Suck It Up, Buttercup

I can always count on The Universe to throw me curve balls. Well, plot twists, I guess I'd call them. Those detours not meant to deter you from your destination, but grant you a scenic view along your journey. The latest such curvy road led me to craft the vlog below. Its hashtags might be #random, #thoughtful and #selfmotivation, but what better excuse to stay up even later than usual? (Seemed like a good idea at the time....)

Did you notice how the video tilted as it moved along? #intentional You know, curve balls, curvy road. Yea, see how I embraced that whole notion? LOL

Moving forward with thanks to #thugunicorn...

 

...and love for Mary J. Blige. "I'm gone shine...until my heart stops."

'Til some other random moment compels me to vlog, picture me eagerly awaiting my next curve ball so I can hit it out of the park. :)



Stefanie
www.stefanieworth.com

Doctor, My Eyes!

Life is filled with scares. Big ones, small ones, imaginary ones, and those we ignore. Which brings me to the topic of my eyes. More specifically, my vision.

My eyes have been wonky for months. But in the way that women do, I made a whole list of excuses as to why the matter was no big deal. After all, life’s been hectic. Nobody’s got time for more problems. My brother passed away in October after a long and courageous battle with pancreatic cancer and I had been plodding away at a book for well over a year, taking breaks to tend to my emotional state, take care of my kids and be with family as necessary.

So between frequent bouts of tears and hours of staring at my laptop screen, I emerged from autumn with bloodshot, scratchy eyes that I attributed first to a reaction to new makeup, then to irritation from seasonal allergies and finally to a lack of sleep. Eventually, I caved in and decided to resolve the issue with Visine. Lots of it. And wearing my sunglasses practically all the time outdoors – even on overcast days – because my eyes had become that photosensitive. I teased my daughter that maybe I was turning into a vampire. Ha, ha.

Then I woke up one morning a few weeks ago feeling like there were tree branches under my eyelids trying to gouge out my eyeballs. It was that bad and not at all funny. Hours later, when the pain refused to relent despite warm towels, Visine and Motrin, I did what I should have done months before and made an appointment with my ophthalmologist. 

Turns out, I had something in my eye. Literally: A foreign object was embedded in my cornea. (Insert your favorite emoji here.) So the doctor numbed my eye, took a needle and removed it. No ouch, but much stomach churning. (Again, emoji welcome.) He couldn’t identify it and I had no idea how it found its way past my glasses and deep where it didn’t belong. The thought of the hair-slinging tarantula crossed my mind. While he assured me that a spider wasn’t the culprit, he told me that he thought there was something else going on. Oh.

When I returned a week later to be certain the antibiotics had worked and the cornea was healing, he confirmed his initial suspicions and referred me to a specialist. That guy was the funniest physician EVER, which made me feel a little better about having corneal dystrophy, the dot version specifically. (Here's a video for you visual people.) Turns out it’s possibly genetic, usually shows up between 30 and 70 years old, and most people never know they have it. It doesn’t lead to blindness and generally resolves itself – within a timeframe ranging anywhere from six months to six years.

In the span between that anguished morning of pain and the specialist’s diagnosis, I thought for a hot second about not seeing. What’s it like? I didn’t dwell at all on the “what if?” for myself in particular (because I do believe in speaking things into existence, both good and bad), but I allowed myself to visualize how a sight-challenged writer works. Learning braille to type, using transcription aids, trusting others to help where necessary. It was a fascinating, but brief, exploration that let my imagination explore someone else’s world and, in the end, give thanks for the blessing of good medical care and the ability to pay for all these eye drops I’ll be using until my “dots” go away.

 

The deep and ethereal edge of this post (since I feel obligated to provide one) would be about fears of the unknown we all face at times and the powerlessness those feelings spawn. Yet, in the end we can vanquish most of the darkness around us simply by turning on a light, so to speak, and taking action: telling someone NO, walking away instead of going the h**l off, or making a long overdue phone call. We don't always get the answers we want, but many times we can get words that make us stop standing around biting our nails and move forward instead.

 

My scare has passed, but not without granting me a much sharper appreciation for the words I watch coming out of my keyboard every day. The incident has made an indelible impression on my psyche. So, if you ever encounter a character in one of my stories who’s plagued by insect hairs or has issues with his/her vision, well, you’ll know what sparked the idea.

Peace.

Stefanie
www.stefanieworth.com

Liner notes: I like music in a variety of forms – old, new, hard, soft, edgy, classic – you get it. So, this  blog’s title is borrowed from the 1970s song (of the same title) by Jackson Browne. So much of that decade’s music was socially-conscious and world-scrutinizing. When you’re young, you can’t even pronounce half the lyrics you hear. Then you grow up and understand the sentiment. Too bad there weren’t music videos back then. Or maybe it’s best to leave pictures to these words up to the imagination.

Progress update: Butterflies in December

Well, I'm back to work in earnest. After this very difficult autumn, winter is a welcome relief. Cold is somehow cleansing, isn't it? You know, a chill to shake the brain awake or make you appreciate the warmth you left behind. Writing is such a personal thing and for some weeks after my brother passed I wasn't sure my words would return -- how soon or how quickly.

Every life milestone affects us differently. For some authors, writing is cathartic. I find that as well, but I took solace in writing about Joe and for him for awhile rather than drumming up imaginary scenarios for my WIP. His situation was far too real to spend time dabbling in fantasy. I thought. So returning to the work I love isn't cathartic, but it is a necessary and integral part of who I am. I guess I needed some time to be okay with that.

