I Ain't Said Nothin' But A Word...

Although I fancy myself to be a procurer of fine art, I am, in actuality, only a woman who is fond of very pretty things. I was gifted the very first piece of artwork that adorned the walls of my first apartment.  It was a print by Norman Rockwell, his classic The Problem We All Live With , an image of 6-year old Ruby Bridges being escorted into a New Orleans elementary school by US Marshalls in the 1960’s.  It was a wonderful accent piece in the corner where it hung and provoked much thought and conversation in my home.  But it was an image that I saw so many times, in so many places, that many years later it influenced my decision to only buy original pieces of artwork. Because the purchase of original artwork proved to be a very expensive venture I began to seek out up and coming artists whose talents had yet to be discovered and whose price points were more budget friendly.  Fast forward and I am still buying, sometimes blessed with a bigger budget and sometimes not, but still

Beverly’s relationship has come to an end, finally having run its course. She doesn’t see it, nor is she trying to. The bad times outweigh the good times. She spends more time being unhappy, than she does being happy. And still, she insists that she can change things around, because she can change him, if only he would truly listen when she complains. Arguments are now full-fledged battles. There’s a push and a shove, a slap, even punches thrown that no one is supposed to know about. And the screaming is epic, voices raised more times than anyone would care to count. What everyone has tried to make her understand is that he is still a boy, despite his age. They were both babies when they fell in love and there has been little maturity since. He has no responsibilities, still sucking on his mama’s titties as family and friends take care of all his needs. Right now he’s rolling that program because he can, yet to have a reason to do things differently. What she fails to real

Another book has been put to rest. I dotted the last i and although I’m not quite sure whether or not I crossed all the t’s, I was glad to push the send button and put it in my editor’s hands. It was only two months late. I have not had a book work me quite so hard. But this one was a challenge. And then just like that it wasn’t and I have a dead Asian woman to thank. For weeks I found myself unable to connect with the characters. I knew who they were, knew their story, could tell you what they liked and didn’t but no matter how I tried to twist and bend the fantasy that was their romance I could not find anything loving about the words. Then the Asian woman began to haunt me. I knew her many years ago. She was kind and good natured with a gentle disposition. She and her son owned a restaurant that I frequented at least once weekly. The woman was a phenomenal cook! I had a favorite meal that wasn’t on her menu but that she gladly made special whenever I wanted. I was crav