I was doing a little spring cleaning when I realized how crazy I must be. Every cupboard is stock full of things I’m afraid I’ll run out of. Take toilet paper, for instance. Every bathroom in our home, which is two and a half, but when it comes to toilet paper that half-bath counts as a whole, because it’s got to have toilet paper. So anyway, every one of those bathrooms has a roll on the holder and ten rolls in the cabinet underneath the sink. That’s so we won’t ever run out. When any under-the-cabinet-toilet-paper stash gets down to four rolls it’s time to replenish, so then toilet papers goes at the top of my grocery list.
Next we come to Tide, I always prefer that when I do the laundry. There is a large box in the laundry room and two extra boxes stacked in a cabinet in the garage, next to six boxes of Kleenex, two bottles of fabric softener, three boxes of cling free sheets, eight rolls of paper towels, two extra large bottles of Head and Shoulders for my husband, alright I admit it, I use it once in awhile myself. Next to the shampoo are three jars of Pantene Restorative conditioners, which I can’t live without or my hair looks like a broom that has seen better days. Parked next to the conditioners I have neatly placed three large plastic bottles of various hand and body lotions that all promise to keep my skin smoother than silk. When I’m replenishing hand lotion, I can’t ever decide which one I should try next, so I usually select three and go from there.
In the pantry I have several large cans of coffee on the top shelf and enough Cremora to serve every Starbucks customer who desires it for the next two years. I have back-ups on mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, grape jelly, strawberry jam, pancake syrup, spaghetti sauce (I always doctor up the store bought kind and pass it off as homemade.), and scads of soup. Five kinds of Campbell’s for every flavor they make. God forbid I should run out of Cream of Mushroom. I might want to make a tuna noodle casserole and then where would I be?
This predisposition to hoard extras of what I consider to be essentials is probably a sign of a serious mental disorder. And it probably runs in my family. My mother has the same illness. Her pantry puts mine to shame. Mine has enough to stock a mini-market. Hers could easily stock Kroger.
This problem definitely spills over into other areas of my life. If my car even approaches the half-full marker, I am at the gas station pronto. And my office closet is fully stocked with two and three boxes of everything, along with two cases of copy paper. I have eight boxes of large paper clips, two boxes of six dispensers each of scotch tape, three boxes of file folders and four boxes of pens. There is a case of Pendaflex folders and four boxes of various size labels along with a half dozen boxes of various size envelopes. Need I say more?
I probably need to call a psychiatrist immediately and make an appointment. But then all I could tell him is that I have a fear of running out of stuff. How serious can that be? It’s not like I harbor a secret desire to kill my husband or my mother, right?
Lately, I’ve noticed that I have a fear of running out of words. This is a much more serious problem than running out of toilet paper. I’m in the middle of my next book and middles scare the he-be-ge-bee’s out of me anyway. So now where am I? It’s not like I can go to the store and stock up on words. Each night when I go to bed, I do a word count of how many I’ve typed for the day. It always sends a shiver up my spine. Have I filled up my four pages for the day? Are they any good? Will I find enough for the next day? Is there a closet I can store them in while I sleep that I can raid in the morning and get a major head start?
I always wonder how other writers manage to put so many words on the page. Do they have a secret stash somewhere that nobody has told me about? Is their brain riddled with more words than they can possibly put down on any given number of pages in their lifetime? Do they have an endless supply from some part of their brain that automatically manufactures words while they sleep?
Hey guys, let me know. I’m sick of hoarding soup and shampoo and coffee. I’d love to find a way to hoard words. So let’s trade. I’ll gladly give you what’s stashed in my closets. I guarantee that you will never run out of toilet paper.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River and Divorcing-Dwayne. Look for her next novel All That’s True in the spring of 2010. Email her at Jackie@jlmiles.com. Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
PUBLISHING STRATEGIES AND THE PUBLISHING GAME
Sourcebooks bought Cumberland House, my publisher, and everyone, except those that were let go, of course, are very happy and excited. Lots of changes are in the air, some of them pretty amazing. That said there is one change that’s not sitting too well with me. First, let me explain. With Cumberland House I broke the cardinal rule. I wrote under two different genres. If you go to my website jlmiles.com, it says Introducing J. L. Miles— featuring Southern Drama and Southern Sass.
Cumberland didn’t mind that I was splitting my readership and happily allowed me to continue my genre adventures. Sourcebooks doesn’t see it that way.
Sourcebooks likes the drama. They’re not so enamored with the sass. They want the Dwayne Series to go away. Divorcing Dwayne, the first book in the series, debuted April 2008. Dear Dwayne, the second in the series was to release April, 2009, with Dating Dwayne to follow. The series is centered around Francine Harper and her no-good husband Dwayne. In the first book, Francine is under felony assault charges for shooting at Dwayne and his stripper/lover Carla from the Peel ‘n Squeel. In the second book, Francine who is newly divorced, discovers she’s pregnant and is all set to marry the mayor, a Danny Devito type character who is good husband material, even if he does only come up to her navel. In the third book, newly widowed, Francine takes comfort in Dwayne’s arms. Good grief! Well, not good, but lots of grief. There’s a cast of zany characters to aid Francine in her search for true love, including her energetic and eccentric grandmother, Nanny Lou. There’s also her best friend Ray Anne, who upon discovering Francine is seeing Dwayne again, says, “Francine, have you got a boulder in your head, or what?”
Initially, I was told the only thing that would change would be the release date for Dear Dwayne. It was moved ahead to October. But after a major strategy session, it was decided that it was not in my best interest to continue to write down two paths. Now I must put Francine and her cohorts away. But it’s like taking them out in the backyard and shooting them. I’m just not sure how to let them go. They’ve been stumbling around in my head for the last three years. They’ve been cavorting around Pickville Springs, Georgia, where they reside, getting involved in all sorts of adventures on a daily basis for quite some time. They have conversations with me in my sleep. We’re talking “real” people here. Just how do I end their well-developed lives?
Well, to begin with, I’ve buried myself in new projects. I’ve finished The Heavenly Heart, which my agent is shopping. It was inspired from an actual CBS news program where a man received his daughter’s heart. After a fatal accident sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father who gets her heat. Lorelei’s untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She finds she is unable to move on without first letting go, and letting go is the last thing on her agenda.
