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I want to introduce you to a sister blogger. Her name is Rara and her blog is Rarasaur (http://rarasaur.wordpress.com/). I started following her marvelous writing last year and have continued during her serious legal issues and now her incarceration for a white collar crime. Her husband, Grayson Queen, manages her blog and posts when he gets something from Rara. This one, and the one that follows, touched my heart. Rara is a good person and is dealing with an enormity in her life that most of us could not face with her spirit and equanimity. She wants her posts to be shared, and I hope you see what I see. SOCKS Originally written 08/05/14 On days like this, I miss the moon. She’s been my personal guide for as long as I can remember. In my youth, my small hands would pretend to hold her. I’d sit by the windows—palms bowled together—and whisper my secrets into her light. As a teenager, I’d hunch in the backseat of cars, silently sharing all my thoughts with the bright orb as she followed me down long highways and gravel roads. She has always had a way of magnifying my gratitude and shining perspective on my strife. “It is what it is,” she would smile to me, until her light becomes mine, and my fears become triumphs. They took away my moon, and today, I miss her more than ever. I am disappointed because change didn’t come when I called for it. I planned, and waited, but change didn’t show up. Now I feel stuck—tarred by the moment, feathered by the idiocy of the idea that I had any control of fortuna’s wheel. I feel more trapped by circumstance than when they put me in a cell, and more paused than when they took away time itself. I can see the next part of my journey, but the road from here to there is gated, and until that gate opens, I can do nothing but wait. Plans are meaningless to change, as is disappointment. Change moves as, and when it wants and does not care. My moon would care, though. If I could see her, and whisper the secret of my heart to her, she would soothe it. She would light my journey with her warm glow, and it would remind me of the sanctity of this present moment. She would remind me that planning for change is a skill, waiting patiently for it is a virtue, but embracing the moment is a joy. My moon would urge me to see joy. She would show me that joy was scattered at my feet while I clutched at disappointment—like a little girl crying over a chunk of coal while sitting in a pool of diamonds. In time, that coal will sparkle as brightly, but there is no sense in lamenting over what it is today. It simply is what it is. In my mind, I know all this—but the seed of rational thought only seem to survive the tangles of hurt and fear in my head when they are allowed to bask in moonlight. I feel the comfort struggling to make itself known as I lay on my bunk, staring at the cold cement walls. Then, one of the girls in my room disrupts my thoughts. She is as trapped as I am, and so we are sisters of fate. She asks someone if they want to learn to say something in Spanish, and when the other girl agrees, I smile because I know what’s coming. “Spell socks,” she says. Anticipating a practical joke, the would-be Spanish speaker hesitantly says, “S.O.C.K.S?” And we all laugh. It sounds like, Eso si que es. In Spanish, she has said, “It is what it is.” And there, in the warmth of laughter, the sparkle of wit and the light of sisterhood—I see my moon. Even in here, where I am locked away from the most celestial of sights, she has found a way to lend me her insights. Tomorrow, I might find myself sobbing over coal, but tonight—tonight I will laugh at the wonder of its mere existence, and give gratitude to the diamonds who laugh and sparkle in the bunks around me. Tonight, I will sleep peacefully because, though I have no control of fate, I am not alone. I am surrounded by sisters, and my moon is still following me—healing my hurt—shining her light through them, into me. Dedicated to: Silvia Velez and Alissa Sandoval. DREAM CATCHING AT 11,000 Originally written 08/25/14 In two days—August 27th, 2014—I will turn the big three-oh in the “Big House”—California’s largest state correctional facility for women. I arrived just a week ago and am sitting pretty in receiving, what we colloquially call “A-Yard.” A-Yard is a resting and distribution center, like a train station—filled with women waiting to go somewhere else, smiling uncertainly at each other because the future holds such extreme possibilities in regards to the relationships here. We all know it’s possible that you will never see the woman next to you again. It’s equally possible that you will share—in close proximity and neon orange Technicolor—one of the most memorable experiences of your life with her. Like a train station, it is constantly bustling here. It is saturated with hellos, goodbyes, and the commotion of people trying to live life in a limited amount of time and space. We have tickets, but we call them ducats. We have porters and bright flashing lights that tell the more observant amongst us if everything is running on schedule. Though, of course, it’s not. Like trains, prisons are charmingly—woefully—stuck in the past. The slow-churning relics answer to no one and make no apologies for their pace. There’s no reason they should. After all, it is their very nature. Today, I understand true natures in a way that my 10-year-old self or 20-year-old self never could. This is the sort of insight that grownups brag about when they shake a finger

