True Story book review

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Yipee! Feathered Quill Book Review posted a fantastic review! I’ve shared the end of it below, but to read the entire review, please visit Feathered Quill here.

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Tabares has created a crazy ride, not just by boxcars in the 1920s, but through the past and future, her vibrant panorama of events heralding the centennial in 2020 of American women’s right to vote. The two teens are forceful, funny, and sneaky when they need to be, making this a rich read for young adults. And the author has clearly done careful research on the events of that critical Tennessee vote – it being the 36th state to ratify – or not – the suffrage amendment – so older readers will appreciate her treatment of historical fact. She has also devised a devious villain, someone with power to deny women’s suffrage, fueled by his frustration at having learned, through Philip’s ill-timed blunders, that Vanessa’s daughters will one day be credited with the invention of time travel, a distinction he is determined to gain for himself. Balancing these minute-to-minute changes are the gradual changes in the teens, who are growing up as they learn to cope with intrigue, politics, social issues and a strange but still quite human visitor from the future. Tabares is a screenwriter and one can easily envision the cinematic possibilities of this history laden, girl-and-woman-themed, rollicking, action-filled adventure.

Quill says: True Story of the Perfect 36 is an action-packed melting pot of near misses, might-have-beens, time travel glitches, thwarted planetary disasters and coming of age revelations that make for an engaging read.

A mystery

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The weirdest thing happened Friday morning.

A car parked in front of my house. We get packages delivered all the time, so I ignored it, until two men in nice suits knocked on the door.

Few people in Seattle wear suits, and certainly not the ones who deliver packages.

“Hello?” I asked as I opened the door just wide enough to stick my head outside. I instantly regretted doing even that as I was assaulted by a fog of cologne that rolled up my nostrils and made me want to cough. I took a step back.

“Oh,” one of the men said with a confused look on his face, “we’re looking for Spanish speakers. Sorry.”

He looked down at the phone in his hand and checked something on his screen.

“Are you basing that on the fact that I’m blonde?” I asked. I really did want to know. It was my understanding that it wasn’t possible to look at a person and instantly now what language they spoke. Or didn’t speak.

The man hesitated for a moment.

“You spoke English,” he finally answered. “Do you speak Spanish?”

“Not really,” I admitted. It would have been better if I could have responded in Spanish, but my Spanish is a bit rusty. I’d probably sound like a four-year-old groggy from a nap.

“Okay, thanks,” he said.

Without another word the two men slid their cell phones into their pockets and walked down my driveway to the street. When they got to their car I watched as they loaded their briefcases into the trunk, climbed in the front, and drove away.

There are at least nine other houses on my street. They didn’t visit any of them.

So let’s recap. Suits, briefcases, car, Spanish.

No doubt about it. It’s a mystery!

Maybe not the most exciting mystery of all time, but a mystery nonetheless!

Entrepreneurs

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My family is full of them!

Today I want to focus on two particular entrepreneurs, who happen to be my wonderful, smart, witty daughters. Both have businesses they created, and both work themselves to a frazzle to make those businesses successful.

Opening your own business is a lot like raising a child. Sleepless nights and worry are a daily occurrence. The new business is so fragile, so needy. Your life is no longer your own, it belongs to the fledgling business.

But I know both of my daughters are ready for the challenge ahead. I watched as each of them took years to prepare. They researched, they learned new skills, they networked, and they built websites.

I am prouder of my daughters than anyone can imagine!

Without any further blathering on my part, I’d like to share links to their sites with you.

https://chaoscuddles.com/
“…super cool, fun, & quirky items for your tiny humans.”

https://www.thesweatstudios.com/
“Sweat. Music. Mobility.”

Check them out!

P.S. I have two other wonderful, smart, witty daughters. They haven’t started businesses. Yet.

New friend!

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Guest Post by Pepper Curious: 

I met a new friend today.

 

Or at least, I think he might become a friend.

