summer lovin'

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight. This week's guest is author Christina Edson.

It would seem Christina feels the same way I do about summer.

My alarm clock blasts me with loud, over-exhuberant deejays gossiping over last night’s reality TV drama. Before they could get into who clawed whose eyes out with fake nails, I swiftly whip my arm across and smack the snooze button with practiced precision. It’s the quickest I move in the morning. Hell, it’s often the fastest I move all day. I make a mental note to find another radio station to wake up to and then roll over and sink back into the cool comfort of my mattress.

I take a deep breath, shaking off the remnants of a weird dream involving an ex-boyfriend, a row boat, and sacrificing said ex to the volcano gods. Serves me right to eat Hagen-Daaz right before bed.

The sound of waves crashing into the shore of nearby Lake Huron lull me into a happy morning haze. Then it dawns on me. This is the sound of the end of summer. Rolling white-capped walls of water crash into the shore, stealing warm water away into the dark blue horizon. I roll out of bed with a renewed sense of purpose: enjoy the last few moments of summer to the fullest.

My love affair with this summer has been tepid with few steamy moments, but those annoying deejays assault my ears again and report that it’s ninety-seven percent humidity outside bringing the early morning temperature to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

Summer took its Viagara and it’s going to seduce me into a hot sweat.

I can’t wait.

My mojo reinvigorated, I put on my favorite summer dress and wriggle into my strapless bra. The air conditioning blasts cool air into my room. Seriously, who invented strapless bras? I’m assuming it was some clueless man.

I pour homemade iced tea into a travel mug, slide into my favorite pair of flip-flops, and sashay into summer’s warm embrace.

What the hell was I thinking?

Summer isn’t sexy. Summer isn’t seductive. Summer makes you hot, heavy and breathless, but not because of its prowess.

Instantly I break out into a sweat. And not some dainty girl glisten. When I sweat, all my pores are involved. Sweat drips everywhere, including places I didn’t know could sweat. My inner thighs slap, slap, slap together as I walk down the road.

And to make matters worse, my strapless bra seems to have joined an orchestra since I last put it on, happily squeaking and creaking every time I move my arms.

Slap, slap, slap, slap.

Squeak, squeak, creak.

Flip, flop, flip, flop.

Drip, drop.

Pant, pant.

So attractive.

Maybe that seems like the sounds of unbridled passion. But no. That’s just me walking to my car in humidity so thick and so dank it’s like being trapped in someone’s belly button.

Summer is not sexy.

Summer is the cute guy in the nightclub you’re eyeing through the bottom of your gin and tonic tumbler. You stumble home with him and wake up to realize that the hot guy is actually hairy and belches and farts at the same time.

Yup. Summer is Homer Simpson in Henry Cavill’s clothing.

So I’m breaking up with summer. I’ve had it with the chaffed thighs, the squeaky bras and the constant film of greasy smog smothering my skin.

Summer may look good from underneath my down duvet and ten blankets in the middle of February, but I will remember this moment.  Oh yes, I’ll remember this.

And if I don’t, smack me upside the head, will ya?

In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be in the cold pool waiting for fall to arrive.

Me too, Christina...Me too. 

Until the next time...I'll be sweltering in the late August heat. 

a dramatic reading

The BAFTA.  The Academy Award.  So few individuals have won either that I
feel obliged to point out that I have won both. 
 
Am I proving a point?  Or merely bragging?
 
Obviously I’m proving a point.  And the point is this:
 
The greatest villain in Disney history.  The greatest hero in Italian.  A dragon-mastering wizard.  The only man to outwite John McClane.  Some guy in that book by Evelyn Waugh. 
 
These are just a smattering of the
challenging, life-changing roles that I have played.  But no role has been MORE challenging (or
life-changing) than that posed to me by the fine individuals at the Red Adept Novels
Publication House.
 
Yes, as an actor I am constantly
challenging myself to evolve.  To
adapt.  To improve.  To master the craft to which I have attached
myself with a workhorse-like dedication.
 
