Last week, CL Wilson tagged me for the 8 Things about You meme and I then tagged others. It’s been great reading their memes and learning new things about them.
One of the people that I tagged is my cp, Laurie K. and since she doesn’t have a blog of her own I’m posting it here.
Well here goes. That is if I can think of eight things about me that would be found interesting. Bare with me as I think it through my tangled mind and dig deep to find these things.
1) I was a licensed cosmetologist – although not any longer since moving to Florida. Only because I needed a paycheck and couldn’t wait for it to come to me, ‘cause I really miss that creativity.
2) We use to own a ranch. Yes, I said ranch. We had 12 head of horses that we trained, bred and would rodeo with. I didn’t compete, but my husband and daughter did. Although I would barrel race and rope for the fun of it. You haven’t lived until you’ve baled hay and cleaned stalls out!
3) I gave up writing for 12 years. I was a stay at home mom and would write when my daughter was in school. After my husband was in a car accident I had to go back to work and didn’t start again until Vicki and I got close and I forgot how much I missed it.
4) I was part owner in my parent’s jewelry business (after I was 18 of course). I did everything from N.Y, Rhode Island buying trips, road sales, paperwork and all the packing and shipping. I learned a lot about life and how a business works from the time I was 13 until I was about 25.
5) I have six dogs. Yep 6!!! They range from 3lbs to 135 lbs. Each one is so unique and different I couldn’t imagine my life without them. Most are dogs I have rescued in one way or another and the furthest away was from St. Marteen. He was a stray and if you’ve ever been, you know dogs are all over the place. I couldn’t handle it so I went to a rescue hospital and brought a puppy home. He’s the best souvenir I could ever have!
6) Okay, here is a compulsive piece of myself. If you know me you already know this. If I like an author I will purchase their books in hard and soft cover and collect everything ever written by them. Most of my books if I purchased them look like I’ve never read them. This is because I have such a respect for the written word and what it takes to go into it. I feel like I’m ruining a painting or something if I crease the spine and don’t even think about writing in them or turning a corner down. That is the ultimate sin in my mind. My husband thinks it’s funny to hold my books hostage because he knows how anal I am. He also knows what will happen if he even accidentally bends a page too. ;-)
7) All of my tattoos are characters in my book.
8) Last, but certainly not least. I have been married for 21 years and have a 19 year old daughter in college. This use to be a surprise to people, but I think age is starting to creep up on me so it’s not such a shocker anymore. Well, maybe the married that long part ;-)
Laurie K.
Showing posts with label Guest Bloggers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Guest Bloggers. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Guest Blogger - Karen Lingefelt
I’d like to welcome Karen Lingefelt to Writing with Vicki. Karen is not only an amazing writer, wife, and mom but also the Past President of TARA.
Her book True Pretenses received rave reviews. It’s “fast and furious” read will not only delight you, but is “full of twist and turns on the road to romance”, check out her site for the full reviews.
With out further ado I turn over today’s blog to Karen.
A recent event in the life of our blog hostess inspired me to write about one of the two evils most likely to send couples to divorce court, if not lunging for the kitchen knives.
It’s not sex or money, because really, what is marriage all about, but sex and money? (When pop psychologists go on talk shows to proclaim that, “Most marital issues are about sex or money,” they really mean, “Most marital issues are about—well, marriage.”)
After twenty years of joint insanity with the same person, I can state with absolute certainty that the two greatest menaces to connubial bliss are buying a Christmas tree, and moving. As Vicki (and her marriage) recently survived the latter, that will be the topic of today’s ramblings.
My husband and I are Air Force veterans. He also grew up an Air Force brat. Between us we’ve weathered many moves, from cross-country to halfway around the planet. I’ve often wondered how we made it this far—literally tens of thousands of miles—without killing each other. Somewhere along the way, I must’ve picked up something that kept my murderous instincts in check, but what? (I mean besides chocolate.) Here are a few things I’ve learned about moving that might hold the key:
You can never have too many boxes. Start collecting them well in advance—preferably right after you’ve finished your previous move. Let hubby have his fun stomping them flat, as if they’re flaming pies left on the doorstep Halloween night. But stand your ground afterward. Ignore those whiny entreaties to keep the boxes out of the garage, storage room, tool shed, attic, storm cellar, or any other parts of the new house he’s scheming to convert into one or more of the following just as soon as rerun season starts: Game room, home theater, gymnasium, model railroad empire, laboratory, bowling alley, or mockup of the war room from Dr. Strangelove. Worst case scenario, you may have to bury the boxes in the backyard, or even under the bed if his unopened box of exercise equipment for that future gymnasium leaves enough space.
