I am not published … yet. But I will be. Until then, I like to pretend I am and think about what kind of speech I would give at a writer’s conference or the type of post I would write for a guest blog spot that is booked through my PR person.
With my imaginary life in mind, here is a little gem I’ve come up with. It’s a list – one of my favorite things. I wonder if it will change when I’m finally published???
Ten Things Every Writer Should Do Before They Publish +one extra Continue reading
Weeeeeee!!!!!!!
The Waterworld Mermaids just jumped into the Twitter pond. How exciting. Tweeting in the air is a much different feeling than swimming through our romance lagoon. But how fun to connect with all of our lovely friends.
Come say hi to us @WWMermaids. We promise to splash some water your way.
Many of our lovely Mermaids are on Twitter as well. You can find them here:
Happy Swimming! Happy Tweeting!
The other day at the gym I told my trainer I couldn’t do a certain leg exercise because my rotator cuff was hurting. I pointed to my leg and made a sad face and everything. He sighed. “Kerri, your rotator cuff is in your shoulder, not your leg. Do the exercise.”
Oops.
We’ve all done it. Made excuses. Sometimes they are better than others. But hey, in my defense, I was an English major not a doctor! Note to self: must do more research for lies excuses. Continue reading
What’s in a name? A whole lot when you write fiction. Finding the perfect name is a big step in the creative process.
Take your heroine Mildred and rename her Roxy. Viola! A whole different persona.
But how to pick a decent name for your character? And of even more importance, how NOT to pick a name. Here are some things to consider. Continue reading
Happy Valentine’s Week from the Waterworld Mermaids!!!
Here in our lovely mermaid lagoon, we are all abuzz with the holiday of love. And because we’re in such a happy mood, we wanted to share some stories and memories from mermaid-pasts. Best of all, we’re celebrating all week long! We hope you enjoy!
Love can be messy. It’s not always presented to us neatly, wrapped all pretty with a cute little bow on top. But there are those people, and those precious moments, that remind us it’s all worth it….
Sunday Afternoon
Susan Andrews
She’d been cutting his hair for years. Well, not all the years – there was the time she’d put a ten dollar bill in his hand and, at his look of surprise, said, “It’s a gift. You’re going out.” Then deflated his pleasure when she added, “For a haircut.” But that was long ago. After so many years together, things were different. No more surprises in this marriage.
Now she cut it again. Every few weeks, she would notice the sparse hair on the top of his head resembled dandelion fluff. He was an easy man to please, and shorter was better. They’d gotten used to the occasional fumbles, the one spot that got away every time and spoiled the symmetry. His hair was too fine for a perfect haircut, and his simple gratitude for any style that didn’t include a comb-over was sufficient.
They worked well together. She got out the sheet and kicked aside the bathroom rugs. He retrieved a kitchen chair and shed his flannel shirt. They understood the need for cooperation. Things worked better that way.
The clipper (bought for their son’s first haircut long ago) ran up the back of his head, the hairs making a pleasant brrrrrr asthey succumbed to the blade’s vibration. The fluff fell against her hand, tickling at her fingers. It cascaded down across his shoulders, a mix of dark and gray hairs. Gone. The curls she’d played with, the widow’s peak. What was left?
“Your hair still grows fast. It’s long enough in the back to curl a little.” Brrrrrrr.
“There’s not enough to let it be long. Shorter is better.”
“Hmmm. Tip your head?” She pressed a hand against his temple and felt its warmth under her fingertips. His head angled to one side as he waited for her to carve the outline around his ear. Don’t knick the ear. She coached herself through the steps. Back. Change. Front.
Especially since she loved that ear. The pretty shell, so neatly formed, delicate in contrast to the musculature of the man. Not as pretty now, with the lobe gone fleshy. Still…
She bent, her hands braced against his shoulder, and kissed the ear. He flinched under the sheeting, surprised. She’d broken the pattern. Awkward, having to crouch, but her lips found the tip and pressed against it again.
She stood again, met his eyes in the mirror. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” He couldn’t move, his body shrouded in a twin-size sheet. She could, though, and bent to kiss his lips. A good match. All these years, and she was surprised that she still believed in the us they’d become. “She chose wisely,” she joked against his lips.
She felt his mouth curve under hers. “He got lucky.”
