3 Blog Visit Sunday visited by Janet Lane Walters

http://www.emlynley.com/blog/2013/01/swapping-hats-again-as-tax-season-starts-tax-tips-for-u-s-authors2

http://deboradennis.blogspot.com/2013/01/sunday-in-kitchen-peanut-butter.html

http://bwlauthors.blogspot.com/2013/01/be-our-valentine-contest-from-bwl.html

Saturday's Excerpt from Trading Faces by Ann Herrick

[DARCY]


Brrrr. It's cold in here. I must've left a window open. Uuuuh. I hate to get out from under the covers. One, two, three, fling.

My teeth chatter as I hunt for my slippers. Where’s the carpet? It feels like … like wood under my feet. Maybe I'm still dreaming that I'm in Silas Marner's cottage. I pinch myself.

Ouch!

What's going on? Why is it so dark in here, anyway? Did the hall nightlight burn out or something? Where's the lamp?

Where's the nightstand?

What's this? The wall? Okay, I follow the wall and find the light switch. Ack! I've run out of wall. Did I leave my bedroom door open?

Where am I?

There’s a nightlight here reflecting off a mirror. Somehow, I find myself in a strange bathroom with a granite floor. I flick the light switch on and see myself in the big, full wall mirror. I take a good look.

Cybil Sheffield?

I lean in close and blink. Cybil blinks. I smile. Cybil smiles. Her smile is dazzling.

I nod. Cybil nods. I touch my nose. Cybil touches her nose.

Wait a minute. I can feel my nose, and it is cute and round and small enough to fit under a dime! I've morphed into Cybil! Wow! Is this for real? Maybe I should pinch myself again. Ow!

I take another look. Yes! I am Cybil. Even in the morning, without makeup, she looks beautiful. Her hair's barely even messed up.

I look at my hands. Instead of large hands with thick fingers and clipped fingernails, I've got little hands and oval fingernails painted with Cybil's trademark Pink Opal Glaze nail polish. Hey, my toenails are painted Pink Opal Glaze, too. Who knew?

Upon further examination I also detect a pair of pointy, perky breasts, way bigger than mine even when I'm bloated, peering through the semi sheer nightgown I'm wearing instead of my over sized T-shirt. Wow, I'm not even sure what to do with these babies. I'll have to learn to use them wisely.

What am I thinking? Okay, for some reason, I look like Cybil, and I’ve been transported to some bedroom that must be hers. But how? Why? And, anyway, even if I look like Cybil, can I possibly pull off being Cybil? I don’t know how to act popular. I don’t even know to talk to most people. It’s not as if I grew up looking beautiful and wearing great clothes, which must make everything much easier.

Clothes! Maybe I should get dressed. Maybe I could think better with clothes on. I certainly can’t run around in this … this nightie all day.

What day is this, anyway? Friday? Yikes! I've got an algebra test—

No, wait. Darcy has an algebra test. Wait, a few days ago Cybil was moved into the class. Does she study? Huh? Why am I even thinking about algebra?

What am I going to do? What about Mom and Dad and Joey? Do they think I'm missing? Am I missing? Are they frantically searching the house and the woods for me? Or am "I" still home? Maybe "I'm" sitting at the breakfast table eating Grape Nuts, as usual. Maybe "I" have turned into an android.

Or. Maybe Cybil has been turned into me?



[CYBIL]

I peer into the mirror over the dresser. The light is not great in here, so everything looks a little blurry. Ack! I slap my head with both hands. I went to bed great looking and woke up … yuck! Total nerd! Dull, stringy hair—definitely not my color—close set eyes … and this nose. I run my fingers over the bridge of it. Where's my perfect little nose?

Where did this wide one come from? Did I bump into the bedpost in my sleep or something?

What happened? Whose face is this? Maybe someone from school? Why is it suddenly my face? I try to think. Is this a nightmare? Well, of course, looking like this is a nightmare, but, I mean, am I really awake? If I’m asking myself that question, I must be! Wait. Maybe I’m just … just not completely awake yet. I close my eyes, count to ten, yawn, stretch, open my eyes and look in the mirror again. Eeew! That face is still there.

And my room. What's with the log cabin walls, braided rugs and country kitch décor?

