The Great Escape

Seeing Me got two nice reviews.

One from Simply Romance Reviews said: "...the heroine who at times exhibits a remarkably strong case of “foot-in-mouth” disease that is charming. The erotic scene is poignant for its sweetness. The hero for all his hype and reputation is endearing for his modest, almost shy personality in private. Seeing Me is an enjoyable read for those that aren’t looking for kink, but instead a satisfying romance."

And Romance Reviews TodayErotica rated it multiple O’s (which has to be good) and said it was: "An enticing short story, ..." Seeing Me is a Quickie from Ellora’s Cave.

The Great Escape.

No, I’m not necessarily talking about my escape from headgear bondage…let me rephrase that, from my medical bondage…that doesn’t work either…ah hell, I don’t mean getting this thing off my head. Though I’m counting the hours to freedom and dreading the drive back home to wash the gunk out of my head. I have my trusty hoodie ready to go. I tried a scarf, but I look like I’m smuggling something and I really don’t want to meet the Cobb County drug dogs.

By the great escape I’m referring to a tactical error I may have made yesterday. Okay, I’m not the world’s best housekeeper. I have four dogs, there is dog hair on my floor. I have paw prints on my carpet where the red clay has stained it. I don’t dust nearly as often as I should. So I got a little behind on the bird cage this week.

Yesterday I took the cage outside to clean it really well. The birds were still in it, and I cleaned it while they sunned themselves. The only problem is I think they liked their taste of freedom a bit too much. Now they are plotting escape.

No I didn’t bump my head and I haven’t received a nasty shock from my battery pack. I know the two criminals are plotting their escape. Don’t be fooled by their innocent look. Every time they think I’m not looking they start testing the cage for signs of weakness. Even now, when they think I’m busy making the clacking noises, I can see them. Pip, the blue one, is climbing the wall of the cage and pecking at the wires with it’s beak. Green-bird, yes that’s it’s name, is standing on the food dish pecking at the little door that slides up to take the dishes in and out. Earlier I saw them hanging to either side of the door pecking at it.

I’m telling you they tasted freedom and now they want out. Next thing I know they’ll be dragging their little metal bell across the bars screaming, “Let me out you stinking screw.” (Yes, my mother watched Cell Block H when I was growing up.) In fact right now Pip has started wrestling with the bell. I tell you one of them is a little birdie MacGyver who is figuring out how to blow the door off the cage with bird seed, a small metal bell and a mirror.

You know, that was two television references in the space of a single paragraph. Odd if you consider the fact that I haven’t really watched television in almost five years if you don’t count occasionally watching American Idol. I am hooked this season. I love little folksy Brooke with her whole Carol King-ish persona and David Cook. I like that he causes controversy and think he’s actually very talented. Chris Cornell can shut up. The dude from Crowded House was doing an acoustic version of Billy Jean way, way, way back.

But the hometown dude Michael Johns, the Australian who claims to be from Buckhead (not the town, mind you-this is a neighborhood in Atlanta) has got to go. He’s the guy who ends up singing on the Love Boat because he can’t get any other gigs. He annoys the crap out of me and if he tries to do one more Queen song Freddie Mercury is going to rise up out of his grave and smite the dude.

Anyway. If I think about it, it’s odd that I don’t watch television any more. My family could not function without a television. It was the center point of our family. Tonight we watched this, tomorrow night it was that. And heaven help us on the nights the Dukes of Hazzard was on because you had to tiptoe around so my stepdad could hear it.

Even now the tv runs night and day as long as someone is awake. It is a constant drone in the back ground. Recently on a visit it was driving me crazy. Everyone was in the dinning area playing cards so I turned it off. About ten minutes later someone looks up and says, "What's that noise." I swear it was straight out of a sitcom. They actually made me turn it back on even though no one was watching it. My mom said the quiet was creepy. I know I'm so adopted.