If you haven’t looked at it since your last move, get rid of it. But there are obvious exceptions. Like old TV guides, because it’s so warm-and-fuzzy nostalgic to thumb through them and marvel at how program grids once took up only half a page, and were still decipherable as recently as 1992. Or my old wardrobe from the 1980’s, because you never know if ruffles and piecrust collars a la Lady Di, big hair bows a la Fergie, or even NFL-approved shoulder pads a la Joan Collins might come back into style. If they do, I’ll be ready—assuming I lose enough weight to fit into those clothes again. My ever-thoughtful husband says he’s been hanging on to his unopened box of exercise equipment all these years for precisely that purpose. Isn’t he a prince?
So, Karen, what DO you get rid of that you haven’t looked at since your last move? There’s no better time to don the hazmat gear, open that refrigerator, and throw out the leftovers and five gallon jar of Dijon mustard the husband bought (along with an entire gross of “irregular” hot dog buns), during his three week “Let’s-Buy-Bulk-At-Wholesale-Grocers-To-Save-Money” kick.
If you can disassemble it yourself (and if you can’t, my youngest son does it every day for relaxation), do so and hand carry the hardware to your new home. If movers disassemble it before removing it from the premises, then they must reassemble it at your destination, but I’m scarred for life by one move where this did not happen. I was still single, and being transferred from stateside to Germany. They disassembled everything after taking it out of my apartment—a bentwood rocker* I’d bought in Spain on a previous overseas tour, bookcases, you name it. When these items were unpacked at my new duty station, not only were they in pieces, but all the hardware was missing—every last nut and bolt and screw and doohickey. Alas, there was no Home Depot where I could buy replacement parts. But even more embarrassing, I couldn’t remember the German word for “doohickey.”
Since then, with every move we disassemble the stuff ourselves—and I hand carry the hardware along with all the other valuables, like my secret emergency chocolate supply and picture of Colin Firth as Darcy giving Elizabeth “The Look.” Besides, I’d much rather watch my husband reassemble everything in our new locale and enjoy his—shall we say, “colorful” commentary—instead of making him drive all over an unfamiliar town looking for a place that sells three-eighths inch Thompson-head doohickeys. For one thing, he might stumble across the local Best Buy and then I’d never see him again till the next move. And for another, he won’t let me break into that unopened box of exercise equipment to harvest it for extra nuts and bolts.
Provide refreshments for the movers. I could be wrong, but had I known this at the time, I might still have a bentwood rocker to commemorate my time in Spain, instead of a useless pile of extra-fancy imported firewood. It was my new husband who, on our first post-nuptial move from Germany to California, bought a case of soft drinks especially for the movers, and put it in the refrigerator to chill the night before. He said it was important to do this.
Didn’t I tell you he was a prince?
I think I just found the answer.
*Bonus Household Tip: Bentwood rocker pieces make interesting wall decorations—or just use them to fill that annoying gap in the family room between your favorite end table and the wall! Woven cane seats and backs not only make great strainers for huge amounts of spaghetti serving twelve or more, but will make you and your dinner party the talk of the town for years to come!
Karen
Her book True Pretenses received rave reviews. It’s “fast and furious” read will not only delight you, but is “full of twist and turns on the road to romance”, check out her site for the full reviews.
With out further ado I turn over today’s blog to Karen.
A recent event in the life of our blog hostess inspired me to write about one of the two evils most likely to send couples to divorce court, if not lunging for the kitchen knives.
It’s not sex or money, because really, what is marriage all about, but sex and money? (When pop psychologists go on talk shows to proclaim that, “Most marital issues are about sex or money,” they really mean, “Most marital issues are about—well, marriage.”)