I missed my characters and the mess I got them into. So, the story's been re-read and edited. The first half of the pages have been sticky-tagged for tweaks, and I am on to the second half of the book. Progress continues. I'm about 75 percent of the way through the book with edits. When I finish this second half, I'll re-read and tag those pages. Then I'll re-read the entire book, say a prayer and send it off to my beta reader and my editor.

You can't see me shaking with nervous anticipation, but I am. Note to self: Butterflies are good, girlfriend. Butterflies are good.

Peace.
Stefanie
www.stefanieworth.com

New web site!

Can you do me a favor and take a peek at my revamped web site? www.stefanieworth.com

While anything involving the internet competes for the Biggest Time Suck trophy in this writer’s world, sometimes it’s a necessary evil. I can say that after getting two hours of sleep last night. I’m guesstimating I spent upwards of 20 hands-on hours over the weekend migrating my site to its new home at Weebly. This sister is tired, but satisfied.

I updated the look and feel last year, working with Norweigan graphic designer, Ida Jansson of Amygdala Design. For those who’ll ask why I didn’t use a local – or at least U.S. – designer, I’ll say it’s simply because after an exhaustive search of book covers and web sites, she had the design that spoke to me. And in this global technology world, I never would have known she wasn’t sitting right beside me through the whole process. It was that seamless.

So, I had the look, but over time, my site’s functionality has suffered under my personal know-how. I used to build web sites way back in the mid-90s when the World Wide Web was gaining marketing momentum. Those skills carried me during a time when most authors weren’t even thinking about having a site and gave me a promotional head start.

I’ve been able to depend on my own resources all these years, so the fact that Yahoo Sitebuilder was still using very old Java didn't bother me. Much. I’ll pay for design, but not site maintenance, since I could do it myself. (#frugalista) But like everything else, pricing and convenience have received a makeover thanks to technology. My original web site design cost me $300 in 2008 – and took weeks and weeks to complete. It was fun, but far less versatile than what I got for $125 last year – in about one week.

It’s now ditto for site creation itself. Though I’m still willing to spend an entire weekend moving a site, it only took a weekend. I've done overhauls that took me the better part of two weeks to complete with code and all. But this move was entirely WYSIWYG, I didn’t have to code a single item. My functionality has been boosted 300% and I’m paying a few bucks less than I’ve paid for the past five or six years.

I also changed my e-newsletter provider from Constant Contact to MailChimp. I was paying about $40 a month for my list of 500+ contacts. MailChimp is free for your first 2000 contacts. I know, right? I haven’t sent out any messages yet, but a newsletter’s coming.

Stop by www.stefanieworth.com if you get a chance. Leave me a note. Sign up for my newsletter. Buy a book. You know, all that stuff that convinces writers we’re not really crazy for making up stories and talking to imaginary people all day. I appreciate the reality check.

 

Meanwhile, I'm getting some sleep tonight.

 

Peace,

Stefanie

More Than Words

It has been two weeks and two days since my brother died. My mother says his passing has left a hole in her heart. I tried to convince her that the space he left is filled with light and love. Because if you knew Joe, you would know how true that is – in spite of the hole.


I wrote his obituary; dredged up words from the depths of my broken heart to illuminate the life he lived and the love he gave. I tried to capture the vast spirit of a man who was a husband for two decades, a friend to all, a professor who inspired struggling students to take a chance at the next level, and a guy who exemplified a zest for living.

He is gone. The funeral programs holding those words have been stored away. His ashes are settled for safekeeping. My brothers and I have scattered to our respective faraway places. And I am at home trying to find words to a story that insist on playing hide-and-seek when I sit down to my keyboard.

We were blessed with 18 months to prepare for Joe's departure. Pancreatic cancer is not a generous disease, but for my family, God granted us time to come to grips with His will. In those up and down days of Hope vs. Setbacks, I wrote the story I’m editing now. Deep inside I know that I channeled my anger into Pax, my despair into Fallon, my hope into a happily-ever-after. But now knowing the reality of my brother’s ending, I have faltered in my developing fantasy.

Christmas - Early 70's

I ask myself if I am making the most of the talent God gave me. I ask if I’m contributing to the world in an amount equivalent to what the universe expects. I tell myself “Yes!” and then login to my laptop. And as long as I don’t glance out the window at the clouds, hear a certain song on the radio or remember watching Alice In Wonderland with Joe in the weeks before he died, I can start.

Delete a word here. Replace a phrase there. Remember to dedicate the book to my fantasy-loving brother.

Then I stumble. Falter. Forget the train of thoughts I was trying to capture. And sometimes I cry.

He would not want this. Not Joe. In fact, I am sure he is rolling his eyes, shaking his head, and insisting I move forward. If only one thought, one word, one breath at a time. He was a great guy; driven enough to prod, yet caring enough to understand that sisterly love makes me melt from time to time. In those moments now and ahead, I have to believe that my little brother will reach down to rescue me from my wallowing and nudge me back on track.

My world is filled with words. They leech from my pores onto paper when I cannot speak them. They ring through my dreams, assault me in meetings, sway my perspective when I least expect them. For the past two weeks, in the stealth way words rule me, they remind my heart that the silent, hand-holding, smile-filled moments spent with Joe outranked anything I could have ever said.