My stepdad and I bonded over television. We were both Trekkers, the only thing we had in common back then. We could sit down in peace and watch reruns of the original series and The Next Generation. This was our truce, our neutral territory in the war. A war that lasted until we both realized that in fact we were pawns in a much more devious game. Neither of us were generals, we were hostages in my mother’s Machiavellian quest for supremacy. Divide and conquer.

It worked until we saw through her plan. Together we now make her pay for her treachery. It’s amazing how much damage a second universal remote can do. Not to mention technology she can’t figure out. “You want to watch what, Mom?” I say innocently. “Well I know the tv guide says it’s on, but look for yourself, this is the right channel it’s not here.” *evil laughing ensues*

Don’t feel sorry for her! Do you have any idea how many times she’s made us watch the Barbara Streisand version of A Star Is Born? Do you know how many Elvis movies she’s tortured us with? I get nauseous just thinking about Charro.


Friday is the deadline for the contest. I’m looking forward to going through the entries. The contest is to celebrate the release of Mating Stone by Ellora’s Cave. The hero of Mating Stone, Mark Ursine is a Were-Bear as is his twin brother Luke the hero of the upcoming July release, Lovers’ Stone. The Ursines present their lady loves with stones rather than engagement rings. For Mark and Sarah it’s an amethyst. So to win the 17” freshwater pearl and amethyst necklace here’s what you need to do. Write a brief answer to the following question and send it to ElyssaWrites@aol.com with “Mating Stone Contest” in the subject line. I’ll pick the best response as the winner, and two honorable mentions to receive smaller prizes. The winning entries will appear in my blog on April 13th.

In Mating Stone, Mark falls in love with Sarah. Sarah, a young human woman who has no idea that Were’s even exist beyond novels and movies. Strictly fictional. As a human woman, how do you react when Mr. Yummy tells you he’s the one with claws and may just leave fur on the sheets? So tell me: What type of Were is Mr. Wonderful and how does he break it to you?

Radio Free Mars

Yeah, a weird title, but I do think I'm picking up signals.

Friday is the deadline for the contest. I’m looking forward to going through the entries. The contest is to celebrate the release of Mating Stone by Ellora’s Cave.

The hero of Mating Stone, Mark Ursine is a Were-Bear as is his twin brother Luke the hero of the upcoming July release, Lovers’ Stone. The Ursines present their lady loves with stones rather than engagement rings. For Mark and Sarah it’s an amethyst. So to win the 17” freshwater pearl and amethyst necklace here’s what you need to do. Write a brief answer to the following question and send it to ElyssaWrites@aol.com with “Mating Stone Contest” in the subject line. I’ll pick the best response as the winner, and two honorable mentions to receive smaller prizes. The winning entries will appear in my blog on April 13th.

In Mating Stone, Mark falls in love with Sarah. Sarah, a young human woman who has no idea that Were’s even exist beyond novels and movies. Strictly fictional. As a human woman, how do you react when Mr. Yummy tells you he’s the one with claws and may just leave fur on the sheets? So tell me: What type of Were is Mr. Wonderful and how does he break it to you?


I’m still wired up. I’m on day two and a half and the crap news is I have one more day and night to go. Let me tell you, you haven’t slept until you’ve tried to sleep with about five pounds of wires, electrodes, gauze and tape on your head without messing it up. And that doesn’t even begin to cover the joys of having a chin strap to the headgear so it doesn’t pull off at night and having to watch out for the box everything is attached to.

The cord is only about 2, 2 ½ feet long so it doesn’t give you much stretch. And the damned adhesive is starting to itch which isn’t helped by the fact that I haven’t been able to wash my hair since Monday morning. Did manage a bath last night but it was worthy of America’s Funniest Home Videos to watch me try to bath while the SO stands over me holding the circuitry out of the way. I’d say I owed my darling big time, but the chuckles at my bizarre appearance should about cover it.