After twenty years of joint insanity with the same person, I can state with absolute certainty that the two greatest menaces to connubial bliss are buying a Christmas tree, and moving. As Vicki (and her marriage) recently survived the latter, that will be the topic of today’s ramblings.
My husband and I are Air Force veterans. He also grew up an Air Force brat. Between us we’ve weathered many moves, from cross-country to halfway around the planet. I’ve often wondered how we made it this far—literally tens of thousands of miles—without killing each other. Somewhere along the way, I must’ve picked up something that kept my murderous instincts in check, but what? (I mean besides chocolate.) Here are a few things I’ve learned about moving that might hold the key:
You can never have too many boxes. Start collecting them well in advance—preferably right after you’ve finished your previous move. Let hubby have his fun stomping them flat, as if they’re flaming pies left on the doorstep Halloween night. But stand your ground afterward. Ignore those whiny entreaties to keep the boxes out of the garage, storage room, tool shed, attic, storm cellar, or any other parts of the new house he’s scheming to convert into one or more of the following just as soon as rerun season starts: Game room, home theater, gymnasium, model railroad empire, laboratory, bowling alley, or mockup of the war room from Dr. Strangelove. Worst case scenario, you may have to bury the boxes in the backyard, or even under the bed if his unopened box of exercise equipment for that future gymnasium leaves enough space.
If you haven’t looked at it since your last move, get rid of it. But there are obvious exceptions. Like old TV guides, because it’s so warm-and-fuzzy nostalgic to thumb through them and marvel at how program grids once took up only half a page, and were still decipherable as recently as 1992. Or my old wardrobe from the 1980’s, because you never know if ruffles and piecrust collars a la Lady Di, big hair bows a la Fergie, or even NFL-approved shoulder pads a la Joan Collins might come back into style. If they do, I’ll be ready—assuming I lose enough weight to fit into those clothes again. My ever-thoughtful husband says he’s been hanging on to his unopened box of exercise equipment all these years for precisely that purpose. Isn’t he a prince?
So, Karen, what DO you get rid of that you haven’t looked at since your last move? There’s no better time to don the hazmat gear, open that refrigerator, and throw out the leftovers and five gallon jar of Dijon mustard the husband bought (along with an entire gross of “irregular” hot dog buns), during his three week “Let’s-Buy-Bulk-At-Wholesale-Grocers-To-Save-Money” kick.
If you can disassemble it yourself (and if you can’t, my youngest son does it every day for relaxation), do so and hand carry the hardware to your new home. If movers disassemble it before removing it from the premises, then they must reassemble it at your destination, but I’m scarred for life by one move where this did not happen. I was still single, and being transferred from stateside to Germany. They disassembled everything after taking it out of my apartment—a bentwood rocker* I’d bought in Spain on a previous overseas tour, bookcases, you name it. When these items were unpacked at my new duty station, not only were they in pieces, but all the hardware was missing—every last nut and bolt and screw and doohickey. Alas, there was no Home Depot where I could buy replacement parts. But even more embarrassing, I couldn’t remember the German word for “doohickey.”
Since then, with every move we disassemble the stuff ourselves—and I hand carry the hardware along with all the other valuables, like my secret emergency chocolate supply and picture of Colin Firth as Darcy giving Elizabeth “The Look.” Besides, I’d much rather watch my husband reassemble everything in our new locale and enjoy his—shall we say, “colorful” commentary—instead of making him drive all over an unfamiliar town looking for a place that sells three-eighths inch Thompson-head doohickeys. For one thing, he might stumble across the local Best Buy and then I’d never see him again till the next move. And for another, he won’t let me break into that unopened box of exercise equipment to harvest it for extra nuts and bolts.
Provide refreshments for the movers. I could be wrong, but had I known this at the time, I might still have a bentwood rocker to commemorate my time in Spain, instead of a useless pile of extra-fancy imported firewood. It was my new husband who, on our first post-nuptial move from Germany to California, bought a case of soft drinks especially for the movers, and put it in the refrigerator to chill the night before. He said it was important to do this.
Didn’t I tell you he was a prince?
I think I just found the answer.
*Bonus Household Tip: Bentwood rocker pieces make interesting wall decorations—or just use them to fill that annoying gap in the family room between your favorite end table and the wall! Woven cane seats and backs not only make great strainers for huge amounts of spaghetti serving twelve or more, but will make you and your dinner party the talk of the town for years to come!
