tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6490035486799205822024-03-14T10:49:42.398-07:00Liz Flaherty - Romance AuthorLiz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-28735949503314259092017-04-25T04:25:00.001-07:002017-04-25T04:25:36.654-07:00Looking back...and forward<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don’t think I can write another word.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> It has been the winter of discontent. Of family illnesses and surgeries, and as February finally came to an end, loss. But time and publishing wait on no one, and my new book, <i>Every Time We Say Goodbye</i>, came out April 1. You all know what happens then—you spread yourself around, holding up a figurative hand with a figurative book in it and saying <i>Here I am!</i> You blog, you sign books, you do giveaways, you talk wherever anyone will listen, and you keep smiling even on the days you feel heartbreak nipping at your heels.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I’m working on two manuscripts, which I hardly ever do, and making sketchy progress on them both, because I tend to think too often that, as I said above, I can’t write another word.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> But it’s a pretty day here today. I’m looking out the window beside my desk at the awakening lawn. My husband mowed it over the past couple of days, all three acres of it, and the grass lies in bright green beautiful strips.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> That he mowed one at a time. When the wind was blowing. When his hip hurt. Or his knee hurt. While he grieved the loss of his mother. Or while there were a thousand other things he wanted to do.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> That is the way of it then, isn’t it, when we feel as though one more word or one more strip of grass is one too many. We just go ahead and do it. One at a time.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> When I visited Roses of Prose in January of 2015, I’d just signed a new contract, and I said, “The book...was shockingly difficult to write. It took ten months or so, not a really long time for me, but it seemed longer.” What a blessing it is that now that the book is out with a different and better title than I gave it and a cover I’ve grown used to, I don’t remember how hard it was to write. I don’t remember how many days I thought I’d never finish it. I don’t remember, although I know it’s true, that I wrote it one word at a time even when I thought I couldn’t.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">***</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">I wrote that a year ago for </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 13.2px;"><a href="http://rosesofprose.blogspot.com/">http://rosesofprose.blogspot.com/</a> . I was so surprised to see that come up on Facebook because this past winter has been a hard one, too, followed by an angst-ridden spring. Yet the grass is once again full of lovely green strips. A new Christmas Town novella will be out in October and a new Heartwarming Romance in December. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We survive these days and seasons, don't we? They are what make us who we are. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I wish you joy.</span></div>
Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-45342441408459767292012-05-02T05:18:00.000-07:002012-05-02T05:18:09.632-07:00Stop by...I have fun interview at <a href="http://longandshortarchives.blogspot.com/search/label/Author%20Interview">http://longandshortarchives.blogspot.com/search/label/Author%20Interview</a> Stop by and see me and leave a comment!<br />
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I also have an article over at Savvy Authors. <a href="http://www.savvyauthors.com/vb/content.php">http://www.savvyauthors.com/vb/content.php</a> It's about characterization, one of my favorite parts of writing.<br />
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Happy May to everyone!Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-11230688566049270532012-04-27T02:00:00.000-07:002012-04-27T02:00:00.472-07:00<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWSUnLRiri7KQOKTjfbBXetC_vQKw-J61-QX-FX3Mp0cfwHWZ8ex_tAuBl4K5b5DCRjMqfULTb1YVRTk67nIHv_2445mkwnkQ7sCRLVD86n38yXJTG85GlspPiQvBw8KbjSQjSCYzmIQ/s1600/0511-1009-2115-2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWSUnLRiri7KQOKTjfbBXetC_vQKw-J61-QX-FX3Mp0cfwHWZ8ex_tAuBl4K5b5DCRjMqfULTb1YVRTk67nIHv_2445mkwnkQ7sCRLVD86n38yXJTG85GlspPiQvBw8KbjSQjSCYzmIQ/s1600/0511-1009-2115-2521.jpg" /></a><span style="line-height: 150%;"><em>This isn't a new post, just one I've used before and is important to me. It's my own little HEA, and I'm a romance author--there's nothing I like better. It's also my mom's birthday. She died when I was 32, and I still miss her. Happy Birthday, Mom, and thanks for everything.</em></span><br />
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<em> I hope you visit all the stops on the blog hop and win one of the great prizes, too. Have a good trip!</em><br />
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Depression wasn’t something I gave a whole lot of thought
to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was something that happened to
other people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young mothers who’d just
had babies and were overwhelmed by the endless and huge responsibility of it
all; middle-aged men who’d lost their jobs and didn’t know where to find new
ones; people who’d suffered emotional losses of such magnitude I couldn’t begin
to imagine how they felt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being on the
self-righteous side, I also thought you only really suffered from depression if
you gave into it, if you didn’t outrun it with a healthy sense of humor, or if
you just wanted people to feel sorry for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Average people, people like me, didn’t get depressed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A little over
four years ago, I stopped smoking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aside
from being self-righteous, I’m also an unmitigated coward, so I did it with
medication.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t care; it worked,
and the side-effects of the medication were minimal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d always said that if I didn’t smoke, I’d
weigh 200 pounds--not a good thing if you’re short and small-boned, which I
am--and I’d suck down antidepressants like they were candy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was joking, okay?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just kidding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Really.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t weigh
200 pounds, but I did gain 35 in the year after I stopped smoking, and it’s
still there--I’ve discovered that chocolate chip cookies are a great
replacement for nicotine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the other
thing that happened in that year was that I found out depression really does
strike average people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To borrow a term
I’ve heard often in the past three years, I hit the wall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since I’m one
of those people who always have the symptoms described in articles about
diseases (it’s amazing I’ve lived this long!), it was no surprise that I had
several of the indicators of clinical depression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know what they are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve read them in the doctor’s office while
you’re waiting or at Wal-Mart or Kroger’s while you’re taking your blood pressure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve read them and thought, “Hmm...”