I’m also pretty much stuck in the house and nature had been a real bitch because it’s been absolutely beautiful. I could be getting so much gardening done. *sigh* Usually on my spring break I go into town. Into Atlanta I mean. I’m technically OTP (Outside the Perimeter) which to someone from the ATL translates to hick or leper, and to the rest of the world it means I live outside the I285 loop around the city. We have a nice little neighborhood that unfortunately is rather harshly infested with HOA disease. (Home Owners Association) Now I have no gripe with most HOAs. They keep up common areas, make sure no one turns their yard into a flea market or graveyard for old automobiles and represent the residents on zoning issues and the like.

But I do have a gripe with our particular HOA. We no longer belong because we didn’t see eye to eye with several of the members and didn’t like the way certain neighbors went about settling differences of opinion. Threatening to cite my house because I don’t vote your way or give you my proxy only makes me pissed off and nasty. Not all of us are retired and have nothing to do all day but work on our homes. Not all of us have the money for a new coat of paint every couple of years. And some of us are such monumental klutzes that we have spent most of the last year unable to do most yard work. (All in one year: broken foot x2 and a dislocated knee- I’m talented folks. If there’s a chance I can injure myself I will.)

Anyway, it’s another lovely day in the neighborhood. The pollen is coating everything, the sun is shining, my cocker spaniel is whimpering out the back door because she’s just sure if mom would let her out she could catch that train going by and my birds are about to find out what it’s like to be born free if they don’t stop imitating the blasted house alarm. No, I wouldn’t really do that. Do not send me hate mail and animal rights information. I know Pip and Green-bird could not possibly survive on their own. Besides I live with flippin’ Marlin Perkins who names snails, insists they play and gets very upset with me when they die.

I had a point… Oh, yeah. Now I remember. The only thing I can say about being stuck like this is that it’s given me time to write and time to read. We won’t talk about the book I’m currently trying to wade through. It is for my book group and it frankly sucks. But I have gotten to read a good one recently. Before I picked up “My Writer Is Pretentious and Boring and So Am I,” I read a great Cerridwen Press book.

Blame it on the Ghost by Delia Carnell was one I picked up on impulse and I’m very glad I did. The story was well written and nicely paced. Romance writer Amberly Ross finds herself the victim of a mix up when she and horror writer Dylan Hart are both asked to house sit for a mutual friend. The friend can’t be reached to clear it up, so the only choice is to try to cohabitate without killing each other. Sparks fly in more ways than one and soon the reader is drawn into the story that pushes the two reluctant writers together with a little paranormal help. Is the beach house really haunted? And if so, is the ghost responsible for playing matchmaker?

I really enjoyed the dialogue between the two characters. When writing a book like this, it is easy to go overboard on the animosity and create a battle of wits that eventually begins to annoy the hell out of the reader. The heroine turns bitchy and hard and the hero turns into an ass. Carnell avoids this and rips open her characters to show us the gooey, hurting centers of those hard shells. I highly recommend this one.

Okay, back to writing. I have a werewolf having a rather nasty argument with his mate and I need to get back to them before Evan does something stupid. This is the follow up to Measure of Healing and he has to be the most out of control character I’ve ever dealt with. Evan has been jerking me around for a while now, suddenly insisting that I write this, or that I forgot that scene where he… Just when I’ve got the pacing down and know what happens next he throws me a curve. Wolves! Mages! All are pains in the…

Take me to your leader...

Greetings Earthlings. I am the Borg Queen. Okay, so I'm not but I damned well feel like I am. I currently have a bizzillion electrodes running from my head to a small box strapped to my waist. My doctor, in the usual over reacting doctor way that will probably save my life one day but when she's wrong it annoys the crap out of me, sent me to a neurologist recently because I had an incident where I woke up on the floor with no idea how I got there but with a ginormous bruise on my right arm and a nightstand where the bolt holding the knob in place had been bent to almost a 90 degree angle when I hit it.

Neurologist says? I probably fainted but hey, let's run some tests. Unfortunately for me one of those tests is a 72 hour, ambulatory eeg. So now I'm wired for action. I have to write down everything I do and what time I do it. It makes me want to make up strange things.

