Wednesday, January 27, 2021

The Book Tour Episode Twenty-Three: Along the Road

 


As I wait for the shuttle taxi that will take me into town, a young woman comes up to the hotel’s reception desk. Slender with fine features but unattractive glasses, a baseball cap covers her long thin braided orange hair, and an unlit cigarette dangles out of the corner of her mouth. She looks like a toughie, but she leans across the counter in a seductive, flirtatious way.

The male receptionist isn’t indifferent. Amused, he smiles at her, then shakes his head in apology. “You had someone else in your room last night.”

“He was only there for a little while,” she says. “He left at 4:30.”

“Yeah, well, sorry. The management says you still have to pay for the extra guest.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She shrugs, indifferent, then slumps onto the couch next to me.

“Hate having to get up this early,” she says. “Got an early flight.” Outside, the sky is still night black.

“Where are you going?”

“Seattle.”

“For work?”

She tugs at the brim of her cap. “I’m a dancer.”

“That's nice,” I say, but she doesn't answer.

Three drunk middle-aged fat women barrel through the lobby, give us both suspicious looks, but she’s still slouched down and not looking at me, so I think she has no intention of continuing the conversation.

Only when we settle into the shuttle that will also take her out to the airport does she say, slightly embarrassed, as if talking to an ancient granny she doesn’t want to shock “I'm a lap dancer. You know, dancer, stripper, that sort of thing.”

I only nod, but she wants to clarify. She wants me to understand. “It’s an itinerant life, but not a nice one. You can’t trust the other girls you work with; you have to keep your door locked all the time. I wanted my best friend to come with me on this trip, but she has two dogs and cats and couldn’t.” She is silent for a while, stares out at the bleak industrial wasteland we’re passing through. “You have to want to get up in the morning. You don’t want to, on this job I do.”

Her loneliness touches me, what can I tell her that will make things right? “Is there something else you can do eventually?”

“Yeah, there is. What I really want to do is be a dog cop, work for the humane society.”

“I never heard of a dog cop,” I say. “Can you get a job like that easily?”

“Oh, I saw it on television. You can do it in some cities. I’m going to look into it. I don’t want this kind of life forever.”

       “Then go for it. And best of luck to you.” I wish, once again, I had a magic wand.

 

 

In the bus station, the early buses going north are crowded. Our driver is a woman, but this is not to the taste of one huge square-bodied mama. “I'm not goin’ with her. She has an attitude.” Fashionable husband with his dernier cri hairdo says nothing, shows only self-centered boredom.

We stop in some ungodly place for a long pause while we change buses. Two police agents have handcuffed a screaming fellow passenger.

“What's going on?” I ask a lady in a fussy bright green go-to-church hat. She has been sitting across the aisle from me.

“He just refused to show his ticket to the driver, and he was rude. Now he’s been arrested. You show respect to someone in an authoritative uniform, that’s what you do.”

“My own son is a bus driver,” she says, “and yesterday he was driving towards Charlotte and he sees a police car with flashing lights right behind him. He knew he wasn’t going over the speed limit so he pulls over. The police tell him to get out — they didn’t want to talk to him in the bus, you see. And the police asks him, you got some people from — oh I can’t remember — something east, you know."

“Middle East?” I offer.

“Yeah, that’s it. They ask him, ‘You got people from the Middle East on your bus?’ And he says, ‘yes, four of them.’ They was wearing long robes, you know, and all. So the police says, that’s the ones we’re lookin’ for, and pulled them off. Then he had to wait for an hour somewhere because someone was going to blow up a Wallmart.”

The newspapers are silent on this subject. Is it true? Who knows? She informs she is the leader of a church group, was the deaconess for a while. Then she gets down to brass tacks, preaching “the good word,” and there’s no discouraging her. Fortunately, she suddenly discovers she has left her cell phone on the last bus and goes off in search of it while I watch her bag, “only got the one. I left all the other bags with my son. He'll bring them up later. I had to leave in a hurry. My best friend died, and I have to get to her fast.”

Rather after the fact, I think, but don’t say.

She returns shortly, telephone snug in her purse. “God looks after me,” she says with assurance.

I tell her my own story of losing a telephone on a train in France when accompanying a friend to the airport near St. Malo. By the time I discovered my loss in the city of Rennes, the train had gone on, heading for the far west of Brittany before shunting back across the country to Paris. There was nothing to be done, but I had shuddering thoughts of someone finding the phone, calling Brazil or Tahiti, and racking up a fortune.

