Monday mumblings...

So I got this review today from this person. They classified Knock Three Times as a ‘c’ because the romance happened too quickly and there was too much sex. See yesterday’s blog observation on erotic romance. Was I upset at the ‘c’? Nah. Any publicity is good publicity. How is that? Well because people read the review and think – who is this Amarinda Jones chick who allows romance to happen straight away and lets her characters have sex on pool tables? What is that about? Let me go to her half-arsed website and see what other ‘c’ books she has. Okay, so maybe they do, maybe they don’t. The thing is getting your name out there one way or the other is a good thing and words only wound if you allow them to and bullets bounce off me, sunshine.

And while I don’t agree with the person’s words, I admire that she had the honesty to give her opinion. Too few people do that any more. As much as a writer wants every person to love their book, it doesn’t happen. That’s rule number one in writing. Develop a thick skin and take nothing personally. No one is going to continuously rate your books as a 5 out of 5 or even an A. If they did I would begin to wonder. Why? Because no one is continuously perfect. No one is not flawed. I would start to wonder if they were actually reading the book or just seeing a particular name and slapping a 5/5 on the review because everyone else was. I used to review books years ago. I know it happens. And we all know there is a huge compulsion for people to fit in and follow the herd. It’s completely understandable. Most people don’t want to stand alone. So yeah, a ‘C’ review? Sure, why not? It’s that person’s opinion and it cannot be dismissed. However, it doesn’t mean that I believe them.

Twenty years ago…

Author Barbara Huffert sent me a photo of herself 20 years ago. It was in relation to do with her blog. Click here to read her blog and see the photo. I sent her one of me 20 years ago – eyes left and then below right. I figure everyone is on holidays so it’s a good time to post them. I also sent her a vague, fuzzy one of me today. My father took it it’s a terrible picture. I don’t have a face as I am squinting into the sun and I am saying ‘I’m not bloody ready yet.’ Picture a blurry Mrs Potato head . Ah yes, those Kodak moments. Anyway, I was looking at the kid in the photo and I thought, I haven’t change much. Oh sure, there are wrinkles and things are dropping and spreading but essentially it’s the same face, same thighs, arse and attitude. My thoughts, the things that make me who I am remain. So why, if we remain the same people, do we worry about aging? I was not and am still not a beauty queen yet I like me a lot. Twenty years later the kid with the cheesy grin still lives. Would I have cared about getting a ‘c’ book review then? No, because I would have laughed at you. Me? Write books? Get real? Mind you 20 years ago I had no idea what I was going to do with my life…nothing changes.

Observation for today…

A man glassed his girlfriend in the face. Glassing, if you don’t know, is when someone attacks your face with a broken bottle or drinking glass. It’s a vicious crime. I just heard on the radio that the couple are ‘madly in love’ and want to be together after the whole police charges thing is cleared up. What the? Huh? What the hell is this woman on? I would make sure his arse was slammed behind bars. No one who attacks you loves you.

Want a good laugh and some jaw dropping sex? No, I don’t have the man for you but I do have the book for you - Traveller’s Refuge by Anny Cook is hot, hot and scorching hot. Wanna’ buy it? Click on the cover and while you are their check out the rest of the series. Why deny yourself any longer? What’s a credit card for anyway?

Two weeks after Traveller’s narrow escape from Vietnam he checked the nearly invisible threads along the apartment door jamb. As far as he could tell everything was as it should be, so he unlocked the door and gun in hand, went in fast and low. Nothing. Softly he retrieved his bag and shut the door, locking it securely before padding down the short hall to the living room of one of several apartments he and Dancer had rented under other names. All were shabby studio or one bedroom apartments located in shabby run down neighborhoods in shabby medium sized towns. No big cities. No small villages. Anonymity was easiest in middle town America. Since Dancer’s face had become too recognizable, Trav was mostly the one who rented them, casually mentioning that he was an independent trucker, on the road a lot.
He moved silently from room to room, checking out the kitchen and bedroom before slipping into the bathroom to take a quick leak. There was nothing more embarrassing than getting caught by the bad guys with your dick hanging out. He shook off, tucked in and zipped back up without ever putting the gun down. Some creeping premonition had the short hairs on his neck bristling. His pursuers weren’t far away. They’d been on his tail for the last two weeks, just inches from catching him at least twice that he knew of.
Returning to the living room, he slowly slumped down on the dusty, sagging couch and studied the violin and guitar cases resting on the battered trunk that did double-duty as a coffee table. Marco had mentioned that Dancer walked away with his guitar and violin, so clearly Dancer had made a stop at this apartment. Trav sighed and then ran his fingernail along the outside seam on the guitar case until he found the hidden latch for the secret compartment. There was a tiny snick before the back popped up about an inch. Sliding his fingers into the opening, he retrieved a sheaf of papers and flipped through them carefully. Will, portfolio, bank papers, a map, several keys and an envelope with his name on it. Setting all but the envelope aside, he opened it and slipped a single sheet out, unfolding it with mixed feelings—hope and relief.