15:00:00 Boarded airplane
15:02:00 Plane lifted off
15:14:00 Jumped out of plane
15:15:00 hit ground

I also wonder how many times a day I could write "had sex" and still be believed. Would I have to detail each step? Hell, if I'm going to do that I'm going to charge them. I am a professional erotica/romance writer after all. I can't go giving it away.

Did you ever have a secret that you wanted really badly to tell the whole world but someone else was just a superstitious kill joy? No I can't explain further, see previous sentence.

It is spring break. Lovely, lovely spring break. You know I used to love Spring. It wasn't my favorite time of year, no that's winter. But I enjoyed being able to get out and plant flowers and trim trees and all those lovely spring time chores. I actually enjoy mulching and rocking flower beds.

Or rather, I used to. I love where I live. I fell in love with Atlanta the moment I arrived on a visit over 8 years ago. But no one warned me about the two biggest plagues of my Southern life.

First of all, the pollen. Those pines, oaks, sweet gums and birch trees all produce large amounts of pollen. So much pollen that it is called yellow snow. I'm not kidding, the stuff coats the ground, rivers and streams run yellow with the floating menace. You can write your name in it.

According to allergy specialists, pollen is measured by how many particles are in a given amount of collected air. A moderate rate of pollen is 31-60, high is 61-120. The pollen count today in the fair City of Atlanta is 1705. No, that wasn’t a typo. 1750. Everything is coated with it, if you have allergies it makes your eyes water and your skin itch. So it’s hard to enjoy being out of doors.

The second limiter is the red Georgia soil. The high clay content of the soil makes it hard to grow certain plants…well, a lot of plants. My roses seem to love it, but most everything else barely grows or doesn’t grow. We’ve seeded the backyard four times since we moved in. Those scrubby bushes? Those are 6 year old boxwoods that won’t grow any larger because of the poor soil. We’ve been told our only hope is to either rock it all and do a container garden or have it terraced and truck in fill dirt. Neither option seems viable financially or aesthetically.

Okay, I’m off to do something that will look shocking on my medical log. Maybe I’ll write down that I’m about to have a sandwich made of pre-embryonic chickens. I think there’s still some egg salad left.

Contest. Still running. Win pretty necklace. Tell me, if you discovered you perfect man was a Were creature, what type of Were is Mr. Wonderful and how does he break it to you?
Email your answer to ElyssaWrites@aol.com by April 11th.

Jae has a day out

First off: Contest. Still running. Win pretty necklace. Tell me, if you discovered your perfect man was a Were creature, what type of Were is Mr. Wonderful and how does he break it to you?
Email your answer to ElyssaWrites@aol.com by April 11th.

Had a very interesting day today. Okay, not so very interesting but relaxing and fun. We started the day with a matinee. I love movies but my SO isn’t so fond of them. So usually I’m on my own at the theater on weekends when work calls my Precious away. (I know Precious sounds silly, but you should see the reaction it gets. I’m certain the teeth grinding can be heard for miles.) It’s just one of those loving little things I like to do to show how sensitive and caring I am.

As I was saying I finally drug the hermit crab out of the house and to the movie theater today. I must admit that crabby was a good sport over all about it when I ignored the sarcastic muttering of, “Just wants to see it because he’s in it.” We went to see Nim’s Island. We both enjoyed it a lot. It was a nice family movie with no sexual innuendo, no cursing or violence beyond flying lizards. The film was charming and sweet. It was a big hit with all the kids sitting around us and with the adults too.

Nim’s Island is the story of a young girl who finds herself alone on an uncharted island after her scientist father becomes lost at sea in a storm. She turns to her literary hero, Alex Rover for help. Only Alex, he isn’t really a high-flying adventurer. In fact, he is a she and she’s an agoraphobic writer who hasn’t left her house for months. But with the imaginary Alex Rover coaxing her along, she goes to help Nim, who it turns out doesn’t need that much help beyond someone to comfort her as she fears her father is dead.

