Happy weekend to all!
I've been in #reflect mode this week as my Bonus Son #1 finished his first quarter of college, Bonus Son #2 graduated from high school, and the school year wrapped up for my daughters, Princess 1 and Princess 2. My kids are ages: 19, 18, 15, 12.
I've been thinking about the passages of time and the seasons of life - how quickly it seems we transition from one to another. It feels like yesterday I was a young mother of a newborn and toddler. Now one of them is learning to drive.
My 'story' for the last fifteen years has been that of mother to young ones. Not only that role, of course, but it's been the main plot, so to speak. For the last two years, I've been a stepmother to my Bonus Sons, who lost their mother five years ago. It's been a privilege and honor to be their Bonus Mom for the last part of their journey into adulthood. Soon they will both move away to lives of their own. Just writing those words makes me tear up. I can't help but wish I'd had them for a little longer.
As I venture into new territory with these four almost grown people, I can't help but mourn the past, even as the memories of happy times make me smile.
I wonder...how do you keep happy memories alive? Do you look at photos, tell stories, watch videos? Or, are you more like me, and just close my eyes and remember.
Along those lines, I wanted to share a passage from my novel, "Deleted: Jackson and Maggie".
And it seemed to him, there amongst the smiling moon and the first brave stars, that the meaning of life was found in the moments where love stretched and breathed like a living creature. It was in these brief snatches of time that one’s whole life made perfect sense. Love given and received gave our toiled years meaning. Love told the story of our life.
Because at the end, when all that remained were the memories captured in paintings hung on walls, or photographs in a box, or merely flashes of moving pictures behind our eyes, it would be a moment such as this that whispered our life’s story. This is your glory, your meaning, your purpose.
My latest novel releases tomorrow! This is the book I wasn't sure I could pull off, but decided to try anyway. The premise is odd to say the least, as evidenced by the opening sentence: "Maggie Keene turned thirty the day she learned she'd been dead for twelve years."
For me, 2018 is about courage, so in keeping with that theme, I went for it. This is the second installment in my new small town romance series, but my Cliffside Bay books are more than just epic love stories. They're about rising from disappointments and tragedy to love again.
The first in the series, TRADED: BRODY and KARA is on sale for $1.49 if you want to start at the beginning. More about DELETED: JACKSON AND MAGGIE below.
The one who got away just might be back to stay.
Deleted: Jackson & Maggie is NOW LIVE!!!
GET YOUR COPY HERE:
Amazon → https://amzn.to/2J3Bk5p
iBooks → https://apple.co/2FQH0OW
Kobo → http://bit.ly/2CXV06J
Nook → http://bit.ly/2H38vV9
Jackson Waller has loved Maggie Keene since they were six years old, but their dueling dreams ultimately tore them apart. First love—true love—wasn’t enough to overcome their individual desires to pursue dreams on opposite coasts. When Jackson learns of Maggie’s tragic death on her way to college on the east coast, his heartbreak, compounded by grief, renews his focus on his own future. He vows to do nothing but work toward his goal of becoming a doctor, and maybe enjoy the companionship of his new college buddies, The Dogs.
Maggie Keene left Cliffside Bay with two things: a broken heart and her ambition. For twelve years she relentlessly pursues her dream of a musical theater career in New York City, but when she learns her father is dying, she returns home to find the truth about her family’s ugly past. There, she discovers two things that will change everything: one, the bitter old man has spread a wild rumor that she has been dead for over a decade; and two, Doctor Jackson Waller is also back in Cliffside Bay—with his brand-new fiancée.
The second installment of The Cliffside Bay Series by bestselling author Tess Thompson follows the interwoven stories of five best friends, the beach community they love, and the women who captivate them. Prepare to get lost in a wave of small town charm, men you would love to take home to your mother, and smart, resilient heroines you wished lived next door.
START FROM THE BEGINNING WITH TRADED: BRODY & KARA
Amazon → http://amzn.to/2EtVseY
iBooks → https://apple.co/2EsCOEn
Kobo → http://bit.ly/2rSq8nR
Nook → http://bit.ly/2npjP6p
He's the best quarterback in the AFL. She's a young woman desperately in need of a fresh start. Neither expects to fall for the other. Will he finally put love ahead of his career? More importantly, can she trust him with secrets so deep her very life depends on them?
Or do they?
I confess, I do. Sometimes...
