THANKS AWESOMEBOOKNUT.COM FOR TAKING A CHANCE ON A "NEW" AUTHOR
http://awesomebooknut.com/2016/01/26/top-10-tuesday-books-you-may-not-have-heard-of-that-i-enjoyed/
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
BOOK NEWS: Beyond the Strandline
http://awesomebooknut.com/2016/01/26/top-10-tuesday-books-you-may-not-have-heard-of-that-i-enjoyed/
Monday, January 25, 2016
IT IS TO DISCLAIM
It’s a new year, following the old year and just in front of the year to come. Time to disclaim.
DISCLAIMER: noun
1. The act of disclaiming; the renouncing, repudiating, or denying of a claim; disavowal.
2. A person who disclaims.
3. A statement, document, or assertion that disclaims responsibility, affiliation, etc; disavowal; denial.
1. To begin, I would like to renounce, repudiate, deny, and disavow the rumors. I am not crazy, zany, wacky, or “intense.” I don’t know how these rumors get started. I mean one person sees you wearing a king’s crown and waving a scepter—at a laundry mat—and people start talking smack about you—the rotten gossips.
Listen! The problem is that I don’t have that voice. You know the voice: that mealy-mouthed, butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth, I might have mice living in my vocal cords girl-voice. When I speak I sound taller than I am, and I come across more intimidating than a grizzly bear. Just play dead and I won’t maul you.
When I write I sound smarter than a grizzly bear. I can’t help it. I’m Irish. We have a way with words and a penchant for using words like penchant.
I renounce the gossip. Dressing up in period costume is a time-honored way to confuse evil spirits and boring people.
I repudiate the false narrative that meek means weak.
I disavow any embarrassment about zumba. Zumba is a Latin based exercise. Hips and booty are involved. When I zumba, I zumba, and my hips don’t lie. I’m easy to pick out in a zumba crowd. My stuff is actually moving. It’s because I lived in the Bahamas when I was a kid, and the first “live” band I ever heard was a steel drum band. It’s in my blood.
2. I have been writing weekly blogs for more than a decade. No one makes me—except me. Most of what I write is based loosely in reality, coated liberally with lies. I’ve won national prizes for my humorous lies . . . er . . . um . . . I mean essays. It’s true. Humorpress.com sent me money. That’s how I know it wasn’t a lie.
3. This is my official semi-yearly, once-in-a-while, now and again disclaimer. I am not crazy. I’m confident and adamant. People hate that. I don’t suffer fools lightly. Fools hate that.
I love words and all the dazzling things you can do with them.
The last book I wrote, Beyond the Strandline, is a grid collapse/survival/action/adventure/romance, and it’s intense. So intense I had a couple of Beta readers let me know that they couldn’t finish it. It was too scary. At first, I thought, “Oh no! What have I done? It made people uncomfortable and worried.”
And then I thought, “Oh no! What have I done? I was able—through the power of pen and word—to move people to FEEL uncomfortable and worried. Interesting.” The tips of the writer’s fingers beat a contemplative rhythm against each other as she smiled evilly.
I’m not bad. I’m good.
Linda (Sound Off) Zern
DISCLAIMER: noun
1. The act of disclaiming; the renouncing, repudiating, or denying of a claim; disavowal.
2. A person who disclaims.
3. A statement, document, or assertion that disclaims responsibility, affiliation, etc; disavowal; denial.
1. To begin, I would like to renounce, repudiate, deny, and disavow the rumors. I am not crazy, zany, wacky, or “intense.” I don’t know how these rumors get started. I mean one person sees you wearing a king’s crown and waving a scepter—at a laundry mat—and people start talking smack about you—the rotten gossips.
Listen! The problem is that I don’t have that voice. You know the voice: that mealy-mouthed, butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth, I might have mice living in my vocal cords girl-voice. When I speak I sound taller than I am, and I come across more intimidating than a grizzly bear. Just play dead and I won’t maul you.
When I write I sound smarter than a grizzly bear. I can’t help it. I’m Irish. We have a way with words and a penchant for using words like penchant.
I renounce the gossip. Dressing up in period costume is a time-honored way to confuse evil spirits and boring people.
I repudiate the false narrative that meek means weak.
I disavow any embarrassment about zumba. Zumba is a Latin based exercise. Hips and booty are involved. When I zumba, I zumba, and my hips don’t lie. I’m easy to pick out in a zumba crowd. My stuff is actually moving. It’s because I lived in the Bahamas when I was a kid, and the first “live” band I ever heard was a steel drum band. It’s in my blood.
2. I have been writing weekly blogs for more than a decade. No one makes me—except me. Most of what I write is based loosely in reality, coated liberally with lies. I’ve won national prizes for my humorous lies . . . er . . . um . . . I mean essays. It’s true. Humorpress.com sent me money. That’s how I know it wasn’t a lie.
3. This is my official semi-yearly, once-in-a-while, now and again disclaimer. I am not crazy. I’m confident and adamant. People hate that. I don’t suffer fools lightly. Fools hate that.
I love words and all the dazzling things you can do with them.
The last book I wrote, Beyond the Strandline, is a grid collapse/survival/action/adventure/romance, and it’s intense. So intense I had a couple of Beta readers let me know that they couldn’t finish it. It was too scary. At first, I thought, “Oh no! What have I done? It made people uncomfortable and worried.”