I moved onto to All That’s True and did a final edit. Andrea St. James’s (Andi for short) privileged life is interrupted in the fall of 1991, when she discovers her father is having an affair with her best friend Bridget’s sexy new stepmother. With an equal mix of joy and sorrow, the novel follows Andi’s poignant, yet amusing journey to young adulthood, where she struggles with the elusive nature of truth and the devastating consequences of deception.
Now I’m immersed in Radio Girl, the tale of a southern lass who marries and divorces all the men in her life and discovers they’re basically all the same man. All of this should be enough to keep me from grieving the loss of the Dwayne series.
Plus, in my heart I know Sourcebooks is right and on the correct path. They want to promote me as a serious writer. Not to say I’m a totally happy camper, but I’m getting in the swing of it. I’ve said goodbye to Francine and Dwayne and Ray Anne and Nanny Lou: It was nice knowing y’all! And I’ve developed a mantra to see me through: Onward and upward.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com. Visit the website at jlmiles.com
Cumberland didn’t mind that I was splitting my readership and happily allowed me to continue my genre adventures. Sourcebooks doesn’t see it that way.
Sourcebooks likes the drama. They’re not so enamored with the sass. They want the Dwayne Series to go away. Divorcing Dwayne, the first book in the series, debuted April 2008. Dear Dwayne, the second in the series was to release April, 2009, with Dating Dwayne to follow. The series is centered around Francine Harper and her no-good husband Dwayne. In the first book, Francine is under felony assault charges for shooting at Dwayne and his stripper/lover Carla from the Peel ‘n Squeel. In the second book, Francine who is newly divorced, discovers she’s pregnant and is all set to marry the mayor, a Danny Devito type character who is good husband material, even if he does only come up to her navel. In the third book, newly widowed, Francine takes comfort in Dwayne’s arms. Good grief! Well, not good, but lots of grief. There’s a cast of zany characters to aid Francine in her search for true love, including her energetic and eccentric grandmother, Nanny Lou. There’s also her best friend Ray Anne, who upon discovering Francine is seeing Dwayne again, says, “Francine, have you got a boulder in your head, or what?”
Initially, I was told the only thing that would change would be the release date for Dear Dwayne. It was moved ahead to October. But after a major strategy session, it was decided that it was not in my best interest to continue to write down two paths. Now I must put Francine and her cohorts away. But it’s like taking them out in the backyard and shooting them. I’m just not sure how to let them go. They’ve been stumbling around in my head for the last three years. They’ve been cavorting around Pickville Springs, Georgia, where they reside, getting involved in all sorts of adventures on a daily basis for quite some time. They have conversations with me in my sleep. We’re talking “real” people here. Just how do I end their well-developed lives?
Well, to begin with, I’ve buried myself in new projects. I’ve finished The Heavenly Heart, which my agent is shopping. It was inspired from an actual CBS news program where a man received his daughter’s heart. After a fatal accident sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father who gets her heat. Lorelei’s untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She finds she is unable to move on without first letting go, and letting go is the last thing on her agenda.
I moved onto to All That’s True and did a final edit. Andrea St. James’s (Andi for short) privileged life is interrupted in the fall of 1991, when she discovers her father is having an affair with her best friend Bridget’s sexy new stepmother. With an equal mix of joy and sorrow, the novel follows Andi’s poignant, yet amusing journey to young adulthood, where she struggles with the elusive nature of truth and the devastating consequences of deception.
Now I’m immersed in Radio Girl, the tale of a southern lass who marries and divorces all the men in her life and discovers they’re basically all the same man. All of this should be enough to keep me from grieving the loss of the Dwayne series.
Plus, in my heart I know Sourcebooks is right and on the correct path. They want to promote me as a serious writer. Not to say I’m a totally happy camper, but I’m getting in the swing of it. I’ve said goodbye to Francine and Dwayne and Ray Anne and Nanny Lou: It was nice knowing y’all! And I’ve developed a mantra to see me through: Onward and upward.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com. Visit the website at jlmiles.com
Sourcebooks bought Cumberland House, my publisher, and everyone, except those that were let go, of course, are very happy and excited. Lots of changes are in the air, some of them pretty amazing. That said there is one change that’s not sitting too well with me. First, let me explain. With Cumberland House I broke the cardinal rule. I wrote under two different genres. If you go to my website jlmiles.com, it says Introducing J. L. Miles— featuring Southern Drama and Southern Sass.
Cumberland didn’t mind that I was splitting my readership and happily allowed me to continue my genre adventures. Sourcebooks doesn’t see it that way.
Sourcebooks likes the drama. They’re not so enamored with the sass. They want the Dwayne Series to go away. Divorcing Dwayne, the first book in the series, debuted April 2008. Dear Dwayne, the second in the series was to release April, 2009, with Dating Dwayne to follow. The series is centered around Francine Harper and her no-good husband Dwayne. In the first book, Francine is under felony assault charges for shooting at Dwayne and his stripper/lover Carla from the Peel ‘n Squeel. In the second book, Francine who is newly divorced, discovers she’s pregnant and is all set to marry the mayor, a Danny Devito type character who is good husband material, even if he does only come up to her navel. In the third book, newly widowed, Francine takes comfort in Dwayne’s arms. Good grief! Well, not good, but lots of grief. There’s a cast of zany characters to aid Francine in her search for true love, including her energetic and eccentric grandmother, Nanny Lou. There’s also her best friend Ray Anne, who upon discovering Francine is seeing Dwayne again, says, “Francine, have you got a boulder in your head, or what?”
Initially, I was told the only thing that would change would be the release date for Dear Dwayne. It was moved ahead to October. But after a major strategy session, it was decided that it was not in my best interest to continue to write down two paths. Now I must put Francine and her cohorts away. But it’s like taking them out in the backyard and shooting them. I’m just not sure how to let them go. They’ve been stumbling around in my head for the last three years. They’ve been cavorting around Pickville Springs, Georgia, where they reside, getting involved in all sorts of adventures on a daily basis for quite some time. They have conversations with me in my sleep. We’re talking “real” people here. Just how do I end their well-developed lives?
Well, to begin with, I’ve buried myself in new projects. I’ve finished The Heavenly Heart, which my agent is shopping. It was inspired from an actual CBS news program where a man received his daughter’s heart. After a fatal accident sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father who gets her heat. Lorelei’s untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She finds she is unable to move on without first letting go, and letting go is the last thing on her agenda.