Any artist will tell you how important feedback is to the improvement of their craft. I went to drama school at USC right out of high school and feedback smacked me hard in the face from day one. I like to think it made me tough, but also flexible and open to suggestions. Although no one likes criticism, we do grow from it. As part of our maturation process, artists learn to discern between constructive feedback that informs our work and feedback meant to break our spirit. Was it helpful or meant to be cruel? Was it given from a place of jealousy or genuine care? Finally, does it ring true to you when you hear it? In other words, does it give you an aha moment?
Any writer who has a decent editor will receive pages of notes after every draft. It's part of the gig. Sometimes the notes make me cringe with embarrassment, but they always make my book better. Every editor I've worked with has challenged me and made a better writer. I love learning and will continue to do so until the day I die.
Almost all artists practicing a craft will tell you the same thing. There is always more to learn. I was surprised when I went to theatre school that even famous actors still took classes and workshops. I don't know if all writers continue to take workshops and read craft books, but every one I know certainly does.
And then there are reviews...
For writers, reviews from readers and book bloggers are a big part of our success or failure. Without them no one finds our books. I'm grateful for every review, good or bad, because it gives my books legitimacy and exposure. Of course, we pray for positive reviews. Oh, how we pray! Nothing feels more vulnerable than putting your heart and soul out for everyone to judge. Each of my books is written from a place of deep commitment to quality and when people don't like them, it hurts. Bad. For non-writers, think of the most vulnerable and exposed you've ever been - that's what it feels like to release a new book.
My fifteenth piece of fiction released last week to mostly great reviews. However, a handful of people thought it ended too abruptly. From my perspective, since TRADED: BRODY AND KARA is the first book in my Cliffside Bay Series, my intent was to hold some content back, in order to entice readers to return for the next book. After a long and sleepless night absorbing said feedback and feeling kind of bad...okay, really bad...I won't lie, it hurts even after 15 books...I realized I could certainly fix the ending if I wanted to. So I did.
I spent the weekend writing two new chapters. They're short and sweet, but give the reader a little glimpse into my intrepid couple's life after the grand gesture and subsequent marriage proposal. (It's romance, so don't judge).
Then, I happily loaded it onto the various platforms and went to bed.
That sentence is such a lie.
It took me hours on Sunday to format and load the new chapters onto the various platforms. Hours that I could have been writing or spending time with my family. I was a mess at the end of that day. I was so busy and stressed I forgot to eat lunch, which left me shaky and headachy by the time 6 p.m. rolled around. I emerged from my office feeling like a truck had run over me, but determined to make homemade pizzas for my family. That was another disaster, but I'll save that for another post. Let's just say I ended that long day and evening crying in the bathroom. You all know that kind of day, but I digress...
The bottom line is this: I want to be a successful author. Success to me means two things: I write great books and sell many copies to a solid, loyal fan base. I'm not here to play around and dabble in a hobby. I have sacrificed a lot for this dream and it matters to me that my family have something to show for my hard work. So whatever I have to do to make that happen, I will. But I won't lie. It's hard. Like sweat and tears kind of hard. For real.
Anyway, members of my loyal street team love the new chapters. A couple said they didn't realize they wanted more, but now that it's there, they love it.
So, there it is. I let feedback inform my work. I think that's pretty awesome. I'm proud of myself for not letting it discourage me enough to bury my head under the bedcovers for weeks and weeks like I really wanted to. Instead, I tackled the problem. Boom.
So my already published book has two new chapters. Anyone who bought the ebook should get updates from the various platforms that the book has been updated. I also included the first two chapters of book 2, DELETED: JACKSON AND MAGGIE , which releases May 7.
Lastly, from one warrior to another, whatever you did recently that frightened you, or that you want so much you're willing to work like crazy to get it, I salute you. Keep swimming the brave waters. You got this.
I've been sitting on the cover of TRADED: BRODY AND KARA for a month now, just dying to share it with the world. Fortunately, my PA and my publicist saved me from myself so that we could do a fun contest and offer up a bunch of prizes.
Starting January 26 and running through February 2, you'll find the cover image for the Traded: Brody & Kara COVER REVEAL CONTEST right here!
Want a chance to win a brand new Kindle and other fabulous items?
CHECK OUT THE RULES → https://goo.gl/forms/qNspODW6vQpTkE202
One of our holiday traditions is making homemade rolls from my mom's recipe. Years ago, when I hosted my first Thanksgiving as a young woman, she made a copy of the recipe and sent it to me. I pull it out every year on both Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. Her scrawled notes in the margins, along with her voice in my head explaining the nuances of the recipe, are my favorite part of making the rolls.
