Posts Tagged ‘Leigh Royals’

What kind of lover of history or historical romance author would I be if I didn’t recognize this weekend’s reverent meaning? Not a very astute one.

But I found this video about Yankee Doodle on youtube and wanted to share it. It’s more than just a cute kids’ song.

And, of course, I found it quite appropriate for a lover of all things Colonial.

But what does that have to do with romance? Only that I love our country. And that while love, passion, and romance can happen anywhere, this is where I choose to place the setting.

Enjoy

I’ve had such a stressful day. Really quite depressing. But in the grand scheme of things, it is thoroughly survivable. Unpleasant, sure. Will it kill me? Not today. Have I learned something? Too soon to tell.

But I got to come home to a wonderful home. A happy family. The best part of my day is greeting my kids and spouse and being squeezed and climbed on. And that’s just the spouse. Only kidding.

The thing is, I know a better day is around the bend. I’m not just saying that out of some Pollyanna belief that the sun will come out tomorrow. Yet, while I do wear rose-colored glasses at times, I tend to be a realist, lately. That is, no matter how much I believe that good will come out of something, I can’t just sit still and await its arrival.

Yeah the sun is gonna rise. But that’s a given. What’s ailin’ ya ain’t gonna stop if you just sit there and do nothing. I whole heartedly believe in the best is yet to come and many of the feel-good clichés that are out there. But no fortune cookie’s gonna dictate my life.

Let’s say you’re in a miserable situation. A bad date, a relationship, an environment like work, school or whatever. It’s not going to improve just because you will it. And I’m no Jedi. *you will want to read my blog* So get up and do something about it. Word to the wise and not-so-wise: it might take a long time.

Case-in-point: I’ve been looking for a solution to this maddening misery for 8 months. But it’s finally going to end. It will come to fruition in no sooner than four weeks. Unfortunately, the agent of this dread has the power to make that change later rather than sooner. I am trying to tell myself that if I’d managed to maintain this insanity for 19 months already, what’s one more?

Well, I know it will happen. But waiting for it and continuing this…this…I don’t even know what to call it–is not as great as I’d like it to be. At least I can get out alive.

And know that the sun, indeed, will come out, tomorrow.

Remember in a previous post I spoke about drawing? I really am not good at it on the computer, and on paper, it’s passable, but I’m no DaVinci. Shoot, I’m not even Brosh
Well, here’s my attempt to illustrate a post in which I wrote about not forgetting.

Not horrible. It gets the message across. But not really as amusing as others. Oh well. I’ll stick to writing. Or at least thinking about writing.

I have this title saved in my drafts section of this blog. I do that sometimes when I want to remember to write this spectacular and brilliant piece. I figure that the witty title will stimulate that part of my brain from whence greatness comes. It’s like the string tied around your finger. You look at the string. Scratch your head. Glare at the string, begging it telepathically to emit its secret to you. What was I supposed to remember? Think, brain, THINK.

I can’t remember what I was going to write, at. all. But I do know that I was inspired to write again by reading Hyperbole and a Half. Allie Brosh communicates in a way that I totally get. My viewers *do blogs have viewers*, nay, readers, know that I am very ADD. But reading her rambling insight renewed my belief in myself. It centered for me the fact that most creative people have some affliction, and with ADD I can focus on almost nothing for long, but on lots of things all the time. If I do it successfully, then I can say I am a multitasker…

Ok. I didn’t doubt that I want to write or indeed that I am an author. But it sparked that fire that had been turned a little low.

But now I’ve run out of ideas. This post has been open for over 24 hours begging for me to write it. So, I’ll make a list, and see how long it gets, on what actually is the Write of the Navigator.

1. Quite literally, it could be a map. That doesn’t sound like much fun unless the it is a treasure map. And crap, as if that were the magic string, I think I remembered the point of the title…. shoot. I thought the list would at least get to 7. I’ll get to that later then, but cause I really want to make this list….

2. It’s the tenet of The Navigator. Said in the totally multisyllabic exaggeration connoted in my head. NaveegayTOR. Emphasis on Tor. Not Ter, but Tor. His tenets include, but are not limited to, exploring the vast universe that exists only on the web. He can direct you to any blog about nothing. The ones that are really about something or have meaningful content other than amusement or entertainment are boring to him. Or her. Or it. Gender is not certain for The Navigator.

