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Try It, You May Like It


Woke him up with a big kiss and said, "Time to make the donuts!"
















Outside of anonymous hate and spam email and local denizens cursing at me (with the hope of being immortalized in this blog), I do receive positive reactions to my writing.

Just the other day I visited my doctor. She had a copy of Amour Anarchy, a Memoir, for several months now. Knowing her busy schedule, I sincerely doubted she'd ever read the book. Imagine my surprise when she nearly jumped out of her seat when I entered her office. 15 minutes late for the appointment.

Have to take a time out to explain how important that latter sentence is to me. I outstripped the notorious Hun propensity for punctuality. I used to be too early for EVERYTHING.

Don't know where that came from. Perhaps it was a fear of missing out. Yet, it was a definite fear; being late was equivalent to a deadly sin. It didn't help that nearly everyone surrounding me never possessed the being on time gene. I spent the majority of my life waiting for people.

Until I moved up to the hinterlands and no longer worked on Wall Street. Well, I exaggerate - I eased up on being super early and now run on time to fashionably 10 to 20 minutes late. Like a normal human being.

This is a big deal. It's like teaching bears to make fire.

Getting back to the topic at hand, my doctor stared at me with that glazed look in her eyes. I knew that look. 

Years ago, my friend, Sean and I met a woman at a party. She was kinda goofy.

"What do you do for a living?" asked Sean.

"I'm an artist," she responded. 

Sean and I whispered to each other, "Yeah, dogs on black velvet playing poker."

She knew we mocked her and extended an invitation. "Why don't you come to my studio? It's in the building."

Let's say that Sean and I left her studio with glazed eyes, humbled. For she really is a true artist. 

I learned there and then that sometimes people are who they say they are. Not all the time, but sometimes. Like me when I tell people, "I'm a novelist. I write books."

My doctor said, "Oh my GAWD! I started reading your book the other night. It is so GOOOOOOOD!"

Music to my ears. Even more so when she waxed on about the characters, the French words and the love interest and how it transported her to Paris. I nearly swooned.

So, dear reader, what I'm soft-pedaling - my books are like broccoli. Go ahead, try it. It's good for you. You may even like it.

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