I moved onto to All That’s True and did a final edit. Andrea St. James’s (Andi for short) privileged life is interrupted in the fall of 1991, when she discovers her father is having an affair with her best friend Bridget’s sexy new stepmother. With an equal mix of joy and sorrow, the novel follows Andi’s poignant, yet amusing journey to young adulthood, where she struggles with the elusive nature of truth and the devastating consequences of deception.
Now I’m immersed in Radio Girl, the tale of a southern lass who marries and divorces all the men in her life and discovers they’re basically all the same man. All of this should be enough to keep me from grieving the loss of the Dwayne series.
Plus, in my heart I know Sourcebooks is right and on the correct path. They want to promote me as a serious writer. Not to say I’m a totally happy camper, but I’m getting in the swing of it. I’ve said goodbye to Francine and Dwayne and Ray Anne and Nanny Lou: It was nice knowing y’all! And I’ve developed a mantra to see me through: Onward and upward.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com. Visit the website at jlmiles.com
Cumberland didn’t mind that I was splitting my readership and happily allowed me to continue my genre adventures. Sourcebooks doesn’t see it that way.
Sourcebooks likes the drama. They’re not so enamored with the sass. They want the Dwayne Series to go away. Divorcing Dwayne, the first book in the series, debuted April 2008. Dear Dwayne, the second in the series was to release April, 2009, with Dating Dwayne to follow. The series is centered around Francine Harper and her no-good husband Dwayne. In the first book, Francine is under felony assault charges for shooting at Dwayne and his stripper/lover Carla from the Peel ‘n Squeel. In the second book, Francine who is newly divorced, discovers she’s pregnant and is all set to marry the mayor, a Danny Devito type character who is good husband material, even if he does only come up to her navel. In the third book, newly widowed, Francine takes comfort in Dwayne’s arms. Good grief! Well, not good, but lots of grief. There’s a cast of zany characters to aid Francine in her search for true love, including her energetic and eccentric grandmother, Nanny Lou. There’s also her best friend Ray Anne, who upon discovering Francine is seeing Dwayne again, says, “Francine, have you got a boulder in your head, or what?”
Initially, I was told the only thing that would change would be the release date for Dear Dwayne. It was moved ahead to October. But after a major strategy session, it was decided that it was not in my best interest to continue to write down two paths. Now I must put Francine and her cohorts away. But it’s like taking them out in the backyard and shooting them. I’m just not sure how to let them go. They’ve been stumbling around in my head for the last three years. They’ve been cavorting around Pickville Springs, Georgia, where they reside, getting involved in all sorts of adventures on a daily basis for quite some time. They have conversations with me in my sleep. We’re talking “real” people here. Just how do I end their well-developed lives?
Well, to begin with, I’ve buried myself in new projects. I’ve finished The Heavenly Heart, which my agent is shopping. It was inspired from an actual CBS news program where a man received his daughter’s heart. After a fatal accident sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father who gets her heat. Lorelei’s untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She finds she is unable to move on without first letting go, and letting go is the last thing on her agenda.
I moved onto to All That’s True and did a final edit. Andrea St. James’s (Andi for short) privileged life is interrupted in the fall of 1991, when she discovers her father is having an affair with her best friend Bridget’s sexy new stepmother. With an equal mix of joy and sorrow, the novel follows Andi’s poignant, yet amusing journey to young adulthood, where she struggles with the elusive nature of truth and the devastating consequences of deception.
Now I’m immersed in Radio Girl, the tale of a southern lass who marries and divorces all the men in her life and discovers they’re basically all the same man. All of this should be enough to keep me from grieving the loss of the Dwayne series.
Plus, in my heart I know Sourcebooks is right and on the correct path. They want to promote me as a serious writer. Not to say I’m a totally happy camper, but I’m getting in the swing of it. I’ve said goodbye to Francine and Dwayne and Ray Anne and Nanny Lou: It was nice knowing y’all! And I’ve developed a mantra to see me through: Onward and upward.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com. Visit the website at jlmiles.com
Friday, December 19, 2008
Blown Away
I spent the month of December in Florida. Most mornings I was up at daybreak watching the sun climb over the horizon. Not one sunrise was ever the same. How can this be—three-hundred and sixty-five mornings a year with never a repeat? Year after year of sunrises, thousands and thousands of days bursting forth, not one ever the same as the one birthed before it?
During morning strolls on the beach I watched as the waves pummel the packed ground. Some waves gathered strength quickly and pounded the shoreline. Others rolled in slowly and barely kissed the sand. As the waves rolled in I saw its many personalities. Sometimes it was angry and attacked the shore with a vengeance. Other times it was timid and licked at the sand like a kitten lapping up milk.
No matter how many waves rolled in, they were unique in their formation—another amazing spectacle of nature. How many millions of waves have rolled onto the shoreline, not one a repeat of the one passing before it?
That got me thinking that no matter what the sunrise looked like, or the sunset for that matter, or what the wave formations were for any particular day, I didn’t want them to end. They all took my breath away.
Some books are like that. You want them to go on and on. The authors are gifted word-painters whose prose grabs hold of your heart and squeezes firmly, and you have to gasp to get another breath of air in place. It’s that way for me whenever I read Elizabeth Berg. I just finished True to Form, such a simple little book with a sweet message of how important it is to be true to ourselves. Berg’s words positively dance on the page. I knew I was in for a treat as I read the opening pages. The protagonist, Katie is describing her aunt’s kitchen and how people exclaimed they could eat off of the floor. And she says, Why would you want to do that? And I picture my uncle Harry, sitting there crossed-legged with his napkin tucked into his shirt, leaning over awkwardly to lift his scrambled eggs from the linoleum.
There are so many parts in this book to savor. In one particular chapter, Katie is feeling rather distant from her father who has recently remarried. (Katie’s mother died of cancer.) Katie likes her new step-mother who’s name is Ginger. Katie says two miracles have happened. First Ginger has just won second place in a jingle contest. Katie considers the second miracle to be the fact she may be getting a scholarship to the prestigious Bartlett School for Girls. So, Katie and Ginger are sitting out on the back porch. Katie leans back on her elbows and eyes the night sky. She says: Sometimes I get this feeling of a wink coming down from the heavens to me. After a while the screen door bangs shut, and here comes my dad. He’s heard our voices. They’ve called him out. Seems like summer nights just do that to a person, make you kind of sociable. There you are, watching “Rawhide”, and the voice of your wife and your daughter curl around you like pie smells in a cartoon. All he does is sit down and light up a cigarette. But it is a lot.