Karen
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Guest Blogger Aaron Childs
Today’s guest blogger is Aaron Child’s. He is currently working towards a degree in business and this is from one of his writing assignments. Yes, it’s a true story and we thought you’d enjoy reading a page from his childhood.
The contest for Carly Phillips book Cross My Heart continues until Friday. Be sure and leave your comments to be entered.
Also, a reminder of Brenda Novak’s and Karen Rose’s "whodunit contest" is still going. Be sure and check it out. Not only are the prizes incredibly but how fun to play sleuth.
Now for your reading pleasure, here’s Aaron:
Broken Arm
Being wedged between a door and wall is not the most comfortable place. My older brother, Chris, had left me on my own to hold the door. My Mother, Father and sister were pushing but could not hear me screaming until it was too late. The pain was more than I could bear but my parents would experience the greatest pain of all.
When I was in the first grade my parents were very playful. They would be washing the dishes and Father would splash Mother with some water. She would splash him back and the flood gates seemed to have opened up. Water went flying through the air, in slow motion, until it hit its target. The floor became slippery and everyone armed themselves with the weapon of his or her choice. I let out a war cry and used a cup to drench my Father. My sister, Regina, tried to wrestle the cup from my little hands. Chris grabbed a squirt gun from his room and started his onslaught. Mother yelled at Father then turned her attention to Chris. Mercy was not a common virtue that night.
My cup was empty and Chris ran out of ammo. Things became interesting at this moment. My Father charged us like a human juggernaut. Chris and I knew what was coming. If Father caught us, Chris and I, would be tickled until our faces turned blue. Chris and I both turned simultaneously and bolted down the hall. My Father, Mother and Regina followed in hot pursuit. We kept running until we reached Chris’ room. We slammed the door and blocked it with our bodies. We pushed with all our might because failure was not an option.
Chris realized our efforts were futile and abandoned his post. He ran to the back of the room and I was left to face the strength of a mob. The door began to open and I became wedged between the door and wall. As the door was closing in on me I saw my left arm began to deform.
My arm bent at the elbow but something was wrong. Tears dribbled down my cheek and I began to cry. My arm was bending the wrong way! I screamed louder and the door released me from my prison. I was free but the pain remained. My family came to my rescue and realized my arm had been broken. I was drowned in apologies and whisked to the emergency room. A cast was placed on my arm and the apologies still came. Caution murdered my parent’s playfulness that night and things were never the same.
I love the last line.
So, how about you? Any takes from childhood that is never to be forgotten? Are you dying to blog but don’t want to have your own week to week, day to day? Email me at vickilanewrites at yahoo.com with your blog idea. I’d love to have you.
Writing Wishes and Plotting Dreams,
Vicki
The contest for Carly Phillips book Cross My Heart continues until Friday. Be sure and leave your comments to be entered.Also, a reminder of Brenda Novak’s and Karen Rose’s "whodunit contest" is still going. Be sure and check it out. Not only are the prizes incredibly but how fun to play sleuth.
Now for your reading pleasure, here’s Aaron:
Broken Arm
Being wedged between a door and wall is not the most comfortable place. My older brother, Chris, had left me on my own to hold the door. My Mother, Father and sister were pushing but could not hear me screaming until it was too late. The pain was more than I could bear but my parents would experience the greatest pain of all.
When I was in the first grade my parents were very playful. They would be washing the dishes and Father would splash Mother with some water. She would splash him back and the flood gates seemed to have opened up. Water went flying through the air, in slow motion, until it hit its target. The floor became slippery and everyone armed themselves with the weapon of his or her choice. I let out a war cry and used a cup to drench my Father. My sister, Regina, tried to wrestle the cup from my little hands. Chris grabbed a squirt gun from his room and started his onslaught. Mother yelled at Father then turned her attention to Chris. Mercy was not a common virtue that night.
My cup was empty and Chris ran out of ammo. Things became interesting at this moment. My Father charged us like a human juggernaut. Chris and I knew what was coming. If Father caught us, Chris and I, would be tickled until our faces turned blue. Chris and I both turned simultaneously and bolted down the hall. My Father, Mother and Regina followed in hot pursuit. We kept running until we reached Chris’ room. We slammed the door and blocked it with our bodies. We pushed with all our might because failure was not an option.