As a writer I found this movie interesting on a whole different level. It was a good movie and I think will be one that does well. But the character of Alexandra Rover, the writer –played by Jody Foster, was fascinating to me. Not everyone creates characters the same way. Just pop over to Amarinda Jones’ blog (she’s talking about creating heroes today in a very tongue in cheek way) and you’ll see what I mean. What struck me is that I could identify so strongly with this character. You see her main character, Alex Rover –played by Gerard Butler, is very real to her. She’s written him through several books and fictional adventures.

The film shows several scenes where she, the writer, is having an actual conversation with her character. Okay, hand in air, I do that. Not always out loud, but for me characters are these separate entities, these people that are born from my mind and who drive the direction of the story. They don’t always wait for me to tell them what to do. They certainly don’t wait for me to tell them who they are, they tell me.

More than once I’ve had a character drop a bombshell on me. Once, while writing a scene where two characters were talking about a girl who had died, the character that had been her fiancé suddenly announced that the girl had been pregnant at the time of her death. It explained the animosity and ruthless quest for vengeance in him that I had been struggling to justify. He did it for me.

So those of you who are writers, care to share your character “birthing” process?

After the movie…yes, I did finally get back to the day I had, we went for barbeque. Now I fully admit to being an omnivore and am not ashamed that I eat meat. I fully support animal rights and think that there should be stiff penalties for those who harm animals. I personally think Michael Vick got off easy, but that’s a whole different argument. But for me, there is nothing quite like the smell and taste of good, old-fashioned, slow pit roasted barbeque. Anny Cook recently asked in her blog what the difference was between St. Louis ribs and baby back ribs. I asked. The manager said that St. Louis ribs are slow pit roasted ribs that are cut from the actual rib cage. Baby backs are the lower ribs and are filled not with actual rib bones but with smaller bonelettes and cartilage. Either way, both are good eating.

I was surprised to see that Charlton Heston died. His politics couldn’t have been more disparate from mine, but you had to admit the man could command his time on the screen. He was a true King of the Epic. Where muscles, violence, and speaking very loud are what’s called for. To many people his is the image that first comes to mind when you think of Moses. He was Legend before Will Smith in the Omega Man. And he was the human ambassador to the future in Planet of the Apes. The final scene of that movie is iconic cinema.

I’ve lately become disturbed by the names of people I see dying or who are celebrating birthdays that have me shaking my head in disbelief. I don’t mean people like Heath Ledger whose death was a tragedy and untimely. They aren’t the old school actors that my grandparents watched, but are people I remember watching in films that came out in the theater or in first runs on television. Joan Jett is turning 50. Joan Jett. 50. Now I’m not saying that she’s an old woman. She’s not. She looks damn good. But 50? Am I really that old? Why don’t I feel that old? I grew up watching Joan Jett on MTV. The Runaways played at the first concert I ever went to without a parent along to chaperone.

I wonder? Am I beginning my midlife crisis? Am I allowed to have a midlife crisis? What exactly is a midlife crisis? If you can answer any of these questions, please do so.

God's Name In Vane

When I signed on to my AOL account today, the big news was the removal of 52 young girls from a fundamentalist Christian camp in Texas. According to the story girls from the ages of 6 months to 17 years were taken into temporary custody while the state investigated allegations of physical abuse made by one of the girls. In the end 18 girls were put into State custody.

There are several elements of this story I found disturbing. First of all, the allegations include that at least two sixteen year-olds were married to older relatives and that this was facilitated by the head of their church. In fact, the article I read indicated that one of the 16 year-olds had been married off to a 50 year old man. There were indications of polygamy. Now I’m a big supporter of the First Amendment. I believe in the separation of church and state. I don’t think the government has a right to tell me how to pray or what to believe. I’m not all that upset by polygamy as long as the people are consenting adults and are not being coerced. That’s their business. I also don’t think the government has any business in someone’s bedroom or telling people how to raise their children. Unless people are getting hurt and if the allegations in this case are true, it seems that that is the case.