Katie has a summer babysitting job taking care of the three Wexler boys, Henry, Mark, and David. Only on this particular night Mr. Wexler forgets she is coming and Mrs. Wexler isn’t even there and the boys are at his sister’s house. Mr. Wexler answers the door in his pajamas and invites her in. Here’s the rest of the scene:
“Now I know we hired you for the summer,” Mr. Wexler says, “and I’m going to pay you what you would have earned if you’d worked for me.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay.”
Mr. Wexler holds up his hand and says, “I would feel much better if you’d let me.”
“Well, I don’t really. . .maybe I could help you clean up a little. That way I could earn it.”
He looks around like he is seeing the place for the very first time. And then he says, with a kind of dignity, “It’s all right. I’ll get to it.”
“I could just do the dishes for you.”
“Katie,” he says. “Mrs. Wexler has left me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a loss, here.”
“Well, if you. . .I’d be glad to help you. I mean, clean up. I can help you do that. And also, I. . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, I just want to say I think you’re a very nice man.”
“Ah.” He leans his head back and I get the terrible thought that it’s because he’s crying.
“Mr. Wexler?”
He clears his throat and quick wipes away the tears. “Yes?”
“Do you want me to wash or dry?”
He looks at me with such gratitude it’s as if I have knocked on his door and said I am from The Millionaire.
Katie’s other summer job is helping an elderly man, Mr. Randolph care for his ailing wife. On this particular morning Katie is helping this sweet lady with her morning sponge bath.
I take off her glasses and hand her the washcloth. This part she can do—she washes her face and I wash her glasses. It makes you feel so tender to see someone wash their face with such trembling hands and then hand you back the washrag, looking up at you like they’re waiting for you to grade them.
You can see what I mean when I say her words just dance on the page. She is such a talented and gifted storyteller. And of course there are sooooooo many others out there as well. I marvel at the uniqueness of each of their voices. Though some may sound familiar, they’re never, ever exactly the same. And, of course, the stories themselves bare witness to the creative powers of each of their wondrous minds. Good, golly, Molly, it keeps me ever humble.
J. L. Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne, and Dear Dwayne, releasing in April of 2009. Dating Dwayne will follow. Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com. Write the author at jackie@jlmiles.com.
During morning strolls on the beach I watched as the waves pummel the packed ground. Some waves gathered strength quickly and pounded the shoreline. Others rolled in slowly and barely kissed the sand. As the waves rolled in I saw its many personalities. Sometimes it was angry and attacked the shore with a vengeance. Other times it was timid and licked at the sand like a kitten lapping up milk.
No matter how many waves rolled in, they were unique in their formation—another amazing spectacle of nature. How many millions of waves have rolled onto the shoreline, not one a repeat of the one passing before it?
That got me thinking that no matter what the sunrise looked like, or the sunset for that matter, or what the wave formations were for any particular day, I didn’t want them to end. They all took my breath away.
Some books are like that. You want them to go on and on. The authors are gifted word-painters whose prose grabs hold of your heart and squeezes firmly, and you have to gasp to get another breath of air in place. It’s that way for me whenever I read Elizabeth Berg. I just finished True to Form, such a simple little book with a sweet message of how important it is to be true to ourselves. Berg’s words positively dance on the page. I knew I was in for a treat as I read the opening pages. The protagonist, Katie is describing her aunt’s kitchen and how people exclaimed they could eat off of the floor. And she says, Why would you want to do that? And I picture my uncle Harry, sitting there crossed-legged with his napkin tucked into his shirt, leaning over awkwardly to lift his scrambled eggs from the linoleum.
There are so many parts in this book to savor. In one particular chapter, Katie is feeling rather distant from her father who has recently remarried. (Katie’s mother died of cancer.) Katie likes her new step-mother who’s name is Ginger. Katie says two miracles have happened. First Ginger has just won second place in a jingle contest. Katie considers the second miracle to be the fact she may be getting a scholarship to the prestigious Bartlett School for Girls. So, Katie and Ginger are sitting out on the back porch. Katie leans back on her elbows and eyes the night sky. She says: Sometimes I get this feeling of a wink coming down from the heavens to me. After a while the screen door bangs shut, and here comes my dad. He’s heard our voices. They’ve called him out. Seems like summer nights just do that to a person, make you kind of sociable. There you are, watching “Rawhide”, and the voice of your wife and your daughter curl around you like pie smells in a cartoon. All he does is sit down and light up a cigarette. But it is a lot.
Katie has a summer babysitting job taking care of the three Wexler boys, Henry, Mark, and David. Only on this particular night Mr. Wexler forgets she is coming and Mrs. Wexler isn’t even there and the boys are at his sister’s house. Mr. Wexler answers the door in his pajamas and invites her in. Here’s the rest of the scene:
“Now I know we hired you for the summer,” Mr. Wexler says, “and I’m going to pay you what you would have earned if you’d worked for me.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay.”
Mr. Wexler holds up his hand and says, “I would feel much better if you’d let me.”
“Well, I don’t really. . .maybe I could help you clean up a little. That way I could earn it.”
He looks around like he is seeing the place for the very first time. And then he says, with a kind of dignity, “It’s all right. I’ll get to it.”
“I could just do the dishes for you.”
“Katie,” he says. “Mrs. Wexler has left me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a loss, here.”
“Well, if you. . .I’d be glad to help you. I mean, clean up. I can help you do that. And also, I. . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, I just want to say I think you’re a very nice man.”
“Ah.” He leans his head back and I get the terrible thought that it’s because he’s crying.
“Mr. Wexler?”
He clears his throat and quick wipes away the tears. “Yes?”
“Do you want me to wash or dry?”
He looks at me with such gratitude it’s as if I have knocked on his door and said I am from The Millionaire.
Katie’s other summer job is helping an elderly man, Mr. Randolph care for his ailing wife. On this particular morning Katie is helping this sweet lady with her morning sponge bath.
