Tag: Destinee Faith Miller

books, Career, continuing education, Cozy Cat Press, Destinee Faith Miller Mystery, Explaining the Strange Behavior, School, The Book, Thor, Tiara Trouble, writing

Terrifying Tiara Trouble and Thanks

the outside lane

I have great news!  TIARA TROUBLE, the first in the Destinee Faith Miller Mystery series, will be available for purchase on 10/28/2013.  Eee!

TiaraTroubleEbook

And that’s the cover, right there!  All Destinee’d up with her signature pink and zebra.  You knew Destinee’s signature colors were pink, black, and zebra, right?  Unlike her trampy arch-nemesis, Tishelle Tucker, whose signature colors are red, black, and leopard.

So, now with a release date set, and behind the scenes plans going into action, I will admit to you that I am scared.  What if it flops?  What if people hate it?  Why did I write so many words?  Is anyone going to get my sense of humor?  What if I’m not a good writer?

A lot of what-ifs, people.  Ultimately, if it flops, it flops, and if people hate it, they hate it.  I wrote so many words because they seemed necessary at the time, and if I continued to second guess myself, it would have been whittled down to the length of a magazine article.  If no one gets my sense of humor, that’s fine–like that hasn’t happened before.  I’m okay with the sound of crickets.  And, I know I write well.  Whether, or not other people agree that I write novels well is yet to be seen.

I think I got so used to people telling me that I wasn’t ever living up to my fullest potential that I never think my efforts are my best.  Or, maybe I’m afraid they are.  And if they are, what does that mean?  Does that mean I am not the rare Sparklefly my mother thinks I am?!

I think about that a lot when it comes to how I parent.  I see a lot of myself in Thor.  He is an exceptionally smart child, and he is an exceptionally creative daydreamer–those two things don’t add up to Straight A Student.  That doesn’t mean he isn’t living up to his fullest potential, though.  That means that this is his groove.

Grades don’t show potential.  Grades show self-discipline.  Kind of like being an accomplished musician is different from being a talented musician.  You can be taught to play anything.  You can’t be taught to create.  What is ideal is when you have the self-discipline to make the grades, and the potential to turn that self-discipline/learning into something.

I tell Thor that he must strive for excellence.  I expect him to try his hardest, and not give up.  I don’t expect him to make perfect scores, but I expect him to work toward getting things right–he should want to get things right.  I don’t expect him to be the top of his class, all honors, everybody’s all-American.  I expect him to fully utilize his resources, and do the work.  Where he lands, he lands.*

I have, and will continue to impress upon him that education/school is what gives you the tools to build a future.  Does he want a brain that is like the little pig who built his house out of straw, or does he want a brain that is like the little pig who built his house out of bricks?  Well, he has to have to right tools to build the kind of brain he wants, and the right tools are often heavy and take more effort to lift.

Writing this, I am thinking about the wonderful teachers I had, who outweighed the awful ones.  Good teachers are brain-tool salesmen, who make you think you can’t live without knowing how to parse a sentence, or solve a quadratic equation.  You just have to have that ability to name the colors in the rainbow!  You absolutely MUST get in on that ability to recite the Gettysburg Address!  You cannot possibly go another day without reading The Scarlet Letter!  Because good teachers get you to buy in to the mental body building it takes to wield the tools, and the stamina necessary to keep going.

It isn’t necessary to be a sparklefly.  Sparklefly is only good for so much.  But it is necessary to build a solid foundation and the self-discipline to put that foundation to work.  Enough elbow grease can shine up an ordinary fly to look sparkly.

I worked hard at TIARA TROUBLE, and I’m not going to lie and tell you I didn’t on the chance that it fails.  You know, so I could say, “Well, it’s not like it was my best effort.”  I honestly don’t know what my best effort looks like.  All I can tell you is that I worked very hard and I am proud of the result, and I really hope you like it.  I hope it makes you laugh.  I like it.  I’ve had to read it about 60 times now, and I still make myself laugh.