I run around the room. Where's my four poster queen sized bed? I open doors. Where's my walk in closet? Where's my bathroom?

Okay, calm down. Think! Maybe I can look this up on the internet. Ack!

Where’s my computer?

I sit on the edge of the bed. Hmm, a quilt bedspread. How department store. Wait a sec. This looks like a genuine hand made quilt—

I take a deep breath. Maybe … maybe Mother worked her decorating witchcraft in here. I mean, she is a "Consulting Interior Designer; Residential; Designing Space for Your Lifestyle; Over Twenty Years Experience; Evening Appointments Available; Member ASID."

She put herself through design school with the piles of beauty pageant scholarships she won. Everything from Miss Grass Seed Queen all the way up to Fourth Runner¬ Up in the Miss Most Beautiful Teen of America pageant where she also won the Talent Contest with her piano rendition of Footloose. So she also knows makeup. Maybe she gave me and my room some kind of reverse makeover in my sleep.

But why would Mother do such a sick, cruel thing? There's only one way to find out.

I find the closet. Ack, what a dinky closet, and the clothes—yipe, what a mess! I grab a robe to cover the graying T shirt draped over my—eek! Where are my boobs?

I've got to find some answers before things get any worse.

I peek out into the hall and find the same cabin look out there. This is so not good. I tiptoe down the hall and creep down the stairs. I see light spilling through a doorway to my left. Maybe that's the kitchen?

It is.

Problem. There are three people sitting around a scrub top kitchen table. I have zero clue who they are and no idea where I am.





PURCHASE LINKS:

Kindle - http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009JQFO7K

Kobo - http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/Trading-Faces/book-I7WnQNYrQ0izXb9rlbR6sw/page1.html?s=Gi45r3KRHEWtc5Mopb9ykw&r=1

Barnes and noble - http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/trading-faces-ann-herrick/1113074092?ean=2940015537055

Smashwords - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/240648

Friday's How She Does It with Ann Herrick

Ann and I are both Books We Love authors.

I believe there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?



I hadn't thought of this specifically, but I know when I first get an idea for a story, it always starts with Who and What, and then the other factors follow.



1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?



In a way, I think of my characters as starting out as actors and then turning into real people. I usually get to know them as I write the first draft, and by the second draft I have a clearer picture of who there are.





2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?



I have a vague idea of a character and a small kernel of a plot when I start out. I think my books are character driven, as the plot in many ways follows their wishes, hopes and/or dreams.



3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?



I know in general how a story will end, but I don't usually know exactly how I'll get there! The characters, as I get to know them, lead the way.



4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?



My books are set in Oregon, where I live now, or Connecticut, where I grew up. I have magazines with different kinds of houses and interiors that sometimes I use as guidelines for homes in the stories.



5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?



Both. And sometimes I ask people questions in person, or watch a sport, performance, whatever, to find out more.



6. Are you a draft writer or do you revise as you go along and why?



A little of both. I write a first draft, but each day I re-read what I wrote the day before, in order to jump-start the current day's writing, and I revise a bit what I have re-read. Sometimes when I get an idea later in a draft that requires changes earlier in the draft, I'll go back and make those changes. Other times, I'll just make notes and make the changes in a later draft. I probably write four drafts, saving each one, but there are several "mini-drafts" within each of those.







WEBSITE: http://annherrickauthor.com

What Janet Lane Walters Has Been Reading #amreading #suspense #romanticsuspense

The past week the reading has been all suspense or romantic suspense and this has been a fun time.

Guarding Kelsey by Kat Attalla was a great read. Even though I heard a good bit of this in critique, I found Wolf, the man who didn't want to fall in love fun to watch struggle. Kelsey is a strong heroine. From the opening scene this story has laughter, suspense and love.

The Last Surgeon by Michael Palmer - Christmas stocking gift. I've enjoyed most of his books since I read The Sisterhood, I think that's the title. This time I was kept on edge when one of the most evil mass murderer showed up to plague the hero and heroine, Nick and Jillian. Thanks for another great read.