because you had a couple of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sometimes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then they went
away, so you were okay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But what
happens when they don’t go away?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do
you do when you were sad on Sunday afternoon and you’re still sad at bedtime on
Thursday?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you’re so tired you can
barely get through the day but you’re sleeping way too much?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or you can’t get through it because you’re
hardly sleeping at all?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When nothing’s
fun anymore?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you can’t see an end
to feeling hopeless?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When, even though
you’d never consider suicide yourself--oh, of course, you wouldn’t--you
understand people who do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I hit
that wall, I was one of the lucky ones in that I never for one moment thought
suicide was an answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was seldom
sleepless, never slept too much, still had fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sometimes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But working an
eight-hour day wore me out to the point that I never really wanted to get off
the couch after I got home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked
around at my husband and kids and grandkids--even them--and was bewildered
because, Good Lord have mercy, how could I possibly be unhappy? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, I was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn’t
really want to start smoking again, but I knew I’d be happier if I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was worse--to die of lung cancer or of
depression?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t know what to do,” I
told my doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Maybe I need to smoke
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just some, you know, not a lot.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” he
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know what to do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So he gave me
a prescription and talked to me a long time about clinical depression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’ll be fine,” he promised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Maybe six months, maybe longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But you’ll be fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I hated taking
Zoloft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Zoloft was for weak people,
people who gave in to being sorry for themselves, people who wanted others to
feel sorry for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d try it for a
little while, but it wasn’t going to work, not on me, Mrs. Average.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hated it.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But it wasn’t
really so bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe six months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That should get me over the hump, and maybe I
wouldn’t start smoking again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could
always blame the 35 pounds on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
know, I couldn’t lose weight because I was “on medication.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one had to know I was a spineless wuss who
was taking antidepressants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Six months
became two years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not that it took me
that long to feel better--that’s how long it was before I got the courage up to
stop taking the Zoloft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so afraid
to stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I feel that way again?
I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would surely die from
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But stopping was painless, and the
depression is only a memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s a
memory that can make me miserable in a heartbeat, make me question myself if,
just once, I happen to be sad on Sunday afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I am all
right, I remind myself, because by Thursday night at bedtime, I have forgotten
the sadness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, better than good; I feel wonderful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t smoked for four years and one
month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I will never, ever take any
of it for granted again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a gift.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Till next
time.</span></div>
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</script>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-31989215437596640892012-02-05T07:43:00.000-08:002012-02-05T08:08:36.534-08:00Home...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLLywnhTPgy04dzvq5sHp8m4h8rhXI8MeUw8TEYv3TAhZk08DhYiprOwgWjSDNo2sxJeZo6zcUxABlBvzv7v_vbe004wlzyu6qObtGP8MyA-qKH-lKXsQM-9EfMp_cgrjGuM-EKfT38o/s1600/me+and+the+boyfriend.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLLywnhTPgy04dzvq5sHp8m4h8rhXI8MeUw8TEYv3TAhZk08DhYiprOwgWjSDNo2sxJeZo6zcUxABlBvzv7v_vbe004wlzyu6qObtGP8MyA-qKH-lKXsQM-9EfMp_cgrjGuM-EKfT38o/s320/me+and+the+boyfriend.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705683854402609506" /></a><br />Just back from a lovely, lovely week in Florida. (That's me and the boyfriend in the picture, with Pensacola Beach a great backdrop.) On the road, I got an exiting email from my Carina Press editors, Angela and Mallory, telling me <em>ONE MORE SUMMER</em> will be out in print as part of the Direct to Consumer (DTC) progam. It will also be available from the Harlequin website. I was--and am--soooo excited! I think it will be out in May, but don't really have any details yet.<br /><br />On Tuesday, February 7th, <a href="http://www.wordwranglers.blogspot.com ">http://www.wordwranglers.blogspot.com </a>will host Lyrical Press Editor, Piper Denna for an online pitch session! Piper will be taking 1-3 line pitches.<br /> <br />The rules are simple:<br />1. Contest opens at 7:00 A.M. EST, February 7, 2012 and closes at 12:00 A.M. EST, February 8, 2012 2. 1-3 line pitches<br />3. 1 pitch per person<br /> <br />That's it. We're easygoing over at Wordwranglers, but if you break the rules, you'll be disqualified. Questions? Use the comments form below; at 7am February 7 a new post will be created and you'll make your pitches in the comments of that post. Don't pitch on this one - please! - we may not see it!!<br /> <br />Don't miss this chance to get your pitch in front of an editor!<br /> <br />Piper's bio:<br /> <br />Writing is a craft, a skill which improves with practice. Grammar can be learned.