escribri me

 escribi  me, mi corazon

me refugio en sus palabras

sus brazos

me sumerjame en su ritmo

su amor

su amor plumas aliento en el viento

and i breathe

your poignancy

te amo

te amo

kocham cie

escribi me

God/ Dios, Gracias! Thank You!

Thank you! Thank you!

i love you

my poem, mi alma

 * I am a new learner of Spanish, so please excuse my mistakes. *

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In truth, Marilyn wasn't overweight. The brown-haired, blue-eyed girl weighed in at a average sized seventy-five kilo's, but ever since she was a young girl, Marilyn had been told she was over weight from anyone to her parents to the media's coverage telling people of the world today, that if you didn't look like a stick-thick model of the world, that you looked awful and no one wanted to know you.

Apart from her un-healthy obsession with her weight and the way she looked, the media was wrong. People did want to know about Marilyn, her huge circle of friends and constant friends that were boys who loved to flirt with her, told people that were looking at Marilyn that much. Though, Marilyn didn't think that it and that was why she kickin' it at the gym in the nearing midnight hour.

Looking at the dial that showed where she was up to in her running, Marilyn saw that she only had fifty minutes to go. "Great," Marilyn thought, a smile appearing on her heart-shaped face. Wiping her brow with her blue towel she used to wipe the sweat away, Marilyn focused all her attention on running out that fifty minutes flat stick. "After this, that gives me just enough time to stop at subway along the way" Ahh subway. It was the only treat that Marilyn allowed herself, for the healthy sandwiches that they made. Her favorite sandwich was the Seafood Sensation one. It was so yummy, and after this grueling work out session, she really was ready to eat it.

Twenty minutes to go, the dial on the treadmill now illuminated. Making her legs move as fast as she could, Marilyn sprinted out the twenty minutes left on her workout. Finally, the treadmill began to slow down and Marilyn started to take deep breathes to calm down the anxiety that was threatening to take over. "I'm so glad that's over" The brown-haired girl thought to herself, as she stepped lightly off the treadmill, grabbing her towel again and wiping the sweat off her body.

Heading towards the door, Marilyn was now imagining that subway sandwich. Opening the door, she was thinking of that sandwich so much, that she didn't see the cute guy giving her a small smile as she walked past him, out into the carpark. Heaving another huge collective sigh, Marilyn walked over to her car, and hoped inside.

When those windows are wound down and the salty tang invades the car, it can't be very far, before landfall at Lorne, a temporary home for the night in some rented motel on the outer edges of obscurity. A stove with two burners that only half work and a shower stall fit for midgets and contortionists. The bedding is clean , smelling of lavender and the towels rub together rough and ready like a kitchen paper , functional.

A walk on the beach before dinner , calves straining against the shifting flow of sand until we reach the edge of the tide, it races in and out and occasionally surprises with an above average peak. The sand now solid beneath our feet, walking away from the lights as the sea sizzles beside us. Waves rhythmically purr and occasionally roar. I take a picture of a gathering of sand that seems to be sculpted into a Sphinx like character- could almost be in  Egypt. Turning back as the sky begins to eat the sea as the two dark masses begin to converge and all that's left is an occasional twinkling navigation beacon and the first stars of evening.

when those windows are wound down and the salty tang invades the car, it can't be very far, before landfall at Lorne, a temporary home for the night in some rented motel on the outer edges of obscurity. A stove with two burners that only half work and a shower stall fit for midgets and contortionists. The bedding is clean , smelling of lavender and the towels rub together rough and ready like a kitchen paper towels, functional.

A walk on the beach before dinner , calves straining against the shifting flow of sand until we reach the edge of the tide, it races in and out and occasionally surprises with an above average peak. The sand now solid beneath our feet, walking away from the lights as the sea sizzles beside us. Waves rhythmically purr and occasionally roar. I take a picture of a gathering of sand that seems to be sculpted into a Sphinx like character- could almost be in  Egypt. Turning back as the sky begins to eat the sea as the two dark masses begin to converge and all that's left is an occasional twinkling navigation beacon and the first stars of evening.

Every time llhaesa visited, the Khentavras insisted she dine with them. Llhaesa never felt badly or felt that she was imposing – in two weeks time the Khentavras already had come to feel like family. Now they were insisting she no longer knock, and simply enter the home as any of them would.

One of these days, she was going to invite the Khentavras over to her flat, and invite her own parents as well. Now that would be significant in some way llhaesa had yet to consciously contemplate, more just felt somewhere deep inside.

