rip in public bathroom stalls. And in private with my husband.
By the time I'm in my eighties, the good Lord willing, practically deaf and with everything I eat disagreeing with me, I may be farting all the time. Maybe this is the primary reason children put their parents in old folks' homes?
Friday 21 September 2012
Ladies Don't Fart and Other Misconceptions: A Baby-Boomer Grows Up
I was born in 1958. Too late for the era of poodle skirts and Elvis mania and hanging out at the soda shop after the drive-in movie. I was busy drooling and having my diapers changed. I was in elementary school during the radical '60's, so no bra-burning or love-ins for me.
When was I a teen-ager? During the '70's. The ugliest decade of them all. Remember the midi-skirts? Horn-rimmed glasses? Polyester pant suits with ruffled blouses? It wasn't pretty, my friend. So remember that when you're doing your family planning. Try not to give birth to children during an ugly decade. It makes for an unattractive photo album.
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Tuesday 18 September 2012
Publishing My Mystery Novel, Road Kill
I've finished formatting the Road Kill manuscript for Smash Words, using their handy Style Guide. Well done, Smash Words! I'm waiting on the cover art, the copy right, and the ISBN number. I've included the first chapter of my next "Anna Nolan" mystery series, Town Haunts. Now I guess I better finish writing it.
When I've got the cover and ISBN, I'll upload the novel onto Smash Words, an e-book distributor. I'll do the same with Amazon to get the book to as many retailers as possible. More news to follow . . . .
When I've got the cover and ISBN, I'll upload the novel onto Smash Words, an e-book distributor. I'll do the same with Amazon to get the book to as many retailers as possible. More news to follow . . . .
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