 

Real love is more than words.

 

If I've learned anything over the past year and a half, it's that: Show your love. Live your life. Use your powers for good. My words will return to me when I least expect their magic and I am certain that the ones I write from here on out will be graced by my brother’s spirit.

St. Louis Community College - Florissant Valley has established the Dr. Joe Worth Memorial Scholarship Fund in Joe's honor. We invite you to help grow this scholarship so that it becomes the educational portal Joe would want in order for future students to benefit from his incredible legacy.

How to contribute to the Dr. Joe Worth Memorial Scholarship Fund at St. Louis Community College

By Mail: St. Louis Community College Foundation, 300 South Broadway, St. Louis, MO 63102
By Phone: 314.539.5216 (credit/debit)
Online: http://www.stlcc.edu/Foundation/Foundation-donation-landing.html. (Select Dr. Joe Worth Tribute/Memorial Scholarship.)

Happy tears and mounting edits

Hard for me to believe that I haven’t blogged since January.  But if you know me – or follow my musings – you know my life is a festival of happenings. There’s always something going on around here that competes with or supplants my writing time. (Not my desire – just the hours I have to execute.) Just as importantly though, I don’t consider these real-world intrusions as negatives. Take February through August, for example. In those months, we completed another senior year of high school and summer of college prep in my house. Whew! Two down. One to go.

Now that the chaos has calmed, I have to say that I miss my middle child. Desperately. Not that I didn’t miss my oldest just as much when he went off to college. In fact, I cried every day after he left – each time I passed his high school on my way to work…or the grocery store…or the movie theater…. You get the idea.

This time, with this son, I miss him in a way that’s nearly palpable. I get teary whenever I hear Big Sean sing "I hope you learn to make it on your own. If you love yourself just know you'll never be alone... And when you get it all just remember one thing - that one man could change the world." Those lyrics ring so true. I had to pull off the road one day and cry. Really. But like I told my youngest, my happiness for her brother outweighs the sadness.  So his going away isn’t any less difficult, just different. In the way that each child is different.

That said, sending my son off to frolic with the higher learning crowd has added a little more than 100 minutes of non-pickup/drop-off time to my daily schedule. (You don’t think about that while it's going on or else you'd talk yourself out of taking on the task. Or go crazy.) For years I've wished for extra hours in my day and – BAM! – like magic, I got ‘em. To top that off, my youngest is back in school and has freed me from her vampirish stay-up-all-night summer schedule.

 

So voile! I’m back to editing like the author I am. Here’s my magic to-date:

 

Gaging by numbers alone, my progress count would deceive me into thinking that I’m almost halfway through revisions. HA! I’ve actually added 8,424 words to the story. (Mind you, I cut 4,500+ words by deleting a chapter early on.) This means my actual word count – if I submitted the story “as is” today – would be 97,170. Oh my.

All that math made my head hurt. LOL Thus, the moral of this blog post is that it’s time to get back to the book. While my son's out learning how to change the world, my goal is to finish editing before autumn passes me by. 

#thatisall #amediting

www.stefanieworth.com
www.facebook.com/stefanieworthbooks

The World I Live In

Companies have focus groups. I have my children. We are huge lovers of all things fantasy, sci fi and supernatural, and wage serious word wars about the merits of earth-bending over X-Ray vision and things of that sort. For a while now, we’ve had an ongoing discussion – serious discussion – around the merits of a panic room in the basement that we can access in the event of the zombie apocalypse. The only thing we agree on so far is that having such a room would give us a huge advantage in our escape – but only so long as the zombies aren’t smart like the ones in I Am Legend. (((shudder)))

Shhh! Our potential panic room. Please
don't tell the zombies where we're hiding.

Tonight I asked a question I probably shouldn’t have about the tentative powers of the heroine in my current work-in-progress. Oh, the debate that ensued! My daughter re-wrote my story's entire Black Moment – and my son shot her whole notion down citing an example from some anime he watches. I let them finish before thanking them for the tangent and deciding my direction is a good one.

I love our spirited conversations about things that don’t exist. I cherish their unbridled willingness to not just think outside the box, but concede that there is no box at all. We need the escape. Heck – I need the escape. There is so much sad, bad, heart-wrenching news outside the walls of our happy home that I approach my Facebook newsfeed with a healthy dose of trepidation these days. They know that life is hard and unfair and some kids live with unspeakable horrors. We are lucky, we know. The dangers we conjure live only in our minds and on my pages. No one is harmed in the making of our “what if’s.”

So this is the world I live in. The crazy, every day realm I share with children who will one day blame their warped perception of possibilities on their overly imaginative mother. I figure they’ll either forgive me or wind up on Dr. Phil’s show. My money is on fond memories and grandchildren who appreciate a Nana who believes in fairies.

Stefanie

www.stefanieworth.com
www.facebook.com/stefanieworthbooks
Twitter & IG: @stefanieworth

Christmas with the one who got away

I spent some time hanging out over at Coffee Time Romance today for the December Book Brew talking about my stories and giving away books. I posted an excerpt from my novella Heavensent.com in the Holiday Brides anthology that's actually one of my favorite scenes in the story.

If you've never felt the way Brenna and Evan feel in this slice of life, can I say you're missing out? lol Of course, you're free to disagree. Either way, enjoy.

