If anyone tries to tell you that writing is not filled with all sorts of pitfalls and paranoia, they're either lying or they've tapped into the urban myth called zen. I'm freaking out here...
Seems like I've been waiting to hear something back from agents forever. And yes, I know...that's what they do. They take their time. And in no way would I want them to rush through reads because I'd hate to think they rushed through mine. BUT...this wait is killing me. I can't even write. Every time I sit down to put something on paper I'm all sorts of like..well, maybe I should just refresh my inbox and see...nope, okay...let's write. 10 words later...maybe I should just hit refresh and see....nope, okay let's write...ad nauseum...
I'm such a mess it's not even funny. Well, okay..so I guess it's kind of funny.
Actually it's pathetic is what it is. And how cool would it be if I did get agented and could tell my agent...I've even got book 2 done now. Yep, that would be awesome!
So back to writing....
after I hit refresh one last time.
*groan*
Monday, April 2, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
Fun Factoid Friday
It is time, yet again, for another stroll through the seemingly useless, yet fascinating facts of life...
1. Apples, not caffeine, are more efficient at waking you up in the morning
Umm..hmm..yeah, I ain't buyin. I think that's a nefarious plot by the fruit industry to make me cut back on the java. Don't think so! Good try though evil apple growers of America!
2. A quarter has 119 grooves around the edge.
1. Apples, not caffeine, are more efficient at waking you up in the morning
Umm..hmm..yeah, I ain't buyin. I think that's a nefarious plot by the fruit industry to make me cut back on the java. Don't think so! Good try though evil apple growers of America!
2. A quarter has 119 grooves around the edge.
Okay, so I've always been one of those people who hear these things and take them as a challenge to find out the 'truth'. I think in this case, I'll just trust it's so. Who wants to count a quarters ridges? I certainly don't.
NEXT!
3. The average human eats 8 spiders in their lifetime at night.
Yeah, I know..I'm so mean. :p
Have a great weekend!
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Waiting to exhale...
Okay Terry Mcmillan had to come up with the best book title ever. It encompasses not only the story, but also..wow can I understand that sentiment. There's so many points in my life where I feel like I'm hanging by a thread, dangling over a rocky ledge and staring down at a thousand sharp spires. Feeling like either I'm gonna fall and be horribly hurt, or someone's gonna come up behind me, grab a hold of that thin (yet surprisingly strong) thread and pull me to safety.
I'm not old, but I feel like I've been put through the ringer in my life. I'm sure many of you have felt that way...when I was 10 I was molested by a family friend. It was a nightmare. I couldn't sleep for the next three years without experiencing horrible nightmares because of it. Partly because I was 10 and what he did to me ruined my innocence. I knew too much, had seen too much...I was a mess. But Praise God I had wonderful parents who prayed with me, took me to therapists and somewhere along the way I found out just what a strong person I actually am. That strength helped me through the second obstacle in my life. At 26 I was pregnant with my second child. My husband and I were thrilled, only to discover at three months that I'd miscarried weeks before but my body was one of the rare ones that clung to the pregnancy regardless. That was my third miscarriage. The previous one was what they termed a molar pregnancy, fairly rare and requiring surgery to remove all traces of the pregnancy. Because of that experience I did not want another surgery. I was given the option, but I choose to take medication at home to fully terminate. I was supposed to do a follow up, but I was young and dumb and hated doctors and thought I was okay. Four months later, bleeding out almost every day my MIL forced me to go to the doctor. Only to find out I had cancer. Apparently my body clung to that pregnancy so hard that even the pills did not work, what remained turned cancerous (who knew that could even happen). It's called choriocarcinoma and it's basically cancer of the placenta. Again my faith in Christ got me through the worst part, after the chemo I had to do a one month follow up for a year. Once the year was up then I had to go in once a year for the next three years. After that, I was 'cleared' of all cancer and life went on. But again, I was stronger. There were depths being added to my character, my person, that made me realize how precious, how wonderful life is. The doctors told me to have a hysterectomy, I could never have another child again after the chemo anyway. I'd be sterile, or if by some fluke I could get pregnant I'd likely have more miscarriages and the possibility of getting that form of cancer again goes up each time you get pregnant. The nurse, her name was Linda, told me not to. Not to listen. I was too young. That she'd seen other women go on to have successful pregnancies and that doctors were always gonna give you the gloom, but that if she were me, she wouldn't do it. I prayed and decided to go with my gut. I didn't do it.