Ella is the baker in our family. She says it relaxes her. Cliff buys her the giant bag of flour at Costco, and at least twice a week she makes cookies or biscuits. I taught her how to make the holiday rolls years ago. Although, in my frantic and exhausted brain, I sometimes want to say, "Let's skip it this year and buy some at that awesome bakery down the street" I don't, because I know she loves to make them. And eat them.
She wasn't always roll-maker. When she was about twenty months old, she was the roll-destroyer. That Thanksgiving, I'd gotten up early to make the complicated recipe that requires two risings. I'd shaped the rolls and they were on their second rising with great success by the fireplace. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ella march over and rip the towel from the pan. With what can only be described as glee, she systematically punched them all into flat disks. I let out a shocked scream. She looked up, burst into tears, and then hid her face in the cushion of the easy chair. I couldn't help but laugh as I scooped her into my arms and kissed her fat cheek.
The young woman in my kitchen right now still has the same eyes, but the rest of her has changed. She can no longer be scooped into my arms. She no longer has fat cheeks. The one constant of raising children? They change and change and change.
Because we only make them twice a year, Ella and I always have to familiarize ourselves with the complex recipe.
This morning, after she had the yeast portion under control, I slipped away to get dressed. A few minutes later, I got a text from her. (See photo).
I rushed back to kitchen to supervise, catching the milk at just the right moment. However, it made me curious about why this old recipe called for scalded milk when modern yeast bread instructions do not. I looked it up and, of course, found a cooking blog with the answer. Basically, it was needed before pasteurization as a way to destroy bacteria.
Old recipes have this as a must, whereas now it's not needed. Truthfully, it's always been the step of the recipe that worries me. The milk has to cool to room temperature before you pour it into the other wet ingredients or the eggs will curdle. Curdling is bad, unless you're making egg flower soup. (I just made that up. I have no idea how to make egg flower soup.) But I digress...
Being me, this prompted thoughts about the bigger picture. Traditions. Family. Legacy.
What we keep and what we leave behind.
Ella and I could choose to eliminate this step. According to the food blog I just read, she makes her old yeast bread recipes with cold milk with no discernible difference to the end product.
Regardless, on this day of thanksgiving, I choose to keep the tradition alive. I choose to pass it on to my girls. Why? Because there are no guarantees in life other than constant change. What is today will not be tomorrow. There is comfort in the known, the familiar. Family traditions, as outdated as they may be, matter. They are our connection to the past, the thread that cradles families through constant change and uncertainty.
So, twice a year, I pull out the battered recipe with my mother's handwritten notes and the remnants of melted butter spatters in the margins, and we scald some milk.
And, twice a year, my heart fills with all that recipe represents. There, between the instructions to combine yeast and sugar, scald milk and beat eggs, and the kneading and punching of dough, is the love between my mother and me. The love between my daughters and me. No matter what changes, I will have the memories of that love. I will have my mother's voice in my head. I will have the image of my little Ella punching the rolls with her tiny fists. Each time I make the recipe, or take a bite of the crusty, buttery roll, I will remember.
For all of us who rose from bed to put turkeys in the oven, or answered calls from our children with frantic questions on how to roll out a pie crust, or passed the torch to the younger generation, this day is not about the food, or being perfect, or God forbid, an argument over politics at our table. It's about love. It's about thankfulness for our past and our present and all that came between.
Happy Thanksgiving. Many blessings to you and your families.
I've been thinking a lot about my brand and my intention. Why do I write fiction? Why do I feel this urge to share my soul on the page?
Years ago I heard Oprah speak about intention. She said she sets her intention clearly in her mind before any action, meeting, whatever. Simply put, what do you want the outcome of any given situation to be? What do you want? Down deep.
Not to sound too Oprah like, but intention is everything.
What is your intention for today, for your work, for your life? What do you want?
When I first started writing seriously, I wasn't sure what I was trying to do, other than express myself in an artistic way. But now, at the ripe old age of closer to 50 than 40, it is quite clear.
I want to spread love in an active war against hate. Cheesy as it may sound, it's what I'm about. I do it with my stories, my words of kindness instead of derision, with my smile at a stranger in the grocery store, and with how I care for my family.
When I narrowed it down for myself and my brand...my story...it was simple. Spread love in an active war against hate.
So, if you feel comfortable, share with me your intention. It doesn't even have to be beyond today, but it's worth thinking about. What do you want your life to mean? What do you want your story to be?