Relentless Pursuit by Adrienne Giordanno - Lots of tension here and the hero Billy is a real trip and a fun hero. The man is relentless. Kristen the heroine is intrigued but she has problems. This book not only deals with car thefts that lead to something more sinister but also with body-image problems.

Wednesday's Writer's Tip - On Villains #amwriting

Not all stories have true villains but some have characters who for some reason oppose the hero or heroine or both. There are several things the writer needs to watch their stories for that might change the story. These are gleaned from How To Write Mysteries by Shannon OCork.

The first one is my favorite and that is making the bad guy more interesting than the hero or heroine. Doesn't mean this character is likeable or even wonderful but he or she becomes the one who sparks the reader's interest. In a mystery, for the writer to spotlight the villain means the reader will stop rooting for the hero or the heroine. This can also spoil the ending. There have been times when as a reader I've known the bad guy the instant he appears on the scene and this makes me want to put the book aside. One book I recently read there were 200 pages after I knew who the murderer was and I also wanted to know why the main characters didn't know.

Some of the advice I found was interesting. Give all your characters a flaw and this can misdirect the reader's view.Let the bad guy remain in the background. Concentrate on the hero or heroine, or what needs to be solved and forget about wondering who did the crime. Give the hero and heroine lots of problems to solve. If a murder, or some other crime, give the victim a good sign.

Do these ideas flow to other genres than mystery. They can, if you have the opposer to the hero or heroine's gain of their goal as a seeming minor character in the story. I hope I have learned how to do this and will continue to work on adding a bit of uncertainty to my stories.

Tuesday's Inspiration -John D MacDonald - Environment #amwriting #amlearning

This quote really hit me since settings and creating the environment of a story is one place where I can go wrong. Sometimes I put in too much and sometimes too little. Mr. MacDonald put it all in caps. Makes is easy to remember but hard to accomplish. Does this hint resonate with you? No caps but it's advice to remember.

"And when the environment is less real, the people you put into that environment become less believable and less interesting."

How true this is. Years ago, when I began writing, I sent my first mss out again and again. Each time the story came back with comments from an editor. One of these comments struck me. "Your characters are operating in a vacuum." So I went back and rewrote the story describing where the characters were placed in great detail. The first attempt said things like she got into the car. The second went on to describe the car in living detail. The response I received went sort of like this. "You're bogging me down in details. This slows the story." So I went back and tried to figure where I went wrong each time.

What happens when you make the environment right means giving the reader enough detail for them to fill in the rest in their imagination. Every reader will see the environment a bit differently but they will be drawn into the story because you've engaged him or her. The characters in your story real to the reader. This is description at its best. Specific detail that allows the reader to invest their imagination in the story.

What about you, do you create a generic environment, or do you pile on detail after detail until the reader is bogged down? Do you strive to find the right way and pull the reader's imagination into becoming an equal partner with you?

Meandering on Monday with Janet Lane Walters #amreading #amwriting

First I'm celebrating Lines of Fire was released by Books We love. Received the strangest review on it. Rating was a 4 but the remarks inside were pans. Got to figure what this meant or not since I seldom pay attention to reviews.

Vow number one this week is to start doing some promo work and go after the rights on one of my books. Would like to get the last two with this publisher but the third book of the four is still in contract.

In books and often in romance novels, cliches are born. I read nearly as much as I write. Lately I've read this line in maybe as many as ten of my most recent reads. "He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear." I thought the first time I read that "How cool. What a nice way to show the alpha man in ant of tenderness." A lot of other writers thought the same thing. Of course, this could have interesting effects in other genres. What would it mean in a horror story. Maybe someone has used it there but I don't read horror. I do not like to be chilled. Another place where it could change would be a mystery with the villain performing the act just before of after he killed his victim. Now that's a thought. Unfortunately my mysteries are written in first person from Katherine Miller's viewpoint. I've seen this sort of action, bit of dialogue crop up in stories. Could it be the collective unconscious or is it really like my reaction. "How cool." Let me put that line in my story. Thus cliches are born.