I know I’m gonna take flack for this. I know I’m going to make someone angry. I know that in times past it wasn’t uncommon for there to be arranged marriages. I know it wasn’t uncommon for a 16 year-old to be married and even married to an older man. I know someone will tell me about their grandmother who was married at 14 to a man 4 times her age and how it was a loving and happy marriage.

But if the allegations are true this is just wrong. There is a big difference between a 16 year-old girl marrying her 18 year old boyfriend because they were too stupid, arrogant or afraid to use birth control. In my eyes, if that’s why they’re getting married it’s not exactly a good idea either.

Another question that this raised was “What about the boys?” Girls were removed, but what about the boys involved in this group? Was it that they had no evidence or suspicion of physical abuse to the boys? If so, and they truly believe the girls were in danger, then the State people are stupid. Systemic abuse, which is what seems to be being alleged here, is not discriminatory. If the girls are being physically harmed, so are the boys.

This brings up a subject no one in our society wants to talk about, one we are so loath to consider that we rationalize it away. Males can be victims of sexual abuse. While we all intellectually know this to be true, it is a strong message in our society that there is a distinct difference between sexual abuse perpetrated against a girl and that which targets a boy. We as a society have been fighting back against the stigma that a woman or girl “asked for” the abuse or rape. We see them as victims.

We don’t often afford men and boys the same consideration. If a man reports a rape, the associated stigma is much stronger. So strong that the majority of male victims never report sexual assaults for fear of being ridiculed, thought to be weak or even worse in some people’s eyes, being labeled homosexual. If a girl of 15 or 16 is seduced by an older man, we see that as a crime. If a boy of 15 or 16 is seduced by an older woman, people don’t react the same way. The reaction is often one of “lucky boy.” Maybe this is why stories of female teachers engaging in inappropriate relations with their students get national news coverage, while male teachers are often limited to the local paper. Society finds it titillating and shocking to see a woman as an abuser.

The final issue this story raised for me was one of sympathy. Sympathy for the fundamentalist Christians who so often are painted with the same brush as those who engage in behavior that is scandalous, immoral or illegal. Stories like this can perpetuate the image of Christian groups as “crazy” or hypocritical. And it is often made worse by the comments of people who respond to blogs and stories online. When people see a story like this one, one in which no one has been convicted of a crime. One in which we are talking about a small fringe element, it reinforces the negative stereotype of Christians as intolerant and clandestinely sick or depraved. When someone posts a comment on a blog blasting one or another minority group or individual and using God as a justification, it can harden the hearts of the world against Christians as a whole.

None of us can control the extremists or crazies of groups to which we belong. As a Christian I’m appalled and horrified that anyone would use God and the loving message of Jesus to justify harming anyone. So as a Christian I have a message for those extremists. Stop using Jesus as an excuse to be a narrow-minded, bigoted, depraved asshole. And yes, I just cussed. Somehow, I think God will understand.


Reminder, the contest is still going and I’m getting some very creative answers. Don’t be shy, it only takes a moment to enter. You can enter up 'til April 11th to win the 17" double strand of freshwater pearls and amethyst beads. The contest is to celebrate the wonderful response of readers and reviewers to Mating Stone. In Mating Stone, Mark falls in love with Sarah. Sarah, a young human woman who has no idea that Were’s even exist beyond novels and movies. Strictly fictional. As a human woman, how do you react when your Mr. Yummy tells you he’s the one with claws and may just leave fur on the sheets? So tell me: What type of Were is Mr. Wonderful and how does he break it to you? Email your answer to ElyssaWrites@aol.com

Remembering Safety Dog

Today starts with very sad news. I received word from my ex that our dog Henry passed away early this morning. Henry was a 14 year old pug that was absolutely devoted to my ex and so custody was never an issue for us. I got generous visitation for the last 5 years, but it certainly wasn’t enough. Henry is the last of the first generation of my four legged children to leave us. They were the companions of my early adulthood and what seems like a whole lifetime past.