<br /><br />Spelling...notsomuch. Either you're good at spelling, or you're not. And unfortunately, Spellcheck might be helpful, but let's face it: it's only as good as its programmers, and we all know how many problems certain software programs have. Which is why, no matter who you are, no matter what you write, you need an editor. If you don't believe me, ask Stephen King-we're very close. Like two peas in a pod.<br />(At least, in my mind, which I mean in a completely un-stalkerlike way.)<br /><br />Now that I'm done name-dropping... Books have always been my thing. And I've been a writer since I could pick up a pencil. My thoughts didn't turn toward writing professionally until about 2005, when I wrote three novels. Through a couple of critique groups and thousands of crits, both given and received, I honed my craft quite a lot. So much so, in 2008 after watching two of my books go through the editing process at publishers, I got the wild idea (the wild, incredibly overconfident idea, in retrospect), that I could do that.<br /><br />My poor authors have to learn my lingo: "Innerds"-deep third inner thoughts from a character, generally requested as a replacement for narrative ("She wondered why he hadn't arrived yet" comes off much stronger as "Where the hell was he already?") or "Holding Pattern", which I type as a shortcut to remind an author to mix up sentence structure, rather than going with a repetitive subject/predicate format every time.<br /><br />And I still write. (When I have time, and when I can tranquilize that inner editor enough to shut her up so I can type.) My characters must endure extensive suffering and conflict, and sometimes they do things certain readers don't approve of, but they always get their happy ending.<br /><br />What kind of books do I prefer to edit? Deep conflict, relatable characters, believable plots, and a strong romantic element. Because romance makes the world go round. Right?<br /><br />Piper Denna<br />Romance is sexy!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.piperdenna.com/ ">http://www.piperdenna.com/ </a><br /><a href="http://www.lyricalpress.com/piper_denna.php">http://www.lyricalpress.com/piper_denna.php</a>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-23455602400320082122012-01-23T04:55:00.000-08:002012-01-23T04:55:01.200-08:00Synopses.I'm over at Word Wranglers today, talking about synopses.Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-16475527209866833262012-01-17T05:02:00.000-08:002012-01-17T05:03:46.675-08:00Yes, pumpkin spice...Today, I'm answering a few questions for friend and CP extraordinaire Kristi Knight. http://kristiknight.blogspot.com/2012/01/pumpkin-spice-tea-author-liz-flaherty.html Hope you come by!Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-65342272813118429042012-01-16T06:31:00.000-08:002012-01-16T06:32:25.198-08:00Trends....I'm at Word Wranglers today, talking about trends. Come on over.Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-71481896031473604142012-01-09T04:10:00.001-08:002012-01-09T04:12:10.432-08:00Magic and the muse...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi46wLd47YmJaRwqSjTMuPmA20pdJGbooaTmoZhuWJj81u0stNwFRWhgP0XupJS9UCn7CxPhiqZoeCuzybP4jxfwbfvTeEqpZbWdIT_JjcHyzMYv43rJc88ron4h7ZYEQc37HI_4EabCSs/s1600/morning+star.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi46wLd47YmJaRwqSjTMuPmA20pdJGbooaTmoZhuWJj81u0stNwFRWhgP0XupJS9UCn7CxPhiqZoeCuzybP4jxfwbfvTeEqpZbWdIT_JjcHyzMYv43rJc88ron4h7ZYEQc37HI_4EabCSs/s200/morning+star.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695603856560223730" /></a><br />I'm over at Word Wranglers today, talking about Magic and the Muse. <a href="http://wordwranglers.blogspot.com/">http://wordwranglers.blogspot.com/</a> Hope to see you there!Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-21842267138028469002012-01-08T04:29:00.001-08:002012-01-08T04:37:07.617-08:00Manic Readers...I'm at Manic Readers today <a href="http://http://manicreaders.com/blog/index.php/2012/01/liz-flaherty-on-quilts-and-one-more-summer/">http://manicreaders.com/blog/index.php/2012/01/liz-flaherty-on-quilts-and-one-more-summer/</a> talking about books and quilts and grandkids. Come see me!Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-5299139229714041892012-01-07T11:30:00.000-08:002012-01-07T11:37:14.593-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Szx_hXPl6qS1VXg_o-K6Ra7ijJMLdHlDKQHVrIrWFfMTuKQvHSL7VVfIrz3H6kSwKYUrIdUo-gKws386ID9jX5rB-rC5wHHB5J5nP-GkhoXnXngTfPfOktW9lRYD43kfyVvBFM35d1Y/s1600/yippee.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 123px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Szx_hXPl6qS1VXg_o-K6Ra7ijJMLdHlDKQHVrIrWFfMTuKQvHSL7VVfIrz3H6kSwKYUrIdUo-gKws386ID9jX5rB-rC5wHHB5J5nP-GkhoXnXngTfPfOktW9lRYD43kfyVvBFM35d1Y/s200/yippee.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694976383735116162" /></a><br />I'm sorry--it's a rerun. But it's been busy here lately. <em><strong>One More Summer </strong></em>came out last week and I gotta tell you, the fifth book is as fun and exciting as the first one. Thank all of you for adding to the fun part, and speaking of exciting... <br /><br />Since I’ve grown older, I write a lot about...well, about growing older. About grandkids and the unkindness of gravity and how to stay married when single looks like more fun. About how difficult the workplace is for those of us over 50, the fallibility of my knees, and how much I don’t like any rock music written after 1975. I wonder what’s happened to television and movies and I canceled my subscription to “People” magazine because no matter how beautiful and thin they are, I just can’t bring myself to continue reading about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.<br /><br /> I also write that getting older is cool. It’s fun. Mentally and emotionally, it’s a whole lot better place than being young ever was. “Because I felt like it” is a good enough reason for doing something. “Because it was there” really is a viable reason for going somewhere. You can say “just because” any time you feel like it because...well, just because.<br /><br /> Then there is aging’s learning curve. About coming to know that the calendar that hangs in the laundry room is necessary, not decorative, because the truth is that I can no longer remember even the most basic of appointments. If my daughter asks me to pick the kids up on Thursday and it is only Monday when she calls, I tell her to call me again Wednesday night because I know I will forget and I am afraid I won’t check the calendar. While I hate missing a nail appointment, it’s worse if my grandsons are left waiting for the Nana who doesn’t show up.<br /><br /> I had laser eye surgery, so after 30-some years of wearing glasses to correct extreme nearsightedness, I can see 20/25 without correction and am thrilled to do so. However, I’ve learned to have reading glasses on every table in the house, in every purse I might carry, and in both of our cars. This comes in handy for reading menus, the back blurbs of paperback books, and warning labels on medication. (This is very necessary, because the consumption of medication has gone up proportionately with my age.)<br /><br /> I’ve learned that if I overuse joints, they will hurt a lot and if I underuse them, they will stiffen up in a matter of hours. I know that, while I can still work eight hours at my job, there is little of me left over for the rest of the day. Being someone who was unable to sit still for more than 10 minutes at a stretch, I used to sneer at people I considered couch potatoes; only now do I realize they weren’t potatoes at all, merely a long curlicue of peel that’s left after the potato is all used up.