3. It’s a typo or a pun. It’s supposed to say Flight. Of course. Do you think I’m a moron?

4. It’s an insightful secret that is known only to me, except I don’t know it yet because it’s that profound. Profundity is a magnificent thing. It’s like when I was in the fourth grade and was reading that book by L’Engle and understoon 4th dimension for a mere nanosecond and at that nanosecond I felt like the genius of all geniuses, but then *poof* it was gone. And to further mess with your head, this tesseract is an example of 4th dimension. Have fun.

5. Or it’s another typo/pun, nay, homophone, that shoulda said Rite. or Right. If it’s a Rite, it certainly is that of The NavigaTOR. But if it’s a Right, it falls to all who would be a navigator. Like the right of way. And if I were clever or talented with drawing at all, I would illustrate each of these. I did try, with the ribbon on the finger thing. I even tried to insert it, but it poofed. I could NOT find it. But if I do later, I’ll come back and edit this post.

6. It’s really hard coming up with different things that the title could mean. I read it and think, “That’s kind of clever, but I don’t get it.” So if I don’t get it, how am I supposed to make it make sense to you? It’s a confounding title that aggravates me now.

7. Could I even leave the e off of Write and make it Writ? It sounds more like the Tenet thing. The Mission Statement of the Navigator. He/She/It could have one. Who knows. It would be something totally plebeian yet because of that, appeals to the commoners in a visceral way. (And yes, I know plebeian means common, so I’m probably a bit redundant there.)

Now, I did make it to seven and that was exhausting. Back to your irregularly scheduled post…

As I alluded above, I did have a lightbulb moment in which I sorta remembered what this title was supposed to mean. It had to do with maps.

And with writing.

There are different kinds of authors out there. Some who can begin the story at the beginning and go forward in a useful and logical manner until ‘The End.’ This is called doing by the seat of your pants, or ‘Pantsing.’ I like for it to be in order because it allows my suspension of disbelief to take me where my characters go. And they like to have their own way. Really are bossy buggers. But some authors plot. And there are varying degrees to plotting. No method is wrong. But I would seriously doubt my sanity if I even ventured to try the Snowflake method. I am entirely too ADD to stick to it long enough to even make part of a flake. (again, insert illustration here, If I could draw.) I would get to the part of drawing to where it looks like the Star of David and go off reading Wikipedia about Judaism or Kabbala. And then I’d go around wearing a red string on my wrist because I want to be a good person, but although I believe in Christ, I’d want to practice faith as he did. See. I can’t even talk about the snowflake method cohesively.

The way I write is somewhere in between. (in case you hadn’t noticed.) I lack both the attention span and the discipline to write straight through because even though the story always starts at the beginning, I’ll have random moments where scenes pop in my head, usually when I’m in the shower or about to go to sleep. At which point I wish I had a waterproof pen and pad or could write in the dark blindly. (which I mean literally. Without my contacts or glasses, I can’t even read the big E at the top of the chart, when my nose is touching said chart.) Could you imagine me trying to transcribe my wet and/or blind scribbles? It just wouldn’t work. So these random scenes are always like an epiphany. Sometimes, a mental writing road block is opened and I miraculously can move the story forward, except that theres a gap between it and what I’ve already written. But since I ‘loosely plotted’ in my head, it kind of fits.

I’m not a fan of plotting, because, as I’ve said, it’s hard for me to accomplish with any flair. (Haha, now I’m thinking of Office Space!) The last time I tried to plot, I made a horrible synopsis and hated the story. Then I got depressed because that was NOT what I wanted to happen in the story. Then mad at myself for not knowing where I wanted the story to go. I wanted to write organically. Whatever that means.

How is this related to a map you ask? Well, let me tell you. Just as there are more than one way to skin a cat, or to get from point A to point B, there is more than one way to write right. There is no right way. Do what works best for you. YOU are your own NavigaTOR of your story, and indeed of your life. So make your flight what you wish it to be. You can set your own Tenets and Mission Statement and you own your own methods of madness, or Rites, and as such, they are yours (Rights.)

I’m rather impressed with myself for how handily I tied that together. It’s amazing how the ADD mind works. It can really make no sense at all but in the end, it really did.

