Sioux the Chihuahua Killer... and Back-of-the-Book Blurb # 65

Okay, I'm going to give you a recap from my last post, in case you're not one of the two people who read it, and I'm not going to give you a link and make you go back and read the past post so you pee in your pants from laughing too much like Val does or like another writer does. In other words, I'm not gonna make you work for it. 

When I posted this past Monday, I told about seeing Janet Evanovich at a book talk. I'll give you enough of a summary to understand today's story, so you see why I just might end up in a future Evanovich novel (but not in a good way).

No, this is not a picture of the victim. This is a google image.
Do you seriously think if I killed a chihuahua, I'd post a picture of it?

Janet Evanovich--right away--showed us what a sassy, outspoken woman she is. She talked about her most recent book. She talked about her whole support staff--her son does her "plot work," her daughter does her website, and she introduced her stylist guy and her hair guy. (They're two separate people. Go figure.) 

One of them--the stylist? the hair guy?--held up their dog high in the air (with one hand)--a chihuaha. We learned the dog's name. (I don't remember it. Sorry. I usually don't pay much attention to ankle-biters that can fit into a teacup.)

Fastforward to an hour or so later. I'm standing in line waiting to get the book autographed so I can auction it off at a dog rescue trivia night.(This is an important detail. Keep it fixed in your head.) I can see the way they're doing it. One woman takes the book to hand it off to Evanovich. The stylist and hair guy are taking people's phones/cameras to take pictures. The fans pose next to or behind Evanovich, and then the next person moves into place.

There's a chair next to the table where Evanovich is--a swivel-y desk chair. I fixated on the chair, because I have a purse--not a cute bag, so I don't want it hanging on my shoulder when I get the picture taken. It's not big and it's not heavy. Just a smallish quilted purse. I also have a composition book (I took notes during the interview. Isn't that a good thing? Shouldn't I get credit for being extra-attentive?) So after I handed off my phone and the book, I figured, I could place the composition book and the purse on the chair.

When I got closer, I saw there was a blanket/fleece-y jacket wadded-up and tossed on the chair. The chair I kept staring at. I figured it was just spill-over. I figured it was just some extra crap of theirs. Maybe Evanovich gets cold and needs a blanket sometimes. 

The chair was really important to me, because I've been known to trip over the pattern in the rug. I've dropped drinks on people. I'm terribly gawky. Just navigating around a couple of people and a table while simultaneously setting down a couple of things could end up a disaster... which it did, but not the way I thought it would.

I must add this tidbit: Several people saw me set my purse and composition book on the chair. I didn't toss them. I didn't slam them. I set them there... and at least three people watched as I did it... and didn't say a thing...

... until I was posing with Janet Evanovich. They handed my camera back, and the woman said, "There's a dog there. I moved your stuff," and then she pulled back the blanket. There was the chihuahua. It hadn't moved. (It wasn't still because my stuff had crushed the life out of it--it was undisturbed. Still sleeping.)

I tripped over myself apologizing. Fast and furiously. "Ohmygoodness. I'msoooosorry. Ididn'tseeitthere. I'msogladIdidn'thurtthem. I mean, I'm getting this autographed for a dog rescue trivia night. I rescue golden retrievers." 

Her stylist guy? hair guy? replied, "and you kill chihuahuas," as I left the room, my head hung in shame.

And now onto the business of the book blurb.


Look at the photo below. That is the cover of your book. You choose the genre. Is it a comedy? (It sure looks funny to me.) Is it a romance? (Like The Runaway Bride?) You decide.

Write an enticing blurb--150 words or less. (The title doesn't count in the word count.) Blurbs are those enticing bits that prod you into buying the book. Sometimes they're on the back cover of the book. Sometimes they're on the inside front cover. What they always try to do is lure you into purchasing the book.

Lisa Ricard Claro was the original creator of this writing challenge. Currently, she's super busy. She and her hubster are currently basking on the beach in Florida. Leave the sand to do this book blurb stuff? No way. (She's also working on a new novel--I'm sure--so that keeps her occupied in between applying the sunscreen.)

Include your blurb in a blog post. Include a link to this post. Also, link your post to Mr. Linky. Mr. Linky is easy. If you've never done it, you'll be impressed with how simple he is. And then, check out the other blurb(s). It's interesting to see the different directions writers take, given the same photo.

Here's the book cover, along with my blurb:

The Whoa-Nelly Wedding

Trixie had done loads of prep work for her wedding. A string of crazy diets to lose weight. Brazilian Butt-Lift classes three times a week. Trixie even bought the Miley Cyrus “Get a Terrific Bod by Twerking” exercise video, and did those workouts on a daily basis.

On the big day, Trixie got herself sewn into her gown. After the vows, came the reception. And the dancing…

When Trixie and Ricky Bob stepped onto the dance floor, the DJ put on her favorite song and Trixie started twerking. So obsessed with her rump-shaking, she didn’t hear the satin ripping. She didn’t notice the breeze hitting her backside.

Ricky Bob stepped behind to eclipse the mooning. He attempted to get Trixie off the dance floor. For once, he was a gentleman.