This evening’s visit followed the same pattern as all others. There was pre-dinner interaction, there was dinner, and there was family time where they again gathered and chatted, watched a film, or played a game. This was inevitably followed by the Khentavras excusing themselves and retiring to their bedroom for the night. Hrilleae and Djellrin knew, and they gave her had Jahrae space.

Llhaesa had already come to think of Hrilleae and Djellrin as she thought of her parents Mrevan and Saehressa, kind, hard working, caring and loving people who treated their daughter and her friend as they did other adults. On this night, llhaesa and Jahrae decided to watch a film and just chill out on the sofa.

The film turned out to be a rather forgettable comedy. Halfway through, both of the young women were now stretched out on the sofa, with Jahrae resting her head in the lap of the slightly more upright llhaesa. For her part, llhaesa had her back to the armrest on the left end of the sofa. Losing interest in the boring film, llhaesa shifted her full attention to Jahrae, gently running her closed together fingers through Jahrae’s hair.

After several moments, llhaesa began to sing softly. It was a currently popular song and not one of her own, but one she knew Jahrae claimed to love. And so llhaesa sang it pretty much as the release in circulation, excepting the original was the work of a male artist.

After she finished, Jahrae sat up, wrapped her arms around llhaesa and pulled her close, while simultaneously moving her head close in to llhaesa. Now in position, Jahrae closed the remaining distance, bringing her lips into contact with llhaesa’s. From there, each of the lovers was drawn into the other, each exploring the inner recesses of each other’s mouth. They went some before breaking away in search of breath; and if truth be told, the absence of breath was more a reaction to their kiss than to the physicality of it all.

Jahrae looked away from llhaesa and softly began to speak. “Several months ago, my parents were listening to one of your songs – I had only heard of you in passing, knew only of your song Myth Of The Stars – and so I went in search of information on you on the athenaeum. You should know that my reason for doing so had more to do in that moment with being prepared for when my parents started tossing you at me, some example of a socially responsible person who was – I believe the phrase in my head then was that you ‘were a refugee from a Save The Planet convention.’ I was…” Jahrae stopped before completing the sentence, her train of thought and words interrupted by llhaesa as she burst into wild laughter.

“Har! You were going to show them, those civic minded parents of yours, that you were an adult and not in need of any further coaching or lessons. Yeah, almost 19 and you have sussed out the mystery of life, and everything there is to know about it. The funniest part of all is that you were actually right on target in associating me with Save The Planet! Where did you come up with that line?” llhaesa was totally amused, Jahrae was slowly warming from embarrassed to amused.

“My parents tend to find ways to use things like music and artists to make points on life, and since I heard them listening to you, knew sooner or later a parental lesson on life was about to follow, with you as the centrepiece of the lesson I was to somehow grasp. Instead, I sorta conducted a pre-emptive strike in hopes of avoiding that particular lesson.

Anyway, I searched you out because of knowing so little, and came away stunned that you had been banned from government facilities. No wonder my parents were drawn to you… but that is incredibly unfair – all of that thinking was, I realise that now.

At the point of that search, I had no idea what you looked like. After I read the bio, it was on to the imagery, and well… we’ll just say that an immediate crush developed, and um… I’ll not say where that led on that particular night…” Jahrae ended with a facial expression and waving gesture signifying ‘hot.’

Llhaesa took a turn at story sharing. “I’d like to say I read up on you before arriving here a couple of weeks ago Jahrae, but well… you were prepared, I was not. Here I am making a business call with folk who are organising this very major and special concert, and instead my focus was ripped to shreds just by the presence of their very beautiful daughter. Do you even know what I might have said and promised that night? I surely do not; I was totally taken with you.” Llhaesa and Jahrae were already swapping first meet, first sight stories.

“Jahrae, I’ve had you on my mind ever since. I run in the morning, and you are playing through my mind. I shower… thinking of you. I practice, you pop into - and stay – in my head. When I attempt to sleep, it is thoughts of you that take me there. There is only one way I can think of to deal with this, but I’m not saying. When - if - you get there, you will understand what I mean, and you will tell me.” Llhaesa knew how she felt, but was futilely trying to gauge where Jahrae’s thinking was in all of this.

“Do I understand what you mean?” Jahrae formed and voiced her thoughts. “Are we being completely honest here, guards down, share what is roiling around deep inside? OK, fair enough. You meant something like how I’ve felt… dreaming of moving in with you.” Jahrae looked right into the eyes of llhaesa and did not turn away, having just risked it all. She anxiously awaited an answer, totally vulnerable to the thoughts and feelings of the person next to her.

