Confessions of Depression

Pulling my past out of overloaded shelves and drawers is like pulling out my guts. It's the good, the bad, the ugly--the things I wanted to remember but had forgotten, the things I wanted to forget, but now remember.
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I'd knock over a bank if I could get away with it. Money makes the world go 'round, and  I want some of it. In fact, I want a lot of it. I want to pay off my kid's student loans and set him and his family up in a house of their own, and I want to make repairs around my own house and, yes, I want to buy those expensive orthotics for my aching feet and get some Juvederm on the side so I'll look really good when I attend my family reunion.
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I want to use my GPS, but don't know how to. A woman at my doctor's office was going to show me, but not realizing a cell phone was necessary, I hadn't come equipped.
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Going through the stacks of papers in my office, I found a spiral notebook from years ago in which I had recorded about three weeks worth of dreams, dreams in which I was belittled, berated, ignored, or deserted. Dreams in which I finally realized I had to go it alone.
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I also discovered a complete copy of one of my first novels, The Virgin Vampire. It was never in the book stores, of course, because back then one had to have an agent and a publisher, and I had no idea how to attract either one. I love my story, but now the story is thirty years out of date. Maybe I'll ask that the manuscript be included in my grave goods.

Oz, Trump, Dwarfs and Duggars

Dr. Oz says that using olive oil lowers chances of a premature death. Does that mean Fio's fingernails, which she daily dips in olive oil, will live longer?
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Fio thinks Trump's ideal world is one in which the men make loads of money and the women pose for nude photos. Notice that he hasn't blown up about those pictures of his wife.  Fio suspects he may have released them himself to show her off--sort of a yada-yada-ya-ya, look what I have and you don't. Perhaps he thought they'd bring in more votes.
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Fio used to watch The Little People until the Matt went meglomaniacal and all the right wing crazy stuff came out. She watches The Little Couple now, and hopes Bill Klein and Jen Arnold aren't as fake as the Roloffs turned out to be.  And then there are the Duggars, but that's a bigger story--pun intended.

Donald, Donald, Donald

Donald Trump is trying to buy the presidency, and everyone knows it's for sale, that the candidate with the bigger war chest wins.  Why else is Fio's email inbox overflowing with pleas for donations?
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The one good thing Fiorella can say about The Donald is that he's running on his own dime.  But that also means he doesn't have to answer to anybody.  Yes, he's free to bash anybody he wants to--and he does. Brown people, women people, hero people.
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A lot of people comment about his hair, but Fio is more concerned about what doesn't lie under it.

Enough Already!

As you know, Fiorella likes watching The Little Couple, the reality show starring dwarfs Bill Klein and Jennifer Arnold.  She likes the sweet way Bill and Jen deal with each other and their adopted dwarf children.  But every now and then she resents the wads of money that they throw around so easily.

Okay, Fio gets it that being a dwarf is expensive.  Their homes, cars, clothes--everything they own or use has to be adjusted to their disabilities.  Plus, they run up tremendous medical bills to treat various conditions caused by dwarfism.  And they have to hire people to assist them in the house and with their children.

But buying a second home on the Houston beach to use on weekends is too much.  And throwing a big birthday party involving pony rides and a petting zoo for a three-year-old was over the top,

Bill and Jen, Fiorella understands you have suffered and that you've worked hard and that you're good people.  But a little less conspicuous consumption, please.

Show Me the Money

Fiorella is tired of hearing that writing is fun but doesn't pay.  Au contraire, Fio knows people who make a lot of money at it.  The secret is that they write catchy stories and have figured out how to market themselves--the commodity won't sell unless it's interesting all the way through, and nobody will know about it unless someone spreads the word.

At least that's how it is in romance writing.

Thee first step to fame and fortune process is writing better, better, best.  Classes abound, but some are more helpful than others.  Fio recommends April Kihlstrom's Book-in-a-Week, which is not only on-line, but on Kindle and Nook.  You are not limited to one hard-scrabble week, and there's no pressure-drive for you to actually write a complete novel in one week.  Not only is Kihlstrom supportive, but she has a track record of thirty-some romances put out by top-flight publishers.  But if you're not the joiner type, you can do a pretty good job all by your lonesome by studying the techniques used by your favorite authors.  (Spoiler alert: you will never read a novel the same was again.  Is a writing career worth it to you?)

Fiorella can't give you much advice about the marketing side of the equation.  That's why she accepted the offer from Grand Central rather than publish independently.   But one thing she knows for sure--your best advertising is word of mouth, and the best way to get the good word out there is to write a crackerjack story.

It's a closed circle, but there very well may be a pot of gold somewhere along the way.

Competition, Sports, Money

Fio looked up at the TV just in time to see skateboarders coming down a ramp, somersaulting in mid air, and landing with their wheels still a-turnin'.

"Whatever the innovation, people will find a way to stretch its limits," Fio remarked to Husband.

"And turn it into a competitive sport," he replied. "Then charge for watching it."