Hi all! Now through Monday, my children’s picture ebook (for kids age 3 to 6 and all adults!) is FREE on Amazon – available for download to your Kindle Fire or to your iPad with the Kindle reading app.
This is likely the only free promotion that’ll happen this year, so take advantage, and help spread the word about the book! (Reviews are always appreciated, too.)
I really hope you enjoy Higgenbloom and the Dancing Grandmas.
Here’s the book description:
Higgenbloom the Honey Bee didn’t fit in with the other bees who lived on Grandma Rosemary’s farm. Instead of working from sunup to sundown like the others, Higgenbloom was known for doing silly somersaults, breaking out in little bee boogies, and pretending he was a jet pilot, zooming from flower to flower and making himself quite dizzy. But sadly, Higgenbloom always played alone. One morning, Higgenbloom wanders off on his own (again), only to find himself in a heap of trouble — trapped inside a moving car and traveling away from the farm and everything he knows! Find out what happens when Higgenbloom goes on an adventure … and encounters some very cool Dancing Grandmas along the way. Packed with abundant silliness, interactive questions for children, and beautiful illustrations, Higgenbloom and the Dancing Grandmas is the perfect book for fun grandmothers who know how to “rock and roll,” grandchildren who love being silly, or anyone who has ever wanted to boogie down — no matter what others might think.
Thanks for reading!
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My rough-around-the-edges, Texas-rancher dad spent 25 years or so in a house with four females (and one bathroom for most of that time), and I never once heard him complain.
As he said to me when I recently asked him what the secret was to being married to my mom for 50 years, this is his philosophy: “I try to keep my head down and my mouth shut.”
Did I mention he’s fairly funny, too?
My dad with child-labor ranch-hand.
He probably learned that mantra in the Army, but hey, it’s not a bad plan. It’s also one that failed to sink in with his middle daughter. But ironically, I think I actually owe a good part of my outspoken nature to my dad.
You see, he may look to the world like a Tony Lama-boots- and Stetson hat-wearing good-old-boy from Waelder, Texas. But my dad is a highly intelligent man who, in partnership with my mom, gave us all an extraordinary gift: He made his daughters wholeheartedly believe that we could be anything we wanted to be, that we could do anything we set our minds to. As long as we worked hard and used our brains (that he helped cultivate, I might add), the world was ours to conquer.
In fact, I didn’t even really believe that sexism existed out there in the world — that girls were sometimes treated differently, as somehow less — until I got to college. You can imagine my anger and downright shock when I encountered blatant discrimination from a professor at Texas A&M. It was only then that I realized being a girl meant I’d need to work even harder to get to where I wanted to go.
But that was okay, too. Because my dad also taught me that no matter what life throws at you, you work through it. No matter how much something hurts, you find your grit and get up again the next morning.
Here’s a prime example of the kind of father my dad was when we were growing up. I decided on a whim one day, at age 17, that I wanted to work at the local radio station as a DJ. I had no experience, of course, or any idea of what the job entailed. But why would that have stopped me?
I didn’t ask my parents about the idea; I just headed down to the station and pitched myself to the owner, who just happened to need someone for the late-night shift — as in signing-off-at-midnight-with-the-national-anthem night shift. Neither of my parents blinked an eye when I told them about my new gig, and I started the following week.
I had my own wheels by then, so I didn’t need a ride to and from the station. And yet, every night, once I’d signed off the air, as I’d lock up the station alone and walk out to my car, I’d see my dad parked a few yards away in his old Chevy, just waiting. Maybe listening to some Waylon Jennings or CW McCall, or reading a Larry McMurty novel by the humming street light. Night dew already on the windshield, crickets chirping all around. I’d smile at him, give him a little wave, and then he’d follow me home.
He never once said I couldn’t do that job because it was dangerous, leaving the station so late, by myself, when everyone in the two-county broadcast area knew exactly where I was and when I’d be heading home. He never suggested I do something a little more ordinary, like a normal junior in high school might do.
He never said a word.
He was just there. Making sure I was okay. Even though it meant he had to stay up late, too.
He was just, always, there.
I knew he had my back, even though he’d raised me to be fearless.
Handsome grandpa, unknown stinkbug grandson
Now, when I think about how I’m raising my own son, I’m using that as my guide. Be fearless, kid. Grab your crazy idea and go for it. But I’m here. I’m always here. Just in case.
My dad may not be a man of many words, unless he’s telling old Army stories, but he certainly knows how to raise little girls to be headstrong, independent women who rarely take no for an answer.
Thank you, Daddy. (Yes, we all still call him that. We were raised in Texas, remember.)
Thank you for being our head-down, mouth-shut, loving hero who inspired us to be who we are today.
I kind of think that, even now, in your seventies, you’re still the glue that holds us all together.