And Jahrae was momentarily aghast as llhaesa again erupted into laughter. “Well, that took all of 30 seconds – understanding what I meant. Moving in was exactly the solution I had in mind.” Llhaesa clarified; and Jahrae started breathing again.

One night when he seemed calmer and quieter than usual I asked him about the children on the walls.  He said to me, wife, take the photos down if they are troubling you.  Summoning my courage I persisted; I asked where were those children and who had lived here before us.  Friends of the militia, his answer.

The friends of the militia had at least three children.  A boy, about six in the latest picture, and an even younger daughter, and a young woman whose wedding pictures I found in a box in the closet, at the top of a stack that reached back into her girlhood.

These friends were an older man and his wife, much younger.  In a photo of her with the youngest as a baby she looks to be perhaps in her late 30s only.  Her husband is more elusive, showing his face in only one or two of the photographs.  Here he is, on a family vacation by the sea somewhere, when his oldest daughter was just leaving childhood and his son was a tiny baby.  He is stern and white haired.

The militia must have had a great many good friends within this village.  My husbands chief advisors and captains have also brought their wives and some of their children here to stay in nearby houses.  The people of the village who remain avoid our eyes and talk in whispers when one of us wives passes.  They refuse to charge us for our flour or milk or vegetables.  Have it, please, they beg us.  We are friends.  We are all friends to the militia.

Electric reality, don't loosen your hold
A boy in chains no longer; everything I touch is gold
A fire born of lightning sings a chorus of our voices
melts all thoughts of consequences that will linger from our choices
Fear evaporates to nothing when our bodies flame the fight
Our reality turns static the first time you stay the night
We anticipate the power of a thousand potent stars
I taste your kiss, your world explodes, and then we'll bear the scars
Blinded by the wattage, we both wander through the storm
climbing towers made of steel as risk and reason keep us warm
Miracle? Mistake? A mere moment seized and sewn?
Reality is shocking when the fantasy's your own
Lust can't keep you grounded when you look it in the eye
Bolts of trust and timid passion light the kamikaze sky
Intentions never empty with his needs to fuel my fire
Good for him, the need to be, it only takes me higher
Smoke rising from our skin, from our sin, the past, the rule
And I, content to bow down at his feet, a willing fool.

And what is it that I need to do?

QUERY AGENTS.

Yes, that dreaded process. The time is now upon me, for really really real. I have a few things to tighten up with my manuscript, and I need to get my whip my beta readers into shape. I have two on the job at the moment. One is about halfway through, the other is just at the beginning. I need to probably just send them the entire rest of it and tell them to work on it until they're done! I always feel it's nicer to send it in batches of about 10,000 words, though, just so it isn't overwhelming. But at the rate, it would take 12 batches and if each batch takes a week to get back . . . well, I don't want to wait that long.

I've made quite a lot of changes about halfway through the book, during the fire. I was just not pleased with the scenes at the inn that Ceridwen and Benitus run to during the fire. I needed that scene to set up the rest of the book. I didn't feel like I had any credible, well-established motive going in this part of the story. Firstly, Benitus couldn't marry Ceridwen and they both knew it (a Roman law forbidding cross-marriage across the classes), so why manumit her and set her free? Why would Ceridwen accept being Benitus's mistress, but wouldn't accept him buying her and setting her free? If none of that makes sense, don't worry. Suffice it to say that it was a bit of a jumble of old motives and new information. And besides, the motive of Ceridwen's pride never seemed like quite enough. It was a weak point, and that section, wit them in the inn, was there to set up those motives.

What I did was add the Briton form of "marriage". I made this up, more or less, but it's kind of neat: basically words are very powerful in Ceridwen's culture, and saying you love someone is paramount to marriage--it binds you to that person forever. Ceridwen has a little monologue to explain this. And she tells Benitus that she loves him, so they consider themselves as good as married, though not by Roman law. Because of this, Ceridwen feels compelled to find a way to free herself so she can be with her "husband". But she is still compelled to free herself--and not allow Benitus to buy her--because of a combination of her innate pride, her distrust of men and Roman men in particular, and a dream she has. So, after much work on this entire section, I think I really put it together well. The rest of the story seems to fit much better now.

I have together a list of agents--a list which may grow if I run through this one without any positive results. Now I have to tweak my query and synopsis, then send send send until my little fingers fall off. Then I pray. WISH ME LUCK.