I take off her glasses and hand her the washcloth. This part she can do—she washes her face and I wash her glasses. It makes you feel so tender to see someone wash their face with such trembling hands and then hand you back the washrag, looking up at you like they’re waiting for you to grade them.
You can see what I mean when I say her words just dance on the page. She is such a talented and gifted storyteller. And of course there are sooooooo many others out there as well. I marvel at the uniqueness of each of their voices. Though some may sound familiar, they’re never, ever exactly the same. And, of course, the stories themselves bare witness to the creative powers of each of their wondrous minds. Good, golly, Molly, it keeps me ever humble.
J. L. Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, Divorcing Dwayne, and Dear Dwayne, releasing in April of 2009. Dating Dwayne will follow. Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com. Write the author at jackie@jlmiles.com.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Where The Heart Is
I’m in the middle of my latest novel and have no idea how to fill up the additional pages I need to complete it. I have two hundred pages that I love and the ending in place that I’m more than satisfied with. I know where the climax is going and what it must contain. I have an understanding of exactly what it is I’m trying to say. Still I’m stuck with eighty blank pages. I’ve reread what I’ve written, so far, thirty-three times. I’ve left the manuscript alone for two entire weeks. Nothing—the pages sit there, large and inviting, but with no spark to ignite them.
I decide I need a distraction, something fulfilling and enriching. My daughter comes up with the perfect solution. She’s coming to Atlanta for a trade show. (She has a clothing line for little girls called Isabel Greika in honor of her firstborn daughter.)
“I’ll leave the kids with you,” she says. “It’s just the distraction you need. It’ll put everything into perspective. You’ll be so glad to get back to your writing the words will fly onto the page—guaranteed.”
She’s very convincing. And of course, I’ll be so glad to see them. They live five hundred miles away. It’s not like I can dash down the street like I used to and catch a glimpse of their latest antics. I have a one-year-old grandson and a four-year-old granddaughter coming to my rescue that I haven’t seen in over three months. It’s perfect.
Isabel arrives with her suitcase in hand. She’s a big girl. “I can carry it myself,” she says and drags it across my newly polished hardwood floors. I’m thinking if I can’t write next week when they’re gone I can at least re-polish the floor. This plan is working already.
Dolan, my one-year-old grandson is sound asleep and doesn’t realize he’s being handed over to the grandmother he hasn’t seen since he was nine months old. I swallow the lump in my throat and glance in the mirror in the entry way. My hair is combed and I have lipstick in place. I'm certain he won’t remember me, but hopefully I won’t scare him.
My daughter dashes off to her show. With Dolan asleep, Isabel and I sit on the front steps. It’s a beautiful day. She saunters down the circular driveway and examines a large crack in the cement. A colony of ants is pouring forth from a crevice.
“Nana,” she says, “Ants are really kind of cute, but I just gotta kill’em!” She proceeds to stomp on the crack. I burst out laughing. Kids really do say the darndest things.
Later we’re unpacking her suitcase and she hands me a small stack of photos sealed inside a plastic baggie. “I’m taking gymnastics,” she says proudly and eagerly pulls a hand full of pictures out of the plastic bag. “This is my friend Charlie,” she explains. “She’s taking gymnastics, too. She’s four, like me.”
Charlie towers over Isabel by a foot and a half.
“My, she’s a big four,” I say, realizing it may be true, but noticing also that Isabel is a petite four which makes Charlie’s height all the more pronounced.
Isabel examines the picture. Her brow is furrowed and her lips are pinched tightly together. “Well, next year when I’m five,” she quips, “I’ll be a big four, too!”
Hhhmmmm, wonder how that works? I take hold of her and give her a hug. Dolan’s awake now and crying. I go to the port-a-crib and pick him up. He takes one look at me and starts howling even louder. I decide to start with a clean diaper and go from there. In no time he’ll be used to me. But it’s not to be. Clean diapers and an offer of apple juice and a bottle bring no relief. He continues to howl.
“Don’t be scared, Dolan,” Isabel says. “This is my nana!”
Now that the introductions are out of the way, I spend the afternoon staging a puppet show. It works. Dolan is laughing and running around the family room, his tears long forgotten. Next we settle down on the sofa. Isabel produces a handful of storybooks. One by one I read each of them. Then I read them again. It’s time for a snack. I settle on bananas and crackers and fruit juice. It’s a hit. Movie time follows. Isabel produces her portable DVD player and slips a disk into the slot. Cinderella and Prince Charming
fill the small screen. Dolan’s not impressed. He sits and attempts to stack his assortment of blocks. I join him and show him the way to stack the blocks one on top of the other. He quickly knocks them all down. He thinks it’s hysterical.
“Nana,” Isabel says, “Come and see Dumbo.” She slips another CD into the slot. I plop down next to her on the sofa. These little tykes are starting to wear me out. Maybe it’s time for a nap. I put Dolan back in the port-o-crib and join Isabel on my bed. She’s curled up on her side, her favorite doll beside her. Before long they’re both asleep. I tiptoe down the hall to my office and check my email. I pull up my manuscript expecting a creative burst of energy to spill onto the page. Nothing. I tell myself I need more time with the kids. I’ve simply returned to the project too soon.
Two days later my daughter returns. Now I’m completely worn out and realize, if we’re smart, why we have children when we’re young. We pack the car and say our goodbyes. We load Dolan and Isabel in their car seats and fasten the safety harnesses.
I hug and kiss each of them one last time. I turn and hug my daughter, pat her head and pepper her face with kisses.
“Good luck with your writing,” she says, snapping her seatbelt in place. “I know whatever you do, it’ll be great.”
I wave and watch as they drive away. As the car disappears down the street I realize I don’t care whether or not the experiment worked. I’ve had three absolutely, positively, wonderful days. I’ve staged puppet shows, poured bubble baths, baked cookies; finger painted, played in the park, watched Cinderella three times, and read enough children’s books to know them by heart. I’ve soothed numerous boo-boos and kissed um-teen owies. I’ve tucked tiny toes under the covers and kissed little fingers poking out from above. And, I’ve collected more hugs and received more kisses than I ever thought possible. Nothing can top that—not even finishing a bestseller.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Dear Dwayne, Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River, and Roseflower Creek Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com/. Write to the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com
I decide I need a distraction, something fulfilling and enriching. My daughter comes up with the perfect solution. She’s coming to Atlanta for a trade show. (She has a clothing line for little girls called Isabel Greika in honor of her firstborn daughter.)