So, thank you Mrs. Farr, Mrs. Mendina, Dr. Chaisson, Dr. Morris, Mrs. Monroe, Mrs. Anderson, Mr. Cargile, Mrs. Mack, and Mrs. Barnes.  You were excellent brain-tool salespeople, and the fact that I am a functioning adult, much less a published author at all is a credit to your mad skillz.

 

*There is no Tiger to this Mom.  That might not be something to be proud of, I don’t know.  I guess I’ll find out in about 20 years.

 

 

Cozy Cat Press, Destinee Faith Miller Mystery, Tiara Trouble

Come Cozy Up With Me

the outside lane

I’ve had a lovely whirlwind of activity in the past few days, starting with an offer for TIARA TROUBLE from Cozy Cat Press on Thursday, and winding up with that completed contract in my hot, little hands this morning.  Destinee Faith Miller and her mayhaps/mysteries have found a home, and I couldn’t be happier.  I’ll keep you all posted as things develop, but for now I am just thrilled.  So thrilled, I can barely feel my toe throbbing–I broke it on the coffee table on my way to open email this morning, and promptly forgot about it when I found my completed contract waiting.

Here’s the funny story about how Cozy Cat came to read my submission because you know if it happened to me, it did not happen without some hijinks.

A few days ago, B and I were talking about me publishing under my name.  We were laughing that I wasn’t exactly Jane Smith, having unusual first and last names.  Somewhere else entirely, managing editor, Patricia Rockwell, was opening an email from me.  She was a little confused because her author Lane Stone, writes a series also involving tiaras (the subject line of my query was TIARA TROUBLE, with my name), and because she knew and had worked with someone who shared my last name.  Thankfully, she liked that colleague well enough not to be put off immediately 😉  And, she sent me an offer full of encouraging words about Destinee’s future.

When I wrote back, I asked if her former colleague was called Bob.  Because Bob is my husband’s uncle, who worked in the same field as Patricia.  Not only was it Uncle Bob, but he was remembered quite fondly.  B checked in with Uncle Bob, who had the same impressions of Patricia, and…well, that was that.

I am a Cozy Cat author.

How crazy is that?  Out of all the world (and out of all the publishing companies and agencies I researched,*) from Texas I query a press in Illinois, with a managing editor who has ties to my Uncle-in-Law in Louisiana–unbeknownst to all of us.  That is something that would only happen to me.  I love it!

Yay!

*While I queried about 20 agents, I only contacted four publishing houses from probably about 200 agents/presses that I researched.

writing

Mothers and Daughters

the outside lane

I’ve started watching Veronica Mars, only a decade after it premiered.  Well, close to a decade.  I’m enjoying it thoroughly, and I am looking forward to the movie now.  I want to see what a grown-up Veronica looks like.  Even if she does follow the Disney trope of heroine-without-a-mom, she’s bang up awesome.

I finished the first draft of my novel, and am proud to tell you that it more than passes the Bechdel Test.  I am also proud to tell you that my heroine a) has a supportive, close-knit family, b) has a supportive, close knit group of girlfriends, c) has a healthy self-image, and d) has a clear understanding of what drives her romantically.  She also has a good relationship with her mother, something we don’t see a lot of in female driven art.

After Destinee survives a car bombing, she and her concussion go home with her parents to rest in safety.

I snuggled up under Mother’s duvet and tried to sleep, but my wounded brain wouldn’t stop thinking.  I kept trying to make all the pieces fit.  Insurance, and romance, and murder.  Terrible.  And my business.  My business!  I sat straight up, my head seeming to take a long time to follow the rest of me, and for a second I thought I had gone blind.  For more than a second.  I groped around in darkness and cried out for my mother, whose hand came out of nowhere to pet me.

“I’m right here, Sugar,” she said, her voice full of wakeful alarm.

“Where?!  I can’t see!  I’m blind!”

When she laughed, I got mad.  “I am blind, Mother!  It’s not funny!  I can’t see!”

She was still laughing when she flicked on the bedside lamp, really deep, belly laughs.  After a minute, I saw what was so funny.  It had been early afternoon when I’d gotten into Mother’s bed, and now it was just past midnight.  All that time I thought I had been thinking and not sleeping, I had actually been sleeping and dreaming.  Whereas I thought only about fifteen minutes had passed, it was the whole day.  I wasn’t blind, I was just in the dark.