Yesterday, Sarah Allen (http://fromsarahwithjoy.blogspot.com/) published a post on ten things that make her happy. It made me think about what makes me happy, so I’m picking up this theme and passing it along. What makes you happy? In no particular order: 1. Artichokes. Those green, spiky-looking vegetables a lot of people don’t eat because they’re put off by their looks. Can’t imagine anything tastier than a fresh artichoke heart with butter, except for… 2. Lobster, those spiny-looking crustaceans with meat that tastes like heaven. Also with butter. I guess I’m into spiny and spiky looking food. 3. Sailing. Check out my recent post: Sailing, Sailing Away 4. 70s music. Yes, this is my favorite era. Danceable, easy-to-remember lyrics. How about Frankie Valley and the Four Seasons’ Rag Doll? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EwuL3Up_mpg 5. A great screen kiss. Sarah and I agree on this, but I like mine from classic movies. For example, Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster on the beach in From Here to Eternity. 6. A good book. The list would go on forever, but the one I enjoyed the most in recent years is A Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern. The book is magical, literally and figuratively. Go to http://www.amazon.com/The-Night-Circus-Erin-Morgenstern/dp/0307744434 to read more about it. 7. Renaissance paintings. I focused my last A-Z April Blogging Challenge on Renaissance artists, and it was a joy from, well, A to Z. 8. My critique group, the Early Birds. Three of us have been together since 2011, the rest for more than a year. Last year we had a book event at Panera, where we meet every other week. 9. Christmas! With a name like mine, how could I not? This is my favorite holiday, because I love giving presents. 10. Antique cars. My first car was a Ford Model A phaeton, and I’ve been in love with old cars ever since. So that’s my list. Would love to see yours! 0 0

Sitting here, lounging in a recliner, drifting in and out of a nap and wondering where the time went. More than a year of planning, three intense months of organizing, DIY projects, dress alterations and fitting, choices of string quartet, DJ, photographer, videographer, food, floral arrangements, transportation…hopefully you’ve figured by now it was a wedding. The activities began in earnest on Thursday with mother daughter pedicures and manicures and the endless choices for nail colors. Dark red? Tropical pink (the honeymoon is in Fiji, paid for with frequent flyer miles)? Nude with sparkles? A shade of blue? Friday was the triple threat: bridal luncheon for the mothers and bridesmaids and female relatives, a rehearsal in the hot sun, and a rehearsal dinner into which wandered guests from a much bigger function downstairs in the hotel. A Tar Heel blue indoor tailgate party, with hints of North Carolina State red, Virginia Tech purple, and a gift of Razorback tee shirts. The wedding day and a flurry of hair and makeup appointments, transportation to the wedding site, dressing the bride, putting the collar and bow tie on Kingsley the British bulldog, a world class temper tantrum from the flower girl over her dress and the constant worry of a thunderstorm. And then…a perfect ceremony in sunshine with perfect children, a dog that drew chuckles, a string quartet, an eloquent preacher and a heavenly a cappela group. Time for pictures before the downpour, an enchanted and twinkling barn for dinner and dancing, great food, and a mini-rave of dancing. Home tired but happy. Yesterday, friends and family wandering in and out of the house all day for omelets and bagels, quiche and pumpkin bread, sausage biscuits and apple cake. The new couple return to open presents and pack for their honeymoon. Another late night. Today, lunch with the new in-laws and the newlyweds before dropping them at the airport. Now, home, sitting in the recliner, drifting in and out of dozing, wondering where the time went. 0 0