Fast forward 4 years and I'm pregant again. First miracle. Second miracle. He's healthy. Perfect. Beautiful. I go to every doctor appt and they all just grin and say he's fine, you're fine...yay! I'm stoked, on cloud nine. July 14, 2010 I go into labor naturally. Less than 30 minutes of labor and 4 pushes later, here he is. My beautiful baby boy. He's healthy, he's perfect...we're one hour away from being discharged when the nurses notice his breathing is labored. 4 hours later he's rushed to the NICU, diagnosed with pulmonary hypertension. The blood vessels in his lungs are all sealed shut. Like a straw that's pinched at the tip. Very very little oxygen is working its way to his heart. There's no surgeries to fix it...all they can do is put him on pure oxygen with the hope that his body will eventually kick it on and open those valve's. I pray harder than I've ever prayed in my life...none of what I've gone through can compare to the pain I feel right then. 3 weeks later, he's sent home with a small heart murmur and 2 years later he's bright, active, happy, and totally totally healthy.
I'm that tree, the sapling that's battered and beaten by winds, tsunami's, hurricane's...I'll either be up rooted, or become stronger. Bend less, sway less, and push on. I'm covered in scars, but I'm not broken, I'm stronger...
Perspective.
That's way I know waiting to hear back from agents, or editors, or wondering if I'm a good enough writer to someday be fortunate enough to see my works in print isn't the worse thing that could happen to me. Whether I get published by NY or not..I'm alive today, my son is healthy, my life is good and I'm a happy, happy girl.
Perspective is always a good thing. ;)
I'm not old, but I feel like I've been put through the ringer in my life. I'm sure many of you have felt that way...when I was 10 I was molested by a family friend. It was a nightmare. I couldn't sleep for the next three years without experiencing horrible nightmares because of it. Partly because I was 10 and what he did to me ruined my innocence. I knew too much, had seen too much...I was a mess. But Praise God I had wonderful parents who prayed with me, took me to therapists and somewhere along the way I found out just what a strong person I actually am. That strength helped me through the second obstacle in my life. At 26 I was pregnant with my second child. My husband and I were thrilled, only to discover at three months that I'd miscarried weeks before but my body was one of the rare ones that clung to the pregnancy regardless. That was my third miscarriage. The previous one was what they termed a molar pregnancy, fairly rare and requiring surgery to remove all traces of the pregnancy. Because of that experience I did not want another surgery. I was given the option, but I choose to take medication at home to fully terminate. I was supposed to do a follow up, but I was young and dumb and hated doctors and thought I was okay. Four months later, bleeding out almost every day my MIL forced me to go to the doctor. Only to find out I had cancer. Apparently my body clung to that pregnancy so hard that even the pills did not work, what remained turned cancerous (who knew that could even happen). It's called choriocarcinoma and it's basically cancer of the placenta. Again my faith in Christ got me through the worst part, after the chemo I had to do a one month follow up for a year. Once the year was up then I had to go in once a year for the next three years. After that, I was 'cleared' of all cancer and life went on. But again, I was stronger. There were depths being added to my character, my person, that made me realize how precious, how wonderful life is. The doctors told me to have a hysterectomy, I could never have another child again after the chemo anyway. I'd be sterile, or if by some fluke I could get pregnant I'd likely have more miscarriages and the possibility of getting that form of cancer again goes up each time you get pregnant. The nurse, her name was Linda, told me not to. Not to listen. I was too young. That she'd seen other women go on to have successful pregnancies and that doctors were always gonna give you the gloom, but that if she were me, she wouldn't do it. I prayed and decided to go with my gut. I didn't do it.
Fast forward 4 years and I'm pregant again. First miracle. Second miracle. He's healthy. Perfect. Beautiful. I go to every doctor appt and they all just grin and say he's fine, you're fine...yay! I'm stoked, on cloud nine. July 14, 2010 I go into labor naturally. Less than 30 minutes of labor and 4 pushes later, here he is. My beautiful baby boy. He's healthy, he's perfect...we're one hour away from being discharged when the nurses notice his breathing is labored. 4 hours later he's rushed to the NICU, diagnosed with pulmonary hypertension. The blood vessels in his lungs are all sealed shut. Like a straw that's pinched at the tip. Very very little oxygen is working its way to his heart. There's no surgeries to fix it...all they can do is put him on pure oxygen with the hope that his body will eventually kick it on and open those valve's. I pray harder than I've ever prayed in my life...none of what I've gone through can compare to the pain I feel right then. 3 weeks later, he's sent home with a small heart murmur and 2 years later he's bright, active, happy, and totally totally healthy.