 

I think he’s a little shy. When I saw him I was so excited to get a new friend that I ran around and around talking to him, but he never moved an inch or answered back.

 

I’ll try to be a little calmer next time, to give him a chance to get used to me.

 

New friend! New friend! New friend!

A mental slap

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My husband and I visited a local brewery Friday evening. And by local, I mean it is within easy walking distance to my house.

As we walked back home we began to talk about the Antifa problem, particularly in Portland.

Those poor people who live in Portland. They have to put up with being intimidated by masked bandits with weapons. On their own streets!

If Antifa was made up of legitimate protesters it would be slightly better. There might be a glimmer of commonsense hidden behind a few of those masks.

But there was nothing legitimate about Antifa. I would bet they were paid to cause trouble and create chaos. Either that, or they need to all go back to school, because they act like-

About then I heard a footstep on the sidewalk and turned to find a young man just a few feet behind us. I gulped as I realized he was the perfect age to be an Antifa goon.

Was he Antifa? Did he overhear me badmouthing his group?

I suddenly felt there was an Antifa goon hiding in every bush, just waiting for the signal to pounce.

My heart started to beat so hard I thought it was going to jump out of my chest and run, screaming, down the street.

What if this Antifa dude followed us and found out where we lived? What if he targeted my family? What if-?

That’s when I slapped myself. Mentally, of course. My husband would have thought I was crazy if I had literally slapped myself as we walked down the street.

I’d decided a long time ago that to live in fear was to barely live at all. It wasn’t going to happen.

So I did the most logical thing. I continued to give my opinion about those cowards and reprobates who call themselves Antifa, only louder.

After all, how can my voice be heard if I whisper?

Rewrites’ revenge

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It’s always dangerous to take a vacation in the middle of rewrites. The rewrites usually exact their revenge.

Here’s a current example. I just got back last night from a short, four day vacation. First thing this morning I opened up the True Story manuscript and began with the first paragraph of Chapter 27.

Before:
With all the extra chairs stacked about no one could mistake the room for anything but what it was, an office that was being used as a storage room.

After:
No one could mistake the room for anything other than it was, an office that some poor fool had unwisely allowed an extra chair to be left in an unused corner. Unwisely, because chairs, like every other creature in the universe, attract their own. Before the dolt knew what had happened, extra chairs from all over the building had migrated to his office and taken up residence in towering stacks that lined each wall. The poor guy tried to get someone to remove the surplus of chairs, but it was a lost cause. He finally gave up and carved out a nice little corner in the records room where he could do his work.

I’m not exactly sure how I got from B to A, and it certainly doesn’t look like an hour and a half worth of work to me!

I’d best move on to another type of work for today. Let my brain wrap itself around what it’s supposed to be doing and come at it again tomorrow.

Networking nerves

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Last night I went to a networking event for screenwriters. I rarely get the chance to rub shoulders with other writers, so I was rather nervous.

That’s the excuse I’m giving. I was nervous.

‘Cause when someone asked me what I wrote, a bunch of gobbledygook poured out of my mouth. A veritable flood of nonsense. I’m pretty sure it was unintelligible. It certainly didn’t make it seem I knew how to put two words together.

Even worse, my hands kept flapping about like I was swatting a swarm of mosquitoes. They were doing it all on their own, I had no control over them.

Sigh.

Obviously, I need to get out more.

Would you like ice in that?

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Summer is my favorite time of year. That glorious sun! I can’t get enough of it.

Hmm. Maybe I should rephrase that since I burn in about a minute and a half.

I adore the bright light of a summer’s day, as long as I can enjoy it from a shaded location. It’s not the heat I can’t handle, it’s those potent UV rays.

But there is one weird thing that happens in the summer.

My favorite order at Starbucks is a Venti extra hot latte. The ratio of coffee to milk is perfect, and I get a particular satisfaction when I drink a very hot beverage. Even in the summer.

But when I put in my order in the summer I always get the same question. “Would you like ice in your drink?”

Is it me? Or is someone not listening?