<br /><br /> Even with the coolness and the learning, there isn’t a lot of excitement. Sometimes I miss that. I’ll bet you do, too.<br /><br /> Oh, but wait...<br /><br /> The boyfriend—that’s my husband of two-thirds of my life—and I have rediscovered bowling. The truth is that I greatly resemble Ma Kettle as I approach the lane and my score would look more impressive on the golf course than it does at the bowling alley, but it’s fun. <br /> We’ve discovered, as Lauren Bacall would say, the thea-tuh. We’ve seen comedies, musicals, and dramas, all of which have left us breathless. We’re going to see Scrooge in a week or so, to sit on the front row and have our disbelief suspended for a couple of hours.<br /><br /> I’ve rediscovered the charm of sitting on bleachers. Although I don’t go nearly often enough, there’s still nothing better to watch than school-age kids playing sports or singing Christmas songs on an elementary school stage.<br /><br /> And there’s where being older comes in handy, because regardless of things I’ve forgotten, there are more that I remember. I never walk into the theatre, the gymnasium, or a restaurant to be a critic. I walk in to be entertained, to be excited, to eat that which I haven’t had to cook. I know by now that it really doesn’t matter who wins or loses; it’s how the game is played that makes it worth watching. Perfection doesn’t matter; for the most part it’s unachievable and not much fun. It’s the doing, the watching, the music and the laughter, the unexpected three-point shot that are fun, are exciting.<br /><br /> So go ahead, live a little. Be excited.<br /><br /> Till next time.Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-89174379224580935592012-01-01T04:16:00.000-08:002012-01-01T04:23:52.257-08:00Happy New Year!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQNHFtCTKFN-4iTnzpI-shLZoNDhP68EnZe53ABelhHublBFfSoLTCHCe6Z-S4ePlLNGIPz4lLuNFk4kmHR_S85NEOWA7hoXSHK8tdqEm4YNg8Y9PANMmy3cERZeQRNjEFThRMtGAe-PU/s1600/OneMoreSummerdraft3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 126px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQNHFtCTKFN-4iTnzpI-shLZoNDhP68EnZe53ABelhHublBFfSoLTCHCe6Z-S4ePlLNGIPz4lLuNFk4kmHR_S85NEOWA7hoXSHK8tdqEm4YNg8Y9PANMmy3cERZeQRNjEFThRMtGAe-PU/s200/OneMoreSummerdraft3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692637828791115986" /></a><br />I hope you have a splendid 2012. My book, <em>ONE MORE SUMMER</em>, is out tomorrow--yay--and I'm blogging at Cathie Dunn's site today.<a href="http://http://cathiedunn.blogspot.com/">http://cathiedunn.blogspot.com/</a> I hope you come by and see us. <br /><br />Watch for my website changes coming up, and a weekly visit to the Window Over the Sink, featuring other authors and me, too.Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-55200010001198642502011-12-29T04:51:00.000-08:002011-12-29T04:52:32.464-08:00Next stop...Today I'm visiting with Sarah Grimm over at Off the Keyboard. Hope you come by!<br /><br />http://authorsarahgrimm.blogspot.com/Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-66668108683873912022011-12-28T04:23:00.000-08:002011-12-28T04:26:08.990-08:00Visiting....I hope you had a wonderful Christmas. It's time for the writer in me to hit the road again. Today, I'm with Emma Lai talking about plans for the New Year. I hope you come by! <br /><a href="http://emmalaiwrites.blogspot.com/?zx=4a8d494d7be2b972">http://emmalaiwrites.blogspot.com/?zx=4a8d494d7be2b972</a>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-15691922280143945862011-12-20T13:11:00.000-08:002011-12-20T13:36:17.363-08:00I'm visiting...Seems like I'm getting around a lot lately. My Christmas trees are over at Cheryl St. John's parade of trees. My pictures aren't as clear as some, but I still love my trees. :-) <a href="http://cherylstjohn.blogspot.com/">http://cherylstjohn.blogspot.com/</a> <br /><br />I'm also spending the week at Marie Tuhart's blog. We don't write the same kind of thing, but writers are unfailingly supportive, and I appreciate hers! <a href="http://www.escapetoaneroticfantasy.blogspot.com/?zx=e3b5291f26074f07">http://www.escapetoaneroticfantasy.blogspot.com/?zx=e3b5291f26074f07</a><br /><br />On the 22nd, I'll be at <a href="http://rachelbrimble.blogspot.com/">http://rachelbrimble.blogspot.com/</a>. <br /><br />We're taking the week off at Word Wranglers.<br /><br />More later, but that's enough for now! I'll post another Window Over the Sink next week. Till then, have a great Christmas!Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-50503281985194928952011-12-18T16:25:00.000-08:002011-12-18T18:04:38.813-08:00It was Christmas of '94...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOL-lzM-sT9LH-T4cVqhA4t7xFKVRwGMnGXZ2zNX85sZyzoP_EgSApQb8F3ijDD0nLWH8DNDoTItJZhhCAAXccdWa_3xG4HIOOP0iC3vv9C_pnrjUBks3IvEJCCSx4YJGzmNHbN0vHcM/s1600/christmas-scene.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 138px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOL-lzM-sT9LH-T4cVqhA4t7xFKVRwGMnGXZ2zNX85sZyzoP_EgSApQb8F3ijDD0nLWH8DNDoTItJZhhCAAXccdWa_3xG4HIOOP0iC3vv9C_pnrjUBks3IvEJCCSx4YJGzmNHbN0vHcM/s200/christmas-scene.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5687654446675678802" /></a><br /><br /><em>...when I wrote this particular opening of the Window Over the Sink. I hope you enjoy it.</em><br /><br /><br /><br />There are people out there who have their Christmas shopping done. They are the same ones who bought all their wrapping paper, Christmas cards, bows, and tinsel last December 26.<br /><br />They also keep all their Christmas shopping receipts in a separate place, like a little green and red folder, and they know at all times where that folder is located. If they have real Christmas trees, they remember to water them every day and they take them out of the house before all the needles fall off and embed themselves in the carpet.<br /><br />These people's tree ornaments match each other. The ethereal angels or brilliant stars they use do not cause the trees to lean drunkenly. There are never full strings of non-working lights on the trees and the lights all twinkle at the same speed or they chase each other merrily around the branches. <br /><br />Their Christmas cookies and candy are made and frozen well ahead of time and they have plenty of decorative tins and baskets on hand so that all they have to do is add a pretty handmade bow and they have an instant gift for the unexpected guest.<br /><br />I decided many years ago, on a Christmas Eve when I was sewing the last ruffles on my daughter's Christmas dress at two o'clock on Christmas morning before she and her brothers rolled out at five, that when I grew up, I was going to be one of the people I've been talking about.<br /><br />My first step in that direction was to buy wrapping paper the day after Christmas for the following year. Then we moved to a different house. It just seemed foolish when we were already moving 10 times as much stuff out of the old house as we moved into it to also move 12 rolls of paper and 50 bows, so I gave them away instead of moving them. Then, two weeks later, I went out and bought all new because we moved in November, for heaven's sake. (Moving is not good for one's thought processes. While I did not move the wrapping paper, I did move several boxes that remain unopened in the attic 17 years later.)