I'm that tree, the sapling that's battered and beaten by winds, tsunami's, hurricane's...I'll either be up rooted, or become stronger. Bend less, sway less, and push on. I'm covered in scars, but I'm not broken, I'm stronger...
Perspective.
That's way I know waiting to hear back from agents, or editors, or wondering if I'm a good enough writer to someday be fortunate enough to see my works in print isn't the worse thing that could happen to me. Whether I get published by NY or not..I'm alive today, my son is healthy, my life is good and I'm a happy, happy girl.
Perspective is always a good thing. ;)
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
A peek inside my mind...
So sometimes you hear writers talk about this crazy thing called a muse...we almost always refer to him/her/it as a real being with real thoughts who's only goal in life is to mess with us and give us entirely too many plot bunnies to deal with, to the point that even penned and coraled they still figure out some way to get out, bump fuzzies and create a firestorm of TOO MUCH.
Obviously the muse is our metaphorical way of describing our thought process, how we get our ideas, which ideas slide right to the top of the pack and maybe make their way to a novel (if they promise to be good and shut up so we can think!) or sometimes they're like that guy in your home room class who's so freakin' hot and you're totally crushing on him until he opens his mouth and starts talking about farts and how many girls he's laid and 'hey babes, you wanna be number 10'...ewww gross. Okay, so those we trash. But what gives us the ideas..
Well, I can't speak for all writers but I can speak for myself. In my R(eal) L(ife) I'm a very quiet, studious person. I look at the world around me. I don't just go for a walk and plug my headphones in and forget there's a million other people, other things going on around me. I guess in some ways I tend to look at the world like a great big novel and my plot is just one of many that creates that story. I'll see someone run past me and I'll wonder why're they're running. Too lose weight? Because they're angry? Because they're happy?
Sometimes I'll read a story about a man marrying his car and....no, nah..I couldnt' even come up with a storyline on that one. Too weird even for me..lol.
What I find myself most inspired by is nature. I'm very blessed to live in one of the most beautiful places in the world. For instance I go walking every day on this trail behind my house. The trail is framed by trees on either side. But these aren't the normal trees you see on the mainlaind, these are twisting, knotted things that seem to reach out from the ground like a great big hand and with green fingers shotting towards the heavens in a large sprawling blanket of leaves. There's also another tree that has this great big mound around the base with the most amazing spread of wild flowers growing in thick bunches around it. The petals are the most amazing shades of pink and purple, sprinkled with white throughout and I always think if fairies existed, they'd totally live there. Then I start thinking well if they lived there what would they be doing?
And boom, plot bunny. Which is good and bad. You never want the well to run dry because then that means you won't be able to write anymore, but sometimes (like now) you've got a series you're trying desperately to finish and you just can't entertain thoughts of fairies flitting from stem to stem at night, glowing like willow o wisp's gathering dew. Although....*tucking that thought away for another day* ;)
And just because I'm in a sharing mood I'll share with you the picture of one of my favorite trees. I call it:
RAINBOW IN PARADISE
No, it's not painted..it is exactly as it appears..it's called a Rainbow Eucalyptus Tree. Now tell me that wouldn't inspire you!
Obviously the muse is our metaphorical way of describing our thought process, how we get our ideas, which ideas slide right to the top of the pack and maybe make their way to a novel (if they promise to be good and shut up so we can think!) or sometimes they're like that guy in your home room class who's so freakin' hot and you're totally crushing on him until he opens his mouth and starts talking about farts and how many girls he's laid and 'hey babes, you wanna be number 10'...ewww gross. Okay, so those we trash. But what gives us the ideas..
Well, I can't speak for all writers but I can speak for myself. In my R(eal) L(ife) I'm a very quiet, studious person. I look at the world around me. I don't just go for a walk and plug my headphones in and forget there's a million other people, other things going on around me. I guess in some ways I tend to look at the world like a great big novel and my plot is just one of many that creates that story. I'll see someone run past me and I'll wonder why're they're running. Too lose weight? Because they're angry? Because they're happy?