Stefanie
www.stefanieworth.com

***

Christmas scene from Heavensent.com

Sorority sisters made great surrogate families – until they all wanted to play the mother. Holidays especially seemed to inspire gushing bouts of maternal instinct among Brenna’s peers and most of it revolved around her Quest for a Man.

Did it matter that she’d maintained her weight, gotten promoted at work, or had money in the bank (unlike the shop-happy contingent)? Not much.

“A little more meat on your bones and maybe you could get somebody’s attention.”

“Come out of that office once in a while and you could get somebody’s attention.”

“Hit a couple of these sales with us and you could find clothes that look like you want to get somebody’s attention.”

The well-meaning critiques sounded so similar that the women’s voices blended to monotone inside Brenna’s skull. Right now, they hit her head and her heart in time to a driving beat thudding from one “mother’s” living room stereo. They were all seated in the kitchen, gathered around the table finishing up Christmas dinner preparations.

In the absence of male affection, sister love was cool. It kept craziness at bay that would surely develop after too much tell-all reality TV. It prevented occasions for gathering from becoming I’m-all-alone-eating-ice-cream pity fests. And today its collective spirit distracted Brenna from tallying all the more moments she hadn’t heard from Evan.

The room fell quiet as a slow song entered the musical mix. The women sprinkled cinnamon, buttered rolls, passed out plates in silence broken only by occasional humming or the clattering of forks.

“Don’t you all get dry on me,” the hostess admonished her guests.

“Where’s that wine?” the stuffing-spooner asked. “Bet Brenna needs a glass.”

“Just one,” she replied, knowing a single round would calm her nerves, but two would put her to sleep.

“Who is it this time?” The sister stirring gravy asked what they all assumed.

“Nobody.” Brenna hoped her answer would catch them off guard and convince them to leave her alone.

“Quit lying.”

Brenna huffed and spilled the truth. “I lost my job Tuesday.”

Her Mother Hen hostess abandoned the ham she was carving and scurried to Brenna’s side. “Girl, how come you didn’t tell anybody?”

“Shocked. Embarrassed. Pissed the heck off.” Brenna laughed. “What am I going to do without a job to wake up for?”

One by one, the other sorority sisters came to comfort Brenna, surrounding her in a circle of sympathy and hugs, offering ideas – serious and not – for ways to spend her time.

“Sleep in.”

“Shop.”

“Try relaxing for a change.”

“What’s that?” Brenna pretended to tremble uncontrollably. “Must have work.”

“Get a life.” Her sorority sister mocked her motions, hurting Brenna with her words.

I used to say that to Evan all the time. Wonder if I offended him, too.

Not wanting to be caught brooding, she quipped with a smile, “You’re right. I can do much better than hanging out with the likes of you all.”

Laughter exploded throughout the spacious kitchen, bouncing from face to face, ricocheting off the copper pots and pans strung from a ceiling rack, until the joy settled around Brenna’s spirit with soft giggles and shaking heads. It elicited her gratitude for good friends and lured her girlfriend’s husband out of his upstairs confinement.

“Oh, goodness!” He rolled his eyes and circled the table with his eyes. “You all are drinking before dinner? We’re never gonna eat, are we? I might as well go get a burger before I starve.”

Joining in the fading laughter with a gentle snicker of his own, he stretched his neck around the table tops and counters, examining the imminent feast. “You all did good! Let me get a little piece of that ham.”

He followed his wife to the kitchen’s center island. She carved him a thin slice, stood on her tiptoes and placed the ham on his tongue as if it were a gourmet delicacy.

“Um,” he murmured, licking his lips and winking an eye.

Um. Brenna remembered having the same reaction to Evan when he kissed her. Um. She fanned a hand in front of her face as if waving away the heat. “Hey, you two. Put your fast behinds on pause for another four or five hours. We don’t want to see all that.”

“Hater,” he teased, patting his wife on the bottom and backing out of the kitchen.

“Ten minutes,” she told him. “Tell your boy, too. I know he’s coming.”

She turned her head from her husband to Brenna. “Got you a little company.”

The doorbell rang like it was cued. To Brenna’s shock, dismay, and hidden relief, Evan stepped through the back door wowing the women with his charm and cologne.

She felt both perturbed and possessive; wishing she could punish him with silence for ignoring her all week, yet wanting to claim him as her own to keep her single sorority sisters off him. He slipped off his leather jacket and handed it to “his boy,” revealing a pair of relaxed fit designer jeans – loose in the thigh, tighter in the butt – a dark plaid button front shirt open at the neck, and those doggone Timberland boots, this pair in black.

Bet he tastes better than the food, thought Brenna, biting back a grin.

“You look familiar. Do I know you?

Brenna shook her head. “I have one of those faces, the kind that makes you think you know somebody, but you don’t.”

“My mistake.” Evan stared into her eyes, speaking words no one in the room could hear but her.

“Happens,” Brenna answered with a shrug. “You’re forgiven.”

The hostess eyed them suspiciously. “What’s going on here? Did you all go to prom together? Date in college? Or did you meet in a bar and have a one night stand? It’s something like that, isn’t it?” she joked. “Well. It’s time to wipe the slate and get to the table before the food gets cold. Let’s eat. You can pretend like you don’t know each other later.”