Sorry if this is a little too deep for a Thursday morning. You can also just post a picture of your pet. Those spread love like nothing can!
Sending love your way.
Let me start out with this.
When I was young and more attractive, I had my share of creeps. A half-dozen instances come immediately to mind. I’ll share a few, just for context. One time, at a work party, a coworker trapped me in an embrace and pressed his erection against me, declaring his affection for me. After a few disgusting seconds, I wriggled away. I vomited in the restroom. Then, I stayed near my male buddy the rest of the night. Later, this same man, as he was being laid off, told the executive team that I was sleeping with a coworker and he figured he had a lawsuit against the company, since I was the human resources director. I wasn’t sleeping with a coworker, but even if I was…well, you get it. I refused him, so he tried to get me fired. Fortunately, he had no power.
One time, a vice-president of the company I worked for took me to dinner and tried to kiss me in an empty elevator. I rebuked him successfully, without having to mention that perhaps he should get home to his pregnant wife instead of accosting me in the elevator.
And there was the report from my THIRTEEN-year-old daughter last school year.
“Mom, I heard a boy talking about me. It made me feel really weird.”
“What did he say about you?”
“That he ‘would so f**k the s**t out of me given half the chance'.”
I wanted to vomit.
I have others, but that’s enough. You all have your own stories. You know.
This world is full of pigs. Obviously, given the number of the #metoo posts the last few days, it is prevalent in all social and economic circles. I worked in high-tech. But it happens in academia, politics, medical fields. It’s EVERYWHERE. In the case of Hollywood—and I fully get this as a former aspiring actress, and as a writer yearning for success: power is powerful. Those who hold the power, get away with more than the rest of us. They get away with it because they surround themselves with a posse of protectors. They get away with it because they hold something we want. They get away with it because no one wants to come forward and be the only one who will say the truth.
The: old boys club. The: scared silent. The: I really need my job.
The pigs make it seem like our fault.
It’s humiliating to come forward. We know we won’t be believed. We’ll be called hysterical, or a man-hater, or a bitch. And, there’s this awful truth too. There’s a part of us that believes it is our fault.
I shouldn’t have accepted the dinner invitation from the vice president.
I shouldn’t have gone up to Harvey’s room when he invited me.
We all agree that it will never change unless we start talking. Well, we’re talking now. Those women who came forward with nothing to gain but potential Hollywood blacklisting are so brave. We cannot ignore them this time. Their bravery has the potential to change everything. Regardless, sorry Harvey, but you’re going down. And so are the pigs who protected you. Welcome to the world of the powerless.
My novel, Riversnow, is about a Hollywood actress who takes down the rich and powerful politician who raped. Her courage causes others to come forward. Then, she kicks the crap out of with a steel-toed boot Oregon style, but I digress. It’s not too hard to figure out who I based the politician on. Or, should I say, the myriad of men I based him on. Riversnow is a story of empowerment—of finding the courage to take down the devil. Strangely, a Barnes & Noble advertisement for Riversnow was the lead-in for the Harvey Weinstein stories last week.
I use my words to bring love and positivity to the world. I know some people don’t like me for it. Last time I posted on my Facebook feed that we should be kinder to one another, judge less and love more, a writer acquaintance of mine blasted me with a hate-filled message about Trump and his evil ways and how dare I diminish our problems with my vanilla message. Those weren’t his exact words, but you get the idea. He shamed me for speaking my truth—made me feel bad and embarrassed. Kind of like a bully…hmmm…but I digress.
First of all, my thoughts on kindness had nothing to do with politics. I was reflecting on a personal situation in which a woman was critical of other women for no other reason than to be, at best, petty, but more accurately, mean. As a side note, I don’t talk about politics in a public way. I just don’t and I never will. Does that mean I don’t have opinions? It does not. But I choose to use my voice to spread love, not hate. And politics, as entrenched as we all are in our opinions, has no room for love. Hate me for it if you want. I don’t care.
I use my voice to spread love. You know why? Because the world is full of hate and evil. We know it. God, how we know it. My heart’s still breaking over Las Vegas. But if we succumb to hate, love will never have a chance. Those of us who are fueled by love—we must love harder. We must spew it out like the haters do hate. We must actively love.
Most men are not pigs. Most men are good and loyal and respectful to women. I know this because of my dad, and my brothers, and the two young men I’m raising, and my best guy friend, and my first love, and the man I’m married to, and the one I used to be married to. I know this because of Emerson’s music teacher, and my favorite teacher growing up, and Bruce Springsteen’s song lyrics. These are good men. Dare I say, great men. They would no sooner use their power to harm a woman than jump off a cliff without a parachute.