Sometimes I'll read a story about a man marrying his car and....no, nah..I couldnt' even come up with a storyline on that one. Too weird even for me..lol.
What I find myself most inspired by is nature. I'm very blessed to live in one of the most beautiful places in the world. For instance I go walking every day on this trail behind my house. The trail is framed by trees on either side. But these aren't the normal trees you see on the mainlaind, these are twisting, knotted things that seem to reach out from the ground like a great big hand and with green fingers shotting towards the heavens in a large sprawling blanket of leaves. There's also another tree that has this great big mound around the base with the most amazing spread of wild flowers growing in thick bunches around it. The petals are the most amazing shades of pink and purple, sprinkled with white throughout and I always think if fairies existed, they'd totally live there. Then I start thinking well if they lived there what would they be doing?
And boom, plot bunny. Which is good and bad. You never want the well to run dry because then that means you won't be able to write anymore, but sometimes (like now) you've got a series you're trying desperately to finish and you just can't entertain thoughts of fairies flitting from stem to stem at night, glowing like willow o wisp's gathering dew. Although....*tucking that thought away for another day* ;)
And just because I'm in a sharing mood I'll share with you the picture of one of my favorite trees. I call it:
RAINBOW IN PARADISE
No, it's not painted..it is exactly as it appears..it's called a Rainbow Eucalyptus Tree. Now tell me that wouldn't inspire you!
Monday, March 26, 2012
Do what?!
Okay, so every once in a while I'll come across something that's so weird I just have to post about it. This is bound to make men ridiculously happy. Not sure I buy it, but stranger things have happened. Apparentely:
A lot of lovemaking can unblock a stuffy nose. Sex is a natural antihistamine. It can help combat asthma and hay fever.
Now I haven't done any digging, but I bet if I search, this article was written by a man. Just sayin...wouldn't put it past them.
Also read Hunger Games is killing it in the box office, apparently they made more money in opening week than all three Twilight movies did. I don't think combined, but..whateves...
On that note, I gotta ask...I've read part of the book, while well written, what in the world is the appeal? It's a bunch of kids killing each other and the world watches on in glee. It disturbed me, I won't deny that I'm not curious about the film..but anytime you throw kids killing kids, or kids getting killed into the equation and you get so graphic with it, well...it bugs me. Clearly I'm in the minority though, the books and movie are making money like gangbusters. I dunno, maybe I've finally become my mother..
The other day a teenager was driving down my road with her windows down and rap blaring so loud I felt the beat through my bones and thought "ugh, too loud." Only to then gasp when it dawned on me, I'm one of those old people I used to make fun of in high school. OMGosh...*snort* And here I am trying to write YA.
And if you've just figured out this was the blog about nothing, then kuddos to you.... :-D
I'd be shocked if anyone's reading this thing anyway..lol.
A lot of lovemaking can unblock a stuffy nose. Sex is a natural antihistamine. It can help combat asthma and hay fever.
Now I haven't done any digging, but I bet if I search, this article was written by a man. Just sayin...wouldn't put it past them.
Also read Hunger Games is killing it in the box office, apparently they made more money in opening week than all three Twilight movies did. I don't think combined, but..whateves...
On that note, I gotta ask...I've read part of the book, while well written, what in the world is the appeal? It's a bunch of kids killing each other and the world watches on in glee. It disturbed me, I won't deny that I'm not curious about the film..but anytime you throw kids killing kids, or kids getting killed into the equation and you get so graphic with it, well...it bugs me. Clearly I'm in the minority though, the books and movie are making money like gangbusters. I dunno, maybe I've finally become my mother..
The other day a teenager was driving down my road with her windows down and rap blaring so loud I felt the beat through my bones and thought "ugh, too loud." Only to then gasp when it dawned on me, I'm one of those old people I used to make fun of in high school. OMGosh...*snort* And here I am trying to write YA.
And if you've just figured out this was the blog about nothing, then kuddos to you.... :-D
I'd be shocked if anyone's reading this thing anyway..lol.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Fun Factoid Friday!
Okay, so since I never post on the weekends, I think I'll start a fun little segment called Fun Factoid Fridays. It's a bunch of random, useless, but true facts. If anyone knows more, feel free to share!