Fellow writer and sister blogger, Noelle Granger, was kind enough to ask me to write a guest post for her blog. She suggested something related to fashion and history, so it’s a great pleasure to offer this overview of the clothes in Jane Eyre’s time, which includes a general reflection on Victorian and Regency fashion, and how fashion mirrors the moral code of the time. The Regency Era In the later part of his life, George III suffered from recurrent and eventually incapacitating dementia and blindness. From 1811 to his death in 1820, he lived in seclusion at Windsor Castle. As a result, his eldest son, George, Prince of Wales, became Prince Regent, until he succeeded his father as George IV. Much to his father’s irritation, the Prince Regent was an extravagant squanderer, gambler, and womanizer. His escapades included heavy drinking, drug consumption, and numerous mistresses. He also had very expensive tastes in clothes and decorating his palace, and was a generous patron of the arts, so he was frequently in debt. On the other hand, he was reportedly a witty conversationalist, and enjoyed partying. The Prince Regent’s indulgent lifestyle was reflected in the social life, fashions, and comparatively lax morals of the Regency period, which sometimes refers to a more extended time frame than the decade of the formal Regency, spanning from 1811 to Queen Victoria’s coronation in 1837. It was during the early years that Jane Austen, who died in 1817, wrote her novels. Charlotte Bronte was born, a year earlier, in 1816, and although Jane Eyre was published in the height of the Victorian era (1847), there is plenty of evidence to support that it is set before this period, during the Regency Era. Regency Fashion In the early 1800s, women’s clothes became more practical, for example, women began wearing shorter and lighter dresses without restricting long trains or hoops, which were more suited to carrying out daily routines. They also became much lighter. Women wore thin, gauzy outer dresses, which could be changed and washed more frequently. It was also during this time that fashion magazines such as ‘La Belle Assemblee’, one of the major ladies’ fashion magazines of Regency Era, began its publication. The ladies of the time often only wore three garments; a chemise, a corset and a gown. This was a striking contrast to the clothing of both the preceding and succeeding periods with their multiple layers, crinoline, and heavy fabrics. The first two paintings of Regency fashion reveal bare arms, chest, and necks, in both adults and children. The satirical engraving “The Graces in a High Wind”, by James Gillray (published 1810), shows us just how loose and flimsy ladies clothes were at the time, easily allowing the observer to identify the ladies’ contour beneath the dress! Victorian Fashion ARABELLA MARIA: “Only to think, Julia dear, that our Mothers wore such ridiculous fashions as these!” BOTH: “Ha! ha! ha! ha!” Some Victorians may have joked, but most Victorians would have felt uncomfortable to be reminded that their mothers or grandmothers had once danced and visited wearing what has come to be called Empire or Regency fashions, which would no doubt have been considered indecent according to Victorian convention. Women’s skirts literally swelled and became more cumbersome in the Victorian period. At first the skirts were supported by several petticoats, one of which was of a stiffened silk or of a silk and horsehair fabric, known as crinoline. Many of the bodices and blouses had high necks stiffened with bones or wire. Breasts, chests, and arms were covered, the high-waisted Regency styles were replaced by lower, tight bodices focusing on the waist, and the stiff crinoline petticoats made it impossible to guess the ladies’ shapes below the layers of heavy clothing! Clothes in Jane Eyre The clothes in Jane Eyre are definitely Regency style, and not Victorian, which leads us to assume that the action takes place in the 1830s, at the latest, probably around the time Charlotte herself was 20 years old, in 1837. There are few detailed descriptions of clothes in the novel, but Mrs. Fairfax describes Blanche Ingram as, ‘Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck.’ Indicating her bust and shoulders were clearly visible in a low-cut, Regency dress. Also there is no mention of crinoline. Clothes marked class difference very clearly, the fabric and colours of lower class characters such as teachers and children at Lowood, and servants, were clearly different from the clothes worn by the upper class characters. They wore darker colours such as purples and browns, and were made of stuff, a type of coarse thickly woven cloth, or wool. We are told that the girls at Lowood all wear, ‘brown stuff frocks of quaint fashion, and long Holland pinafores’, while Miss Temple, her teacher and mentor at Lowood, wore, a purple cloth dress with black velvet trimming. On the other hand, her cousins, Eliza and Georgiana Reed, were obviously wearing light, Regency-style clothes. Jane watches them ‘descend to the drawing-room, dressed out in thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes’, and Mr Brocklehursts’s wife and daughter ‘were splendidly attired in velvet, silk, and furs.’ When Jane arrived in Thornfield, she was wearing a black stuff travelling-dress, a cloak, a bonnet, gloves, and a muff. When she met Rochester, a few months later, while on her way to post a letter in Hay, Jane says, ‘He stopped, ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black merino cloak, a black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough for a lady’s-maid.’ When she was first invited to tea with Mr. Rochester, Mrs Fairfax told her to change, and she wore her one and only silk dress: ‘I repaired to my room, and, with Mrs. Fairfax’s aid, replaced my black stuff dress by one of black silk; the best and the only additional one I had, except one of light grey, which, in my Lowood notions of the toilette, I thought