I roll another cigarette and contemplate the strings of smoke spiralling randomly toward the spotlight over my head. I have had more than my fair share of Whisky.

A Boobook Owl is calling from the valley behind me.

Mo - poke. Mo - poke. .... Mo - Poke. Mo - Poke.

I transport myself into the valley. I know it well, and I can imagine a light, curious mist reflecting the imaginary moonlight as it weaves around the base of the trees, hugging the ground ... carrying the scent of the bush.

A series of terrifying screams ring out from the valley. A possum fight? I really don't know. I have heard Possum fights before, right outside the window in our garden. Possums don't sound like they are being dismembered when they fight. Sure.. they sound pretty pissed off, but you know they will get over it.

The screams die away, leaving an echo in my ears. Boobook continues his mating call. I decide that he is not guilty. Boobooks tend to go for smaller prey. Moths, lizards and small mammals like the native hopping mice that my wife and I disturbed in the compost bin last year. You could feel the tension rise in the bush around us as half a dozen mice hopped out and scattered into the undergrowth.

The monitor glows before me. I imagine one of those little fellows finding his way down to the creek ... to the silence.

Mo - poke. Mo - poke.

Two verses are born, and a writer returns to his blog with a squeak.

You'll notice that this story is unfolding in "real time".  This was a decision taken to make the interactive side of things easier.

The next chapter will be on Monday.  It may be posted late in the day.

It’s been fun, but we’re nearing the end of the summer holidays. Fun fact – “holiday” is a contraction of the phrase “holy day”, so it actually means a religious festival. So this should actually be called “summer break”. But I digress.

On Monday, it will be back to school for another year of unpaid labour. Joy of joys. As you can probably guess, I’m none too happy about the prospect. Where do the holidays go? That was never a full break!

There’s a well known saying: “time flies when you’re having fun”. I’m sure you’ve heard it before. It sounds silly, but it’s so true.

There are three days of freedom left to go. I might as well make the best of them. Me and my friends are going to the bowling alley tomorrow. Should be fun. Everyone’s back now, so hopefully they’ll all be able to make it.

The weirdest thing about this break has been the lack of schoolwork. It really has been total freedom. It’s a strange feeling. Sometimes I haven’t known what to do with myself. But I’m sad that it’s ending.

------

Photo by: Zoe Force

On Sunday we visited the New York State Fair.  We haven't been to a fair for years, and I've been itching to go and have some cotton candy.   Pete and I went with our children, a couple of close friends and their children.  I'd go to the fair with them all again, their such great company.  

We had a gorgeous hot, hot day outdoors.  Strolling from exhibit to exhibt it was uncomfortably warm, so all of us occasionally sought a shaded spot, and drank plenty of water.  Luckily the kids and I wore sandles, while the rest were complaining about the heat of socks and shoes on their feet.  I'm just thankful that we didn't have a storm.

Like most to all fairs, there was live music entertainment, rides, a wide assortment of delicious smelling foods, an announcer promoting the different shows and exhibits, and rich variety of exhibits.  Every exhibit was educational, some I've seen before, others a new learning experience.  I had no idea that blacksmiths made more than just horse shoes.  The two blacksmiths made some metal leaf keychains, very detailed.   A gentleman resembling santa clause in overalls, had a display of old tools used for cutting wood.  He showed us a tape measure that didn't have numbers, instead there were foot prints matching each number of feet on the roll.  Then showed us a trick of finding a persons age using a tape measure, learn something new every day.   

The exhibit I found most interesting was the sand sculpting, very skilled artist.  He had quite an array of sea life, myth and reality mixed.  I was so impressed with the detailed eyes.  Eyes are the best part of drawing and painting, in my opinion.  My least favorite exhibits go to the odiferous animals on display, I'm not a big fan of caged creatures nor livestock (some were cute, yes).  I have a dog and cat, I do like animals.  I just get headaches from smelling them, especially on a very humid hot day.  Wierdest exhibit goes to the butter sculpture, the cow jumped over the moon theme.  It was amazing art, but why butter?  My favorite goes to the loom, basket, and broom weavers. I love the loom most, it is monsterous in size, but a whole lot simpler than my PFAFF 7570; I tried to trade, it didn't work out.

So much had been triggered by that concert, very good things, and very bad things – Jahrae’s personal loss of llhaesa.

Jahrae was once again softly singling, and M’traliel’s thoughts rolled backward in time, to two years before.