In St. Malo, my friend took a plane to London. I returned to Rennes and bought a ticket to Laval where I had left my car. There was a train leaving immediately and I had to run to catch it. It would have been easier to wait for the next one half-an-hour later, but the station was cold and cheerless.

I scraped in just as the doors were closing and took a seat. And suddenly I heard a telephone ring, a familiar sound coming from under my seat. I took a peek — and there was my phone, sitting where it had dropped out of my purse five hours earlier. It had been traveling back and forth for hundreds of miles and no one had seen it.

The green hat lady smiles happily. “You see? God took care of you, too. He knew that was your phone and he wanted you to have it.”

Which is a comfort. Despite all my usual careless sloppiness, I needn’t ever worry again. I can’t help wondering, however, if there aren't more important issues for God to be busying himself with.

 

 

In Philadelphia, I wander through city streets where townhouses are lovely, and the beautiful 30th Street train station, is a glory — especially to me, coming from France where elegant nineteenth-century stations are being converted into shopping malls. Of course, nothing is certain: there are plans afoot to change even this beauty and increase retail space within the station. People just can’t leave nice things alone.

 

Philadelphia was founded in 1682 as the capital of the Pennsylvania colony, and it remained so until the Philadelphia Mutiny. In 1783, the Continental Army of more than 10,000 soldiers was camped on the nearby estate of Jockey Hollow. Feeding such a large force put great a burden on the local community, and the result was badly fed and poorly clothed soldiers — many were going barefoot in the snow. Not only that, but they had not been paid for most of the year despite their many pleas to Congress.

Over one thousand soldiers deserted, another 100 died in the brigade hospital. Those remaining decided to mutiny. Running wild, raging through the countryside, foraging what they could, stealing horses, and food, they marched into Philadelphia and surrounded the Pennsylvania State House (now Independence Hall) and threatened Congress at bayonet point.

Instead of attempting to resolve the problem, Congress gathered in the first-floor room where the Declaration of Independence had been signed, wrangled with the Pennsylvania government to make the mob go away, and pleaded with George Washington, then encamped in the Hudson Valley, to send reinforcements.

Washington was incensed when he heard about the mutiny. “I cannot sufficiently express my surprise and indignation at the arrogance, the folly, and the wickedness of the Mutineers.” He dispatched 1,500 troops to disperse the crowd and arrest the ringleaders. He did, however, urge Congress to provide supplies, and remonstrated with politicians to deliver pay.

In the meantime, the delegates had taken flight, making their way through the jostling and rowdy crowd, fleeing the city and reconvening across the river in Princeton, New Jersey. Finally, in July 1790, Congress approved the creation of a national capital on the Potomac River.

 

There’s a fairly large audience at the Jewish Historical Society for my book talk, which is certainly satisfying. Okay…I only sign and sell two or three copies, but there’s compensation. The president of the Historical Society just happens to own a very chic fish restaurant in the city, and after the talk, that’s where he takes me.

Learning of my passion for oysters, he presents me with a huge plate loaded with two of every single variety available on the east and west coast of North America. The oysters and the lovely white wine he serves me, are hedonistic treats, and those are far more memorable than unloading a few books.

 

More about my books and passionate life can be found at http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

and http://www:jill-culiner.com

and on my story podcast at https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner

Monday, January 25, 2021

Chicago Lightning - historical romantic suspense novel by Kaye Spencer #romanticsuspense #prairierosepubs #StValentinesDayMassacre

 


CHICAGO LIGHTNING - my latest historical novel - is a romantic suspense that begins with the St. Valentine's Day Massacre in Chicago. While there are plenty of facts about what happened at 2122 North Clark Street on the morning of February 14, 1929, there is no end to the unanswered questions, endless theories, and intriguing possibilities surrounding this infamous event.




On February 10th, a mere 16 days from now, and just in time for the 92nd anniversary of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, Chicago Lightning will release through Prairie Rose Publications/Fire Star Press.

I have daily articles planned for each day between now and February 14th. The topics are related to all things Roaring Twenties, 1920s gangsters, Prohibition, and much more.

These brief articles will be available on my blog, and I will post them at my home on Facebook.

For now, here is the book video for Chicago Lightning.

For those of you reading from your phones, you probably don't see the video. Here is the direct link to YouTube: https://youtu.be/HwQqDrd5LQM

Chicago Lightning by Kaye Spencer


Until next time,
Kaye Spencer


Look for Kaye here:

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Image of woman with pizza: CanStock (4774344sean)


Monday, January 18, 2021


One Draft, Two Drafts, Three Drafts or More? 