Did you know:
1. All blue eyed people have a single common ancestor?
2. Green eyes are the result of a genetic mutation?
(That means the X-men really do exist!)
And finally...
3. The first known contraceptive was crocodile dung, used by Egyptians in 2000 B.C.
(Mmhhmm...chew on that one for a while. ;)
Happy Friday!
Linda
Did you know:
1. All blue eyed people have a single common ancestor?
2. Green eyes are the result of a genetic mutation?
(That means the X-men really do exist!)
And finally...
3. The first known contraceptive was crocodile dung, used by Egyptians in 2000 B.C.
(Mmhhmm...chew on that one for a while. ;)
Happy Friday!
Linda
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Truth? Or fiction?
An old man gets a knock on his door late one night. It's a caller petitioning his services. He's got a sick cow. The only cow the poor family can afford to keep. No one knows what's wrong with him, but he won't eat, he's stopped producing milk, and now the farmer thinks he may have no choice but to shoot him.
The old man sees the worry scrawled on the farmer's face, the tight lines around his eyes and mouth. Without the cow, they are destitute. The family most move. The wife, more than likely, will leave the farmer who's made her life so miserable since moving away from the city.
The old man, fingers bent from arthritis and years of plowing away at a cold hard ground, reluctantlly grabs his floppy leather hat, pushes it down on his head and asks the farmer to follow him to the barn.
But there's a secret neither man knows a thing about. A beautiful child, with sloping brown eyes, had decided earlier in the day to hide and play with her pet mouse in the sweet smelling hay on the open air loft. She rolls over when she hears the doors open and gazes in silence, but with her heart in her throat, when she watches the men enter with a cow in tow.
The old man, her father, grabs his brown satchel from the peg on the wall. She bites her lips. She's not supposed to see this. Her father always warned her to stay away, to never ever look when he did his work. But if she stops them, if she reveals herself, she'll be whipped for hiding in the barn. So she bites her tongue and what she sees will haunt her for the rest of her life.
Her father opens the bag and pulls out a plant and a tiny glass vial. He sets them aside, rolls up the sleeves of his dirt encrusted shirt and starts a fire in the center of the dirt floor. The flames build slow at first, growing and growing, until they resembled an inferno pitch in the eyes of the five year old. Her father picks up the plant and lights it on fire, but instead of it burning, it smokes. Dark and black, fills the space up with the rich musk. Her heart beats faster and faster. The wind rips through the barn, shaking the walls, lifting up pieces of hay. They dance around her head like tiny yellow fingers. Tears squeeze from the corners of her eyes.
The cow moves, starts to buck and grunt. Her father shouts at the farmer. "Keep him calm! Don't let him move."
Then it's all quiet. Still. So very, very still. The mouse she'd been holding wiggles from between her fingers and runs away, a shrieking squeak following in its wake. Her father glances up. She hides herself deeper in the hay, in the shadow. He narrows his eyes.
"What do you want, Arquimedes?" A disembodied voice echoes everywhere and nowhere. In her head, in the room, it travels through her blood and makes her choke on a scream.
Her father turns and gazes into the fire. He opens the glass vial and sprinkles the dust within onto the flames. The flames snap with threads of silver and blue. "The cow is sick."
The demonic voice does not answer again, but her father nods. "Yes, I will pay the price."
Her lip quivers. What price? What is her father saying? Her nails claw at the wood she's laying on, she feels the splinters slip under her nail beds, but she doesn't care. She knows, in her soul she knows, the price is too steep.
Do not make the deal, Papa! But the words never leave her head, she's too scared to talk. To do more than tremble and pray. Pray that God will hear her. Save her from the darkness slithering like a snake in the barn below.
Then the fire is wrapping around the cow. It's screaming. The whites of its eyes overtaking the black and the farmer is screaming, "Is she okay? Is she okay, Arquimedes?"
Her father holds out his hand, as it to say: wait a moment more.
The child can do nothing. She's frozen in her terror.
Fire dies. The wind is calm. The air is still and then she sees what's made the cow so sick. It's body is covered in worms. It's crawling out it's skin, from it's nose, slinking out it's eyes. It goes on and on for ten minutes, until finally the last worm drops to the ground.
Her father takes a torch and lights the worms on fire. They pop and hiss, and after a few moments all the remains is fine layer of black ash.
The farmer pays the old man and walks out of their lives forever. The cow is never seen again...