They continued the charade through the entire meal. Seated next to each other, they made sure to bump elbows when passing dishes from one side of the table to the other and their feet rested beside each other’s beneath the table, barely touching.

The proximity kept Brenna preoccupied with adult-themed thoughts of Evan all evening. She couldn’t brush his hand without wishing it was holding her. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’d disappeared on her for three days, she’d invite him back to her house for an encore. But hormones won out the first time (and got her into this tangle). Tonight she’d use her head.

Dinner and dessert finished, the group moved from the dining table to the lower level recreation area. Laughter and loud conversation flowed with the drinks. New guests, unknown to Brenna, began to arrive. Some making the stop their second or third holiday visit, others coming just for the good times they knew were waiting. Brenna was glad for the growing crowd; it helped shield her and Evan from her many mothers in the room. She smiled at their protectiveness.

“Is that for me?” Evan leaned and whispered in her ear.

She tingled, but told the truth. “Not hardly.”

“I deserve that. Surprised you’re talking to me at all.”

“Surprise is the key. If I knew you’d be here, I probably wouldn’t have come.”

“If I’d known we were going to wind up having sex the other day, I wouldn’t have taken you home.” He smiled as if the statement was funny.

Sex? That’s all? No wonder he hasn’t called since.

“Well, I know not to let you in my house anymore, don’t I?”

“Not if you can’t control yourself.” He laughed a little louder.

People probably thought they were really connecting in that dark corner of the room. But Brenna was beginning to feel that the tryst had changed the way Evan looked at her as a person. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t called – or apologized. He didn’t think she deserved any better treatment.

This man had witnessed her overwrought, out-of-character behavior and replaced her sensible side with that perception. Brenna searched for her most controlled tone.

“I thought you could handle me waiving my ninety-day rule.” She shook her head. “You weren’t ready though.”

“Please, girl.” He furrowed his brow and studied her face. “What do you mean I wasn’t ready?”

He’s thinking performance issues. She giggled. That was hardly the problem.

“All I'm saying is that I’m still Brenna. Treat me the way you have for the past three years.”

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “Hm. Okay. If you say so.”

So what did I just say? Brenna worried.

Evan looked totally perplexed. “Most girls want more after you sleep with them – not the same--”

“Well, you can call --”

“Hey, no problem.” Evan shrugged, totally misinterpreting her point. “If you’re saying we’re still cool, same as before, that’s alright with me.”

Did she just give him permission to do something she didn’t want him to do? Had she managed to chase off the polite, thoughtful Evan who always listened to her work rants, took her to lunch, and escorted her home on the worst day of her professional life?

One thing felt certain: She’d probably ensured she wouldn’t be getting that “sorry I didn’t call” apology she wanted so badly. That would mean he cared, and she just convinced him he didn’t need to.

She checked her watch. “Wow, it’s almost eleven.”

“You ready to go?”

Her hopes brightened. Maybe she hadn’t totally botched a start with Evan. “Yeah. I’ve been here all day.”

Evan walked to the bar and set his glass down. “I’m going to hang out for a while longer, but go ahead and grab your coat. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Oh, sure. Thanks,” Brenna said, feeling incredibly silly. She began weaving through the crowd toward the stairs, her sedan, and the safety of misunderstanding. After all, nothing had changed and that was cool, right?

She gathered her winter wear from the hall closet and wished her hostess and sorority sisters Merry Christmas while Evan went outside to start her car. When they returned to the party downstairs, Brenna stood in the doorway peering through the steamed glass of the storm door, watching Evan clear a dusting of snow from her windshield and headlights.

So, if he could be yours, would you want him that way?

He ran up the walk. She stepped outside as he shook flakes from his coat and stomped his feet. “All set.”

“Thanks, Evan.”

They stood staring at each other like awkward teenagers. Falling snow swirled in the glow of the porch lights. Their shine gave Evan a godlike quality against the royal blue night. Her insides twisted and tingled. She shifted from one foot to the other.

“Cold?” he asked.

Very, very hot. She just smiled.

“The car should be warm by now.” He hesitated. “Drive safe.”

“I will. You, too.” Her feet were freezing. She turned toward her car, then looked back at Evan. “Call me?”

Brenna sped up her walk.
He took too long to answer.  “Based on what we said and everything, I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Well, you take care then, Evan Shephard,” she snapped, stepping into the car and slamming the door. “I don’t know what got into me anyway; making love to you, waiting for you to call, letting my mind wander to ‘us.’ What in the world got into me?”

Passion, suspense and supernatural twists

Where Souls Collide is back! Montlake Romance recently released my first novel -- an award-winner I might add -- and it's available in paperback and Kindle versions on Amazon. And right now the Kindle version is on sale for $1.99!


Here's the cover blurb:

RELECTIONS OF THE PASTDetroit journalist Navena Larimore thought her romance with NBA star Maxwell McKnight would last forever, but forever came to an abrupt end fifteen years ago, leaving her brokenhearted. Now Maxwell is back in her life as the owner and editor of her newspaper, and Navena's turbulent feelings have come rushing back.

VISIONS OF THE PRESENTNavena cannot find peace at home, either. Her boyfriend wants more of a commitment than she can give and she's haunted by prophetic dreams of murder.

DREAMS OF THE FUTUREIt is up to Navena to figure out her psychic legacy and prevent the murder...but not alone. After struggling with doubt, Maxwell realizes that Navena's visions are authentic, and it is she who might need saving. Navena may have extraordinary powers, but together they discover that real love is a force of its own.