“I’ll leave the kids with you,” she says. “It’s just the distraction you need. It’ll put everything into perspective. You’ll be so glad to get back to your writing the words will fly onto the page—guaranteed.”
She’s very convincing. And of course, I’ll be so glad to see them. They live five hundred miles away. It’s not like I can dash down the street like I used to and catch a glimpse of their latest antics. I have a one-year-old grandson and a four-year-old granddaughter coming to my rescue that I haven’t seen in over three months. It’s perfect.
Isabel arrives with her suitcase in hand. She’s a big girl. “I can carry it myself,” she says and drags it across my newly polished hardwood floors. I’m thinking if I can’t write next week when they’re gone I can at least re-polish the floor. This plan is working already.
Dolan, my one-year-old grandson is sound asleep and doesn’t realize he’s being handed over to the grandmother he hasn’t seen since he was nine months old. I swallow the lump in my throat and glance in the mirror in the entry way. My hair is combed and I have lipstick in place. I'm certain he won’t remember me, but hopefully I won’t scare him.
My daughter dashes off to her show. With Dolan asleep, Isabel and I sit on the front steps. It’s a beautiful day. She saunters down the circular driveway and examines a large crack in the cement. A colony of ants is pouring forth from a crevice.
“Nana,” she says, “Ants are really kind of cute, but I just gotta kill’em!” She proceeds to stomp on the crack. I burst out laughing. Kids really do say the darndest things.
Later we’re unpacking her suitcase and she hands me a small stack of photos sealed inside a plastic baggie. “I’m taking gymnastics,” she says proudly and eagerly pulls a hand full of pictures out of the plastic bag. “This is my friend Charlie,” she explains. “She’s taking gymnastics, too. She’s four, like me.”
Charlie towers over Isabel by a foot and a half.
“My, she’s a big four,” I say, realizing it may be true, but noticing also that Isabel is a petite four which makes Charlie’s height all the more pronounced.
Isabel examines the picture. Her brow is furrowed and her lips are pinched tightly together. “Well, next year when I’m five,” she quips, “I’ll be a big four, too!”
Hhhmmmm, wonder how that works? I take hold of her and give her a hug. Dolan’s awake now and crying. I go to the port-a-crib and pick him up. He takes one look at me and starts howling even louder. I decide to start with a clean diaper and go from there. In no time he’ll be used to me. But it’s not to be. Clean diapers and an offer of apple juice and a bottle bring no relief. He continues to howl.
“Don’t be scared, Dolan,” Isabel says. “This is my nana!”
Now that the introductions are out of the way, I spend the afternoon staging a puppet show. It works. Dolan is laughing and running around the family room, his tears long forgotten. Next we settle down on the sofa. Isabel produces a handful of storybooks. One by one I read each of them. Then I read them again. It’s time for a snack. I settle on bananas and crackers and fruit juice. It’s a hit. Movie time follows. Isabel produces her portable DVD player and slips a disk into the slot. Cinderella and Prince Charming
fill the small screen. Dolan’s not impressed. He sits and attempts to stack his assortment of blocks. I join him and show him the way to stack the blocks one on top of the other. He quickly knocks them all down. He thinks it’s hysterical.
“Nana,” Isabel says, “Come and see Dumbo.” She slips another CD into the slot. I plop down next to her on the sofa. These little tykes are starting to wear me out. Maybe it’s time for a nap. I put Dolan back in the port-o-crib and join Isabel on my bed. She’s curled up on her side, her favorite doll beside her. Before long they’re both asleep. I tiptoe down the hall to my office and check my email. I pull up my manuscript expecting a creative burst of energy to spill onto the page. Nothing. I tell myself I need more time with the kids. I’ve simply returned to the project too soon.
Two days later my daughter returns. Now I’m completely worn out and realize, if we’re smart, why we have children when we’re young. We pack the car and say our goodbyes. We load Dolan and Isabel in their car seats and fasten the safety harnesses.
I hug and kiss each of them one last time. I turn and hug my daughter, pat her head and pepper her face with kisses.
“Good luck with your writing,” she says, snapping her seatbelt in place. “I know whatever you do, it’ll be great.”
I wave and watch as they drive away. As the car disappears down the street I realize I don’t care whether or not the experiment worked. I’ve had three absolutely, positively, wonderful days. I’ve staged puppet shows, poured bubble baths, baked cookies; finger painted, played in the park, watched Cinderella three times, and read enough children’s books to know them by heart. I’ve soothed numerous boo-boos and kissed um-teen owies. I’ve tucked tiny toes under the covers and kissed little fingers poking out from above. And, I’ve collected more hugs and received more kisses than I ever thought possible. Nothing can top that—not even finishing a bestseller.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Dear Dwayne, Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River, and Roseflower Creek Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com/. Write to the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO GETTING PUBLISHED
My agent is shopping my latest manuscript and let me tell you the waiting is killing me. As a matter of fact, just this morning I noticed my hair is definitely grayer than it was last week.
When she first sent it out, we got an immediate response from a major publisher and boy was I excited. They raved about the author voice and the premise. They asked if the author had another book that could be packaged with it. Then they took it to committee, whatever that means, and the next thing you know they were saying things like, “It’s not for our list after all.”
Bummer. I felt like dumping my head in the washing machine while it was on the spin cycle. That got me thinking about all the authors out there that now have N.Y. Times bestsellers. Did they ever want to stick their head in the washer? I’d call them up, but I don’t have there numbers. Plus they’d think I was crazy so I’d probably just tell them how much I enjoyed their book and not mention their washing machine.
Maybe placing a project is so frustrating because of the way I first got published. I went to this book conference. At the reception I literally bumped into Ron Pitkin, the president of Cumberland House Publishing. He was kind enough not to notice I spilled his drink and asked what I was working on. When I told him fiction, he promptly replied, “That’s a crap shoot.” Definitely not what I wanted to hear. I mean, I’d paid good money to come to this conference and he’s raining on my party, big time. “Well,” I said, “that’s too bad, because I have a dynamite opening line.” I was prepared to walk away, when he gently took hold of my elbow and said, “So what’s your opening line?”
“The morning I died, it rained.” Keep in mind this was long before The Lovely Bones.
“God! I want to see that book,” he said, doing an about face.