Luccia Gray will post about fashion in the Regency and Victorian eras and the clothing in Jane Eyre. Stop by! 0 0

This is the week before my daughter’s wedding, and Luccia Gray has graciously agreed to give me a boost by being a guest on my blog. Luccia is the author of All Hallows at Eyre Hall, a terrifically entertaining book which I reviewed a few months ago and which is being reviewed on Rosie Amber’s blog today. It’s a great read. So stay tuned for a fabulous post! 0 0

It was time I learned to sail. At least that was what I’d been told by my father. He’d purchased an old wooden Turnabout, which lay with its bottom up on the lawn by the barn, mainmast, boom and sail stowed away. This doughty, barely ten foot sailing dinghy was what the kids at the yacht club liked to race on Saturdays. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get into sailing at all, let alone race, and those kids were a whole different group from the ones I hung around with at the pool every summer. Racing to me met hitting the water with a flat, belly-smacking dive, and powering myself to the other end, then making a turn and powering back. That required practice, and my summer days were already pretty full. “You’ll enjoy it,” Dad insisted and promptly enrolled me in the land classes to prepare for sailing. In the meantime, he handed me sandpaper and told me to take all the paint off the turnabout. It was hard work, and I managed to remove a lot of skin and a fingernail along with the paint. It didn’t help to hear “Sand with the grain, sand with the grain” every time Dad checked on me. By the time I’d finished to Dad’s satisfaction, a whole weekend had been consumed. Later that week, he caulked the boat, and the next evening we repainted it together, red again. I really wanted blue. At supper the following Saturday evening, Dad said, “Your classes begin Monday at nine. Mom will drop you off at the yacht club and pick you up at noon.” “But Dad, do I have to? You know we have a big meet next Saturday. I need to be working on my intervals.” “Nonsense. It won’t matter if you miss morning practice. It’s not the Olympics. There’s still the afternoon and you’re the fastest kid in your age group already.” As Mom ladled chop suey into my bowl, her latest attempt at creating international cuisine, she remarked, “Your Dad and I really enjoyed the Coast Guard course we took last year, and we thought since we live on the water, you should be more familiar with boats.“ My brother Jay stuck his tongue out, then made a face as he tried the chop suey. Yeah right, I thought. It’s just because Dad and the Commodore have become big buddies and Mom helps run the Yacht Club dinners. I’m going to look like a jerk, as usual. “How long is the course?” I asked. “Three mornings.” “But Mom….” “Then you go out in the boat for a one-on-one class, and if you get the hang of it, you’ll be sailing by Friday. Won’t that be wonderful!” my Dad exclaimed. The next morning, I trudged up the gravel drive to the two story, weather-worn yacht club, pushed myself through the front door, and found a group of kids hanging around at one end of the dining room, where a chalk board had been set up. Hey, they’re all younger than me. Isn’t this just peachy? I sat as far away from the group as I could and still hear what was going on. The instructor showed up and moved to the chalk board. I noticed that he was one of the tall, good-looking young men I’d seen hanging around during the yacht club dinners, chatting, drinking Coke and lazily watching girls. He was bronzed by the sun from sailing and had windblown, wavy hair. I cringed. Just what I need. A Greek God to teach me sailing. In the last year, I’d shot up three inches and was gawky and clumsy. It didn’t help that at twelve, I was now taller than all the boys at my school and was called Miss Encyclopedia because I got good grades. I need to be swimming, I fumed. In the swimming pool, I’m someone. My teammates like me. There are even some younger kids who look up to me. Why am I here? The Greek God, whose name was Kevin, assembled the children around him. “Hey you, aren’t you in this class?” he asked me. “Yeah, I guess so.” “Well, you need to come closer and join the group. You need to be able see the board and take notes. I’ll be giving you a test at the end of the course and you have to pass it if you want to sail out of this club.” Oh joy, so nice to be singled out. I reluctantly moved to a chair at the end of the third row. A kid who looked like a kindergartener smirked at me as I sat down, picking the notebook and pencil up from the chair. During the next several hours, with breaks in between, Kevin covered a