One of several great reviews:

“Worth has masterfully written a paranormal adventure with superbly developed characters. The imagery in the descriptions will force you to stay up late reading and thinking about Navena’s next move. The suspense, romance and fiery love scenes all brilliantly combine to make this one of the best paranormal romances this year. [. . .] The twist in the storyline along with smoothness of time shifting will leave you in awe.”                                                            
– Deltareviewer, www.realpageturners.com

For more reviews and an excerpt from Chapter One (as well as info on my other books), visit www.stefanieworth.com.

The Holiday Inn is out!

 

The Holiday Inn delivers
happily-ever-afters all year round.

I'm so excited that Amazon has re-released The Holiday Inn under its Montlake Romance division!

Available in paperback and Kindle formats, the anthology features my fantasy novella, "Can You Believe" which tells the tale of a newlywed couple faced with a glimpse into an unhappy future:

Fallon Terry’s having a hard time supporting the song writing aspirations of her real-estate selling husband, Naymond. He’s spent the last three months taping a reality singing show in L.A., a world away from Detroit and Fallon. Their post-Christmas anniversary offers a chance to re-connect – until fame and fate intervene.

With devastating problems on one hand and incredible potential on the other, together they must wade through the trappings of success to discover what matters most in their marriage.

What will make them believe that they have everything they need for the love and the life that they want?

5 STARS
"Stefanie Worth has penned another exceptional paranormal short story, Can You Believe.  Fallon and Naymond Terry are approaching their one year anniversary but things aren't really working.  Fallon has been working overtime everyday to support her husband.  While Naymond has taken time off from selling houses to pursue his dreams of being an R&B star by competing on the television show, Chart Toppers.  They have been separated by thousands of miles for most of their marriage, communication is limited and the tabloid has printed some racy photos of Naymond with another woman.  Just before the final taping the show takes a break, hopefully this weekend the Terry's can renew their love and save their marriage.

However, the story is not that simple.  Worth injects another woman, 'glimpse' into the future, along with money, sex and power.  The characters are believable and tug at your heart.  The magic from the 'glimpse' may be enough the change the course of this fluttering relationship while offering a dramatic ending to a brilliantly romantic holiday story."
– Deltareviewer for Real Page Turners (reviewing "Can You Believe")


For more reviews and an excerpt from Chapter One (as well as info on my other books), visit www.stefanieworth.com.

Is it the how or the what?

I was looking at an Interview article about the new fall TV lineup and got totally sidetracked by Terrence Howard, who's bringing star quality to the new Law & Order: Los Angeles. Then I click on an in-story promo in the next column to gaze at Blair Underwood for a minute or two. Seems he's one of the stars in The Event, premiering on NBC this fall.

Oddly enough, the thought that came to mind as I read the two features was not how fine those two male specimens are (okay, maybe for a second), but the concept of versatility.

Have we not seen Terrence and Blair in all types of movies? They've acted in romances, thrillers, fantasy, on TV and on the big screen. What takes them there, I wonder? Is it the mode of transmission or the story they're telling? (Though I have no doubt it's simply been a matter of needing a paycheck on some occasions.) Hollywood has proven that it's not for everyone. Look at Kiefer Sutherland, son of movie-great Donald, who has fared far better on weekly television. Don't you think?

So, as I acknowledge that big isn't for everybody (though it can lead you to the same fulfilling outcome), I turn this idea inward and wonder about my own writing quest. Is publication about the mode of transmission or the story I'm telling?

Tell-tale details

The chances of your character scrawling words across a piece of paper are getting less and less likely. Well, depending on the age of your character and how tuned in you are to that generation's traits.

This year's Beloit College Mindset List says that writing in cursive is one of those things the class of 2014 just doesn't do. (And I can attest to that. While my oldest learned cursive in second grade, both my younger two rolled right through the early grades without it. I'm told it's a less-than-useful skill in these modern days and precious curriculum time can be devoted to some other subject.) But back to our topic.

The references we use as writers to frame setting are often mired in tiny details like planners for work, post-it notes on the fridge, CDs in drive time. But depending on your target reader, they might be accustomed to a life with PDAs, text reminders, and those fancy iPod hookups in the car. Your assumption that you're on the pulse of the times might totally disconnect your reader from the story and compel them to write you off as old-fashioned or not their type of author.

Admittedly, we can't predict every new tide changing times bring. For example, I was reading a Dean Koontz book last year (sorry, can't recall which one), and a single character action snatched me out of the story: There was a doctor in a hospital and he went into the lounge to have a cigarette.

Gasp!

I immediately turned to the front of the book and searched for the copyright. I found that the book had originally been released in 1972 (or thereabouts), which explained why the doctor was lighting up in the hospital. We all know that doesn't happen nowadays. In fact, I know of at least one local hospital that prohibits smoking anywhere on the property. Obviously, smoking was still 1950s cool when Dean penned that manuscript. Who knew that two decades later it would rank right up there with the plague? lol

So, we should -- I think -- do what we can as authors to remain timely, yet timeless, and true to our characters. That takes research, social perception, and a little leeway from readers if we're blessed with Dean's longevity.