Ruben D.Gonzales

I've written five books so far.Two have been published, one is making the rounds, one in a final editing process,and one in a rough draft form. I've got great ideas for books six, seven, and eight but with the time it takes between writing,editing, marketing, and all the other things we do as authors (not to mention all the things that grandfathers do) I'm not sure I have enough time to get to those last couple. Someone asked Sue Grafton about her alphabet series and if she would complete the series with a final "Z" book. At the time she must have been feeling the effects of her illness because she answered that she didn't know if she would.She said it took a long time to write a good book. I think she said for her up to two years between books.That's a lot of time and unfortunately for her and us, she ran out of time.

When you get to your senior years you start to look more critically at time. Comedian George Carlin did a set on "Time"once and it is hilarious. A favorite line in the set was someone young saying they had "All the time in the world." He laughed at that, of course, saying "That would be a lot of time and if you had all the time in the world then what would the rest of us have?

The fact is we don't have all the time in the world. Fact,we are lucky to have any time at all, so how much time should we spend on our manuscript drafts? Two?Probably at least two. How about three, four, five?I don't know that I have that much time. 

But I know my writing must be the best possible,so I spend time editing, draft after draft.Sometimes in that editing I must cut. Like most of us it scars me to cut a chunk out of a story. Like cutting off an arm. But I do it if the prized section doesn't really add to the story line, even if I thought the section being cut is good writing. 

So below is a bit of writing that made it into the "trash bin" on the computer. It may never see the pages in a future book, but at least it will see the light of day on this blog.

From "Early Tate":

Folk in the mountains take to guns and hunting naturally. It’s the odd fellow who doesn’t see guns as a right and I struggled with the calling, struggled with the killing. Oh, Pa tried to beat some toughness into me, taking a switch to me on a regular basis, but by the time I reached high school the beatings tapered off. I weighed 200 pounds when I weighed in for my junior year of football. One Saturday I went out for a walk, hauling the rifle with me, on the chance I’d get lucky and run into something to shoot, but I let the time get away from me and came back late.
            “Better wipe down that gun, Little Tate,” My brother Early called to me using my nick name, as he jogged across the barn yard late that morning, heading to the hog pen. He carried a mess of rope and a bag full of tackle. “Pa catch you putting it up soiled like that you’ll be in for it.”
            “I will, give me a chance.” I said coming through the gate from the morning walk.
            “Well, better come on then. Pa’s ready to stick the hog. He’s waiting on you!”
            “Boy, how’d you make out?”  Pa asked as we came round the barn. 
           “I thought I winged a doe this morning,” I explained, “but I tracked her up to Johnson’s field then lost her trail in the corn stubble there. It didn’t seem like she slowed any so I guess I didn’t hit her after all.”
            “Any blood?”  He asked trying to put his foot up on an old nail barrel. He smelled like the mash pot of his liquor still and tried several times to put his foot up before he found the range.
            “Well, you know the leaves are thick in there so I can’t be sure.”
            “You get the shakes again?”
            “I guess.”
            “You guess!  Boy,” he said as his foot slipped off the barrel, “You think that lead grows on trees?”
            “No, sir!”
            “Damn right it doesn’t. How many times I tell you boys to not waste my shot.”
            “Sorry Pa,” I said in defense.
            “Damn if you aren’t a case, boy. That must be the third or fourth doe you missed this fall. Hell, any more like that and we’ll be picking lead out of our spring crops.”
            We moved around to the south side of the barn where Pa kept the hogs. He put one of the old sows up in the side pen the week before and for the past couple of days we stopped feeding her. Even with plenty of water she still began squealing for food regularly and we tried our best to ignore her. Pa says it made for a messy slaughter if a hog ate too much before you gut them.
            Early put a fire under the water vat and started the lard pot. He put the knives and axe out on the table. He threw a line over the low limb of the fat white oak that shaded that side of the barn during the summer, and started to rig the tackle so we could hoist the hog up to clean.
            “You got any more shells for that thing?” Pa asked me, pointing at my rifle.
            “Yes, Sir!”
            “Well, what say you put one there between her eyes, and not too high up, I want some fresh brains with my eggs tonight so don’t go splattering them all over the damn barn yard.”
            “Ah, Pa,” I said, looking at the sow stare up at me with big eyes behind thick fat cheeks.
  “I ain’t never shot a hog before.”
            “Hell, boy, you ain’t hardly shot anything your whole life. Let’s see if you can kill something that can’t run off.”
            “Really Pa,” I told him. “I’ll probably make a mess of it.”