<br /><br />My next organizational move was to buy and address Christmas cards as soon as they hit the shelves, which was somewhere along about July. I even addressed them in green ink to make them look properly Christmas-like. Then I proceeded to lose them, along with the complete list of addresses I'd called all over the country to compile.<br /><br />My sister-in-law Lynn, bless her cold little heart, found them long after Christmas had passed, nestled behind the microwave oven. Fifteen years later, I'm still telling her it's none of her business how often I clean behind my appliances. Or <em>if</em> I do.<br /><br />Then there's shopping.<br /><br />Occasionally, I start it in August. More often, I start in October and now and then in November. I've discovered that it doesn't matter when I start Christmas shopping, I finish it on Christmas Eve. Last year my husband and I were only two of the 3000 people in Walmart at 11 o'clock on Christmas Eve morning and we decided we would never, <em>never</em> do such a foolish thing again.<br /><br />At least until this year.<br /><br />Because, all advice I've given freely and unasked to people not withstanding, I've given up.<br /><br />I'm never going to be one of those people who have Christmas organized. I will always be a day late and a dollar short and my favorite Christmas tree ornaments will still be the ones my kids brought home from the first grade. My tree top will still be crooked and I'll always have needles embedded in my carpet even though we have an artificial tree. The cookies and candy will always be made at the last minute if they're made at all and eaten warm off a dish towel lying on the kitchen counter.<br /><br />What it amounts to is, at least as far as Christmas is concerned, I am like Peter Pan: I won't grow up.<br /><br />I hope you won't, either. I hope you have fun shopping and wrapping and decorating. And don't forget the giving. It's the very best part of it all.<br /><br />Till next time.Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-12523953716718379292011-12-15T03:53:00.000-08:002011-12-15T04:28:18.738-08:00Familiarity breeds...what?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimkfIKU8v8JxPDhyphenhyphencAEG7s2rb58w3qBYb7IcuSF3bDfCU1JcZUNLORuUGsCG_XFWCootYwlX3BhJy_uVUTnK6hiwrFTK28mS7OOlj9m1sYwQi1jztexplkIIR5_i5pCcFUsAC6a9Yrqu4/s1600/Christmas+tree.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimkfIKU8v8JxPDhyphenhyphencAEG7s2rb58w3qBYb7IcuSF3bDfCU1JcZUNLORuUGsCG_XFWCootYwlX3BhJy_uVUTnK6hiwrFTK28mS7OOlj9m1sYwQi1jztexplkIIR5_i5pCcFUsAC6a9Yrqu4/s320/Christmas+tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686330465351256818" /></a><br /><em>I wrote this after Christmas in 1991. The more things change, the more they stay the same.</em><br /><br />Mark Twain said that familiarity breeds contempt, and in all honesty, I tended to believe it. Marriages go down the tubes with astonishing regularity; people speak with disdain of their home towns, their families, the schools where they were educated; parents abuse their children and grown children turn their backs on aging and disabled parents.<br /><br />Rather than being cherished, familiar things become monkeys on our backs. Even I, who so oppose change that I will be ready when bell bottoms came back because I still have my old ones <em>(they're size eights; who am I kidding?), </em>become disenchanted with the sameness of day-to-day life.<br /><br />But then the holidays came.<br /><br />For the first time ever, I decorated our Christmas tree by myself. There were no kids around to argue about what went where, how early was too early to put the tree up, or whether to play Christmas carols or Guns 'n Roses while hanging garland. No one cared who made the blue ornament in the first grade, whether the garland on the tree was gold or white, or if the bottom branches drooped in the back. (They did. They always do.)<br /><br />There was no one there to warn me that the lights that operated perfectly spread out on the living room floor wouldn't so much as blink when placed with scientific precision on the tree branches. There was no one there to remind me that there was only one outlet in the corner where the tree stood, which meant that twice a day someone would have to move all the packages out of the way and do a military low crawl under the tree in order to turn the lights on and off.<br /><br />There was no one there to tell me I would be the low-crawler because I was the shortest.<br /><br />I could have done with some familiarity.<br /><br />I did my Christmas shopping without anyone tagging along showing me everything they wanted, which was everything that (1) was out of stock until February, (2) was available only in teensy weensy and gargantuan sizes, and (3) cost more than the house, my car, and their shoes.<br /><br />This freed me to shop with ease and at leisure, which meant everything I bought was (1) the wrong size, color, and brand, (2) was what I liked rather than what they would like, and (3) cost more than the house, my car, and their shoes. It probably would have been better if someone had tagged along.<br /><br />I bought all the ingredients for Christmas baking, figuring that when my daughter came home for the holidays, we would fill the house with the familiar scents of cinnamon, chocolate, and sort-of-burned cookie edges. However, we never found the time to bake, so the house smelled like the primer my husband was applying to the kitchen walls, the laundry my son brought home from college, and chocolate covered cherries.<br /><br />But familiarity won out.<br /><br />Going home from one shopping excursion, I heard the faint sound of music from outside and opened my car window in the 20-some-degree temperature to determine its origin.<br /><br />Standing alone in front of the drugstore beside the customary red bucket, a man in a Salvation Army uniform played Christmas carols on a horn. His hands and cheeks were red from the blustery cold, but the notes from the horn were as true and sweet as if they'd come from Gabriel's trumpet. I continued home happier, my soul soothed by the songs I had been hearing my entire life.<br /><br />Christmas morning at the Flaherty house was the same hubbub it always is. Paper and ribbon was everywhere and everyone, including the family in Germany whose presence was so sorely missed, loved everything. Suddenly on Christmas morning, color, brand name, and cost meant nothing. It was the giving that mattered.<br /><br />So maybe Mark Twain was right, but I read another quotation just the other day wherein George Ade said that familiarity breeds contentment. I think I like his quotation better.<br /><br />Till next time.Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-44668783348220220902011-12-14T05:13:00.000-08:002011-12-14T05:15:15.585-08:00Over at Word Wranglers...Kristi's interviewing Christine Bell today. Stop and see what she has to say. http://www.wordwranglers.blogspot.com/Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-59330861122083129072011-12-13T08:03:00.000-08:002011-12-13T09:07:31.208-08:00Welcome to the bathroom wars...