She laughed and set the clipper down, picked up the brush to flick the stray bits from his neck and face. “We could both get lucky if you help me clean this up.”
He pushed against the twin sheet as she unwound it, scrubbed his hands against his face and down his neck. Then he stood to wrap her in his arms. Warm, firm, strong. His hands found the muscles in her back that were too-often tight and soothed them.
“Thanks.” His lips still had the power to send a spiral down into her tummy. He lifted his head. “Pizza for dinner?”
“You?”
“Me.” His hand trailed down her side and tickled under the hem of her shirt. A promise. “I’ll get the broom.”
She knew she would find the one spot on his head that had escaped her. At some point in the evening, she would run her hand across the crown of his head and find the baby-fine patch that had hidden. Unruly. Disobedient. Sooner or later, she would have to deal with it.
Later on, she found it. “There it is.” Their feet were tangled in the blankets, their hands still exploring.
“Oh.” His eyes were lazy now, but amused. “You found the spot?”
“It got away from me.” She nudged the puff of hair. “I’ll have to get the scissors out.”
He slipped his hands under her and kissed her again. “Do it later.”
We hoped you enjoyed our stories this week. We loved sharing them with you! Come back tomorrow for a fantastic giveaway!
Happy Valentine’s Week from the Waterworld Mermaids!!!
Here in our lovely mermaid lagoon, we are all abuzz with the holiday of love. And because we’re in such a happy mood, we wanted to share some stories and memories from mermaid-pasts. Best of all, we’re celebrating all week long! We hope you enjoy!
Ever notice how love can inspire music and music often has a hand in love? Whether the feelings are between significant others or family members, today’s stories mix these two beautiful things – love and music….
Songs in the Key of Love
Denny S. Bryce
He had a voice like smooth raw silk—deep and rich and soft and strong. When he sang, with his lips next to my ear, his breath was warm and cool, and always made me smile.
He loved to sing. He would burst into song anywhere, any time. When we sat in the car at the gas pump, or as we shopped for groceries, or walked across the football field after he’d coached a game.
It took a few months, but eventually, I joined in and sang the words I knew to whatever song he was singing. But my voice never sounded as good as his. So I mostly sat back and let him sing to me. He liked it best that way.
He wasn’t showing off. No, but sometimes talking didn’t do what he wanted it to do. His words weren’t as good as the lyrics on the radio. It was easier to say what he wanted to say with a song.
So he’d serenade me.
After a while, I stopped noticing when he sang, or that he wasn’t singing as much anymore.
Then one night we were in the car driving back from, or driving off to, somewhere, and a Stevie Wonder song came on the radio. It was from a 1976 album, Songs in the Key of Life, one of my favorites from back in the day.
He pulled over to the side of the road, and started singing…
“As”.
If you’re not familiar, here are some of the lyrics…
You know what I say is true
That I’ll be loving you always
(Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky)
Always
(Until the ocean covers every mountain high)
Always
(Until the dolphin flies and parrots live at sea)
Always
(Until we dream of life and life becomes a dream)
Did you know that true love asks for nothing
No no her acceptance is the way we pay
Did you know that life has given love a guarantee
To last through forever and another day
Well, let’s just say, I started listening again…and heard every word when he sang.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Song from the Heart
Masha Levinson
This thing I hold in my arms is more like a loaf of bread than a baby. And not one of those pretty loaves either. He’s all beat up looking. Black and blue. As if he’d been in a fight and is now sleeping off a horrid hangover. Except unlike most drunks, this one isn’t staying quiet. He’s screaming as if belting out a tune for the cheap seats at Lincoln Center. And it’s 2:30 in the morning. And I’m tired. And cranky. And I want to go to sleep. And he won’t cooperate. The spindles from the creaky rocking chair are digging into my back. My arm, the one his lumpy head is resting on, has long ago fallen asleep. Why won’t this kid sleep?
It’s half an hour later when his eyelids begin to flutter up and down. Small veins weave around his translucent skin. His fragility amazes me. Twenty minutes later, he’s finally asleep. I exhale. As if holding the rarest of gems, I will my body off the chair, cringing when the hinges squeal. I hold my breath. He doesn’t stir. Step by step, I make it to the crib. The side is up. I can’t reach in there. I look around the semi-lit room and see the stepstool. I hold him in my arms and with one foot drag it toward his crib. His eyes flutter open. My breath hitches. He closes them. I place the stool in front of the bed and gingerly climb on it. The crib is still too high for me.