So...fact or fiction? Bet you wanna say fiction huh? Seems to incredible to be believed, right?
Well, it's true. My mother was hiding in her father's loft one night in Panama. He was the town witch doctor. The village was too poor to take sick animals to vets, in fact..a vet was a luxury few in the country of Panama could afford in that day.
My mother told me that story when I turned eight. So if you've ever wondered why I write paranormals, it definitely stems from stories like this one.
And on that note...
Ciao!
The old man sees the worry scrawled on the farmer's face, the tight lines around his eyes and mouth. Without the cow, they are destitute. The family most move. The wife, more than likely, will leave the farmer who's made her life so miserable since moving away from the city.
The old man, fingers bent from arthritis and years of plowing away at a cold hard ground, reluctantlly grabs his floppy leather hat, pushes it down on his head and asks the farmer to follow him to the barn.
But there's a secret neither man knows a thing about. A beautiful child, with sloping brown eyes, had decided earlier in the day to hide and play with her pet mouse in the sweet smelling hay on the open air loft. She rolls over when she hears the doors open and gazes in silence, but with her heart in her throat, when she watches the men enter with a cow in tow.
The old man, her father, grabs his brown satchel from the peg on the wall. She bites her lips. She's not supposed to see this. Her father always warned her to stay away, to never ever look when he did his work. But if she stops them, if she reveals herself, she'll be whipped for hiding in the barn. So she bites her tongue and what she sees will haunt her for the rest of her life.
Her father opens the bag and pulls out a plant and a tiny glass vial. He sets them aside, rolls up the sleeves of his dirt encrusted shirt and starts a fire in the center of the dirt floor. The flames build slow at first, growing and growing, until they resembled an inferno pitch in the eyes of the five year old. Her father picks up the plant and lights it on fire, but instead of it burning, it smokes. Dark and black, fills the space up with the rich musk. Her heart beats faster and faster. The wind rips through the barn, shaking the walls, lifting up pieces of hay. They dance around her head like tiny yellow fingers. Tears squeeze from the corners of her eyes.
The cow moves, starts to buck and grunt. Her father shouts at the farmer. "Keep him calm! Don't let him move."
Then it's all quiet. Still. So very, very still. The mouse she'd been holding wiggles from between her fingers and runs away, a shrieking squeak following in its wake. Her father glances up. She hides herself deeper in the hay, in the shadow. He narrows his eyes.
"What do you want, Arquimedes?" A disembodied voice echoes everywhere and nowhere. In her head, in the room, it travels through her blood and makes her choke on a scream.
Her father turns and gazes into the fire. He opens the glass vial and sprinkles the dust within onto the flames. The flames snap with threads of silver and blue. "The cow is sick."
The demonic voice does not answer again, but her father nods. "Yes, I will pay the price."
Her lip quivers. What price? What is her father saying? Her nails claw at the wood she's laying on, she feels the splinters slip under her nail beds, but she doesn't care. She knows, in her soul she knows, the price is too steep.
Do not make the deal, Papa! But the words never leave her head, she's too scared to talk. To do more than tremble and pray. Pray that God will hear her. Save her from the darkness slithering like a snake in the barn below.
Then the fire is wrapping around the cow. It's screaming. The whites of its eyes overtaking the black and the farmer is screaming, "Is she okay? Is she okay, Arquimedes?"
Her father holds out his hand, as it to say: wait a moment more.
The child can do nothing. She's frozen in her terror.
Fire dies. The wind is calm. The air is still and then she sees what's made the cow so sick. It's body is covered in worms. It's crawling out it's skin, from it's nose, slinking out it's eyes. It goes on and on for ten minutes, until finally the last worm drops to the ground.
Her father takes a torch and lights the worms on fire. They pop and hiss, and after a few moments all the remains is fine layer of black ash.
The farmer pays the old man and walks out of their lives forever. The cow is never seen again...
So...fact or fiction? Bet you wanna say fiction huh? Seems to incredible to be believed, right?
Well, it's true. My mother was hiding in her father's loft one night in Panama. He was the town witch doctor. The village was too poor to take sick animals to vets, in fact..a vet was a luxury few in the country of Panama could afford in that day.
My mother told me that story when I turned eight. So if you've ever wondered why I write paranormals, it definitely stems from stories like this one.
And on that note...
Ciao!
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