“Ah, I don’t have a book,” I said. “I have a great opening line and a hundred pages.”
He asked if I had it with me. “Of course. I’m getting it evaluated in the morning. It costs forty-five dollars.”
He told me to give it to him, he wouldn’t charge a thing. I immediately went to my room and brought back the pages. I had a prologue, and the last chapter and the epilogue along with the rest of it. It wasn’t finished, but I knew where it was going.
Mr. Pitkin thanked me and went on his way. Come Sunday morning with the conference over, everyone was checking out. I spotted Mr. Pitkin making his way toward me and thought, oh-oh, this is where he’s going to pull the rug out from under me and tell me to get a real job. To my surprise he handed me the manuscript and said, “I want this and I want it yesterday. Go home and finish it!”
I figured if I took forever to finish it he’d never even remember that he liked it. I stayed up and wrote around the clock for the next five days, took the weekend off, stayed up again and wrote around the clock for the next five days and sent it off to Mr. Pitkin. I marked my calendar for three months, thinking it might take that long for him to get back to me. I started in on my second book. Just like all the books on writing said to do. The following Friday evening my phone rang. I answered. A voice said, “This is Ron Pitkin at Cumberland House and we’re going to bring your book out in hardback.” I said, “Ya? And I’m the tooth fairy.” And I hung up on him. The reason I did this is that the only person other than my husband who knew I’d sent off the manuscript was a good friend of mine who can mimic any voice he’s ever heard. He’d been going to this conference where I’d met Mr. Pitkin for years and has heard him speak many times. It had to be this friend playing a joke on me. Not a very funny one either. I wasn’t amused.
I went upstairs to comb my hair and put some lipstick on. My husband was starving and wanted to go and get something to eat. Poor thing, he probably was starving. I stopped cooking when the kids left home and I took up writing. No sooner did I get to the bedroom when the phone rang. This one has caller ID, the others don’t. I leaned over and saw CUMBERLAND HOUSE flashing on the screen. I’d hung up on Mr. Pitkin for real!
I picked up the handset, leaned into it and barely whispered “Hello?”
“What’d you hang up on me for?” he said. “Ah, it’s a long story, a very boring story,” I said.
“Well, we’re bringing out your book in hard back and bumping back our memoir piece on Dale Earnhardt (he’d been tragically killed), to make Roseflower Creek the lead book. What do you think of that?”
I was hyperventilating and finding it impossible to speak. I did my best. “Didn’t you say fiction was a crap shoot?” I asked
“Yes—and it is,” he said.
“Then I think your crazy or my protagonist got herself a miracle. What do you think of that?”
Mr. Pitkin laughed and said he’d be seeing me. This is a true story and a pretty amazing way to get published. I should have known there’d be rocky roads ahead. It brings to mind the old adage if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is. Oh well, maybe after the storms pass, I’ll find a rainbow. One can always hope. In the interim I’ve got everything crossed, including the hair on my husband’s head—all three strands.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River and the newly released Divorcing Dwayne. Dear Dwayne debuts April 1st, 2009. Visit the website at www.jlmiles.com. Write to Jackie at Jackie@jlmiles.com
.
When she first sent it out, we got an immediate response from a major publisher and boy was I excited. They raved about the author voice and the premise. They asked if the author had another book that could be packaged with it. Then they took it to committee, whatever that means, and the next thing you know they were saying things like, “It’s not for our list after all.”
Bummer. I felt like dumping my head in the washing machine while it was on the spin cycle. That got me thinking about all the authors out there that now have N.Y. Times bestsellers. Did they ever want to stick their head in the washer? I’d call them up, but I don’t have there numbers. Plus they’d think I was crazy so I’d probably just tell them how much I enjoyed their book and not mention their washing machine.
Maybe placing a project is so frustrating because of the way I first got published. I went to this book conference. At the reception I literally bumped into Ron Pitkin, the president of Cumberland House Publishing. He was kind enough not to notice I spilled his drink and asked what I was working on. When I told him fiction, he promptly replied, “That’s a crap shoot.” Definitely not what I wanted to hear. I mean, I’d paid good money to come to this conference and he’s raining on my party, big time. “Well,” I said, “that’s too bad, because I have a dynamite opening line.” I was prepared to walk away, when he gently took hold of my elbow and said, “So what’s your opening line?”
“The morning I died, it rained.” Keep in mind this was long before The Lovely Bones.
“God! I want to see that book,” he said, doing an about face.
“Ah, I don’t have a book,” I said. “I have a great opening line and a hundred pages.”
He asked if I had it with me. “Of course. I’m getting it evaluated in the morning. It costs forty-five dollars.”
He told me to give it to him, he wouldn’t charge a thing. I immediately went to my room and brought back the pages. I had a prologue, and the last chapter and the epilogue along with the rest of it. It wasn’t finished, but I knew where it was going.
Mr. Pitkin thanked me and went on his way. Come Sunday morning with the conference over, everyone was checking out. I spotted Mr. Pitkin making his way toward me and thought, oh-oh, this is where he’s going to pull the rug out from under me and tell me to get a real job. To my surprise he handed me the manuscript and said, “I want this and I want it yesterday. Go home and finish it!”
I figured if I took forever to finish it he’d never even remember that he liked it. I stayed up and wrote around the clock for the next five days, took the weekend off, stayed up again and wrote around the clock for the next five days and sent it off to Mr. Pitkin. I marked my calendar for three months, thinking it might take that long for him to get back to me. I started in on my second book. Just like all the books on writing said to do. The following Friday evening my phone rang. I answered. A voice said, “This is Ron Pitkin at Cumberland House and we’re going to bring your book out in hardback.” I said, “Ya? And I’m the tooth fairy.” And I hung up on him. The reason I did this is that the only person other than my husband who knew I’d sent off the manuscript was a good friend of mine who can mimic any voice he’s ever heard. He’d been going to this conference where I’d met Mr. Pitkin for years and has heard him speak many times. It had to be this friend playing a joke on me. Not a very funny one either. I wasn’t amused.
I went upstairs to comb my hair and put some lipstick on. My husband was starving and wanted to go and get something to eat. Poor thing, he probably was starving. I stopped cooking when the kids left home and I took up writing. No sooner did I get to the bedroom when the phone rang. This one has caller ID, the others don’t. I leaned over and saw CUMBERLAND HOUSE flashing on the screen. I’d hung up on Mr. Pitkin for real!