That’s why I chose to take on the most
difficult role of my career: Katie James.  A young, American, female banker who finds herself getting in over her
head in a way such that she may wish she had the magical powers of Profian or
the political acumen of Alexander VI.
 
Sadly, she is possessed of
neither.  But today, through the power of
audio recording, she is possessed of my BAFTA (and Oscar) winning voice. 
 
Please, enjoy my rendition of TO KATIE
WITH LOVE, if for nothing else, then for the estate of Evelyn Waugh.
 
Sincerely,
 
SIR Jeremy Irons
 
Dictated, but not read
 
Sussex County Seat, July the Twenty-Third,
Year of Our Lord Two-Thousand and Thirteen

Disclaimer: Today's blog and dramatic reading is courtesy of fellow Red Adept Publishing author (and frequent guest) Stephen Kozeniewski NOT actor Jeremy Irons. I figured you already knew that, but since I'm not a fan of getting sued, I thought I should be clear. The audio presentation is a skillful interpretation of what chapter one of To Katie With Love would sound like if actor Jeremy Irons actually DID read it. Which he didn't. But we like to pretend. We're writers.

Get your copy of To Katie With Love today at Amazon.com for Kindle or in paperback. Also available for Nook from BN.com as well as select retailers.

a pro at crastination

This is Harvey doing the dishes

Weekly Guest Spotlight Featuring Harvey Chute, author of the upcoming Stone and Silt.

Thanks to Erica for honoring me with a guest post on her blog today. I'm filling in while Ms. Dean deals with the aftermath of her incinerated laptop - which likely got overheated from writing her little drabble, "Payback" last week.

Today is a perfect day for composing a blog post, as it offers me an excuse to avoid some needed household chores. Like clearing out the lush overhead gardens that are supposed to serve as our rain-gutters.

I live in the Pacific Northwest. Here, we get excited when the forecast calls for light showers with occasional drizzle breaks. The wetness of our lives surrounds us with greenery. That's all well and good when you’re walking in the woods, but distressing to see in our fuzzy moss-covered roof, which makes our home look like a set location for Peter Jackson's Shire.

The last time I cleaned out our gutters - during the Clinton administration, I believe - there were ferns growing up there. In lush soil that was home to healthy earthworms. Yes, I said earthworms! Yuck!

I'm a master at avoiding those unpleasant tasks. Procrastination is much maligned these days, but I take pride in elevating it to an art form.

This started in my college days, when I became a proficient juggler while avoiding my pile of calculus practice sheets. I started with three bean bags, which tended to stay put when they fell to the ground, and by the end of my first term progressed to four tennis balls. Differentiate that, Mr. Leibniz!

Then I learned a series of Beatles riffs on my cheapo guitar while avoiding English Lit reading assignments. I improved my frisbee-throwing skills while dodging chemistry labs. And, while carefully steering clear of my biology textbooks, I made progress in my ability to talk Daffy Duck-style. It's not as easy as it looks, folks.

I graduated from college with a middling GPA and, more importantly, a host of skills that have equipped me well to serve as everybody’s favorite uncle.

I tell you, though, I’m concerned about the next generation. My twin daughters have not acquired this procrastination skill. They should be genetically predisposed to the pursuit of frivolous avoidance activities. Like the ability to spin a quarter with one hand while catching a stack of them from the opposing elbow.

But no, not my girls. They come home from school and dutifully open their backpacks, covering the kitchen counter with their planners and textbooks and lined paper. Heads down. Pens skittering across the pages. They refuse to be diverted, and take pride in the impressive bumps of their writing calluses.

My wife and I worry for our offspring. We wonder where this sense of responsibility came from, and try to impose breaks for them. "Come on, girls, Jeopardy's starting!" But no, the little workers persevere, hunched over their books like two mirror-image Bob Cratchits.

Now school's out, and summer is here. The pace of our lives changes. I’m pleased to report that, on a ferryboat ride this week to the nearby San Juan islands, my girls spent an hour learning the Disappearing Quarter trick.

Perhaps there's hope for them yet.

~ ~ ~

Harvey Chute is the author of Stone and Silt, a historical mystery to be released on August 19th. Harvey blogs at harveychute.blogspot.com Well, when he isn't busy procrastinating, that is. 

