Archive for February, 2013


I was going to The Book Tavern today, but it’s closed on Sundays. Adventure squashed, which is disappointing because they’re having a hella moving sale and I wanted to see if they, as an independent book store, had a lead on a local writer’s group. Instead, we’re going to see a movie, get food, and just chill.

My inbox was overflowing, so I unfortunately had to just delete most of it. All those undeleted blog mails that I really want to read and answer will have to wait. Wow, there’s still a lot of them.

I’ll leave you with this blog from The Writing Secrets of Seven Scribes.

One page at a time. True dat.

Have fun today, people. I’ll be picking apart Breaking Dawn, Part 2.


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Lemme start off by saying how much I wish there was a “like” feature on the blog. It would make it a hella’ lot easier to acknowledge that this morning I did indeed read the reader responses as to what they’d like to see on my blog, but I’m unable to think clearly and respond individually at the moment (I’ll get to it in a few) because I’m laughing my ass off distracted by my husband in the kitchen having a protracted (and loud) discussion with the dog about the bank and her lack of credit history.

When she goes to work with me, she gets “cookies” at the bank drive-through and is currently out of “cookies” at home. In a nutshell, she’s been informed she needs to get a job and build her credit with the bank because she’s eaten all the cookies and Daddy’s not buying her any more. He suggested stripping, because she did so well at flashing for beads, and minimum wage burger-flipping won’t maintain the extravagant lifestyle to which she has been accustomed. Maybe get a sugar daddy, because her daddy is cutting her off and her little boyfriend, Tyrone, is a scrub.


That’s Tyrone, the neighbor’s dog, laying on the porch waiting for Lily to come outside.

Then he sneezed and all hell broke loose.

I can sneeze and Lily could care less, anyone else–but especially her father–and Lily must shove her sizable nose in their mouths to slay the demons spewing forth. She can be in a dead sleep and hear him sneeze, and come completely unglued. Not laughing is not an option. I get the glare of death and just laugh harder.

Hubs says Lily doesn’t attack me because I am the head demon and she knows her limits.

I say he’s getting extra pepper on his steak tonight for distracting me from my work for an hour.



No news is good news until it’s bad news. I may need another pill, but I have not yet been rejected. That’s a plus.

Book Deux is coming along. Esteban and Lien, having found inspiration in the works of Byron and Poe, are talking again.

I also stumbled into a charity anthology, with friends, that’ll be out this fall. Details as soon as everything is settled.

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I got… nothin’?

Nothin’. And it’s vexing.

(That was a five-dollar word, so watch your step.)

For a week or so–ok, since New Year’s Eve–I’ve hesitated in posting because I got it, rightly-possibly-maybe, in my head that my blog needed a theme–some commonality to the posts so that everyone would know what to expect out of my blog instead of some hodgepodge of thoughts, build your platform, sweet cheeks, and realized I got nothin’.


What exactly am I supposed to talk about on a recurring basis that hasn’t already been done to death?

I love New Orleans, but I see hundreds of blogs that lead you down that path and show you that world through an author’s eyes.  Yes, every author’s eyes are unique, but how many times does one need to hear about it? I miss it. There it is. I imagine hearing, “Shut up, already.” every time I bring it up.

There’s ghost stories, but I only have a handful of personal experiences, and once they’re told, what do you tell?

I’m huge on Pit Bull advocacy, koi/fish keeping, and animals in general, but again, I see hundreds of those.

My husband is pretty damned hilarious sometimes, evidenced only by the fact that “sperm whale cheese” is the top search term, ever, on this blog, but it makes me feel a little like a weak attempt at The Bloggess when I post about him the way she does about her husband. I love Jenny, she’s awesome. I can’t compete and don’t want to try.

I have brain chemistry issues, anxiety issues, and could go on about that. Done, and in better ways than I ever could, but I don’t really want to go there, anyway. I’ve touched on it, sure, but there are just some things the readers of Horse and Hound do not need to know.

So, what would you want to know? What could a not-yet-published, wish-to-hell-she-was, writer say that could be interesting?

Yes, I’m asking, and hope you’ll answer, because I don’t know. Outside of my head, I’m kinda boring.

My banner picture is one taken from my hotel room in New Orleans, overlooking Frenchman Street, the week I decided this whole writing gig was on. My room–a room of one’s own?–with a view. This blog might be a rubber room with a view, but, hey! Here it is.

Damn. I like that title.

Mandatory cute puppy pic attached.

Of course she flashed for those beads. *duh*

Of course she flashed for those beads. *duh*

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Courtesy of: MOI

Courtesy of: MOI

I can’t do it. I can’t not mention that Mardi Gras is Tuesday and that I’ve been a whiny little girl for a month.

Never mind that I’m not fond of the idea of being in town when a million tourists swarm the streets, or that I’ve never gone down for Carnival at all, so I don’t know what I’m missing, not really. It’s the point. I’m not there and I wanna be there, everyday.

So, this Tuesday, my daughter and I will be making up some Heathen’s Etouffee, grabbing a sad, sad version of what passes for a King Cake around here, and doing the best we can to celebrate.

We live among heathens, it’s the best we can do.

I’ll leave you with some videos that, I assure you, I will wear out for the next few days.

Laissez bon temps rouler.

ETA: Gotta have Steve Earle

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My Day in GIFS

When you have a sub out and you’re antsy as hell because you want to hear this…


But, it’s been so long with no response that you’re expecting this…


No news is good news, though, right? So, you start to feel like this…


And you wish someone would just…




Then someone makes the mistake of asking you how things are going…


And they’re all like…


So, they leave and you sit and watch your inbox and stuff your face.


And your husband comes in the room and asks if you’ve heard anything.


So, you check your email again. Twelve times.




Nothing. It was spam.

So, you do this instead.


and scene.


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