Dangling from a Dorchester thread

The author, reader and industry blogs have been all aflutter since Publisher's Weekly leaked word that Dorchester Publishing changed its business model mid-stream and unbeknownst to its authors. Today, after several days of asking questions of colleagues with no answers, I came across this "letter to authors" from Dorchester.

I can't even think of a word to describe the knotted, pit-of-stomach, ball of dread and confusion that news caused when it tore across the internet like wildfire, vanquishing hopes and expectations -- not to mention good-faith agreements -- in its destructive wake. Dramatic turn of phrase? Well, yes. But our publisher going e-book and POD (print-on-demand) is huge, game-changing news. And we didn't take that second hand news lightly.

After all, we're authors. We write. We publish. And with Dorchester, we expected to see physical, hold in my hand books. Downloadable, read on a screen text is fine as an option at this point in the industry's evolution. But for many readers, it's still about choice. To me, Dorch's chosen course is a bit like the Big Three automakers deciding to produce only electric cars as a way out of  their financial woes. Sure, we drivers believe in green living. But are we all ready to free ourselves of gasoline run cars today?

As one of those Dorchester authors with a book "in the pipeline" I can tell you I'm a whole slew of tangled emotions at the moment. I'll let you know how this all pans out.

Journal Entry: Walking and chewing gum

I really can do more than one thing at a time; like write a book and live my life. Honest. It's the running down the buffet line trying to inhale a four-course dinner that I'm not so good with.

But you know how the universe can be -- so doggone demanding sometimes, like "Give me all your attention NOW." So that's where I've been these past blogless months, doting on the fates and forces that make you focus and think and prioritize your world. That kind of stuff.

I am happy to report that while I mandated a slow-down in the breakneck pace of my life, the writing trickled (oh, in agonizing fashion), but the to-do's "magically" sorted themselves into manageable bites, and the planets realigned themselves just for me. Voile!, all is right with the world:

The manuscript is off to my editor. The next set of characters are knocking at my brain asking to be set free on my keyboard, and the kids have made me swear to a movie and game night this weekend. Sure, why not? After all, I can walk and chew gum at the same time.

Today's life lesson: Know thyself. I'm an INTJ -- which, I've heard, is only 12% of the population. As a writer, this means understanding that most people aren't necessarily as intuitive as me and my writing has to to speak to people who tend to need their plot twists spelled out and less often inferred. Who I am makes a difference in not only how I relate to the world, but how I approach my writing as well.

It's good to be back in my nearly right-sized life aiming for new adventures and prepping for my January release. I'll have a cover for you in a few weeks (I'm told). I'll try not to keep you guessing. ;)

Step Away From the Keyboard

I'm blogging over at Novel Spaces about a writer's need for perspective. If time away from a work benefits Stephen King, I figure it'll work for me, too!

Stefanie

-------------------------

Some writers outline and plot, others “wing” their stories. Some need silence to create, others rely on music to set a mood, or field trips to develop a scene. Personal styles and craft techniques run the gamut of approaches among authors. Yet, I’ve found one practice common across genre and experience level: stepping away from the story.

I think I happened on the tactic accidentally with my first novel. I’d finished the book and so I set it aside to focus on getting it published. When I started getting feedback on the manuscript, I revisited my story and found myself reading it like it was the first time I’d seen it.

Read more

Early reviews for HeavenSent.com!

Reviews always stir the angst pot for me. Of course, I believe I've written one heckuva story. But it's like an author said at a workshop once: Out of 10 people, one person is going to love your writing. Period. One person is going to hate your writing. Period. One or two may feel so-so about it, another couple of folks will really enjoy it. The remaining readers fall somewhere in between.

And in the years since I first heard that philosophy, I've come to believe that the "like it" scale sways with each new work, and that for people -- like me -- who write paranormal, we have to factor in the whole "Did they get it?" question that comes with writing otherworldly stories.

That said, I'm pretty excited about the following two reviews that have come in for my novella HeavenSent.com in the Holiday Brides anthology due out in about 10 days. I'm going to spend the moment feeling fabulous, then get back to work on my WIP.

From Huntress Reviews:

"***** FIVE STARS! I was sent a galley copy of this novella for an honest review. I am going to assume (yeah, I know the joke about assuming) that the other two stories are as good as this one. Therefore, this book receives the full five stars from me. Stefanie Worth's story hits close to home as she clearly shows how the economic world of today is, as well as how it affects people who live in it. Her characters, both mortal and angelic, are totally believable. Nothing comes across as odd or false. This book is perfect for reading while you are cuddled up in front a cozy fire indoors while the snow piles up outside. *****"

From Darque Reviews:

"HeavenSent.com is part of the Holiday Brides anthology. Ms. Worth does a fabulous job of bringing readers into this short story while filling it with an unexpectedly sweet romance, as well as heavenly paranormal elements. A fast-paced escape that’s sure to capture reader’s attention."

Visit the HeavenSent.com page on my site to view the book trailer or read an excerpt.

September is Sickle Cell Awareness Month

After my second son was born and diagnosed with Sickle Cell Anemia, I joined an online group of special needs moms for support. I remember us passing around emails in those much earlier days of the internet, one of which was about how we were chosen to be mothers to these children for God's own reasons. While I clung to that belief at the time because so much uncertainty awaited us, I understand that poem much better now, 12 years later.

I'm lucky to be chosen as the caretaker of a terrific kid with an awful disease. I see and nurture the strength in him that I know he'll need when I'm no longer able to escort him into a doctor's office and speak on his behalf. The disease has developed character and advocacy in me I didn't know I had, but I still want it cured.