Until the next time...I'll be back with our regularly scheduled programming

 

we interrupt our regular programming

Tonight, as a special treat, we have author Stephen Kozeniewski guest blogging for me because I was lazy...I mean Indy got bit by a snake and I was taking care of him. And I'm milking that excuse for at least another day. And no, I'm not drunk (though I do occasionally partake, despite what some  might think) but I think Stephen is.

Eh, at least I get the night off, right?

Ladies and gentlemen...I give you, Stephen Kozeniewski...  

Steve and unnamed pussy

Attention followers of Erica Lucke Dean!
 
I now control the vertical.
 
I now control the horizontal.
 
I now control the fluff.
 
Yes.  That’s right.  ALL the fluff in China.
 
Because Indy is sick.  So while Erica is taking care of doggy I am spelling her for a day on her blog.  I know it’s not normally guest post day (Saturdays, 12:00/11:00 central) but, I mean, come on.  Her dog got bit by a Coppertone.
 
What?  Sun tan lotion?  Yes I know.
 
Her dog got bit by an ophidian of some description. 
 
So, for today, one day only, you get a blue light special on me: Snephen Kozanflumflum.  (I forget how it’s spelled.) 
 
First of all, I want to point out that I have repeatedly canvassed Erica to change the name of her blog to Shit Out of Lucke.  (Clever, no?  Not, “Clever: no” but rather the interrogative.  But also the first thing.)  And every time she has responded, “Did you know Cooper was based on Harry Cargill?”
 
Yes.  Yes, we all know that.
 
The topic tonight is booze.  The reason behind said pre-aforementioned topic is that Erica, as you know, does not and should not drink.  However, if Sex and the City has taught me anything (and it hasn’t) it’s that romance people like their booze.  And that Baryshnikov is a terrible, terrible lover.  So two things, really, that it didn’t teach us.
 
My poison of choice is bourbon.  It’s not very ladylike, which is good, because I’m not.  Ladylike.  (Except for pedicures.  Those are awesome.)  And, specificagally, a brand of Old Bourbon called Booze Crow.  I’m drinking it right now, in fact.  You couldn’t tell.  That’s how good I am at wordsmithery.
 
And why not?  But, more importantly, why?  Because I’m an author.  A scrivener, a la Bartleby.  A writesman.  And if there’s one thing that everyone knows that they didn’t learn from Sex and the City, it’s that writesmans needs booze. 
 
And why not?  But more importantly, why?  Take Hemingway.  Please.  [rimshot]  It is a well-known and popular fact that Hemingway drank excessively all his life with no ill effects.  (ed – Hemingway shot himself as a result of morbid alcoholism.)
 
Or, as another example, take Poe.  Please.  [crickets]  Ahem.  [clears throat]  Poe also drank his whole life, and also, with no ill effects.  (ed – Poe also took his own life due to morbid alcoholism.)  Or Bukowski!  (ed – Bukowski…well, he died of leukemia.  But the booze probably didn’t help matters.)
 
But what is it about bourbon, brownest of the brown liquors, and Old Crow, oldest of the brownest of the brown liquors, that causes me to recommend it so highly?  Well, because Old Crow is a classic.  My friends, to a tee, make fun of me for this predilection. 
 
“Old Crow is a bottom shelf,” they say, or they would, if they were still talking to me.
 
“Ahhhh,” I would theoretically reply, “But was it not Dr. James Crow, the eponymous ‘Crow’ of the title, who invented the single batch sour mash process?”
 
To which nodding all around would be my reward.
 
So, I guess what I’m saying is: Kids, don’t drink.  It’s not cool.  Be cool.  Like Erica.  And feel better, Indy.  There, I was nice to a dog.  Proof positive of my humanity in these situations.
 
We now return you to your regularly scheduled flibberjibbetflurmypassthebour

bon…
 
Blog:  http://manuscriptsburn.blogspot.com
 
Twitter:  https://twitter.com/outfortune

Until the next time...I'll be enjoying my much deserved night off.