Several months ago I had a conversation–can a twitter dialog be considered a conversation?–with a delightful editor who was taking her child to see a movie. I had plans to see the same film and was excited for her.
“Oh, we’re going to see that this weekend…don’t give away any spoilers!” She obliged, and with a wink and a smile said, “It’s a kids’ film, usually a happy ending. ” she’s
Well, she is right. Those type of movies are the feel-good, everyone wins. But it’s more. There’s the journey. That’s what has parents buying the DVDs and the kids–in some cases, the parents too–watching the flicks over and over. This journey is the woven tale that allows us the willing suspension of disbelief to fall in love with the heroes and to despise–or pity–the villains.
The same can be said of romance novels. We all know the guy gets the girl. It is pretty formulaic. But I have read countless novels, many more than once. I love being swept up in the moment and pondering how the main characters will overcome this or that and arrive at the ‘Happily Every After.’
As a writer, I strive to create that environment so that I provide just such a journey. So travel with Willem and Constance soon (hopefully by years’ end.) You too can be on the battlefields of South Carolina as they wage their war for independence and for love.

I was so excited to be asked, ok, arm twisted, to participate in the Summer Reading Trail. I hesitated. But, I’m a giver, so for your reading pleasure I would like to give you a taste of my first book of the series. You’ve seen teasers (yeah, so what, I’m a tease. ) But the excerpts I’ve shared before were the chaff. Here’s the wheat. This is what will be kept in the book. That is, until I get an agent/editor who suggest it be changed. Sharing this is so very thrilling for me. Giving of myself in this manner makes me feel vulnerable, yet at the same time, it invigorates me and spurs me on to complete the ambitious and monumental task I have given myself.