As to my writing I've begun a story that has no title. It's part of a long series of novellas. I like the way it's going and will continue to work on it. Once I have several of these done I'll propose the series to one or more publishers and see what will happen. I'll still be working on the one that nearly got left in the dust of the file cabinet. I also want to start on Tainted Lines the sequel to Lines of Fire,

3 Blog visit Sunday discovered by Janet Lane Walters

http://bloodredpencil.blogspot.com/2013/01/whats-in-place-name.html

http://ladysmut.com/2013/01/09/literary-lust/

http://colettesaucier.blogspot.com/2013/01/thursday-thirteen-fun-with-figures-of.html

Saturday's Chapter from The Abduction of Mary Rose by Joan Hall Hovey

Excerpt: THE ABDUCTION OF MARY ROSE








Chapter One



1982



The teenage girl hurried along the darkening street, head down in a vain attempt to divert attention from herself as she headed for her bus stop, still over a block away. The car behind her was a soft growl in the still, warm air.



It was mid-June, only two weeks till school closed. The air was fragrant with the smell of lilacs that grew here and there along the street. She wore a jean skirt and white cotton shirt, and yet she felt as exposed and vulnerable as if she were naked. She was anticipating the freedom of summer and thinking about spending more time with her new friend Lisa, when she became of aware of the car following her. She had been thinking maybe she and Lisa would swim in the pond edged with the tall reeds, near her house where she sometimes fished with her grandfather. She'd let grandfather meet Lisa. She knew he would like her. It would be impossible not to like Lisa, even though her grandfather didn't quite trust white people.



The growl of the motor grew louder, and she heard the window whisper open on the passenger side, close to her. "Where you goin' in such a hurry, sweet thing?"



She didn't turn around, just kept on her way toward the bus stop, one foot in front of the other, as fast as she could go without running. Music thumped loudly from the car radio, pounding its beat into the night. It was not music she would have listened to, not like the music they'd played on Lisa's tape player tonight, and that she and Lisa had danced to in Lisa's room. Lisa had tried to teach her some new steps; it had been so much fun. They danced to songs by Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, Diana Ross' Mirror, Mirror and a bunch more she couldn't even remember. Lisa had a lot of records.



The music that blasted from the car sounded angry and unpleasant. The car drew up so close to her she could smell the alcohol the men had been drinking, mixed in with the gas fumes.



The car edged even closer to the curb, and the man said something ugly and dirty out the window to her and his words made her face burn, made her feel ashamed as if she had done something wrong though she knew she hadn't. She pretended not to hear, made herself look straight ahead, her eyes riveted on the yellow band around the distant pole that was the bus stop, just up past the graveyard. She kept moving forward, one foot in front of the other, trying not to look scared, and prayed they would go away. Fear made her heart race.



The day was fast fading, the sky a light mauve, only a sprinkling of stars yet. Soon it would be dark. She was always home before dark. Grandfather would be worried. A few more minutes and you'll be at the bus stop, she told herself. Ignore them. But it was impossible to do with the car following so close that the heat from the motor brushed her bare legs, like a monster's breath.



The car crawled along beside her. She moved as far away as she could get, but the pavement was next to none along here and broken. "Hey, sweet thing," the man said. "You trying to get away from us." He laughed.



Despite herself, she turned her head and looked straight into the man's face. He was grinning out at her, showing his square, white teeth, causing her heart to pound even louder than the music. He made her think of the coyotes that sometimes came skulking around grandfather's house at night hunting for small cats and dogs. No. I am wrong. He is not like the coyotes. They are just being coyotes. It is a noble animal. An evil spirit dwells within this beast. One tied with the most fragile of chains. She could feel him straining toward her, teeth bared. She would not have been surprised to see foam coming from his mouth.



Softly, he said, "Hey, Pocahontas, want a ride?"



Feeling as if a hand were at her throat, she darted a look behind her, praying to see someone, anyone, who might help her, but the street was deserted. She'd left the row of wooden houses behind her a good ten minutes ago and was now at River's End Cemetery. There was no sidewalk at all here, just the dirt path, broken curb on her left and the empty field to her right, leading up into the graveyard. If a car comes along, she thought, I'll just run right out into the middle of the road and flag it down. But none did. She visualized herself safely inside the bus and on her way home to Salmon Cove, to her grandfather's small blue house on the reservation. She would tell him all about Lisa, her new best friend from school. Her grandfather would smile at her, and be pleased for her and call her his little Sisup. She fingered the pendant around her neck that he had made for her, a kind of talisman. To keep evil spirits away.