Happy Father’s Day.
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Can I get a woohoo? How about a yeehaw? My latest novel, A Good Kind of Knowing, has won top honors from the National Federation of Press Women in its 2013 national writing competition. The book won first place in the Novel – Adult Readers category. The awards ceremony will take place this August in Salt Lake City. Earlier this year, the novel won the state competition, and that news was exciting enough. But national? Wow. I’m stunned!
To celebrate, the novel will be only 99 cents as an ebook on Amazon for a few days, so tell your friends, family, enemies, dogs, llamas, etc. Here’s the link.
Thank you so much for believing in my work. A national award is groovy, but whether you are a new reader or an “old” reader, your support is what matters most to me.
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I’m pleased to post the new book trailer/slideshow for my children’s picture ebook, Higgenbloom and the Dancing Grandmas! I hope it makes you smile (and maybe want to buy the book for your kiddos!)
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First, a quick note: I wrote this piece after reading an essay written by Lea Grover in the Huffiington Post, titled “Dear Less-Than-Perfect Mom.” The post by Lea was wonderful, and it made me think about us moms who found our sweet babies through adoption, and how we face unique challenges. I hope you enjoy it, whether you are the parent of an adopted child or not. Happy early Mother’s Day, everyone.
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Dear Mom of an Adopted Child,
I met you in adoption education class. I met you at the agency. I met you at my son’s school. I met you online. I met you on purpose. I met you by accident.
It doesn’t matter. The thing is, I knew you right away. I recognize the fierce determination. The grit. The fight. Because everything about what you have was a decision, and nothing about what you have was easy. You are the kind of woman who Makes.Things.Happen. After all, you made this happen, this family you have.
Maybe you prayed for it. Maybe you had to convince a partner it was the right thing. Maybe you did it alone. Maybe people told you to just be happy with what you had before. Maybe someone told you it simply wasn’t in God’s plans for you to have a child, this child whose hair you now brush lightly from his face. Maybe someone warned you about what happened to their cousin’s neighbor’s friend. Maybe you ignored them.
Maybe you planned for it for years. Maybe an opportunity dropped into your lap. Maybe you depleted your life-savings for it. Maybe it was not your first choice. But maybe it was.
Regardless, I know you. And I see how you hold on so tight. Sometimes too tight. Because that’s what we do, isn’t it?
I know about all those books you read back then. The ones everyone reads about sleep patterns and cloth versus disposable, yes, but the extra ones, too. About dealing with attachment disorders, breast milk banks, babies born addicted to alcohol, cocaine, meth. About cognitive delays, language deficiencies. About counseling support services, tax and insurance issues, open adoption pros and cons, legal rights.
I know about the fingerprinting, the background checks, the credit reports, the interviews, the references. I know about the classes, so many classes. I know the frustration of the never-ending paperwork. The hours of going over finances, of having garage sales and bake sales and whatever-it-takes sales to raise money to afford it all.
I know how you never lost sight of what you wanted.
I know about the match call, the soaring of everything inside you to cloud-height, even higher. And then the tucking of that away because, well, these things fall through, you know.
Maybe you told your mother, a few close friends. Maybe you shouted it to the world. Maybe you allowed yourself to decorate a baby’s room, buy a car seat. Maybe you bought a soft blanket, just that one blanket, and held it to your cheek every night.
I know about your home visits. I know about your knuckles, cracked and bleeding, from cleaning every square inch of your home the night before. I know about you burning the coffee cake and trying to fix your mascara before the social worker rang the doorbell.
And I know about the followup visits, when you hadn’t slept in three weeks because the baby had colic. I know how you wanted so badly to show that you had it all together, even though you were back to working more-than-full-time, maybe without maternity leave, without the family and casseroles and welcome-home balloons and plants.
And I’ve seen you in foreign countries, strange lands, staying in dirty hotels, taking weeks away from work, struggling to understand what’s being promised and what’s not. Struggling to offer your love to a little one who is unsettled and afraid. Waiting, wishing, greeting, loving, flying, nesting, coming home.
I’ve seen you down the street at the hospital when a baby was born, trying to figure out where you belong in the scene that’s emerging. I’ve seen your face as you hear a nurse whisper to the birthmother that she doesn’t have to go through with this. I’ve seen you trying so hard to give this birthmother all of your respect and patience and compassion in those moments—while you bite your lip and close your eyes, not knowing if she will change her mind, if this has all been a dream coming to an abrupt end in a sterile environment. Not knowing if this is your time. Not knowing so much.
I’ve seen you look down into a newborn infant’s eyes, wondering if he’s really yours, wondering if you can quiet your mind and good sense long enough to give yourself over completely.
And then, to have the child in your arms, at home, that first night. His little fingers curled around yours. His warm heart beating against yours.