Chris realized our efforts were futile and abandoned his post. He ran to the back of the room and I was left to face the strength of a mob. The door began to open and I became wedged between the door and wall. As the door was closing in on me I saw my left arm began to deform.
My arm bent at the elbow but something was wrong. Tears dribbled down my cheek and I began to cry. My arm was bending the wrong way! I screamed louder and the door released me from my prison. I was free but the pain remained. My family came to my rescue and realized my arm had been broken. I was drowned in apologies and whisked to the emergency room. A cast was placed on my arm and the apologies still came. Caution murdered my parent’s playfulness that night and things were never the same.
I love the last line.
So, how about you? Any takes from childhood that is never to be forgotten? Are you dying to blog but don’t want to have your own week to week, day to day? Email me at vickilanewrites at yahoo.com with your blog idea. I’d love to have you.
Writing Wishes and Plotting Dreams,
Vicki
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Guest Blogger Melissa Childs and Tuesday Contest
First I want to let you know about this weeks contest. I'm giving away Sophia Nash’s book A Dangerous Beauty. All you need to do is comment this week and you'll be in the drawing. I'll announce the winner on Friday.
Now without further ado I’d like to welcome my guest blogger Melissa Childs. If you do not already know this, she is my daughter. She teaches 3rd grade in Arizona. Not only is she an awesome daughter but a great teacher as well. Her love of books goes back to her first month of life when I would hold a picture book in front of her and tell her what the animal was and then show the sounds. Okay, make the sounds but show sounds better. :)
Welcome Melissa.
Hi bloggers! Thanks to my wonderful mom, Vicki, for asking me to guest blog this week! Now, I must begin by saying I am my mother’s daughter. This was intended to be much shorter, but well, as previously stated, I am my mother’s daughter. Here goes.
As a third grade teacher, I get the opportunity to lay the framework of writing for my students. When they come to me they know the basics of how to write a sentence and (on a good year) how to write a simple paragraph. I get the joy of teaching them how to really be writers.
It truly is amazing to see what these eight year olds can come up with. I remember once asking my students to write about a day in the life of a mosquito from the mosquito’s perspective. I had one boy write about how he went to get his lunch from the kindergarten students because they had the sweetest blood. He went on to describe how he had to avoid the middle school students because their blood had way too many calories and he had to watch his figure, he was getting fitted for new wings soon. Those responses are priceless. I am so lucky to be a part of these children finding their voice.
My favorite experience with my students is one that I think all writers can relate to. My state teaches writing through a “six traits” model. Basically, there are six traits of good writing that we teach and score kids on. One of those traits is word choice.
Have you ever been with a kid when they are talking about something and know just what they’re describing? Once they finish this grand explanation you just kind of raise your eyebrows, smile, and say oh, really? Well, that’s what I get to teach kids to recognize in their writing. To teach this concept of word choice, I described a simple monster. It went something like: It has a head, it has arms, it has legs, and it has hair, etc.
When I drew my monster, it did have a head, but it was a teeny-tiny head. It had arms, but it had 9 of them. You get the picture. My students were amazed that their monsters looked nothing like mine, yet I was completely correct in everything I said.
We then repeated the exercise, only this time my descriptions were full of detail and words that “showed” them my monster rather than just “telling” them what it looked like.
We all had pretty similar monsters, but they were quick to point out the parts that were different and tell me how I could have chosen better words so they would have drawn it correctly. J That’s when I know they have it!
For the rest of the year when they bring me papers to look at, I simply say “show” me this monster and they know exactly what I’m referring to. It’s really an inspiring process to partake in.
How about you? Do you find yourself “telling” rather than “showing”? What is hardest for you to show rather than tell?
~Melissa
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Guest Blogger - Laurie Kapkowski
Before I introduce my guest I want to make sure everyone knows that Diana Peterfreund’s Under The Rose comes out today. Go out and get your copy today. On Friday I'll be having a give away as well.
I’m so excited to welcome my critique partner and excellent writer Laurie Kapowski to Writing with Vicki.