Grandfather didn't always understand the white man's world though, and there would be worry on his weathered face because she was not home yet. But she would make them a pot of tea and they would talk, and he would forget his worry. She was still focused on the bus stop, the utility pole marked by its wide yellow band. With the car so close, the thrum of the motor vibrating through her, the bus stop seemed a mile away. She walked faster, a chill sweeping through her body. She was forced now to walk on the slight incline that led up to the graveyard. Only the ruined curb separated her from her tormentors.



A taxi fled past, but she'd been so intent on getting to the bus stop she'd noticed it too late. It had been going so fast, out of sight already, just pinpoints of taillights in the distance, then nothing.



"Hey, what's your hurry, squawgirl?"



She gave no answer, swallowed, and kept going. When the man did not speak for several minutes, she became even more frightened by his silence than his talk. The boys at school sometimes called her Indian, and other dumb stuff like pretending to be beating on war drums, or doing a rain dance, and though it hurt her feelings and sometimes even made her cry, this was different. The boys thought they were being funny. Not so with this man. She could feel his contempt, even hatred for her, and something else, something that made her mouth and throat dry and her blood race faster. As she continued to put one foot in front of the other on the worn, rocky path edging the graveyard, she was very careful not to stumble and become like the wounded deer under the hungry eye of the wolf, she kept her eyes on the pole with its yellow band. In the darkening sky, a high white moon floated.



Everything in her wanted to break into a run, but a small voice warned her that it would not be a wise thing to do. Anyway, no way could she outrun a car. Why did the bus stop seem so far away? It was like a bad dream, where no matter how fast you run you don't go anywhere, and whatever is behind you ... draws closer and closer.



She shouldn't have stayed so long at Lisa's. But they'd been having such fun, just talking and listening to music, sharing secrets. It was nice to have a best friend, to feel like any other teenager. But you're not like any other teenager. You're an Indian. She should have listened to her grandfather.



The man spoke again. "C'mon, get in, Pocahontas," he said, his tone quiet, chilling her. "We'll have us a little party." He reached a hand out the open window and she shrank from his touch, stumbled, nearly fell, tears blinding her. She heard the driver laugh, a nervous laugh and she knew he was a follower of the other man. There was an exchanged murmur of words she couldn't make out, then, the car angled ever closer to her, wheels scraping the curb, making her jump back.



"Got something for you, sweetheart," the grinning man said. "You'll like it."



More laughter, but only from him now. Adrenaline rushed through her and she started to run, ignoring the warning voice. But it was too late. The car shrieked to a stop and instantly the door flew open and the man burst from the car and grabbed her. She screamed and fought to free herself from the steel arm clamped around her waist, but it was no use. She kicked and clawed at him, but he lifted her off her feet as if she were a rag doll and threw her into the back seat, and scrambled in after her. He shut the door and hit the lock. "Go," he yelled at the driver but the car remained idling. The man looked over his shoulder, started to say something but the man holding her down yelled at him a second time to go, louder, furious, and they took off on squealing tires.



"Please let me out," she begged. "Please…" Her pleas were cut off by a powerful back-hand across the mouth, filling it with the warm, coppery taste of blood. "Gisoolg, help me," she cried out, calling on the spiritual god of her grandfather, and of his grandfather before him. But no answer came.



Up in the graveyard, an owl screeched as it too swooped down on its night prey. And all fell silent.

How She Does It with Joan Hall Hovey

Haven't met Joan but I have read and enjoyed her books. We're fellow authors at Books We Love, a great place to be.


We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?


You're absolutely right, Janet. We do need to answer all those questions for the reader, but I'm an intuitive writer and tend to answer them in large part on a subconscious level as the novel evolves.