“Get back!” The warning sounded just as a cannonball whistled over their heads. The percussion knocked Connor Reid back. A boulder stopped his momentum with painful clarity. Strong spasms racked his chest as each inhalation constricted like a vise around his ribs. Tears pricked his eyes. Connor choked on the already thick swamp air, now filled sulfuric smoke. He held his breath and heard…nothing. He snapped his fingers by his ears but silence resounded.
Chaos surrounded him as he watched fellow militia men clamor to find cover and take aim. A flash of light followed a plume of smoke, soaring towards them. The team’s soundless mouths contorted in fear.
With tentative fingers he probed his scalp. Finding a large knot, he winced. He looked at his hands expecting blood but there was none. I am a sitting duck in this pluff mud. Must…move.
He tried to sit but blackness tunneled his vision. Can’t let the Yankees get me.
He rolled on his side, pushing with his feet and moved along, crawling, half on his belly. He soon found himself behind the boulder. He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing Arthur Delaney. Would he understand? Would he forgive?
A low buzz sounded, muffled shouts resuming. His battle mates retreated. He was alone. His eyes watered from the shifting smoke. Or was it tears? Through the haze, a figure approached. Closer. Was it friend or foe? Connor reached for his musket, but, of course, it was gone. He inched his hand slowly to his boot, hoping the knife hadn’t been lost as well. Just as he reached the handle, the figure loomed over him.
“Boy, stand up.”
Connor, stunned, just shook his head. The man bent forward and large hands hauled him to his feet. The blackness threatened again, his stomach rolled. If you vomit, you’ll look weak. Keep yourself together, Con.
“Aye, you are a lighter lad than I thought. You surely are aged only 15 years, at the most.” Connor could only stare back. The disdain in the man’s voice hardened Connor’s resolve.
“Well, can you speak?”
“I’m nineteen, Redcoat.”
“Sure you are. Silas, John. Take the boy with the other prisoners.”
Connor realized he was captured, but fire stirred within. One of the captor’s hands was within sight, restraining him. He bit, hard. As he was released, he lost his balance but spun around to the right, evading recapture. He brought up his foot, against the other man’s shin.
“Willem, we’ve got a feisty one here.” Their comments about him as if he were not there only heightened his ire.
“Nevermind that. He’s a boy. How much fight can a boy have against two men?” Oh, if they only knew.
Connor’s eyes met the man called Willem and saw a will as strong as his own. The dulled glaze of his men showed nothing.
“I’ll do it myself.” He’ll do what?
Willem bent towards him. Connor reached down for the knife but a sudden hard pressure in his wrist doubled him over in pain. His arm was held in Willem’s firm hand.
“Now you come quietly. We intend no harm.”
Connor struggled to break free, but was no match for Willem’s strength.
“Be still, or suffer the consequences–”
Connor stilled with the threat. It wasn’t just a reprimand. This was war.
“Bring me some rope–”
Connor thrashed, fear spurring him to break away.
“I’m not going to hang you. Come with me.”
Realizing he’d not escape, Connor clenched his jaw. Clarity dawned and he decided to face this like a man. Ha! Like a man.
#
Willem McCotry knew war. He understood the fervor. Not necessarily the cause. They trod out of the swamps. Willem trailed the boy behind him, hands bound, tethered to his waist. He said a silent prayer for whomever the young man was fighting, and leaving behind. Those were the ones hurt the most.
What would make a boy take up arms? Surely he was too naïve to understand the implications of what the colonists called a rebellion. He chanced a look back at the boy. Something else flitted across his young face. Too young. But he also saw the passion still in his eyes. The bright hazel stare became glassy. He looked as if he were about to cry. He wouldn’t harm the child. But he didn’t trust him, either.
At the edge of the King’s Tree, Willem found his horse and tossed his captive into the saddle. There was no room in the wagon where the still forms lay. Before mounting the horse, Willem followed the gaze of the prisoner to the wagon.
Silence. Only the clopping of hooves in the dirt rattled in Willem’s ears. It gave him time to think. About war. About prisoners. About his prisoner. The lad was so unyielding sitting in front of him. Had not slumped even once. Probably trying to be brave. There’s nothing heroic in fighting a losing battle.
Willem trailed the horse behind the cart. The better to instill fear and obedience from the site of the wounded. At least, he hoped they were only wounded. They were still and silent.
Conner stared straight ahead. Why he was on the horse with the one they called Willem, he’d never know. It was a precarious position and not the least bit comfortable. He dared not turn around and face him.
As it was, the heat from him reached through the thin shirt and bindings. Sitting rigid on a moving animal did not lend to comfort. Connor’s tender rump was surely red. He felt every jolt in each vertebra.
But he didn’t dare moan, whine or complain. Wouldn’t give this Redcoat the satisfaction. This redcoat didn’t wear a redcoat. In fact, he was dressed similarly to a farmer.
Hours later, the smell of salt water was a sweet tang in Connor’s nose. That scent was a part of his childhood left behind. He’d know it anywhere. Would he see shopkeepers he’s known? What if they recognized him? The clothing would surely hide his identity. He’d come here often enough with Papa selling rice, but not like this. If only he could keep the secret from his captors. He’d worry about the town later.
“We’re almost there. Son, you are much too young for the prison ship. I am inclined to find your Mama, and pack you up home.”
Connor felt the breath tickle his neck and suppressed a shudder.
“Don’t call me ‘Son,’ and I have no mother.” He silently cursed himself for returning dialog.
“Sorry to hear that, young sir. What shall I call you, then?”
He craned his neck around to look Willem in the eye but all he saw was shoulder. Damned horse.
“Are we becoming acquainted, Whig? I’ll not give you my name.”
“Don’t have to know your name to hang ya, boy.” A gruff voice grumbled from in front of the horse.
Connor turned his head back. The other prisoners looked warily back. Not dead after all. He couldn’t tell who said the hurtful remark.
“No one’s going to the gallows. You may call me Mr. McCotrey.” The squared shoulders stiffened. “Or Willem if you’d like.” Connor sniffed.
“Boy, you are going to talk at some point.” Being called boy in such a manner was galling. Indignation rose in Connor‘s chest. He couldn’t stop himself. He whipped his head around again, surprising Willem, if his widened eyes and fast tug on the reins were any indication. But recomposing himself, all Connor spat out was,
“We’ll see about that.”
Connor slapped his hands over his mouth, he’d been baited. Willem just chuckled. Connor fought the twitch to punch him for laughing. Control yourself, Con.
“Silas, take the others to the ship. I’m going into town for supplies. After that, you two are done for the night.”                      Connor held his breath listening as Willem instructed his subordinates.
“Where’ll you be, sir?” John or Silas answered. He couldn’t care who was whom.
“The Hangman’s Noose.” Did he hear right? He was growing weary. But Willem seemed to read his mind because the next sensation was like a spider crawling by his ear as Willem whispered, “It’s a tavern, Son.”
The wagon continued to the docks. Connor watched as his friends-well, acquaintances-faded in the distance. None really knew him. He’d made sure of that, being alone as much as possible. Didn’t want to give anyone a chance to find out what he’d done.
“If I take these bindings from your wrists, will you behave?”
Connor only nodded. Behave. Mr. McCotrey really did think he was a child. Hmph.
Willem dismounted, leaving a hand on Connor’s knee. The change in support was both a relief and startling.                           Connor let out the pent up breath he’d been holding. Then he looked the long way down from the horse and felt dizzy. With little to hold, he began to sway. The knock to his head was harder than he thought.
“Steady there,” then “oomph” as Connor’s momentum propelled him earthward. His back landed with a solid thwack on Willem’s chest.
“Let go of me, you big oaf” Connor squirmed and made an awkward attempt at standing with bound wrists. Willem stood up and pulled his knife from his belt.
“You‘re going to gut me for landing on you? It was an accident, and I am your prisoner. I have rights.”
“Quiet, boy, I’m going to unbind you.” His barking words chafed Connor’s raw nerves.
As Willem removed the coarse rope, Connor tried to still his trembling but the harder the fight to maintain composure, the more tremulous he became.
“Let’s go inside, I’ll make a man of you yet.” Connor mutely followed Willem in.
The change in light made Connor squint. He looked up at his captor. Willem was scanning the room. Seats were available near the back door.
The back door. He dared not breath. Should he even try? A plan formed and Connor knew he might not get another chance.
“The privy?” His voice cracked and he looked down, quickly.
“Aye. I’ll order you a pint. Hurry up.” Connor watched Willem find a seat. With rapid steps Connor moved towards the rear. As he reached the door, he gave one last glance toward McCotrey. Still seated and enjoying his rum.
The air was cool on his face as he reached the privacy of the stall. The door creaked as it opened but it was light. He closed the door and locked it. A latrine never felt so lovely. Could he escape? He took his hat off and hung it on the hook, surprised there was one. Strands of chestnut hair of varying lengths fell to his shoulders. It was uneven and unkempt. Connor swatted at the pieces floating in his eyes.
Not wanting to miss an opportunity, he let down his pants and sat. Then winced. That was a long ride. As he stood to finish his ministrations the door ripped open. Connor rushed to cover himself, but too late.
Connor read the surprise in Willem’s wide eyes. Heat flooded Connor’s face, but covering it would mean removing hands from a more delicate site. Shock froze him in place, so turning to hide was no option.
Willem just stood there. When he didn’t speak Connor finally breathed. The plan had failed. A rational person would have run.
Willem gaped at the boy. Strands of hair framed the young face. Out of its queue, it softened the features. His eyes followed down where slender hands tried to hide the soft curls. What he didn’t see was…well.
This was no boy.