      “Boy I hope you learn there’s more to killing than chasing some doe through the woods on a pretty fall morning. Sometimes you got to meet ugly death face to face. Now put that barrel up against that old girl’s head and let’s get on with it.”
“That’s okay Pa,” Early said coming to my side, playing the big brother role. Early wasn’t as big as me but was headed to State College to play linebacker. “Let me do it. I’ve done it before.”
           “Boy, this is your brother’s day to learn.”
            “Ah, he’ll get his chance. Let me do this one. Maybe he’ll get next year’s.”
            “Little Tate, you’ll do this one or you’ll go and get me a switch. I’ve been waiting around all morning for you and I ain’t got no more time to waste. I got to get down to the still and get a fresh batch of mash going.”
            “Honest Pa,” Early said defending me, stepping in front of Pa, edging him back. “I can do the hog myself. You know Little Tate gets the shakes and besides it’s no bother.” We were both bigger than Pa then with Early a senior and me a year behind.
            “Now, Early, I don’t want you making excuses for your brother,” Pa said trying to point at me though I remained hidden behind Early’s wide body. “He needs to learn to kill with a steady hand one day and this is it.
            “Little Tate,” he repeated in a high squeal, “I’m not going to tell you again. You don’t do that sow then go and fetch me a switch and let me get it done so I can get on with this before it gets dark.”
            “No, Pa.”
            “No …?” he asked absently as he lowered his behind on the barrel to settle his shaky legs.
            “I ain’t going for no switch, Pa.” I told him as I looked over at Early. “I’m too old to switch like a little boy.”
            “Well, son, for someone so old you better mind your elders better.”
            “I know Pa but I don’t need no switch to remind me. Besides, Early already said he’d do it.” 
            “Yeah Pa,” Early agreed, “Little Tate will get the next.”
            “You too, huh, well maybe I’ll take a switch to both of you!”
            “Now, Pa,” Early cautioned, smiling at me, “You haven’t switched me in a long time now and it ain’t going to happen today so you best be settling down.”
            “Boy!” he cut him off getting wobbly to his feet and in a clearer voice he shouted, “Don’t be telling me what I am and am not going to do. You gon’na get that switch?”
            “Pa,” I said again, “I’m not getting no switch. And I don’t think I’d stand for it even if you already had one.” 
           “No, Pa,” Early agreed, “We’re too old for switching. Why I’m eighteen and Tater’s near sixteen. No, Pa, I gotta agree with Little Tate on this, we are both too old for the switch.”
            “Well, what about I knock you both about the head a bit.”  Though shorter than Early and me by a few inches, Pa stood like an old fence post against the wind, sturdy and tough as nails.
            “Now, Pa,” Early said, bringing himself to his full height, “you can try but truth be told, I wouldn’t much stand for that either.”
            “Hell, Mr. Football,” Pa said bringing his body up to his full height as well, “You going to stop me?”
            “Well Pa,” Early said in a steady voice, winking at me from the side, “if it came to that, I guess I would.”
            For the first time in my life I saw my pa falter in his resolve. Oh, I don’t really know what would have happened; I would have probably run off before he could get hold of me. But Early thought differently. He thought in long term where I thought only in short term. To Early, I think he anticipated the arrival of this point in his life, and though happy to face it, it still surprised him that it arrived so soon, right there in the shadow of the barn on a cold fall day with that sow squealing to save its life.

Visit Ruben D Gonzales

Sunday, January 17, 2021

MY WRITING PROCESS – INSIDE A WRITER’S MIND, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

 


I was born to write. I love being alone. I love being quiet. I absolutely adore running around inside my head. The only time I’m really at peace is when I’m writing. 

This realization didn’t come about easily. In a society that rewards extraversion, I spent years hiding my desire to be left alone. Then one night I sat down at the computer and began to write a story. Forty pages later, I knew I had found something important to my life. 

That first forty pages turned into 450, a mystery called “The Oldest House.” I loved the way the story revealed itself to me, taking its own twists and turns. I loved the freedom I felt when I was writing it. When finished, I enthusiastically sent it to publishers and agents and got my first round of rejection slips. That didn’t stop me from writing, just from sending queries. I soon settled into my second mystery, “Broken Roses.” 