Each time, before I lower him into the crib, no matter how tired, I lean over and kiss his satiny forehead. Tonight is no different. He sighs. I smile. I lean over and place him, as carefully as if he was the most fragile loaf of bread, onto the sheets. I hold my breath and wait. Sometimes he wakes and sometimes he doesn’t. He continues sleeping. I exhale and creep out of the room. I crawl into my bed. My body begins to drift off as the last thought flutters through my mind. I wonder if he’ll ever know what I did for him.
Fourteen years later I’m sitting in front of the school, waiting to pick him up from a homecoming dance. It’s Saturday night. Request night on the love station. I’m tapping my finger on the steering wheel. The music filters off and then I hear it. “Our last dedication is to Masha from her brother and for everything she did for him.”
I stop tapping. And breathing. The intro to the song begins to fill the car. A moment later the words come across my old radio loud and clear. I am no longer left to wonder.
The song he chose is Hero.
We hoped you enjoyed our stories today. Come back tomorrow for more sweet stories that are sure to make you feel all gooey (in a good way)!
Happy Valentine’s Week from the Waterworld Mermaids!!!
Here in our lovely mermaid lagoon, we are all abuzz with the holiday of love. And because we’re in such a happy mood, we wanted to share some stories and memories from mermaid-pasts. Best of all, we’re celebrating all week long! We hope you enjoy!
Today’s stories are guaranteed to melt your heart. Behind every beautiful flower, sparkly crystal and shining star are the real heroes. Here are some examples….
Roses, Tulips, Lilies
Carlene Love Flores
A soldier once sent his wife flowers for Valentine’s Day. She would never know how he’d pulled it off. It shouldn’t have been possible. That big ole desert was far, far away and most days that year, even emails had been scarce.
But sure enough, three bouquets were delivered to her Oklahoma doorstep that morning. Roses, Tulips, Lilies.
But soldiers do extraordinary things every day. So when the wife sits and thinks about that Valentines, she doesn’t wonder for too long. She’s just thankful.
Some Flowers Do Last Forever
Kim MacCarron
My husband is not the most romantic man in the world.
But, every once in a while he surprises me. Mother’s Day of 2005 was just such a day. By this time, we’d been married for not quite six years, and we had four children. Romance wasn’t really that high on our list of priorities. We fell into a daily grind of getting very young children ready for the day and basically stumbling through it until we climbed, exhausted, into bed at night.
On this particular day, my husband arrived home to tell me that he bought me flowers for Mother’s Day. I casually glanced around him, looking for a dozen long-stemmed red roses. No such luck. I grinned and rolled my eyes. Typical of my husband to not get caught up in another commercial holiday.
After putting the kids to bed that night, we climbed into bed and watched Desperate Housewives together, and after it was over, I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I came back into the room, I saw a Reed’s Jeweler’s bag sitting on my dresser.
Jewelry trumps flowers any day of the week, as far as I’m concerned. He was grinning at my surprised expression, and I tried to not tear into the bag.
When I finally looked, I saw not one but four little boxes. Four! When I opened the first one, it wasn’t jewelry at all. It was something far better than that, something I’d been collecting for years. Swarovski crystals. This particular one was a pretty pink crystal flower in a vase. The next box revealed the same one. The final two were yellow flowers. Four separate flowers to represent our four children—two girls and two boys.
I blinked hard to not let the tears fall because I really hate to cry in front of him, but, man, it was hard. He knows how much I love Swarovski crystals. Oh, and my kids, of course. That was the best, most thoughtful present he could have given me.
Placing my beautiful crystal flowers on the dresser, I sashayed over to the bed. I’m not sure how great I looked sashaying when I had a baby seven months before, but I did my best.
About two weeks later, I had to tell him that I needed another flower.
Flowers wilt. Cards become compost. But those five Swarovski flowers still sit in my curio cabinet, reminding me of my best Mother’s Day gift of all. Not my flowers. My daughter…Shannon.