My books are generally rooted in childhood. I draw on my life for inspiration and an emotional connection. Then I'm off and running. The seeds for Night Corridor, for example, were planted in my childhood. On Sundays, I went with my grandmother to visit an aunt in the mental institution, once called The Lunatic Asylum. She'd spent much of her life within those walls. They said she was 'melancholy'. Though the sprawling, prison-like building has long since been torn down, the sights, sounds and smells of the place infiltrated the senses of the 12 year old girl I was, and never left. Night Corridor is not about my Aunt Alice, but it was indeed inspired by her.



https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6rFhMgKtTUXGBVbS3kFcFbDp6X1YEaBYCOh55O3-vwWPXGkRCwqcoYkar-4bbQlw8olfqxkiMLh6ctpn8-niQeW5bWHTt7MwsVu8DT8LXBKLI6gO4r8BjSJPikfzBcsO52RehMKj4xU/s1600/The+Abduction+of+Mary+Rose+book+cover.jpgMy latest novel The Abduction of Mary Rose was inspired by a true story as well. After her adopted mother dies of cancer, Naomi Waters learns from a malicious aunt that she is a child of a brutal rape. Her birth mother, a teenager of MicMac ancestry, lay in a coma for eight months before giving birth to Naomi, and died five days later. Feeling angry and betrayed, but with new purpose in her life, Naomi vows to track down the man responsible and bring him to justice.



1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

I think about them for a long time, particularly my main character and let her settle into my imagination. I hear her speak, listen to the nuances, zone in on the gestures she makes, the way she walks. Kind of like getting to know someone in real life. At first they are shadowy figures, gradually taking on more personality and clarity as you come to know them. And like those who become old friends, she tells you her secrets, her passions, her pain, her fears. (Because I’m writing suspense, this is important to me.)



2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?



I don't write an actual outline because I want the novel to flow organically as much as possible, but I do make copious notes and do a lot of cerebral outlining.

In the end, I don’t think you can separate character and plot. They are interwoven. With suspense, I am always aware of the thread in my story and I hold it taut, letting it out a little at a time, but never letting the thread go slack. It should grow tighter and tighter until it fairly sings. This is what constitutes a page-turner. It’s a promise I make to my readers and one I take very seriously. Reviews tell me I’ve succeeded for the most part, and that makes me happy.



3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?



I do have an idea generally of how the story will end, but only generally. If I’m surprised there’s a good chance my reader will be. A good beginning is one that draws the reader into your story. A good ending is one that has her/him reaching for your next book. Or more often these days, downloading it.

4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?



My novels are set in fictional towns that could be anywhere in New Brunswick or Maine, since the flora and fauna are similar. Although I did set part of Nowhere To Hide (Eppie Award) in New York. I researched the city but I also spent time there. But New Brunswick, which lies on the Bay of Fundy, Canada, is part of my DNA. And the town where I live, whose streets and hills and shops are bred in my bones, is probably in essence where all my novels are set, whatever fictional name I give them. However, I did set my second novel 'Nowhere To Hide' partially in New York city. I'd been there so I had a general idea of The Big Apple, but also picked up a copy of Bantam's New York City.



5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

Both. I have several books on psychology and forensics. Two I recently purchased are ‘Police Procedure & Investigation and ‘The Writers Guide to Psychology’ by Carolyn Kaufman, Psy.D. But I’ve always been a student of human behavior, in particular the dark side of humanity, which is probably why I'm drawn to write suspense novels as a way to explore these themes.

I'm also a big fan of Google. Since I tend to research on a need to know basis, sometimes I go straight to the source. For example, when I wanted to know what color bodybags are, I phoned our city morgue. They’re dark green. Or at least they were at the time. I think you can get them now in dark blue, if anyone needed to know that. -:)

6. Are you a draft writer or do you revise as you go along and why?



I write numerous drafts and also revise as I go along. Lots of trial and error. That`s probably why it takes me a long time to finish a novel. But that`s where the challenge is and writing novels isn't a race. In letting the novel evolve as it should, and not forcing anything, you have a chance of writing a good book. At the same time, you must exert some kind of control so you don`t end up all like the guy who `flung himself on his horse and rode madly off in all directions`. I've done that too.

There's a fine line.

Thanks for inviting me today, Janet. I enjoyed being with you.

Joan

visit me at: www.joanhallhovey.com

Find my books here: http://www.amazon.com/The-Abduction-Mary-Rose-ebook/dp/B005M4W22I/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1357831772&sr=1-5&keywords=joan+hall+hovey