We sat and lamestormed the subjects of our upcoming
blogs. Pedicures lamenting… lame. Opinions on ink cartridges… lame.
Could cracking one’s knuckles be flirting… lame. Finally we decided that
we’d write something about ourselves that no one knows.
My mother shared with me her great gift of baking. I
adored baking. Hung around the kitchen and underfoot, constantly wanting
to learn to bake various types of cookies, new types of cakes and
pies. Nothing was from a cook book, everything was from her head
with a lot of improvisation.
At the same time my dad share with me the gift of loving
animals. We had a cat at one time, a dog, a hamster, a guinea pig and, of
course an assortment of goldfish. Life gave me the gift of imagination. Creativity was
my muse and took me through many an adventure, albeit often only part reality.
One day, while still at a young age, I begged my mom to
allow me to make all by myself my dad his favorite cookie, oatmeal
raisin. She was hesitant at first, but I was also relentless. She
went over and over the ingredients, stipulating how important it was to not
leave anything out. She talked about taking care with oven mittens and
hot cookie pans. I listened attentively and the moment arrived, I
got to bake the cookies all by myself. I was tickled, and dad often came
into the kitchen to ask if they were done yet, for the sweet aroma had filled
the house.
I carefully placed each cookie on a plate in a perfect
pyramid and carried them into my dad. They were still a little
warm. He sat there eagerly anticipating the treat with a glass of skin
milk, though he not a dunker, just a washer-down sort. He took his
first bite, blinking in amazement, swallowing and then regaling me with
praise. I watched happily as he ate every last cookie, pouring
glass after glass of milk, and then shoving the cookies into his mouth one after
the other as I continued to watch, refusing to miss a moment of his
delight. Afterward, he gave be a big hug and thank you. Only, as he
walked away he had a strange look.
At the time, I couldn’t help wondering if it had anything to
do with my one improvisations. And until now, this very moment, I never
told a soul what that improv had been, nor would I have ever but Zi charged me
with sharing something that no one knows about me. I have. We had
been out of raisins, so I used my guinea pig ’s poop. After all, they
looked just like raisins to a girl my age. I always wondered, did my dad
know, and if he did, what a wonderful man he must have been.
When writing our heroines we toy with the texture of the
crave of the heroine so that our readers will find that there are those don’t
stopportunities woven into the text. I suspect our reasoning why we
needed this plot device becomes obvious when you read our stories. If you do, let us know what you think. -
writingteamcw@yahoo.com (Dawn's Blog in subject line)
We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at writingteamcw@yahoo.com (Write - Blog Dawn - in subject line) and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.
Angelica Hart and Zi KILLER DOLLS ~ SNAKE DANCE ~
CHASING YESTERDAY CHRISTMAS EVE...VIL ~ Christmas 2012
http://www.champagnebooks.com/
Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane STEEL EMBRACE
BOOK NOOKIE-A LIBRARIAN'S BUIDE TO THE DO-ME DECIMAL SYSTEM
http://www.carnalpassions.com/
THE FABLE OF SIN-SIN CINDERELLA Series
Angelicahartandzi.com
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