When we brought home our little pug puppy, he rode tucked into my ex’s jacket. I held him and started talking to him while waiting for my ex to come out of the store where we had stopped to pick up puppy food. We had an adult pug at home named Tootsie, but had read that pugs, in particular, get very lonely if they don’t have company. As I talked to the pup, going over a list of possible names to discuss I hit upon a family joke. When the eldest of my brothers was preparing to enter the world, my mother wanted to name him after his father. My stepfather refused. So they couldn’t settle on a name for him. My stepfather finally took to saying that he was just going to name the baby Henry Kissinger and be done with it. (This was the late 70’s.) My mother had fits, but still they couldn’t decide.

My brother was born caesarian section and my mother was under general anesthetic. As it would happen, my stepfather was also an inpatient at the time undergoing a rather serious back surgery. He’d fallen off a roof. My poor grandfather was running up and down the elevators between the maternity ward and the surgical ward. When my mother came out of anesthetic, my grandfather and stepfather played a cruel joke. My grandfather told her that because she was out of it, the nurses asked my stepfather what to name the baby and that her first son was now officially Henry Kissinger Neubig. He of course had not. He’d relented at the last and my brother became a number II.

Naming things Henry became a joke in my family. So as I’m holding the pup and thinking about it, I finally blurted out, “Well I guess we could just call you Henry.” I was stunned when the little pup lifted his head and looked me straight in the eye. He gazed at me for a moment and then lowered his head again and rooted for a comfortable spot to snooze. I giggled a bit and asked, “Is your name Henry? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” Again he lifted his little head and met my eye. This was not a response to my voice. I’d been talking out loud to him for a while at that point. I always talk to my pets. When my ex returned to the car and I explained what had happened it was agreed. His name was Henry.

Henry was the roundest puppy you ever saw. His little fat belly nearly touched the ground. He soon earned the AKC registration name of “Fat boy Henry.”

His more enduring and endearing trait would lead to his long standing nickname, one that even earned him his own song. Safety Dog.

Henry was rather nervous by nature and often seemed to look upon any unusual event or happening with an eye to it’s potential danger. He seemed to sense that his master, my ex, was essentially a clutz. When the lawnmower came out, he hid. When a power tool was plugged in, he’d come running to me, his alpha dog, with a worried expression creasing his little forehead and a face that seemed to say, “Do you know what the beta dog is doing now?” In all fairness to Henry, his master had managed to nearly take off a foot with the lawnmower on one occasion and frequently had cuts and scratches from other simple activities. His concern was warranted.

Safety dog’s most memorable lessons in life involved water. Water was not Henry’s friend. We took him fishing one day. He was on his leash and was snuffling his way hurriedly down the dock. Nose to wood he hustled along, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing…plop! He sniffed himself right over the edge. I grabbed the lease and his master dropped to the dock and lifted him out. When he was eye level to his beta dog, the look on his face had both his human’s laughing so hard his master couldn’t even lift him out of the water.

On another occasion his extra bulk broke the ice on a ditch causing Tootsie and him to drop into the icy water. The beta dog went in after them thinking it was only a shallow ditch. Wrong. The ditch was a good 6 feet deep and filled with freezing water. There was no laughing that day.

So with tears and sadness I say goodbye to Henry. Henry, who never met food he didn’t like. Henry, who snored loudly on the pillow next to his master’s head every night. Henry, who would give a grudging sigh and patiently put up with the antics of his large and goofy Rottweiler brother, Koeby. Goodbye Safety Dog. Toostie will be waiting to boss you about. Koeby will be waiting to welcome you and introduce you to all his squirrel friends. And Wallie. Sweet Baby Wallie will be waiting to give you a wag, a big lick on the face and to commiserate with you the chore of spending an eternity with Koeby.

Now, in honor of Safety Dog, his song to the tune of Born to be Wild. Sing along.

Get your motor running
Always wear your seatbelt
Don’t forget your helmet
It’s the law in Illinois

Born to be mild.