I know that bliss. The perfect, guarded, hopeful bliss.
I also know about you on adoption day. The nerves that morning, the judge, the formality, the relief, the joy. The letting out of a breath maybe you didn’t even know you were holding for months. Months.
I’ve seen you meet your child’s birthparents and grandparents weeks or years down the road. I’ve seen you share your child with strangers who have his nose, his smile … people who love him because he’s one of them. I’ve seen you hold him in the evenings after those visits, when he’s shaken and confused and really just wants a stuffed animal and to rest his head on your shoulder.
I’ve seen you worry when your child brings home a family tree project from school. Or a request to bring in photos of him and his dad, so that the class can compare traits that are passed down, like blue eyes or square chins. I know you worry, because you can protect your child from a lot of things — but you can’t protect him from being different in a world so intent on celebrating sameness.
I’ve seen you at the doctor’s office, filling out medical histories, leaving blanks, question marks, hoping the little blanks don’t turn into big problems later on.
I’ve seen you answer all of the tough questions, the questions that have to do with why, and love, and how much, and where, and who, and how come, mama? How come?
I’ve seen you wonder how you’ll react the first time you hear the dreaded, “You’re not my real mom.” And I’ve seen you smile softly in the face of that question, remaining calm and loving, until you lock yourself in the bathroom and muffle your soft cries with the sound of the shower.
I’ve seen you cringe just a little when someone says your child is lucky to have you. Because you know with all your being it is the other way around.
But most of all, I want you to know that I’ve seen you look into your child’s eyes. And while you will never see a reflection of your own eyes there, you see something that’s just as powerful: A reflection of your complete and unstoppable love for this person who grew in the midst of your tears and laughter, and who, if torn from you, would be like losing yourself.
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Exciting news this week! The children’s picture book I’ve been mentioning for a few months now, Higgenbloom and the Dancing Grandmas, is officially out in the world.
My friend Katie MacGillivary did the amazing illustrations, and I am so proud of this project. I hope everyone enjoys it as much as we enjoyed bringing Higgenbloom and his friends to life.
The book is suitable for everyone but was written with children ages 3 to 6 in mind.
The book is available as an ebook on Amazon right now. Other distribution channels will be online soon. And if it sells well as an ebook, a hardcover will be printed in 2014. You can purchase the ebook here for your Kindle, iPad, desktop, or other type of tablet. You can even read it on your iPhone. All you have to do is download the free Kindle app for your device.
The book is about a cute little honey bee who likes to be silly. A lot. One morning, Higgenbloom wanders off and finds himself in a heap of trouble — trapped inside a moving car and traveling away from the farm and everything he knows! The day becomes quite an adventure when Higgenbloom encounters some very cool Dancing Grandmas along the way.
Packed with abundant silliness and interactive questions for children, Higgenbloom and the Dancing Grandmas celebrates grandmothers who like to “rock and roll,” grandchildren who love being silly, or anyone who has ever wanted to boogie down — no matter what others might think.
Higgenbloom is on Facebook, of course. Isn’t everybody? Please “like” the book here to help spread the word and stay on top of news and upcoming contests! He also has his own website, too, at higgenbloomthehoneybee.com.
Thanks, y’all, for supporting this latest work. It’s my third children’s book, but my first one that’s released for the general public and available as an ebook. Please let me know how you like it!
PS: I love telling the world that the old stereotype found so often in children’s literature of a grandmother wasting away life in a rocking chair isn’t quite reality for most of the grandmas I know. Grandmas rock!
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You know how most people lose socks? That’s how I lose bras. Yes, bras.
I think it’s because I’m always taking them off. Which sounds like I’m a floozy-ho-slut (technical term), but really it just means I hate wearing them, so I tend to rip those suckers off the moment I think I no longer need an over-the-shoulder boulder-holder. (Thanks for the term, Judy Blume.) That might include in my car, my office, the kitchen, the backyard … you get the picture.
So they just … disappear.
This is the bra that is missing. If you find it, please return immediately.
Right now, I have misplaced for several weeks my only beige-colored bra. That means I only have black bras to choose from, and one very bright red one with polka dots that hasn’t fit me since 1998. It also means that every time I dress for the world, I have to consider what shirt will work with a black bra. (Because I’m too cheap to go buy a new beige one when I KNOW the other one will turn up soon. And since I’m not really a floozy-ho-slut, I don’t want my black bra showing through my shirts. At least not all the time.)
This also means that half of my wardrobe is unwearable right now. And this means that I have to think too much in the mornings, which I try not to do.
This all leads up to one night this week when I was getting ready to go to see Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band in concert. I was choosing what to wear and of course did not have the aforementioned BEIGE bra. But I really, really wanted to wear a cute blouse that required a BEIGE bra.