Will Trixie be red-faced forever? Or, will she turn being the butt of people’s jokes into a positive experience? (149 words)

If you'd like to find out how Darius Rucker can help you add tension to your writing project, go here.
And for Val and Pat and anyone else interested in playing along, here is the photo for next week:

photo by Pixabay

Sioux the Stalker

           Sometimes I stalk writers in person. When I saw him at a teacher's convention, I tried to kiss the big ring on John Reynolds Gardiner's hand like he was the Pope. I almost kneeled down. (Gardiner is the author of Stone Fox, a children's book that makes me cry every year when I use it in my class.)

       I've stalked publishers, via local authors. (Kristina Makansi--I'm talkin' 'bout you.) I've even stalked a friend who was plagued by postpartum depression. 

       Bloggers are the same. There are quite a few I follow. Many I love are loved by hordes of people. And others try to fly under the radar. Here are a few bloggers I stalk:

Hillbilly Mom

This writer is quite secretive. She lives in the same state that I do. She's a teacher (or so she says). But when you try to dig up the dirt on her, you come up with an empty shovel. Nowhere on her blog is her real name. It makes me wonder what she's trying to hide?

However, what she makes no move to hide is what goes on in her daily life. In her posts (that appear every day), she shares what her PITA of a husband does, what her kids are up to (occasionally) and what living in the country is like. Her writing reminds me of another writer's style... I just can't place it.

Fireblossom

Shay Caroline Simmons has more personalities than she has names. At least it seems like she's suffering from multiple personality disorder. Each one of her brilliant poems is searingly different. One day, she might post a poem that's bittersweet and tender. The next day? A poem that's bitter and biting, her lines spewing spittle.

Once I won a custom-made poem from Shay. I gave her the topic... she wrote the poem, and now it's hanging in my writing room. I typed it up in a large font, and created a custom mat for it. (Okay, what I really did was buy a mat and frame from a thrift store and decorated the mat with a marker... but I guarantee you, there's no other frame like it.) Here's the poem:

Damn the Match

I said, damn the match that set me on fire

But no one heard

so I fanned myself with books, and oh
How I burned.

Damn the one who made me feel nothingly small,
This lonesome girl--
Then I spit my anger on a black-curling page,
And blistered the world.

Damn the distance that keeps my love from me,
The miles are sin--
Then I wrote out my love as a pink-fire dawn,
Warm on her skin.

Bless the match that each finger is,
To strike what I feel into words that be
An incendiary flow from soul to sky,
One burned-bright star that's made from... me.

                                                                  --Shay Caroline Simmons


Mama Zen--Mama Zen/Kelli, like Fireblossom, is a poet. In fact, the two have collaborated on poetry collections. Also like Fireblossom, Mama Zen's poems seem to come from different people--the tone, the voice is so varied... and so succinct. This poet can write jaw-dropping pieces in way less than 50 words. (Many times I count them, because I'm so ticked off she can say so much with so few words.) 

So, I'm a stalker. I follow some writers (and some publishers) a little too closely. Sue me. 

Have you ever stalked a writer/celebrity? Have you ever been stalked by a stranger because you're a weirdo-magnet? Stalking minds want to know...

Incredible News

      I reached the pinnacle of greatness this week. After working for months and months and failing, I finally succeeded. I reached a major goal.

      I stumped Hillbilly Mom. I out-Seinfelded her. I baited her, she nibbled, and then I reeled her in. I set out my trap, I...Oh, I hear some mumbling and grumbling. Too many metaphors? Sorry.

      Hillbilly Mom (HM to her closest friends) is a Seinfeld expert with steeljaw trap of a memory. There are rumors she spends her whole day--every day--watching Seinfeld reruns, along with reruns of Designing Women and various other shows. She probably takes detailed notes, because no minor plotline eludes her. Except for this one time...

    HM wrote a post about getting blood work done.  That was not the main subject of her post, but I pounced nonetheless. Because I remembered an episode where Kramer poured some blood (that he was transporting) into an overheated radiator, I made a comment.

      And Hillbilly Mom failed to make the connection. I asked if I had stumped her (to verify my victory) ; she confirmed it. And then the celebration began.

      There was a ticker tape parade when I left my house and headed to Aldi's. The mayor of my little township presented me with the key to the city. My name (so they tell me) will appear in the next Guinness World Book of Records. And I'm going to be a guest judge on the show "So You Think You Can Dance" since I am quite skilled at dancing just like Elaine. (Sadly, I'm a one-trick pony. That is the ONLY dance I know how to do.)

         
       Although I know this was a small battle--an insignificant skirmish in a huge war--I am savoring my win until the next time when we face off...and I'm beaten by her once again...

      And in honor of Father's Day tomorrow, I'm including a video of Daniel Beaty, a wonderful poet. His poem, "Knock Knock" speaks to the impact a father has.

 

 

One of my favorite memories of my father was on vacation trips, in our station wagon, he'd sing. Funny songs, serious songs. From him I learned that "mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy..."

 

What is a favorite memory you have of your father?