I hope you enjoyed this, please feel free to let me know. And don’t forget to check out the other stories by clicking the link in the first line or this link to the UK Trail Head

I have titled this entry based on an idea I had as I went to sleep.
I get a lot of ideas at that time. Inconveniently so, as I no longer have room on my bedside table for the necessary pen and notepad. *note to self, reorganize nightstand.*

But, I have only a glimmer of what that idea exactly meant. I do know that currently, I have several things in life going through transitions. Mostly, stressfully.

But I feel good about them. Boss throws me a curve ball, I hit it out of the park. It does make me wonder what she’s gonna throw at me next. Bring it on, baby.

The changes her dictate caused affected not only me, but my family and their routines. I’m still resentful of it, but I plan to make the most of it and use it to my advantage. It’s really more taxing and stressful on my mother in law now, and because of her sacrifice, we’ll be less sturdy financially, but I’m hoping I can supplement the difference in other ways… I digress.

Among the new things in my life is a much needed treatment. I am sort of anxious about it, but in a positive, hurry-up-and-wait kind of thing. A benefit of this, besides improved health, is I hope some quality catch up writing time.

As it is, I’m motivated to move quickly on this book because more books are popping up in my head. I’ve saved the ideas in other files to return to at a later date, but the fact that this is happening is golden! My creativity has been dulled and an alternative choice created the change necessary to rewaken the muse.

So, change is good. It has to be. Otherwise, I’m just lost.