Shooting Star
Dana Rodgers
Several years ago my husband came home from work to find me on the couch in the fetal position. After a terse reminder that my abdominal pain had been getting increasingly worse over the past two days and me confessing the little incident where I just about collapsed a couple of hours earlier (I was fairly certain a Mac truck had been plowing through my living room and deemed it appropriate to rip out my intestines while passing by). My husband scooped me up and whisked me off to our local Emergency Room, chastising me for not calling him along the way.
Two hours later I was terrified. The plethora of tests revealed that I was pregnant, but it was ectopic. The fallopian tube had ruptured and the reason I was having severe abdominal pain, along with the overwhelming desire to sleep, was because I was hemorrhaging, badly. The doctor said that if I had gone to bed, I wouldn’t have woken up.
My husband held my hand all the way down the hall when they wheeled my gurney to pre-op and said all of the mushy things I needed to hear. It was one of the handfuls of times I have ever seen my 6’6, 230lb Marine get a little misty. (For the record, the other times involved a 14-month separation and the birth of our children–what a guy.) He was there when I woke up, stayed by my side in the hospital, and was there to support me through the emotional aftermath. (And trust me, that wasn’t pretty.)
A few months later, Valentine’s Day rolled around. I was thinking that we’d exchange cards, I might get chocolate, but since we don’t really buy into the commercialized holiday thing it wouldn’t be a big deal. I was Oh-So-Wrong! My husband strolled in that evening, grinning ear to ear, and handed me a letter-sized envelope and flowers. It was a star. My husband had named a freaking STAR after me. I mean how cool is that??? When I asked him why, he said that I was his compass and the light in his life, that I had scared the shit out of him and that he never wanted to be without me. Wow. I mean really, W-O-W!
So why do I write Romance? How could I not when I live with all that hero inspiration every day? I never want to be without him either.
We hoped you enjoyed our stories today. Come back tomorrow for more sweet stories that are sure to make you feel all gooey (in a good way)!
Happy Valentine’s Week from the Waterworld Mermaids!!!
Here in our lovely mermaid lagoon, we are all abuzz with the holiday of love. And because we’re in such a happy mood, we wanted to share some stories and memories from mermaid-pasts. Best of all, we’re celebrating all week long! We hope you enjoy!
Today’s stories beckon us back to the past. Super romantic gestures, crushes and kisses aren’t solely reserved for adults. Many spectacular things happen throughout our lives. Here are some examples…. Continue reading
I have plantar fasciitis, a condition in my foot that is extremely painful. It’s an inflammation of the plantar fascia (a band of tissue) that runs underneath your foot and basically feels like someone is stabbing you repeatedly with a really hot machete. A lot of people have this condition, especially runners.
My usual way of dealing with health issues involves a lot of crying, whining and then ignoring the problem altogether. However, when I trip getting out of bed because my damn foot is so sore, even I have to admit it’s time to deal.
Interestingly, I’m finding I have similar stubbornness where my writing is concerned. What’s that? My first pass at a manuscript is NOT perfect as is? It won’t win any awards? WHAT! Break out the crying, whining and procrastination. Luckily, I have figured out some ways to deal with both my foot issue and manuscript woes. Continue reading
When I was little – maybe 7 or 8 – I learned about poetry in school. Later, sitting at the counter in my Nunnie’s (grandmother) kitchen, I told her that I was going to write a poem about her. I don’t remember much about that poem. I know it was indeed about my Nunnie and that I wrote it very quickly. And I’m fairly certain I rhymed the words pink and think. 
But the big thing about this moment in my young life is that Nunnie took one look at that poem and declared that I was a writer. She thought it was truly an amazing feat of literary proportions. Think James Joyce meets Jane Austen.
Nunnie called my mom and my two aunts and informed my entire family that I was a writer. That was it. Based on this little poem, I had the talent of writing. So I always believed it too. After all, Nunnie said it was true, so it must be. In fact, this belief in my ability as a writer is the one and only thing in my life that I have never questioned. (Even during my darkest Debbie Downer-I just got rejected moments.)
Nunnie passed away on Christmas morning at the age of 97.
I’m at an interesting place. Obviously, I have a lot of feelings and memories and emotions swirling around right now. But in terms of writing, this crazy talent I apparently have because Nunnie said so, makes my path seem clearer than ever. Nunnie never got to see a published book with my name on the cover. I think I might always regret that.
So I am now moving forward with my writing. I have a finished manuscript and I am putting all of my effort into getting it published. Because Nunnie was right: I am a writer!