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2euMWki5-YEasFy9cVHfPuMDxq-Ey9IJXHra5JkQC2u5FMi0nuYTQ5BAwavYXHwTcRvBDr40YrrE7XUmwuLyBJG3vTOpEyCLt3oTjhZsj94a800AjYJPtJ_Olax_Rvjdw9MaxfXKWQg/s1600/Bathtub-07.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 81px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2euMWki5-YEasFy9cVHfPuMDxq-Ey9IJXHra5JkQC2u5FMi0nuYTQ5BAwavYXHwTcRvBDr40YrrE7XUmwuLyBJG3vTOpEyCLt3oTjhZsj94a800AjYJPtJ_Olax_Rvjdw9MaxfXKWQg/s200/Bathtub-07.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685660508669426866" /></a><br /><em>I wrote the original <strong><em>Window Over the Sink</em></strong> for years. For the local newspaper, for a couple of shopping guides, even for my first website. Lately, a few people have asked about some of those columns, so I've spent some time digging through them. I thought I'd give you a hint of what is to come. This one was written in December of 1990-something. All I'm sure of is that kids were in college. Let me know what you think.</em><br /><br />For the past 14 years, we've lived in a big old farmhouse back a bumpy lane. It is the perfect house for us, with plenty of bedroom space, a laundry room that doesn't require me to climb steps with the 15 or so loads of clothes I wash each week, and a kitchen where people like to congregate. It also has one teensy, tiny, hole-in-the-wall bathroom.<br /><br />When a house contains three teenagers and two adults, which this one did for a number of years, that one bathroom makes for a lot of ugliness.<br /><br />Regardless of groundless rumors and old wives' tales, men rather than women are bathroom hogs. After all this time of brushing my teeth at the kitchen sink and combing my hair in front of the four-slice toaster, I feel qualified to make such a dramatic statement. In the time it takes for my husband or one of my sons to wash his feet, my daughter and I can both take a shower; shave our legs; wash, dry, and style our hair; and read a chapter in the book that always lies on the back of the john.<br /><br />The men of the house, naturally enough, deny this. It is easy for them to do so, as they have not spent entire days of their lives sitting on the stairs outside the bathroom door praying for the little room's occupant to come out on a wave of steam and Irish Spring so that they could make a mad dash for it before their father or son or brother appeared to take up residence for the next 45 minutes. <em>(Yes, that's really one sentence. My writing's come along some since then.)</em><br /><br />It was terrible in the days when none of the kids drove and we all actually went places together. The scenario went something like this.<br /><br />4:00 PM. I say, "I'd better take my shower and get ready to go."<br /><br />My husband looks at his watch. "We don't have to be there for three hours."<br /><br />Like any other idiot, I agree and decide to wait.<br /><br />4:01 PM. First son takes shower.<br /><br />4:46 PM. Second son takes shower.<br /><br />5:31 PM. Husband takes shower.<br /><br />6:16 PM. Daughter takes shower.<br /><br />6:30 PM. First son goes into bathroom to comb hair. He is joined by second son and their father.<br /><br />6:45 PM. Family gets into car to leave. Mother is still dirty and isn't wearing any makeup. Daughter is combing her hair in the car. She smacks a brother in the eye with a brush-driven elbow and third world war ensues. Husband and sons look very nice. Mother is ticked off. Big deal. What else is new?<br /><br />It's not so bad anymore, with one of the sons grown and with a bathroom of his own and the younger two away at college. Since I get up at 3:30 in the morning, it's usually no problem if I stay in the bathroom for a whole 20 minutes if I want. <br /><br />But then Christmas break came along. I got up the other morning and stumbled in my usual way into the living room, trying to get my glasses on straight and find my way to the coffeepot.<br /><br />And there is my younger son, on the couch in front of the television. When he saw me, he flinched, never having realized people really looked like that in the morning, then he got up, turned off the TV, and greeted me. <br /><br />And went into the bathroom.<br /><br />I brushed my teeth at the kitchen sink, combed my hair in front of the toaster, and dressed in the laundry room. Sometimes there's no sense in fighting the battle when losing the war is a sure thing.Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-1584095354672430312011-12-12T02:50:00.000-08:002011-12-12T03:04:13.777-08:00Life Without Apostrophes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8e5VwRPpsHBKypf-dB-y5IexcbHWhECmumFw1yj5Zu8ovcfvwFskDHT7qBH-SqCPBCmmRpALr9zcorawHi-t2IMZZCVRWHAvqZz-Sj8Kosa_U4U15POvYjnjn2u3uydChuU8rLPPwTM/s1600/OneMoreSummerdraft3.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 126px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8e5VwRPpsHBKypf-dB-y5IexcbHWhECmumFw1yj5Zu8ovcfvwFskDHT7qBH-SqCPBCmmRpALr9zcorawHi-t2IMZZCVRWHAvqZz-Sj8Kosa_U4U15POvYjnjn2u3uydChuU8rLPPwTM/s200/OneMoreSummerdraft3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685195373657786610" /></a><br />I don't post here much, and you're right: shame on me. I've become more proficient with doing things here, have even learned to add pictures. See cover to the left--or maybe to the right--center? That's not where I put it! Oh, well. Maybe proficient was a little too ambitious of a word.<br /><br />Anyway, the website's being worked on, and WINDOW OVER THE SINK is coming to the internet. Not just me writing it, but other writers as well, who mumble along and have as good a time at it as I do, so stay tuned. Let me know what you think. When it happens, I mean. I'm not there yet.<br /><br />The new book's coming January 2, though it's up for pre-sale on Amazon and B & N. I hope you stop in and pre-buy. :-) <br /><br />I ended my first college class with an A. Well, duh, said my friend Debby, it was a writing class. But different writing than I'm used to, and I was only so-so at it, which bothered me a bit, but do you know what? They didn't want me to use contractions! I told the instructor in my last paper that I just wasn't ready for life without apostrophes. I want to fit everything in, you know, and sometimes that means shortening some things--like dusting, cleaning out from under the car seat, and words like did not, would not, et cetera. Oh, I mean etc.<br /><br />I'm making this a short one, but want to wish you Merry Christmas in case I don't get back. I'll try to keep you informed when the old newspaper column finds new life here, and I hope you like it.<br /><br />Till next time.Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-31781347152627804982011-06-23T11:02:00.000-07:002011-06-23T11:23:58.937-07:00The rules...