I picked up the handset, leaned into it and barely whispered “Hello?”
“What’d you hang up on me for?” he said. “Ah, it’s a long story, a very boring story,” I said.
“Well, we’re bringing out your book in hard back and bumping back our memoir piece on Dale Earnhardt (he’d been tragically killed), to make Roseflower Creek the lead book. What do you think of that?”
I was hyperventilating and finding it impossible to speak. I did my best. “Didn’t you say fiction was a crap shoot?” I asked
“Yes—and it is,” he said.
“Then I think your crazy or my protagonist got herself a miracle. What do you think of that?”
Mr. Pitkin laughed and said he’d be seeing me. This is a true story and a pretty amazing way to get published. I should have known there’d be rocky roads ahead. It brings to mind the old adage if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is. Oh well, maybe after the storms pass, I’ll find a rainbow. One can always hope. In the interim I’ve got everything crossed, including the hair on my husband’s head—all three strands.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River and the newly released Divorcing Dwayne. Dear Dwayne debuts April 1st, 2009. Visit the website at www.jlmiles.com. Write to Jackie at Jackie@jlmiles.com
.
Monday, July 21, 2008
I’ve noticed lately I’m getting more and more wrinkles. If this keeps up my face will look like a roadmap. I saw this ad on TV that said I could turn back time—just by buying their product. I bought three jars. They lied. The only thing that got turned back was the check I wrote to pay for their products. It didn’t quite clear my bank. I called them up (the product people, not the bank) and told them it would be alright. I was going to ask for a refund anyway. They weren’t amused.
I think that any and all products being advertised should do exactly what they say they’ll do or the people advertising them should immediately suffer serious and permanent consequences, like getting a case of incurable dandruff, or developing uncontrolled facial ticks. Take the skin care folks—at the very least they should be hit with a terminal case of zits.
The problem is, before long thousands of people would be running around with dandruff and pimples and facial ticks. I say this because it seems everyone selling something lately exaggerates and gets away with it. I went to this laser clinic for hair removal. They promised with six treatments I’d never shave my legs again. They said it was virtually a painless procedure. Always listen up when someone uses the word “virtually”. It means the same thing as when a doctor says there might be some discomfort.
The only thing the laser clinic didn’t lie about was the price. It would be three mortgage payments, payable in advance. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after that fiasco, but oh no, I’m still out there reading and believing all the hype slick advertisers hand out. Just last month, I read an article in the newspaper—well, it looked like an article, but was actually an ad for weight loss camouflaged to look like an article written by some prominent doctor I’d never heard of. Anyway, their product guaranteed that you would lose seven pounds in your sleep the first week alone. I bought some of that, too. And I did lose seven pounds, just like they said. Mostly because I lived with my head stuck in the toilet for eight days straight. The product made me sicker than my cat when she swallowed a year’s supply of fur balls in one setting.
And that’s just one of the weight loss products on the market. There are approximately three millions others that claim you can achieve the same results. In addition to weight loss, skin care, and hair removal, there are scads of other companies promising to remove cellulite, firm your under arms and whiten your teeth, not to mention give you fingernails stronger than nails, erase under-eye circles and stop you from ever passing gas. Right, like I believe that. But, you name it, and there’s a product out there promising to fix it. And that’s just products. What about all the procedures being touted as a total cure-all for what ails one. There’s liposuction, micro-dermabrasion, Botox, silicone and collagen. The list goes on. Basically, the entire human body can be re-done so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Now, why would I want that? It’s taken me all these years to get her to notice me in the first place. But that’s another story. Right now I think I’ll just stop believing in all the hype I read about or see on television and be content that I’m getting older (and hopefully wiser), and I have the looks to prove it. In the meantime, be careful what you believe in. There are a lot of advertisers out there with a lot of hype and mostly they can say what they want and charge what they will. Buyer beware!
J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Visit her website at http://www.jlmiles.com/ or write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com.
I think that any and all products being advertised should do exactly what they say they’ll do or the people advertising them should immediately suffer serious and permanent consequences, like getting a case of incurable dandruff, or developing uncontrolled facial ticks. Take the skin care folks—at the very least they should be hit with a terminal case of zits.
The problem is, before long thousands of people would be running around with dandruff and pimples and facial ticks. I say this because it seems everyone selling something lately exaggerates and gets away with it. I went to this laser clinic for hair removal. They promised with six treatments I’d never shave my legs again. They said it was virtually a painless procedure. Always listen up when someone uses the word “virtually”. It means the same thing as when a doctor says there might be some discomfort.
The only thing the laser clinic didn’t lie about was the price. It would be three mortgage payments, payable in advance. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after that fiasco, but oh no, I’m still out there reading and believing all the hype slick advertisers hand out. Just last month, I read an article in the newspaper—well, it looked like an article, but was actually an ad for weight loss camouflaged to look like an article written by some prominent doctor I’d never heard of. Anyway, their product guaranteed that you would lose seven pounds in your sleep the first week alone. I bought some of that, too. And I did lose seven pounds, just like they said. Mostly because I lived with my head stuck in the toilet for eight days straight. The product made me sicker than my cat when she swallowed a year’s supply of fur balls in one setting.
And that’s just one of the weight loss products on the market. There are approximately three millions others that claim you can achieve the same results. In addition to weight loss, skin care, and hair removal, there are scads of other companies promising to remove cellulite, firm your under arms and whiten your teeth, not to mention give you fingernails stronger than nails, erase under-eye circles and stop you from ever passing gas. Right, like I believe that. But, you name it, and there’s a product out there promising to fix it. And that’s just products. What about all the procedures being touted as a total cure-all for what ails one. There’s liposuction, micro-dermabrasion, Botox, silicone and collagen. The list goes on. Basically, the entire human body can be re-done so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Now, why would I want that? It’s taken me all these years to get her to notice me in the first place. But that’s another story. Right now I think I’ll just stop believing in all the hype I read about or see on television and be content that I’m getting older (and hopefully wiser), and I have the looks to prove it. In the meantime, be careful what you believe in. There are a lot of advertisers out there with a lot of hype and mostly they can say what they want and charge what they will. Buyer beware!
J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Visit her website at http://www.jlmiles.com/ or write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