variety of topics. He started by teaching us to read a depth chart of the harbor. I was interested to see where the channels ran, how deep they were, and the shallow areas that were revealed as mud flaps (my brother’s interpretation of mud flats) at low tide. Then we progressed to the various parts of a sail boat, and Kevin showed us the different kinds of sailboats we would likely see in Plymouth harbor and explained their differences: a sloop, a ketch and a yawl, which looked a lot like a ketch (I could not for the life of me figure out the difference.) I found myself thinking, Darn, this stuff is interesting. And Kevin is sooo good-looking. I was itching to ask about the sails when Kevin said, “Okay, I think we will end for today. “Don’t forget to bring your notebook tomorrow. I’m going to teach you about sails.” I raced out the front door to the waiting station wagon. “How was your class?” my mother asked. “Kinda boring. The guy teaching is sort of okay,” I replied, not wanting to let Mom know I liked the class and the instructor. “I understand he won some regional

Well, it’s not far down to paradise, at least it’s not for me And if the wind is right you can sail away and find tranquility Oh, the canvas can do miracles, just you wait and see Believe me It’s not far to never-never land, no reason to pretend And if the wind is right you can find the joy of innocence again Oh, the canvas can do miracles, just you wait and see Believe me Sailing takes me away to where I’ve always heard it could be Just a dream and the wind to carry me And soon I will be free Fantasy, it gets the best of me When I’m sailing All caught up in the reverie, every word is a symphony Won’t you believe me? Sailing takes me away to where I’ve always heard it could be Just a dream and the wind to carry me And soon I will be free Well it’s not far back to sanity, at least it’s not for me And if the wind is right you can sail away and find serenity Oh, the canvas can do miracles, just you wait and see Believe me Sailing takes me away to where I’ve always heard it could be Just a dream and the wind to carry me And soon I will be free Sailing Away by Christopher Cross I’ve been listening to music while I work on the DIY projects for my daughter’s wedding – mostly at the sewing machine, where I’ve turned into a lace-decorating fiend. Mostly to a station that plays 70s and 80s music, which is my favorite period. Today Christopher Cross’s Sailing Away came on, and I had to stop and just enjoy it. It does take me away – to sailing on my boat and the wonderful sense of freedom one gets on the water with just the wind to push you along: lazy and soft or brisk and frisky or wild and exhilarating. Next week I will post a bite-sized memoire piece of how I learned to sail. It was not pretty, but I survived it. I had my own boat, a National 10, which is actually a nine foot long tubby thing with a centerboard and a single main sail, although you can add a spinnaker. When I was young, it was called a Turnabout because it could come about on a dime. Mine was called the Yama, which means ‘hurry’ in Bahamian, and it was wooden. Newer ones are fiberglass. Once I had the confidence to handle it no matter the conditions, I discovered the absolute freedom of sailing. Everyone should have this sort of experience – you leave your cares and work at the dock, and should never, ever take your cell phone! Turnabout are small enough to be handled well by one person, two people are a crowd, which is why the boat is so much fun. Flip it over? No problem – you can stand on the center board and right it, then bail like mad. My current boat is 17 feet long and a lot more to handle, very sensitive to the helm and incredibly fast. Flip it? Call for help! And I usually sail with someone. If you want the experience and exhilaration of sailing without actually getting into a boat, I recommend the Disney movie Morning Light, a documentary about fifteen young sailors who train for six months to take on a sailing adventure: racing a high performance 52 foot sloop in the TRANSPAC, a daunting open-ocean sailing competition. Here is the website where you can see a trailer: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0105824/ You can listen to Christopher Cross and Sailing Away at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7khQNR7s1Ho 0 0