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgvbmHMXTKEQoZxAZ0fe89toPKoxS3Nh3_jnGqvBVNFxIrrX7fMO6U9uhO2A6644TMNSLDwFWIWo5J0J09gVozMj625Vn3Cz05iuxmQMt9FdILlauKBWyfoicejv5kVle54kUT9XrFWk/s1600/4h.bmp"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 168px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 79px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621478180999135394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgvbmHMXTKEQoZxAZ0fe89toPKoxS3Nh3_jnGqvBVNFxIrrX7fMO6U9uhO2A6644TMNSLDwFWIWo5J0J09gVozMj625Vn3Cz05iuxmQMt9FdILlauKBWyfoicejv5kVle54kUT9XrFWk/s320/4h.bmp" /></a><br /><br /><div>We went to the Miami County 4-H fair last night. Ate the best supper we'd had all week, watched the Clogging Clovers, talked to people. Went through the merchants' building and through the exhibit building. I had two blue ribbons on my entries, but I think they give most of us adults blue ribbons just so we won't feel bad.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We walked around, looking at photography and gorgeous cake decorating and things constructed from Lego blocks. Since I sew, I slowed down to look at the apparel projects. One skirt jumped out at me--well, not literally, but I noticed it right off. It was lavender. Kind of shiny. Kind of swirly. Everything I love about little girls. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And it didn't have a blue ribbon, but a red. I squinted at the judging sheet and read that the project hadn't met all the requirements. <em>Oh.</em></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I was disappointed. Not in the skirt, or in the little girl who sewed it, or even in the judge who made the decision the rules say she's supposed to make. What disappointed me that 4-H rewards following the rules more strongly than it does outcome. I've raised children, I know rules are necessary--sort of--but I think joy is necessarier. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>You know, the kind you find in a shiny, swirly, lavender skirt.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I think she should have gotten a blue ribbon.</div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-51893649798403610292011-05-29T09:17:00.000-07:002011-05-29T09:22:40.916-07:00Happy 40th Anniversary...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJdwgzkWuLCp8kl1fUn08IK6Tms20uA_NcNeF-g46-t4KRecD508fiI-JWFaeTqeMlg7D8LXFDYKGz2IkS0K2S2rW1aQb9pCyMIVh58HiQuB00Rs71D6nn70FxGgNtJaBvb7BPCZycH-U/s1600/me+and+dad.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612173612094110610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJdwgzkWuLCp8kl1fUn08IK6Tms20uA_NcNeF-g46-t4KRecD508fiI-JWFaeTqeMlg7D8LXFDYKGz2IkS0K2S2rW1aQb9pCyMIVh58HiQuB00Rs71D6nn70FxGgNtJaBvb7BPCZycH-U/s320/me+and+dad.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><em>I wrote this ten years ago. It’s been printed a few places, but never here. I’m posting it today because it’s Duane’s and my 40th anniversary and it’s a happy one. I loved him so much all that time ago when we were young and slim and all of life was ahead of us. I love him more now.</em></div><em><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></em></div>What’s it like, you ask, being married to the same person for over 30 years? How do you do it?<br />Well, it’s like this.<br /><br /><br /><div><br />You know every word of his body language, can identify every freckle that dances across his shoulders when he walks into the sun, can buy him a year’s wardrobe in 15 minutes flat counting the time you spend writing the check and asking the store clerk how her kids are doing. You know better than to cook tuna casserole even if you like it, that a sure way to get him to talk to you is to start reading a book, that if you’re not feeling well, he’s most certainly feeling worse.<br />You’ve learned by now that there’s no possible way you can be in love every day. Sometimes, let’s come right out and say it, he’s just a jerk. Sometimes, since we’re not holding back, you’re a pain in the neck. On those days, you look at each other with glazed eyes and wonder which lawyer to call. Then you go to bed, mumble “I love you” with doubtful sincerity, and lie in the dark and mentally parcel out the furniture, the dishes, and the retirement accounts until sleep overtakes you.</div><br /><div><br />There are days, indeed, when Peggy Lee’s voice echoes in your mind, Is that all there is? In the time when you had a flat stomach and naturally glowing skin and hair that was …well, a different color than it is now, this isn’t what you counted on, was it? Once you got the kids raised, you were going to travel, wear expensive clothes, dance the night away. You were going to have fun. </div><br /><div><br />Okay, you say, if it’s that bad, why do you stay married? </div><br /><div><br />Well, because, that’s why. </div><br /><div><br />Because he can tell by the set of your chin if you’ve had a bad day, because he’ll bring home takeout food just when you’re positive you can’t cook one more meal in this lifetime, because he tells you he thinks you’re really cute and means it even if you’re not wearing any makeup and you haven’t sucked your stomach in. </div><br /><div><br />He still takes the street side on sidewalks because that’s the way he was taught, tells your daughter she’s <em>almost</em> as pretty as you are, and never reminds you you’re getting more like your mother every day. He knows the words to the same songs you do and he doesn’t mind that you can’t carry a tune in a bushel basket. He doesn’t laugh when you can’t finish singing Puff, the Magic Dragon because you are in tears you can’t explain. He just tucks his arm around you and hands you a tissue and kisses the top of your head where the roots are starting to show a bit. </div><br /><div><br />Well, fine, you say, but isn’t it boring? </div><br /><div><br />Oh, I suppose, once in a while.</div><br /><div><br />But a long marriage is like the sun. It’s there every day and night, sometimes hidden by dense and sulky cloud covers, sometimes blazing red and vital and exciting. During cold spaces in your life—and life offers a lot of those—marriage wraps itself around you and keeps you warm.<br />The other side of that is that long marriages are uncomfortable now and then, like when you and your spouse disagree on matters of fundamental importance, such as values, religion, politics, money, and thermostat settings. And you do disagree about these things even though you think you never will. This is when you look at him and think, Why am I still married to this person who is so wrong about everything? </div><br /><div><br />Maybe because, when you get right down to it, the marriage isn’t boring, but a definition of fun you never imagined. And then there’s the irrefutable fact that when the world is out to get you, it has to go through him first. Or, trite as it sounds, perhaps it’s glued by those promises you made when he was just safely home from Vietnam and you were a size five, the ones about loving and cherishing and sickness and health...you know the ones I mean. </div><br /><div><br />Or maybe because, like the sun, marriage is different most every day. Those differences are what have landscape painters and photographers lying in wait for sunrise and sunset. Some days they go inside in disappointment because the cloud cover hangs low and dismal over the show, but on other mornings and evenings they sit spellbound and work as fast as they can, holding onto the light for every precious second. </div><br /><div><br />And there you go. There’s the answer to the questions, What’s it like, being married to the same person for over 30 years? How do you do it? </div><br /><div><br />You just hold onto the light. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Happy Anniversary, Duane. You're the love of my life.</div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-82767773434821789262011-04-23T05:24:00.001-07:002011-04-23T05:24:52.148-07:00Ruth J. HartmanI'm interviewing author and fellow Hoosier Ruth J. Hartman on Word Wranglers today. Stop by and say hello! <a href="http://wordwranglers.blogspot.com/">http://wordwranglers.blogspot.com/</a>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-1927143993824332972011-04-16T04:07:00.000-07:002011-04-16T04:08:41.074-07:00Come see Holly Jacobs...Stop by Word Wranglers this weekend and catch my interview with the never-resting Holly Jacobs. <a href="http://wordwranglers.blogspot.com/">http://wordwranglers.blogspot.com/</a>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-34236333162648073052011-04-11T03:22:00.000-07:002011-04-11T09:03:55.750-07:00Thank you, military...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcwvwFOzY98kQTjw0J3JXIOJ3wDKV6kjCmO3VSZBa5Bbmib0YUgo-fI39M7-Ma_ZzDsKcYY9Gsx4w0nXlrD8fpc6RZnaHMywHWYzg0fyOEcSiwXQlWnrV_hkuFSEjSwGteBNtxdPPtH4/s1600/thad_5.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 174px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594274719633981746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcwvwFOzY98kQTjw0J3JXIOJ3wDKV6kjCmO3VSZBa5Bbmib0YUgo-fI39M7-Ma_ZzDsKcYY9Gsx4w0nXlrD8fpc6RZnaHMywHWYzg0fyOEcSiwXQlWnrV_hkuFSEjSwGteBNtxdPPtH4/s320/thad_5.jpg" /></a> <br /><div></div><br /><div>This post was a Window Over the Sink newspaper column in November commemoration of Veterans' Day. I didn't post it here, I guess, because it's both localized and family-ized, but I am putting it here today because of how close government has come to shutting down lately. I don't know, or particularly give a damn, whose fault it was. I only know military enlistees are underpaid anyway and that there was real discussion about whether they would be paid at all. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>That's just wrong. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>John Thomas and Amos Ash were residents of Miami County, Indiana. They fought with the 20th Regiment of Indiana. They died at Gettysburg in 1863. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Uncle Mart was ten years older than Aunt Ethel. They were married forever, but they never had any children. That always seemed odd to me, but it really wasn’t. They adored each other and never needed anyone else; they were a complete family unit unto themselves. He was bald and funny and liked to fish. He served in the first World War. The Big One, some people said. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I don’t remember what his name was, but he and his parents were visiting my family when something happened and they had to return to their South Bend home at once because he had to catch the next train back to his duty station. The day was December 7, 1941, long before I was born, but I still remember the empty look on Mom’s face when she told the story. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Thadd was a baker in the navy during that war, the second of the World Wars. The one more people called The Big One. A couple of years after he came home, Thadd and Mary got married and they had five kids. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>His name was Wayne. I was at his going-away party before he left for Vietnam. He was young and smart and eager to serve his country. There was a girl at the party who looked at him with soft eyes. We laughed a lot, had a good time, and wished him luck when we left. We were used to it, I suppose, to saying goodbye and hoping for the chance to say hello when they came back home, so we didn’t give it that much thought. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Wayne, though, and Mike and John, to name but a few, came home in flag-draped coffins. We watched the news, read the papers, wept. We remembered smooth-faced, laughing boys and mourned with the wives and girlfriends and mothers who would never feel the same again, with fathers silent and stoic in their grief. We acknowledged empty places and heard remembered laughter and voices echo through them. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I married the second of Thadd and Mary’s kids after he came home from Vietnam. Like the Korean Conflict, no one ever called it The Big War, but to the ones who served there, and the ones who waited at home, they were big enough. Long enough. Sad enough. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>When Desert Storm happened, we watched and waited and feared and prayed. Same with Iraq. With Afghanistan. With all the other wars and conflicts and skirmishes where Americans have served. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>A short time ago, the city of Logansport, Indiana welcomed Sgt. Kenneth K. McAnich home. The hearse drove slow and solemn through streets lined with flags and people, the Patriot Guard riding protective escort against those who might not be respectful. It’s symbolic, this ceremonial farewell we offer our fallen warriors. I’m sure it does little to fill the echoing empty places created by their deaths. But it’s all we can do. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>My husband remembers how people looked at him in airports when he came home from Vietnam. How they sneered and then looked away. I saw the same thing in Indianapolis, when among the celebratory crowds coming home at Christmastime walked a lone soldier, carrying his duffel bag and staring straight ahead. Forty years later, those who served in Vietnam know it wasn’t them people hated; it was the war. But they still remember. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We all hate war. All of us. Thank goodness we’ve learned how to welcome home those who fight in them. We’ve learned to applaud them in airports and on planes, to buy their lunch once in a while if they’re behind us at the cashier’s station, to say thank you and mean it. That’s why November 11 is Veterans Day. It is not a day of celebration, although rejoicing in freedom is probably never wrong. It is instead a day of remembrance and honor to the men and women who have for 235 years and who continue to serve in the preservation of that freedom. Thank you to all of you. God bless you. God bless America. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Till next time.</div>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-649003548679920582.post-71782364230309749612011-04-03T15:38:00.000-07:002011-04-03T15:45:03.068-07:00Spend some time with Word Wranglers...Word Wranglers are friends who are reaching out this month. Forgive the strange formatting--I can't seem to make paragraphs!<span></span> <span>During April on http://www.wordwranglers.blogspot.com/ we're featuring published authors month! Come by each day and see who we showcased that day! Coming up, we have Piper Denna, Avril Ashton, Monica Burns, Larissa Ione, Tiffany Clare, Stacey Kennedy, Pepper O'Neal, Becky Zanetti, Mary Abshire, Desiree Holt, Aimee Carson and Shirley Jump, to name a few! We have already had one special guest--come see who!!! Love to see you there! </span>Liz Flahertyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794565644883272260noreply@blogger.com0