Newsy news first:

1. Watch your email inboxes for antitrust settlement funds from Apple iTunes and from Amazon. They look like this:

Screen Shot 2014-03-26 at 10.34.18 AM Screen Shot 2014-03-26 at 10.34.00 AM

You know, you can save a writer with these funds . . . whether it be my ebooks or another author’s, buy yourself hours of entertainment today, absolutely free.

2. Here’s something quick and easy you can do for an author if you want to: vote for me! This is a cool list, and I’d like to be on it. Would you consider a vote for Finding Harmony, in the romance category? Yeah, yeah, it’s not a romance, but it’s a truly cross-genre book, and there is no category that cleanly fits. I find readers that enjoy romance love it. So let’s work with that. Here’s the link:



And now on to our regularly scheduled program. 

Warning: I need more of my happy pink pills. Read on only if you’re up for a dose of the pinkless blues.

So today is a reprint. I’m a little too blue to even muster up new words to describe the feelings I have as I float along in suspended animation with Eric gone three weeks now, with two to go. So with no further ado, I bring you this post from 2010.

Screw My Best Intentions

The clock read 2:00 a.m.   Two hours past yesterday.  Four hours before today would start.

Yesterday I had such big plans for my today.  Monumental plans, plans to write a piece that would rival the best of my work.  People would message me in every possible medium.

Blog comment: “Pamelot, you amaze me.”

Tweet: “Keep it up, Pamela, you’re the best.”

Facebook: “I want to be like you when I grow up, Mrs. Hutchins.”  [Because, to thehorror of my teenagers, their friends have taken to “following me” and reading about my kids’ exploits on Road to Joy bwah ha ha ha…keeps them scared straight]

Email: “Will you be my new best friend?” or better yet, “Can I be your agent?”

Possibilities literally had screamed through my mind all that evening, just a few short hours before.  I got caught up in the maelström, words tornadoeing through my head:  should I be funny?  thought-provoking?  emotional?  inspiring?  educational?

I know — I’ll finish the post about fibromyalgia!  NO.  I’ll blog about our family betting pool; that would be hilarious.  Scratch that — the topic of today is Becoming {step} Momela, the redux.

So I sat down at the keyboard.  And y’all aren’t going to believe what happened next.


Not one damn thing.

ShiFt.  (I’m not allowed to use actual curse words in my writing, because my grandmothers both read it; use your imagination)

I stared at the keyboard with my death ray glare.  I stared so hard the screen sizzled, and I could smell the smoke as it rose in tiny curls and disappeared into the downdraft from the ceiling fan.

Appear, oh ye words of wisdom.  Blog, write thyself.

Yeah, that didn’t work either.

It’s publication day tomorrow, Pamela.  You’re supposed to be the psycho who thrives on deadlines, who gobbles up time management for a mid-morning snack.

I slugged cold coffee, which sucked.  I had just given up my hazelnut creamy yummy sweetener thingy because my thighs are “swole” as my friend the former NFL linebacker/personal trainer likes to say.  Wait, though: that’s what he says about muscles after a workout.   OK, whatever — my azz is getting big. Again. As it is wont to do, after I carbo-load for 45 straight days.

Ah, could I be PMSing?

The ugly possibility scared me.  I hadn’t padded my room yet for the monthly invasion of the body-and-mind snatcher.  I needed to warn the kids!  I counted the days on the calendar and sighed in relief.  Nope.  Not PMS.

My writer’s block tormented me through the night.  What could it be?  What rat bastard stole my mo-frickin-jo?

Note: bastard is a noun of common usage, not a curse word; for the record, damn falls in the same category, unless either of these words comes out of the mouth of one of my kids

Ding.  My iPhone interrupted the death spiral of my thoughts.  Thank God.  I was getting a headache, and I didn’t want to get out of the island of my bed and cross the vast ocean between my bedroom and the kitchen for a glass of water and Excedrin.

An email.  From my husband, in India.  Where he would be for two weeks, this time.

“Smile, beautiful.  I love you.”

A grapefruit-sized lump formed in my throat.  I jumped up from my nest of pillows and scrambled across the wood floors, searching in the dark.  My hands found the laundry hamper.

You’re a nut job.  Yes, I know.

I plunged my hand into the hamper and grabbed air.  What a night to catch up on the laundry.  What had I been thinking?  Eric would be gone for two weeks, and the first thing I did when I got home from the airport was wash every article of clothing, each towel, all the sheets and every last pillowcase in the house?

To read the rest of this oldie but appropriate goodie, click HERE.



p.s. Thanks for the texts, calls, posts, comments and emails. I feel like I’ve been in labor for a few days, only all I have to show for it is sand and gravel. *sigh* I’m told it gets better.