I’m good at it. I’m really very good at it.
I wait until last minute for almost everything. Like when you’re a teen and you get a call that Dad is on his way home from work so you run around the house shoving debris under the couch and bed, throw the dishes in the dish drain, barely washed, and shape up as fast as you can…yeah. That’s me. But sometimes I find other creative outlets to delay my writing.

One such tool is wordle. I had a new scene I wanted to play with. A rather intriguing development I didn’t expect. So I copy and pasted part of it into the application.

Hester. She’s a villain, of sorts. I’m actually trying NOT to like her. She’s being written after someone who deserves to be written harshly. But she’s coming off to be pitied. Interestingly enough, if I apply that sentiment to the real person, it makes total sense. My frustration with the real Hester aside, she should be pitied. So, I take a deep breath and my fingers are poised over the keys…what will hester do next, or will a pretty thing like Wordle distract me again?

Voila! (just click on the image to view in larger detail)

So what does an author of colonial historical romance do on President’s day when she’s off from her RL job and she has the kids?

I had planned to take out some large chunks of time and devote it to my current work in progress that is becoming a Herculean effort. But instead, I cleaned the heck out of my room while watching the History Channels presentations on the presidents. They only played from Washington to Lincoln. But I enjoyed it.

Of course, that led to plot bunnies and more inspiration. I can’t take NEW ideas right now. I can store them away for a while until it’s time for their turn. I’ll be damned if I never finish this book. I have 14 to finish before I get to my next ‘thing’ whatever that may be. I hate that I can’t finish anything. But it will happen.

Now that H is not showing anymore presidents day stuff, I pulled up my Netflix and have one of my favorite musicals playing. 1776 There you go for more inspiration.

What inspires, or derails you?

Oh, and by the way, a Plot off is just brainstorming with my author pals and pluging plot holes.

We all want to be liked. Let’s face it. It’s natural to desire approval. This could be true in varying degrees. Some people cultivate this naturally. Others seek it out, subtly or blatantly.

I don’t have that ‘it’ factor that some do, which garners that natural reaction of, “Oh, I LIKE her. I like HER.” But I do have enough confidence to feel that some people, with only moderate encouragement would say, “Oh, her, sure, she’s alright.” And I’m ok with that.

I have been known to look in the mirror and give myself pep talks, a la Stuart Smally. Those silly little moments really do wonders for ones psyche and ego. It was in that vein that I created a Facebook page for myself. It would be nice to have fans. And not just those in my family. (Thanks you guys!)

So then, why was I pleasantly surprised that I got fans? And even moreso to get a new twitter follow out of it. (Jennifer Keller, HI! and thank you)
I think it’s the nebulous concept of fans and fandom that leaks to the possible fanaticism that makes once fame starved celebrities shirk at the ‘sudden’ onset of notoriety. I have no illusions that I will attain those heights (or lows as it were) but I do desire to have a respectable following.
As I am wont to do, I began thinking about fans. About the word fan. I assumed, erroneously that it was derived from the word fanatic. But NAY, according to wikipedia, it is short for fancy. Do you fancy that new colonial romance author? Why yes, I do.
To quote: There are certain common characteristics to be found in fans interested in different topics and these characteristics influence the behaviors of those involved in fan behavior. Those common characteristics include internal involvement.[1] Fans focus more of their time and resources intently on a specific area of interest than a non-fan would, and are not significantly concerned if non-fans (including family or friends) do not derive pleasure from the area of interest. Fans usually have a strong enough interest that some changes in their lifestyles are made to accommodate devotion to the focal object. As well, fans have a desire for external involvement – are motivated to demonstrate their involvement with the area of interest through certain behaviors (attending conventions, posting online, etc.). Fans often have a “wish to acquire” material objects related to the area of interest, such as a baseball hit by a famous slugger or a used guitar pick from their musical hero. As well, some fans have a desire for social interaction with other fans. This again may take many forms, from casual conversation, e-mail, chat rooms, and electronic mailing lists to regular face-to-face meetings such as fan club meetings and organized conventions.

Wow. I don’t think I’ll be auctioning off any of my sundry items; but the original (garbage) handwritten pages of Constance might be valuable once I sell the whole series to Hallmark for a movie.

In light of this and the fact that I’m watching the Golden Globes with some feigned interest, I want to thank my fans. All 33 of you. While I write with the hope that others enjoy my work, I do so out of the joy of the art.
Because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggonit! People Like me!