And then I thought, “Oh no! What have I done? I was able—through the power of pen and word—to move people to FEEL uncomfortable and worried. Interesting.” The tips of the writer’s fingers beat a contemplative rhythm against each other as she smiled evilly.
I’m not bad. I’m good.
Linda (Sound Off) Zern
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
GONER
Can’t read the headlines lately without seeing another rock-n-roller bite the dust, and they’re not that much older than me, and that’s got me to thinking, and when I think I write. Writing saves wear and tear on my fifty shades of gray matter. So, there you go.
My funeral will be a free-for-all, knowing my family, unless I put my foot down now while I still can. NOTE: A free-for-all is a disorganized or unrestricted situation or event in which everyone may take part, especially a fight, discussion, or trading market.
FREE. FOR. ALL.
First of all, I want a closed casket; I do not believe in people looking at me when I can’t look back or am ubable to make a smart aleck comment or two.
But more importantly, during the memorial service the following subjects will be OFF LIMITS:
MY DENIM BUTTONS: I like to wear vests for a variety of reasons; especially vests with large, spacious pockets. Pockets are the most important invention known to man, in my opinion. Seriously! When you’re vacuuming and you come across ten dollars in dimes under the couch, left there by the darling grandchildren who forgot they were stealing the dimes from Poppy’s change jar, you can stuff the dimes in your vest pockets instead of tossing them in the potted palm pot. I like pockets. You can put eggs in your pockets. That’s very helpful.
I had one vest that I wore until it rotted off my body. It has denim buttons, which did not rot. Their molecular cohesion continues to this very day. My children mock my denim buttons, my vests, and the fact that when I am wearing a vest I do not have to wear a bra. True story.
MY COOKING: I hate cooking. I’m too short to cook. Because I’m short I’m too close to the fire for safety, and the sparks get in my eyes and set my hair ablaze. Sure. Sure. That’s all true. I don’t want them talking about my cooking. It’s not my fault they liked to eat and would eat anything—even if I hated cooking it.
PREPPING, PARANOIA, AND THE POSSIBILITY I HAVE BUILT A SAFE ROOM UNDER THE BARN: I believe strongly in number ten cans of dehydrated sausage, and in the world ending badly. I believe strongly in the other shoe dropping. I’m Irish, after all.
OTHER ITEMS NOT TO BE DISCUSSED AT MY FUNERAL: My being a hermit; my bohemian decorating style; my hobo pots and pans; my dewlap.
Which brings me to Conner, my oldest grandson, who is absolutely forbidden to speak of my double chin. He calls it my dewlap . . . you know . . . just like a lizard’s, another good reason to keep that coffin lid down.
I’m sure there’s more to forbid, but I think I’ve got a few days yet. I’ll think on it.
Oh, and there is the working theory that I’ll never die, according to my son-in-law, Phillip.
This being his greatest fear.
Linda (Good as Gone) Zern
My funeral will be a free-for-all, knowing my family, unless I put my foot down now while I still can. NOTE: A free-for-all is a disorganized or unrestricted situation or event in which everyone may take part, especially a fight, discussion, or trading market.
FREE. FOR. ALL.
First of all, I want a closed casket; I do not believe in people looking at me when I can’t look back or am ubable to make a smart aleck comment or two.
But more importantly, during the memorial service the following subjects will be OFF LIMITS:
MY DENIM BUTTONS: I like to wear vests for a variety of reasons; especially vests with large, spacious pockets. Pockets are the most important invention known to man, in my opinion. Seriously! When you’re vacuuming and you come across ten dollars in dimes under the couch, left there by the darling grandchildren who forgot they were stealing the dimes from Poppy’s change jar, you can stuff the dimes in your vest pockets instead of tossing them in the potted palm pot. I like pockets. You can put eggs in your pockets. That’s very helpful.
I had one vest that I wore until it rotted off my body. It has denim buttons, which did not rot. Their molecular cohesion continues to this very day. My children mock my denim buttons, my vests, and the fact that when I am wearing a vest I do not have to wear a bra. True story.
MY COOKING: I hate cooking. I’m too short to cook. Because I’m short I’m too close to the fire for safety, and the sparks get in my eyes and set my hair ablaze. Sure. Sure. That’s all true. I don’t want them talking about my cooking. It’s not my fault they liked to eat and would eat anything—even if I hated cooking it.
PREPPING, PARANOIA, AND THE POSSIBILITY I HAVE BUILT A SAFE ROOM UNDER THE BARN: I believe strongly in number ten cans of dehydrated sausage, and in the world ending badly. I believe strongly in the other shoe dropping. I’m Irish, after all.
OTHER ITEMS NOT TO BE DISCUSSED AT MY FUNERAL: My being a hermit; my bohemian decorating style; my hobo pots and pans; my dewlap.
Which brings me to Conner, my oldest grandson, who is absolutely forbidden to speak of my double chin. He calls it my dewlap . . . you know . . . just like a lizard’s, another good reason to keep that coffin lid down.
I’m sure there’s more to forbid, but I think I’ve got a few days yet. I’ll think on it.
Oh, and there is the working theory that I’ll never die, according to my son-in-law, Phillip.
This being his greatest fear.
Linda (Good as Gone) Zern
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