Noted sci-fi author David Gerrold said in his Worlds of Wonder workshop that the first million words are practice. That sounds like a lot, but if you truly love to write, they just happen. By the time I found myself penning my first Crazy Cat Lady cozy mystery, I had hit that million mark. And I’d learned so much along the way. 

I am now working on my 8th and 9th Crazy Cat Lady mystery, and I have the process down. Here’s how it goes:



 1. The initial idea.

The first glimmer of a thought that could be a story that could be a book comes in many forms. It can be a writer’s prompt or something you see at the store. It can be a dream. I often think of a title and work from there. Cat Café was such a story. I loved the idea of cat cafés, and took off from there. 

2. The thrill of the first draft.

Once I’ve got my idea, it’s time to run with it. I try not to think too much as I pen that initial draft; just let the story lead me. I don’t fuss over grammar or wording—that can be fixed later. If I require research, I make a note to come back. This is the fun stuff, riding on the wings of pure creativity. 

3. The work begins: the second and third (and possibly fourth) draft.

Now for the real work, editing and revision. During these run-throughs, I check for flow and continuity, for gaps and discrepancies, for plot holes, and for anything that doesn’t seem right to me. I use an ongoing outline, a cast of characters list, and a note page where I write whatever comes to mind. Yes, I do use color-coding. 

4. The print-out/read-through. (Red pen required)

After all those edits, the manuscript should be perfect, right? Unfortunately it usually isn’t. This is when I print it out and read it out loud to my cats. Seeing the words on paper reveals typos and overused words. Reading out loud shows the flow of the wording. This is especially importing with conversations. Ask yourself, do people really talk like that, or am I channeling Agatha Christie?



 5. The beta readers.

Now that I’ve fixed the problems I found in the read-through, it’s time to hand off the red pen to someone else. As the writer, I instinctively fill in gaps that would be glaringly obvious to others, but another reader will catch those things and more. I have a list of questions for the beta reader to answer once she’s finished reading, such as, “When did you realize who the killer was?” and the ever-revealing, “Did you like it?” (Please, please say yes!)

 6. The editor.

I love my editor. She’s smart, savvy, and knows where to put the commas. Once the manuscript is as perfect as I can hope for it to be, I say goodbye to it for a little while to let her do her magic. It takes time as we go back and forth with questions and comments. Then, voila, it comes back to me a fully formatted book!

 


7. Revising with the proof copy.

I publish through Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing because it’s easy and free. I begin with the print version which allows me to order a proof copy. Once the proof is in my hand, it’s red pen time again. In the same way the print-out revealed mistakes, reading the actual book shows up lingering issues. I know we were taught not to write in books, but get over it and use that red pen!

 8. Finishing touches.

There are things a writer must do that go along with publishing, such as cover design, back cover blurb, front and back matter, bio, and links. Blurbs are hard for me, so I often begin working on them long before the book is finished. For Cat Café, I wrote one of my most well-received mini-blurbs though I still had no idea where the story was going: “A body is found in the cat café, and all the black cats are missing.”

 9. Do it all over again!

Congratulations! The book is done and out! Celebrate, then it’s time to get on to the next one.


About Mollie Hunt: Native Oregonian Mollie Hunt has always had an affinity for cats, so it was a short step for her to become a cat writer. Mollie Hunt writes the award-winning Crazy Cat Lady cozy mystery series featuring Lynley Cannon, a sixty-something cat shelter volunteer who finds more trouble than a cat in catnip, and the Cat Seasons sci-fantasy tetralogy where cats save the world. She also pens a bit of cat poetry.

 

Mollie is a member of the Oregon Writers’ Colony, Sisters in Crime, the Cat Writers’ Association, and Northwest Independent Writers Association (NIWA). She lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and a varying number of cats. Like Lynley, she is a grateful shelter volunteer.

 

You can find Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer on her blogsite: www.lecatts.wordpress.com

Amazon Page: www.amazon.com/author/molliehunt

Facebook Author Page: www.facebook.com/MollieHuntCatWriter/

@MollieHuntCats



 

 

Monday, January 11, 2021

The Last Wilding Story, I DREAM OF YOU, by Sarah J. McNeal #TheWildings

This was the last story I wrote in my Wildings series and one of my favorites in that series. Kyle shows up in many of the stories and, when he does, it's usually to help someone. He is part Lakota on his father's side, and English on his mother's side. I wrote  story about Jane and Teekonka's story in A Husband for Christmas. 

