How long has it been since I've been hanging around my own blog? Long enough that it did not recognize me and I had to re-sign in. Sigh. Much work around these parts, all good; very grateful.
The news today is, the weird formatting glitches in The Bad Mother, my first novel, have been fixed (as have a few sentences, for instance, what sort of fight was I having with the word "and" at the last edit? I don't remember, but things have been well patched up and he's since been invited back into the maniscript) and is available on Amazon, paperback and Kindle. Official publication date is March but, why not buy it now?
Come meet Mary Adams, author of "The Party Dress Book," this Thursday, January 20 at 7 PM. We are talking seriously gorgeous dresses here, dresses qua dresses, dresses that make you feel like the prettiest person in the room, because you are.
Paper Magazine said, of Adams' work:
Never one to hotfoot it after the latest trendsetters, Mary Adams happily refuses to step into the 20th century, preferring instead to hand-sew lavishly detailed party dresses from fine silk organzas. From barely there slips to princess gowns that require their own mini storage units, Adams delivers only the best.
I often tell my husband, "I want to wear a gown!" Shall we make some?
We were ten days ago in El Salvador, sleeping in a magnificent bed, falling asleep in front of American TV, some show that looked like 80s softcore but was not. There were problems, with the airplanes, getting to and from El Salvador. Decided to say something. This resulted in small vouchers and forwarded emails, and then, today, a phone call, with more resolution becoming conversation, ninety minutes with the rep from Continental, about her grandaughter who died, at age 6, from an extremely rare cancer, and the website she created for this child, and the 380,000 visitors, and the book she wants to write, and my giving her what I can in this area. All week, seeing so many people, many interviews, people saying, "I never see anything anymore on your blog about _____." I say, it's too hot, I can't write it; it will go in the book. And sitting at a table with a man shaking his head, saying, in not these words, "How could this have happened? How could this have happened?" And then, "The truth shall set you free." And tonight, seeing an old friend, she and I in alliance as to how people's/publications' fears/PC presentiments make them hold both hands against the truth. I told two people this week, you can try to put the truth in a can, but it will seep out or explode, one or the other.
All day, we work. We're exhausted. I come home at night, and Din has the cocktails poured, and the music on. Tonight, it was Fred Lane, who made me laugh and laugh and laugh, then say, "Aw, gee, but I love French toast."
Not that I don't like you, or might have, under some circumstance, ask. But in this case, LinkedIn has, of its own volition, contacted everyone in my address book, several of whom I am sure wondered, why this? Why now?
Not this, not now.
Read Patti Smith's "Just Kids" while in El Salvador. Loved loved loved. Get it.
My review of Daphne Kalotay's "Russian Winter," from this past Sunday's Oregonian.
And my novel, "The Bad Mother," in on Amazon, in paperback and Kindle. I would love if you buy it BUT not yet: I saw some glitches in the first edition which, in the brave new world that is digital publishing, can be fixed rather quickly. I'll give the sign when we're good to go.
Until then, a few shots from El Sal. Yes, we were there for the coffee, but here we are eating ice cream, first, Leticia and I in Ahuachupan, and second Din, outside of Metapan.