Mother kept laughing until she woke up Daddy, who was sleeping on chaise lounge in their bedroom and he asked what was going on.  She tried to explain, but apparently all her worry for me had manifested in hysterical laughter, so I said, my voice sounding a little huffier than I intended, “Mother is laughing at me because I woke up in the dark, and I thought I had gone blind.”

Daddy snickered.  “What?”

I repeated myself, and by the time I got to the last part of the sentence, I was giggling, too.  Pretty soon, the three of us were all laughing, trying to keep our voices down, but I’ll tell you what—I know all three of us were just so glad to have me alive that nothing else really mattered right that second. 

When we finally all settled back down, Mother spooned me up close and sang to me softly, just like she had when I was a baby.  Y’all, I love my mother.  I love my daddy, and my brother, and my granny, but I truly love my mother.  We fight like cats and dogs sometimes, and no one can make me as crazy as she can, but I love her more than anything.  She is special, and she is mine, and even though I’d nearly died the day before, I felt like the luckiest girl alive.

That’s how I feel about my own mother.  I don’t think anyone can make a woman as crazy as her mother can, but when you have a good mother, there is no one who will ever love you as much.  I am extremely fortunate to have a good mother, and every crazy-making moment is balanced out by how fiercely she loves me.  She is loyal, and faithful, and I can count on her.  There is not another person alive as dependable as my mother. 

A little later, Destinee has this to say: “That was all I needed to hear because if my mother says I am going to be all right, then I would defy God himself to tell her otherwise.”

I’m letting the story settle, then I have rewrites.  My goal is to have it ready to submit for queries by the end of summer.  Let’s hope I can keep a lid on it that long, and I don’t end up sharing 3/4s of it on this blog alone.  Problem is, I really like Destinee and think she’s a lot of fun.  I want to tell you all her story.

 

Tiara Trouble, writing

CATFIGHT!

the outside lane

I haven’t written any blog posts lately because I am writing a little fiction at the moment.  I am enjoying myself immensely with beauty queens, toddler pageants, and a murder mystery that includes gators, explosions, and a big, ol’ catfight.  I told my friend, Arwen, that I was going for Dynasty in the Dirt with this bit.  And since a good slapfight between Krystal and Alexis is always so satisfying, I am sharing.  Y’all take out your earrings!  It’s gonna get mean up in here!

 

…They leaned close and talked earnestly for a few seconds, then Tishelle froze like she’d heard something and looked around wildly.  It hadn’t really occurred to me that if I could see her, she could probably see me, so when I realized she was looking straight up at me, her almond shaped eyes narrowed on the big end of my opera glasses, I yelped aloud.  I also dropped those glasses and jerked my curtain shut.  I very nearly said something unladylike, but I caught myself.

When I was little, Mother had taught me to consider very carefully whether a situation was worth getting my mouth washed out over.  It stuck with me.  It is on very rare occasion that I let a cuss fly, and I never take the Lord’s name in vain.  I also don’t use slang words like dang, or darn, or shoot, or fudge.  Granny always says, “Never say darn when you mean damn. And never say damn if you’re a lady.”  Mother just says, “I did not raise you with that mouth, but I can bury you with it.  I hear that word one more time, and I will put you down.”  At least, that’s what she says to Rusty.  He’s not too worried about being a lady.

I was trying to decide what to do next, call Sarah, call the Sheriff, or fix myself something to eat, when there came a pounding on my door.  Sure as I was born, Tishelle had shot across the street and run up my stairs and was demanding that I let her in.  And you know what?  She wasn’t even out of breath.  I think I hated her a little bit more for that.  I am in excellent shape, but I can’t sprint and climb and still have enough air in my lungs to cuss a blue streak like she was.  That would not have flown in my mother’s house.

I opened the door a crack and she pushed her way on inside.  “What are you doing spying on me?” She howled, her eyes looking wild.