I still miss the Wildings, but I'm working on a new project that involves some interesting history from my own state of North Carolina with the settlement of Salem.

Today's gray skies have caused me to reminisce about my Wildings. 



  I Dream of You

A Wilding Western Romance by Sarah J. McNeal

Fire Star Press/Prairie Rose Publications


 A Dream…A Kiss… And Deadly Secrets

Blurb:

Kyle Red Sky dreamed of the woman with fire in her hair, but when she comes to town, something dark and dangerous follows her. He wants to help her, but she is reclusive, avoids men, and the scarf she always wears around her neck tells him she harbors a dark secret.

Mia Beckett is a survivor. Finally, she has found sanctuary in a small western town far from danger where no one knows her or her past and she intends to keep it that way. But she can’t forget the man she saw once in a dream who told her the paths they walked were destined to meet. However, when she meets Kyle Red Sky and realizes he is the man from her dream, she knows, if the dream becomes a reality, he may die.

Excerpt:

Kyle kicked open the door of his mother’s former dress shop despite the sign that read, No Men Allowed. The raging fire upstairs in the private quarters made this an emergency, certainly enough to ignore that sign. Smoke began to fill the shop as he raced up the stairs calling out the name of the new shop owner. “Miss Beckett! Miss Mia Beckett, where are you?”

As he reached the landing of the second floor, he heard someone cough nearby. With the wet blanket wrapped around him he rushed toward the direction of the cough until he found the woman lying on the floor almost unconscious from smoke inhalation. As soon as he removed the wet blanket he wore and wrapped her in its protective layer, he scooped her up in his arms to carry her away from the flames and smoke. The scarf she wore fell away from her neck and her head lolled back against his chest to reveal a thin, straight scar that ran all the way across her throat from her left ear to her right. It wasn’t an old scar, most likely no more than two or three months in the past. She attempted to raise a hand as if to cover her throat and replace the silk scarf. He’d always seen her wear a scarf of some description or another around her neck since her arrival in town. Now he knew all those scarves were not her unique sense of fashion, but her desire to hide the scar. She was a woman attempting to keep a secret.

Buy Link: Kindle   Paperback




Sarah J. McNeal

Author of Heartwarming Stories

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Friday, January 1, 2021

The Positive Side of Social Media

 

Happy New Year!

As a writer, I'm expected to have a social media platform and, for what's it's worth, I do. However, my relationship with social media is love/hate at the best of times, just hate at the worst. *sigh* And, as all relationships do, the one I have with social media has changed over time.

Twitter friends were extremely helpful during the years I was coping with elder care and the eighteen months in which I was dealing with the deaths of my father, mother, and mother-in-law. Many of those friends are no longer on Twitter and I don't blame them. I spend little time on Twitter myself; it tends to be a very toxic place. My favorite social media platform has always been Facebook because there I could interact with people but sadly, that is no longer true. Facebook now actively hides the posts by pages such as mine in an effort to force us to pay to "boost" our posts. Honestly, if they'd let me pay a yearly or monthly fee just to ensure that the people who follow me actually see my posts, I'd probably do it. But pay just so a bunch of people that aren't interested in what I have to offer can see it? No thanks. 

Me searching for my tribe

However, while I've been unsuccessful in finding my tribe as a writer, I have found one as just me - a woman who loves video games. As me, not Izzy, I'm a member of a Facebook group for people who love the Mass Effect series of video games. So many gamer groups are toxic environments but this one is not. Is it perfect? No, but for the most part any disputes are handled well and the admins step in on the ones that threaten to get out of hand. For most of us, these games have helped us through the toughest times of our lives; when one of us makes a post to that effect no one mocks us because they understand. This group has evolved to become so much more. We share birthdays, anniversaries, weddings and births. (One member recently celebrated her 70th birthday!) People come looking for - and finding - support when they've lost their job, been diagnosed with COVID, or are just struggling with life during a pandemic. It's great to be a part of a community that cheers each other on, picks each other up, and just generally illustrates the best of what social media can be. So, on those days when I detest everything about social media, I just have to remember this group and the positivity it brings.

What sort of relationship do you have with social media?

Join my brand new Facebook group here: www.facebook.com/groups/1268960476808241/

Sign up for my newsletter here:  http://madmimi.com/signups/112968/join

Amazon Author Page:  http://amazon.com/author/isabellanorse

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