Laurie writes paranormal and long contemporary romance. Currently she is working on a paranormal that totally rocks. Since I’m her cp I get the honor to read (and critique) this wip. Trust me you are going to love this book when it’s published. Her characters are amazing and yep I’ve become vested in each and every one of them. I know you will too, especially since I see each of them having their own stories in the future. Yes Tru that means you too. He really wants his story now and Laurie has to tell him repeatedly to wait his turn.
Without further ado I turn it over to Laurie. Please welcome her in your comments at the end.
Thanks for joining Vicki and I as I guest blog on her sight. I had no idea what to write or who would want to read what I had to say, but here goes anyway.
I’ve pondered on the subject that I know all of us have gone through at one time or another in our lives. You’re asked to go somewhere and you want to go, but it’s not at the top of our list, but you love your friend so you go.
This is what happened to me when Vicki offered an extra ticket to see Chris Daughtry at the State Theatre in St. Petersburg. Oh don’t get me wrong – who wouldn’t want to see him – I mean really he is the hottest 20 something I’ve seen in a long time (scary that he’s closer to my daughters age than mine) so here I was feeling a bit old to be going to a concert where I was sure a bunch of screaming teenagers would look at the ‘old’ lady and wonder why she was there and trying to look young, but really who cares it was all about having fun, right?
Now here is the in interesting part. Once I started really loosening up I realized I had the stage for a scene in my book and a soundtrack to go with it. The funny thing is it had nothing to do with Mr. Hottness, but the opening acts that really influenced me and my writing. I am a huge music person and my tastes are extremely eclectic so it didn’t surprise me to be enjoying where I was, who I was with and the atmosphere surrounding me, but was pleasantly surprised that I loved both bands almost more than Daughtry. So far two of the tracks on the Eve to Adam CD have sparked ideas for my characters and talk about HOT – the lead singer needs to be on the cover of a book (hopefully mine) ;-)
So the moral here is open up your mind and all of your senses to every experience because you never know what you will get out of it.
Happy Writing
Laurie Kapkowski
I’m so excited to welcome my critique partner and excellent writer Laurie Kapowski to Writing with Vicki.
Laurie writes paranormal and long contemporary romance. Currently she is working on a paranormal that totally rocks. Since I’m her cp I get the honor to read (and critique) this wip. Trust me you are going to love this book when it’s published. Her characters are amazing and yep I’ve become vested in each and every one of them. I know you will too, especially since I see each of them having their own stories in the future. Yes Tru that means you too. He really wants his story now and Laurie has to tell him repeatedly to wait his turn.
Without further ado I turn it over to Laurie. Please welcome her in your comments at the end.
Thanks for joining Vicki and I as I guest blog on her sight. I had no idea what to write or who would want to read what I had to say, but here goes anyway.
I’ve pondered on the subject that I know all of us have gone through at one time or another in our lives. You’re asked to go somewhere and you want to go, but it’s not at the top of our list, but you love your friend so you go.
This is what happened to me when Vicki offered an extra ticket to see Chris Daughtry at the State Theatre in St. Petersburg. Oh don’t get me wrong – who wouldn’t want to see him – I mean really he is the hottest 20 something I’ve seen in a long time (scary that he’s closer to my daughters age than mine) so here I was feeling a bit old to be going to a concert where I was sure a bunch of screaming teenagers would look at the ‘old’ lady and wonder why she was there and trying to look young, but really who cares it was all about having fun, right?
Now here is the in interesting part. Once I started really loosening up I realized I had the stage for a scene in my book and a soundtrack to go with it. The funny thing is it had nothing to do with Mr. Hottness, but the opening acts that really influenced me and my writing. I am a huge music person and my tastes are extremely eclectic so it didn’t surprise me to be enjoying where I was, who I was with and the atmosphere surrounding me, but was pleasantly surprised that I loved both bands almost more than Daughtry. So far two of the tracks on the Eve to Adam CD have sparked ideas for my characters and talk about HOT – the lead singer needs to be on the cover of a book (hopefully mine) ;-)
So the moral here is open up your mind and all of your senses to every experience because you never know what you will get out of it.
Happy Writing
Laurie Kapkowski
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