Thanks to Noelle for hosting me today. I am honored to be here to talk a bit about my new book, How To Climb The Eiffel Tower. Tell me a little about How To Climb The Eiffel Tower. How To Climb The Eiffel Tower is the story of two women who forge a powerful friendship the day they are each diagnosed with cancer. That friendship gives Lara the strength and hope to confront her cancer and her past and learn to truly live a full life. Those are some some pretty heavy topics. How did you handle that? When I was writing the book, I was very conscious that cancer, child abuse, and betrayal are heavy topics and was purposeful about injecting a good amount of humor into the book. Lara is a snarky character that looks at the world through a humorous, slightly skewed lens. Her work life also allows for quite a bit of lightness and humor. Still, I understand that some people see the word cancer and simply refuse to read any further, yet How To Climb The Eiffel Tower is not a book about cancer. It’s a book about friendship and healing. What inspired you to write this book in the first place? Inspiration can come from anywhere – a person’s odd assortment of items in the grocery store line, a face in a passing car, or a snippet of overheard conversation. Part of the inspiration for How To Climb The Eiffel Tower came from a comment I overheard in the chemotherapy room while I was going through cancer treatment. I was heavily drugged at the time, but I distinctly remember hearing a woman on the other side of the room say to her neighbor that getting cancer was the best thing that ever happened to her. It’s a good thing I was pretty weak and tethered to a machine because I wanted to get up and smack that woman. Still, that comment stuck with me until I sat down to write a novel based on some of the people I met while going through cancer treatment. It prompted my ‘what if’ question of – How could being diagnosed with cancer be the best thing that ever happened to someone? What kind of internal turmoil would a person need to be experiencing for a cancer diagnosis to be a positive force in their life? From there, my brain kicked into gear and Lara Blaine’s story began. I have no idea what that woman was talking about 12 years ago, but I will be forever thankful for her making that comment. You frequently write about the value of a critique groups on your blog. In fact, you and I initially met through a critique group. Why are you such an advocate for critique circles? Writing is a lonely pursuit. A tremendous amount of time is spent sitting alone slowly tapping out the first drafts of a story. At some point, you need feedback and support from other writers. A good critique group can point out clunky dialogue, tell you if your characters are coming across as real people, and help you rein in a runaway plot. They can serve as a first editor that tells you if a story is working or if you have lost your way. The actual critiquing is the reason writers join critique groups. The camaraderie is why they stay. The writing life is full of rejections and setbacks. There are points where you can feel like a boxer taking jab after jab in the ring of endless submissions. It helps to have someone in your corner to clean you up and give you pep talks between rounds. We all need support and encouragement. Book blurb: Lara Blaine believes that she can hide from her past by clinging to a rigid routine of work and exercise. She endures her self-imposed isolation until a cancer diagnosis cracks her hard exterior. Lara’s journey through cancer treatment should be the worst year of her life. Instead, it is the year that she learns how to live. She befriends Jane, another cancer patient who teaches her how to be powerful even in the face of death. Accepting help from the people around her allows Lara to confront the past and discover that she is not alone in the world. With the support of her new friends, Lara gains the courage to love and embrace life. Like climbing the Eiffel Tower, the year Lara meets Jane is tough, painful, and totally worth it. Bio: Elizabeth Hein grew up in Massachusetts within an extended family of storytellers. In 2002, Elizabeth was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, a cancer of the blood. During her extensive treatment, she met dozens of other cancer patients and developed close relationships with several of them. These friendships were the inspiration for How To Climb The Eiffel Tower. She learned that a cancer diagnosis is a life changing experience, yet it does not necessarily change a life for the worse. Prior to the new book’s publication, Elizabeth was invited to attend the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance (SIBA) conference and has received excellent advanced reviews on her break-out new book. Elizabeth Hein writes women’s fiction with a bit of an edge. Her novels explore the role of friendship in the lives of adult women and themes of identity. Her first novel, Overlook, spotlighted a housewife dealing with a cheating husband and the pressures of keeping up appearances. Elizabeth has published several short stories and is currently writing a novella and beginning to write a historical family saga about how love and identity effect four generations of women. She and her husband now live in Durham, North Carolina. Book Trailer – http://youtu.be/hHGNcjuRndQ Buy links: Amazon Amazon UK Barnes & Noble Website: ElizabethHein.com Twitter: @_ElizabethHein Facebook Google+ Goodreads 0 0

Stay tuned for a great guest post by a very talented writer I met through my critique group: Elizabeth Hein. She has a new book coming out this Friday and I thought it would be wonderful for the people who visit my blog to learn more about her. 0 0