Always obey the leash law
Never play in the street
Don’t chase the motorcycles
Or they’re gonna squish your head

Born to be mild

Now, a reminder about the contest.

You can enter up 'til April 11th to win the 17" double strand of freshwater pearls and amethyst beads. The contest is to celebrate the wonderful response of readers and reviewers to Mating Stone. In Mating Stone, Mark falls in love with Sarah. Sarah, a young human woman who has no idea that Were’s even exist beyond novels and movies. Strictly fictional. As a human woman, how do you react when Mr. Yummy tells you he’s the one with claws and may just leave fur on the sheets? So tell me: What type of Were is Mr. Wonderful and how does he break it to you?

Email you answer to ElyssaWrites@aol.com

Why did I go to college

First off the good stuff:

Mating Stone got 4 angels from Fallen Angel Reviews. Ashley reviewed it and seemed to really like the guys in the story. "...the men in this book are to die for. Mark is sexy and charming. It is easy to see why Sarah fell in love with him so fast. You can relate to Sarah after Mark makes a huge mistake, and you can feel for him when he tries to fix it. There is also his brother, Luke, who has just enough bad boy in him to make you want to claim him as your own. Then there is Tarris, Mark’s close friend, another sexy and mysterious man. These two stuck out and I hoping they get their own stories soon. Elyssa Edwards has done a great job with Mating Stone. She has written a unique shapeshifter story that any paranormal fan will enjoy." Thank you Ashley!

The Contest! The April 11th deadline is coming up!

The hero of Mating Stone, Mark Ursine is a Were-Bear as is his twin brother Luke the hero of the upcoming July release, Lovers’ Stone. The Ursines present their lady loves with stones rather than engagement rings. For Mark and Sarah it’s an amethyst. So to win the 17” freshwater pearl and amethyst necklace here’s what you need to do. Write a brief answer to the following question and send it to ElyssaWrites@aol.com with “Mating Stone Contest” in the subject line. I’ll pick the best response as the winner, and two honorable mentions to receive smaller prizes. The winning entries will appear in my blog on April 13th.

In Mating Stone, Mark falls in love with Sarah. Sarah, a young human woman who has no idea that Were’s even exist beyond novels and movies. Strictly fictional. As a human woman, how do you react when Mr. Yummy tells you he’s the one with claws and may just leave fur on the sheets? So tell me: What type of Were is Mr. Wonderful and how does he break it to you?


Now to the title of this rant.


Why did I go to college? I mean, I spent four years of under graduate studies and a year of graduate school and for what? To be someone's scapegoat? To continue to have to scrape and stretch to make ends meet? To be treated with total disrespect and disdain?

Yes, that's right it was parent-teacher conference time again. Another day of listening to someone tell me that I don't care about their child because I didn't give him an extra week to complete an assignment. Another day of listening to someone tell me I am picking on their child because I expect him or her to follow the same rules that apply to everyone else. Another day of listening to someone tell me and my administration how I have no concern for parent involvement because I won't stay two hours after school for a conference because that's when they get off work.

Now I love teaching. I do. I love the kids and I love working with them. What I hate and abominate is babysitting, hand holding and nose-wiping. That’s why I teach middle school and not kindergarten.

So let’s get this straight. I apologize to all the great parents out there. You know who you are. You’re the one who volunteers for fundraisers and who helps pass out maps at orientation. You’re the one who returns my calls or actually has a phone number at which I can reach you if I need to touch base about your child. You’re the one who knows that budgets are tight and so you donate paper towels and tissues. You’re the one who shows up for conferences even when your child isn’t failing and we haven’t had to send the social worker to your house to force you.

Sorry to bore you with my ranting, but it’s absolutely ridiculous and some days it’s just too much to let roll off your back.

Maybe I should have been a plumber. We had to call one today because our bathtub wouldn’t turn off. Of course the estimate came in at almost a grand. Lovely to ya’ll, too.