“What are you doing running around with Karl Pursley?” I demanded right back.  I wanted to keep the focus off me.  She’d already killed twice, maybe.

“That is none of your beeswax,” Tishelle slapped her hands down on her hips, auburn hair swinging around her shoulders.  I hated her a little more for her hair.  I mean, I have good hair.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s thick, and shiny, and a good ash blond which I keep highlighted to perfection, but Tishelle’s hair cascades like a cherry-chocolate fountain, and looks like she’s got enough on her head for three or four other women.

I have to work for my good looks, if you get me.  Without hair and makeup, I could just be another cute cashier down at the Piggly Wiggly.  I have to take time to make myself stand out and be memorable, and that’s probably my greatest talent.  I have a boosted genetic platform to work from, sure, but being able to take what God gave me and make myself look like God’s gift is work.  Tishelle?  That hateful thing?  She’s a natural beauty.

She’s got big, black eyes, long, thick eyelashes, and she doesn’t even need to wear mascara to make them pop.  I’ve seen her straight out of the shower, and she’s every bit as gorgeous.  I hate her for it. 

So, she was standing there, anger making her high cheekbones flush even redder and prettier, and I was still kind of dazed and just staring at her thinking, “This is one of those time when you want to tell someone, ‘Do you know how pretty you are when you’re angry?’”  But I was not about to tell Tishelle Tucker I thought she was pretty.  I’d rather cut out my own tongue.

She finally quit yelling at me—she’d been yelling words, but I hadn’t heard a thing.  I was caught up in my hating how pretty she was.  “What are you gawking at, you moron?” She sniffed at me.  “Are you stupid?  Do you understand English?”

“I am not stupid!” I insisted  After all, I have very solid opinions regarding Libya and our involvement there, now.  “You shouldn’t be up here.  You need to get on home before I call the police.”

“The police?  Why would you call the police?!”

Now I could catch her off guard.  “You know why,” I said. “And you know I know why!”

“I know you need to mind your own damned business!  What’s going on with me and Karl is personal and nothing you need to be sticking your nose in.”

“My nose hasn’t left my house,” I reminded her.  “But yours is sure somewhere it doesn’t belong.  You need to leave, and leave now!”

“I want the memory stick.”

“The what?”

“I saw you taking pictures!  I want you to delete those pictures or give me the memory stick!”

It took me a second, then I laughed right at her.  She thought I was taking pictures of her and Karl.  I guess from so far away, maybe my opera glasses looked like a camera?  I don’t know, but I do know she slapped me right across the face and demanded the non-existent memory stick again.

When she slapped me, it took a full second for me to register what had happened, and then it was all over.  We lunged at each other right at the same time, slapping, and clawing, yanking hair and hissing.  We were still standing in the doorway, so we managed to stumble out, still fighting, spit flying, and we half stumbled, half fell down the stairs to the ground out back of the garage.

It was a pretty evenly matched scrap, if you ask me.  She managed to best me for a second, rolling me on my back, trying to gouge out my eyes.  I got a fistful of hair close to her scalp and tore me out a hank of it, and don’t think that wasn’t a small victory in and of itself.  She howled and punched me in the mouth, but it was enough that I could knock her off me.  We both jumped up and squared off again, but that time, I had the upper hand.  I threw her hair in her face, brought my knee up sharp and nailed her right in the taco.

My knee landed hard enough it knocked the breath out of her, and sent a wave of pain all the way up my thigh.  I’m not sure what would have happened next because Rusty, Daddy, my mother, Karl and Royce had all arrived, and managed to get us apart.  Patricia George stood out front of the studio with Ainsley pressed to her side, one hand covering the little girl’s eyes.  “Well I never,” she huffed.

“Well you ought to,” Tishelle hollered back.

Karl was dragging Tishelle away, and she started to whine and sniff about her hair, and her face—I’d gotten my fingernails full of it—and that imaginary memory stick.  He was trying to comfort and cosset, and I considered telling her I didn’t even have a camera up in my apartment, but I decided to let her twist in the wind.  Anyway, now a bunch of people had seen her with him.