Trav—
If you’re reading this, then I’ll have to assume that my plans were at least partially successful. Enclosed are keys for some spare vehicles, a map, the key to another place in case you need it and personal papers, (will, portfolio, banking stuff, etc.)
Knowing exactly what an ass Free is, I’m going to guess that he will eventually make you part of his vendetta. On the enclosed CD you’ll also find the evidence I’ve accumulated so far that points to him as the man behind our family’s murders. It wouldn’t stand up in court but then I don’t plan to take him to court!
Don’t go off half-cocked and try to get him. I want to know WHY they were murdered and he can’t tell us if he’s dead. If you decide to follow me, be very careful. I don’t plan ever to return to work for him. Know now that I’ll die first. In case I don’t see you again, I release you from your vow not to cut your hair. You may need to cut it short to change your appearance. A floor safe is located under the dresser in the back room. It has a few things you might need if Free’s declared open season. Feel free to use any of it (no pun intended!)
I love you. Until we meet again—
Dance
So. There it was in black and white. He examined the map carefully. Actually, it wasn’t so much a map as a series of symbols and letters. There wasn’t a single landmark on it that anyone outside of his family would recognize. Written and drawn in their private language, it revealed Dancer’s target destination and a list of supplies that Trav needed to bring with him. The location was just one of several they had set up since the death of their parents.
Dancer had gone to the cave on Bright Shadows Mountain—which meant that he was pursuing his long-term goal to find the woman who communicated with him telepathically. Trav shrugged. If that was what would make Dance happy, then he was all for it.
Setting the papers down on the trunk, he went to locate the safe. Its contents convinced him as nothing else would have that Dancer had spent considerable time and thought planning his escape. He whistled softly through his teeth as he counted the money, stacked tidily in mixed bricks of $1000. Thirty five bricks. No bills bigger than a twenty. No new bills. No sequential bills. That required a lot of patience and planning.
Arranged neatly next to the money were a variety of weapons, with ample ammunition, blank passports waiting for pictures and a lone key to an anonymous storage unit. As he sat on his heels, contemplating the contents of the safe, the itchy feeling that warned him of danger dramatically increased. Without further thought, he retrieved a battered brown leather pack from the closet and emptied the safe before closing it and pushing the dresser back into place.
Moving swiftly, he gathered Dance’s papers except for the map, shoved them back into the hidden compartment in the guitar case and locked it. Then, pocketing the map and keys, he silently raised the bedroom window, stepped on the fire escape with his packs and the instrument cases and quietly mounted the stairs to the roof.
From there, he patiently checked his back trail and observed the neighborhood. Within moments he had pinpointed the strangers working their way from cover to cover and building to building. Flowing quietly across the roofs, he moved down the block until he reached a building containing a dry cleaner. He flipped up the trapdoor to the attic and dropped lightly inside with his baggage. Very softly, he closed and latched the door before settling down to wait for his host.
In a country very far away on a nasty, rainy night in a muddy alley, he had saved Chuin’s daughter’s life and prevented her rape. He was safer in Chuin’s attic than anywhere in the world. Stuffing his backpack beneath his head for a pillow, he stretched out for a long overdue nap before he worked out the details of his plan. That would be after he actually thought of a plan. So far, he’d been winging it and clearly, that wasn’t going to get the job done.

www.amarindajones.com
Go ahead: Live with abandon. Be outrageous at any age. What are you saving your best self for?