For all the pigs, there are so many, many good men. Unfortunately, we never talk about them. And don’t get me wrong, we need to talk about and expose the pigs as loudly as we can. We need to support those who share their stories and hold them in our collective hearts. We need to say: we are here and we hear you.
But what about the rest? What about love?
What about the men who empower us and encourage us? What about the ones who told us when we were small that there was nothing we couldn’t do, or have, if we worked hard? What about the men who ask our opinion and really want to hear the answer? What about our coworkers who treat us as an equal, no matter how pretty we are? What about the men we’re married to who often take a back seat so we can shine? What about the fathers of our children? What about the way they look at our daughters across the dinner table and say: “You are enough. Just how you are. You don’t ever have to apologize for who you are, or who you want to be. You are smart and strong and beautiful.”
What about them?
What if we gave love as much air time as hate?
What if we started talking about the good men?
What if our stories of our good men taught the little boys who will someday be powerful men to respect and empower women? That would be good.
My dad always told me I could be whatever I wanted to be. He told me I was smart and strong and beautiful. He told me I was special.
And so I am.
Share your stories. Spread love.
I spent last week visiting family in southern Oregon. As I've shared many times, the little town I grew up in was the inspiration for my River Valley books. Each time I'm there, I'm reminded of the way the mountains and rivers are etched into my soul, like tattoos no one can see. One dip into the clear waters of the Illinois River and I'm transported and healed of all that ails me.
In my books I write about the healing power of the river water. Each of my characters is lost when they arrive in River Valley. Through community, love, and the power of that healing water, they transform into the people they're meant to be. I can't help but think that in the writing of these books, I became the person I was supposed to be. Before Riversong, I was lost...living a life meant for someone else. Now, I'm right where I belong.
I'm excited to send Riverstorm out to the world. As with all my characters, I'm in love with Lizzie and Grant. I hope you'll enjoy their journey to the life they were meant to live.
When I close my eyes at night, my characters swim next to me in the clear river water of my imagination. We just keep swimming. I know you do.
Father's Day, like many holidays for blended families, is complicated in our house. The girls, armed with a blackberry pie and homemade art projects, left this morning to spend the day with their biological father. Cliff and I will spend the evening with the boys making dinner (hamburgers and tater-tots) and celebrating the man that gave them life and has been there for each milestone. Being teenage boys, they don't express how they feel about him, but it's obvious how much they love and respect him when you see them interact.
But what about the girls? What about the stepfather role? I won't mince words. It's rough. He does the heavy lifting, providing for us and offering shelter from every storm with his strength and steadfast heart. It's a thankless role. Preteen and teenage girls are mostly self-centered, concerned with friends and clothes and school. They’re messy and expensive and moody. If they realize all he does, they certainly don't express it.
When we took our vows last summer, we included our children, promising to do our very best to love and support them. It's one thing to fall in love and pledge loyalty and forever love to one another. But taking on one another’s children is daunting. It takes courage and grit and a huge amount of faith. Not a day goes by that I don't thank God for Cliff's willingness to take the leap of faith and join me on this wild ride. Three blonds for the price of one.
Cliff makes it look easy. However, I know the truth. We're bewildering, yet he holds his tongue. I can only imagine what he thinks on a daily basis. Why is she crying again? How could one girl need that many shoes? Making cookies, but it's nine p.m. Another show on CW?
So, Happy Father’s Day to the man who never complains and sacrifices without expecting retribution. Happy Father’s Day to the man who puts up with messy bathrooms and buys dresses for dances and sets up blind tastes tests to determine the best ice cream.
It's a thankless job. I know.
That said, despite their current behavior, my girls have good characters. Someday they will think back on these years and realize all their ‘stepfather’ did to raise them into the women they are. I suspect it will be when they have children of their own. Although no one wants their parents to divorce, including mine, it is an indisputable fact that they now have twice the parents loving them. No one ever suffered from too much love.
To all the fathers and stepfathers out there – thanks for showing up, for being there even when we’re acting awful, for being our fierce protectors. Thank you for the sacrifices and decisions you make when only God is watching. The mettle of a man is measured in the gentle moments of fatherhood: sitting in the bleachers at every game, the patient assistance with math homework, listening to the hundredth knock-knock joke, playing catch, learning how to braid hair, watching another cooking show instead of soccer. And, in the case of my own father, the inevitable question, “Did you check the oil before you left?”