We had an awful spell around Memorial Day when he was hospitalized for the first time in almost two years. We're fortunate that he does not experience daily pain episodes like some children do, that he's only had one transfusion -- preceding removal of his tonsils and adenoids at two -- and that he's been stroke-free. But, boy, a few months ago. . .well, it still makes my breath catch in my chest and brings tears to my eyes.

Sickle Cell isn't as media-sexy as childhood cancer or pediatric AIDS, but it hurts. And to see your child unable to walk or move because it hurts so bad, to watch as another dose of morphine doesn't make it better. Oh, my dear God. I cannot tell you what that is like as a mother. I even had to pause in writing this to try and shake off the memory.

But I tell the story because there is kinship among those of us who share this difficult walk with our children. And kinship among those who've watched their children grow up with this disease and now worry about whether or not they'll find mates who understand and provide them with the support they need, and whether or not the disease will be passed to grandchildren and beyond.

As a global village, we all have parts we can play in eradicating this disease that afflicts one in nine African Americans as well as people of Greek, Italian and Middle Eastern descent (and others, too). My role is to write about our experiences and donate to the cause. Researchers are so close to a universal cure and I want to believe with all my heart that when my son is grown and finds a good woman to be his wife that passing on this disease to their children will not be the issue it is today. Let's hope, pray and act today.

To learn more about Sickle Cell, visit the Sickle Cell Disease Center of America.
My essay about The Baby God Gave Me

Please join us for the Sickle Cell Health Awareness Fair on Saturday, Sept. 19th, from 5:30 - 9 p.m.at the Boll Family YMCA (downtown Detroit). There'll be hustle lessons, food, fun and education. Tix are $20. Call 313-864-4406 for info. I'll be there signing books and spreading hope for a cure on behalf of my son.

Stefanie
http://www.stefanieworth.com/

A Way With Words

I’m sure my high school English teacher, Gary Wendell, had no idea what he ignited when he told me I had “a way with words” – though it would be nice if he could see the fruits of his encouragement.

I poured his remarks – along with the wisdom of my parents, kind comments of faithful friends (who read every piece of angst-ridden poetry I wrote), and admonishments of journalism school instructors – onto the roiling mix of uncertainty and determination I harbored in my gut like marinade.

The brew turned out to be pretty good, I think, though it’s one of those concoctions that not only needs to marinate, but then has to simmer half the day, and still tastes better after a night in the refrigerator. You know, like those prize-winning sauces, chilis and gumbos you’ve read about or tasted.

As I’ve been stewing all these years, letting the ingredients of craft meld into stories, I’ve discovered that it takes more than a hodgepodge of words to be a writer. Even stringing those words with eloquence and wit isn’t enough to become the cream that rises to the top of the pot. Style (that elusive writing “voice”), subject matter and sensitivity are so important to success. I’m not saying your recipe for storytelling will get you on the NY Times or USA Today lists, but you’ll have the assurance of generating satisfaction in your readers and just doing it right.

One of my Novel Spaces co-bloggers, posted his thoughts on writing outside yourself recently. How do, can we, should authors write characters who don’t look, act or think like themselves? To me it’s possible, of course. It just requires observation, experience, research, openmindedness and the modesty to admit that no one persona you create in your pages will be the be-all, end-all representation of any particular race, creed, color or gender.

Like one of my Michigan Chronicle editors once taught me, “No, as a journalist you can’t be objective. We all bring our opinions, experiences and subjectivities to a story. But we can be fair.” This, of course, looks different in editorial than in fiction, but I can still apply the principle.

I build my characters on archetypes and psychological profiles so that they’re true to themselves and their role in the story. Would I date Luke from Where Souls Collide? I sure hope not. The guy’s a jerk – and I’m okay with that. He wasn’t created to give Black men a bad rap. His job was to give Navena, the story’s heroine a hard time. Really. No ulterior motives or subliminal messages there. Nor was Maxwell (the story’s hero) meant to make up for Luke’s shortcomings. Maxwell had his own issues that rendered him, hopefully, human.

Those pieces of authoring are far more than words. I’ve promised myself to keep learning, that I’ll be a perpetual student of humanity. I hope that not only makes me a better writer, but a better person as well.

Stefanie
www.stefanieworth.com

Reading to not make changes

The galleys for Holiday Brides arrived yesterday. They come via email and -- this being my third set -- I now have this ritual of checking the ink cartridge, adjusting the print settings, and readying a stack of fresh paper to feed into the machine as it spits forth the laid out pages for me to proof.

It's a little nerve-wracking, the whole "read and don't make any 'unnecessary' changes" thing. Don't publishers know we're writers and constantly improving our prose is what fuels our existence??? Then again, I'm sure that's why the guideline is in place. *sigh*

So, my only real to-do this weekend is to re-read HeavenSent.com (a/k/a Brenna and Evan's story) and make sure what's on the pages-to-be matches what I submitted. I quit last night after two chapters. The back and forth was making my head spin. . .and I got distracted by VH1's "Black to the Future." My bad.

I'll do better tonight. When the June 16th deadline to return these galleys rolls around, I so need to back into my WIP. Deep, deep back.

On that note, wish me few typos, missing words, or lost chunks of plot!

Stefanie