In my infinite wisdom, I decided that going braless to a concert wasn’t a bad thing.
I mean, women do it all the time, right? At least they do at Willie Nelson concerts; there are usually tube-tops involved.
A rare moment on Willie’s bus (not). I love the Internet.
Now maybe those women aren’t as, errr, well-endowed as me, but it’s a thing. People do it. Besides, I just knew Bob Seger would be able to FEEL the overwhelming presence of my braless boobies from onstage. They would inspire him.
That’s how I came to be talking to a couple of guys at the concert who were seated in front of me who will very likely never forget me.
You see, I was leaning over a bit to talk because they were BELOW me, and the sleeve of my blouse caught the edge of the arm of my seat. Which shall we say pulled the fabric a bit (a lot) to the left. Which in turn caused a gap. Which in turn gave these lovely men a tumbling sort-of-oh-my-god-there’s-a-large-dangling boobie right-in-front-of-me kind of view.
We’re not talking flashing a little side boob here. There may or may not have been nipple involved.
I really hadn’t noticed anything was askew at first. Because I’d had a few adult beverages by this point. I was digging some “Turn the Page,” and I thought these two old hippie men were just really interested in my witty conversation.
But then I began to note that my chest was not the area where my witty conversation was emitting from, and yet that area was where they appeared to be focusing their attention.
I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this point. I think I said something like, “Oh, wow, would you look at that?”
In retrospect, I should have just said, “It’s for Bob,” and left it at that.
It was probably in reality only a second of a flash. But I have learned my lesson now: Don’t try to make witty conversation after several adult beverages. It’s not worth it.
It was all for you, Bob.
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My latest novel, A Good Kind of Knowing, has been out now since October (in ebook, since December in paperback), and this is the first time it’s been offered free as an ebook via Amazon. It’s a free promotion in advance of my blog tour, which begins next week.
If you’d like to try the novel, risk-free, this is when to download! The promotion goes from April 4 through April 7.
The book currently has 35 reader reviews on Amazon and a 4.5-star average rating. (Thank you, readers, who have offered your heartfelt reviews!) A friend recently told me that it was the most moving book she’s read in a long time. Wow. Just. Wow. So pleased with that kind of response to my work.
Feel free to share this information with friends. For every download, I hope that person enjoys the story enough to tell a friend.
Oh, and you don’t have to have a Kindle to get the free download. You just need to add the Kindle app to your iPad, android tablet, iPhone, desktop computer, whatever. You can get the free app here.
Thanks, always, for the support!
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So far, I’ve given you several peeks at the awfully cute Higgenbloom the Honey Bee from my forthcoming children’s book, Higgenbloom and the Dancing Grandmas. (Spring 2013 release date)
Now, here’s your first look at the Dancing Grandmas! (See below.) I personally think they ROCK, thanks to illustrator Kate MacGillivary.
And here’s the book’s official description: (recommended for children ages 3 to 6)
Higgenbloom the Honey Bee didn’t fit in with the other bees who lived on Grandma Rosemary’s farm. Instead of working from sunup to sundown like the others, Higgenbloom was known for doing silly somersaults, breaking out in little bee boogies, and pretending he was a jet pilot, zooming from flower to flower and making himself quite dizzy. But sadly, Higgenbloom always played alone. One morning, Higgenbloom wanders off on his own (again), only to find himself in a heap of trouble — trapped inside a moving car and traveling away from the farm and everything he knows!
Find out what happens when Higgenbloom goes on an adventure … and encounters some very cool Dancing Grandmas along the way. Packed with abundant silliness, interactive questions for children, and beautiful illustrations, Higgenbloom and the Dancing Grandmas is the perfect book for fun grandmothers who know how to “rock and roll,” grandchildren who love being silly, or anyone who has ever wanted to boogie down — no matter what others might think.
What do y’all think? Thanks for your support, always.
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For me, working on a children’s picture book is a completely different experience than working on adult fiction — because in a picture book, my words are only half the story. The illustrations that bring the characters and setting alive are so very important.
This week, I received the complete illustrations for my (third) children’s book, Higgenbloom and the Dancing Grandmas. And I am in love with the artwork. The illustrator, Kate MacGillivary, is beyond talented. I am just in awe at her amazing creativity. She’s tweaking some things, but it’s looking like we might be able to make our planned spring ebook release. Stay tuned for more info as I have it. Grandmas (and grandkids) everywhere are gonna love this book!
For now, though, here’s another peek into the world of Higgenbloom, a very silly honeybee:
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Hi all! Now through Monday, my children’s picture ebook (for kids age 3 to 6 and all adults!) is FREE on Amazon – available for download to your Kindle Fire or to your iPad with the Kindle reading app.