M’traliel and Jahrae were setting up for a secret meeting of the local chapter of EREGS – at that point, Brellian’s forces were everywhere, and anyone actively engaged in working to change the government risked death if caught. And so they had developed elaborate means of communication and interacting, all designed to minimise the damage where any one person caught.

As the two friends went about the necessary task of setting up for the meeting, Jahrae softly sang one of llhaesa’s songs whilst she went about her work. When retelling the story now, M'traliel was busy unpacking a box of items to be used to present to the other members of their group. Her mind suddenly became aware of this sweet voice singing nearby, one she had never before heard. M’traliel stopped and turned towards the sound, now amusingly transfixed as she stood holding an about to be set up projector. She watched intently even as Jahrae was unaware M’traliel had refocused from unpacking and towards the singing Jahrae.

Finally M’traliel spoke, her words stopping Jahrae from singing and working. “Jahrae, did you ever sing like this around llhaesa?”

“No, she was the musician; there was no way I’d have crossed onto her space in that way… and really… I was never one to sing in showers or anywhere. Why?” Jahrae was totally clueless of M’traliel’s intent.

“You have a beautiful voice, Jahrae. The only questions I have his how much power you can put into your voice, how long you can sustain that power, and whether you can master your voice through professional coaching.” M’traliel was going all out, a plan already forming in her mind. M’traliel was more than capable of coaching her friend in how to make full use of her voice.

Several months before, M’traliel was assisting the still weakened Jahrae, helping her clean her flat, get it back in order. Jahrae insisted on remaining there, for llhaesa had loved it so. M’traliel methodically worked through each room. The studio was untouched from when llhaesa had last used it, no one had entered since that time. As she began to clean the thick layer of dust that was seemingly everywhere, M’traliel found a rather thin box of chocolates. Opening the box, she winced at the stale confection which long ago should have been tossed in the disposal. She held the box over the portable disposal and shook. The chocolates tumbled out, followed by the paper liner at the base of the box slowly falling, part of it clinging tightly to the box sides.

M’traliel shook harder, the shaking overcoming the resistance. The paper fell, followed by three shiny disks. Fortunately the machine was not running, and so M’traliel opened up the maintenance door, pulled out the receptacle, and retrieved three disks.

Each had a quickly scrawled ‘for Jahrae, with all my love’ written upon it.

M’traliel walked out into the kitchen, where Jahrae was cleaning things after their just eaten breakfast. “Jahrae, there were three disks from llhaesa to you in the bottom of a box of chocolates. They fell out and into the disposal, I had no idea they were in there!” Why did you put them in that box?” M’traliel surmised the placement came during Jahrae’s substance abuse days.

“What disks?” Jahrae was clueless.

“Here…!” M’traliel handed them over.

“Ohhhhh, myyyy…” and with that, Jahrae had fainted for the second time in her life.

After Jahrae had come to and regained her strength, the two anxiously moved to listen to the recordings, unaware of how much music each disk contained. Jahrae excitedly fumbled with the first disk as she inserted it in a player. Once in, she set down next to M'traliel to listen.

The llhaesa triad of songs discovered many months after her death were all intimate declarations of love to Jahrae. The musician sensed she was not long for life on that last night, and wished to give to Jahrae some of what she did best: perform.

The first song was of llhaesa singing and playing piano. The second was with a six stringed instrument, the final song was performed a capella. They were subsequently released sequentially and to great effect, triggering altered circumstance where the always committed M’traliel and the reinvigorated Jahrae now planned an Nenseru anniversary concert. So much had changed, and they no longer had to fear for their lives. Their biggest problem in the moment was choosing which musicians would be invited to perform.

The secret government probably already had a substitute, for the black stuff, but that would certainly hurt the bottom line of those men who pulled the strings. And I can assure you, dear reader, that they are men, even in enlightened times like these. These string-pulling secret handshaking fellows don't allow the dimwitted frat boy to do a lot, anything of much importance, to say the least; the heavy lifting is left to the ones who have always been pushing the buttons of Western 'Civilization'. Which as Ghandi precisely put it, would have been a good idea.

Greed was far too forceful in Western Society for it to actually be a civilized. The barbarism of poverty, inequality, and war served capably as it allies as well. Yep, that almighty dollar kept wheels greased, and the motors churnin'.

Id like to take the blame
But its not all on me
Stop driving me insane
With your feelings of love
I think the only way
Is to run far away from me
But I don’t really care
Cause I am weak

You try so hard not to lose your faith
You find yourself on a crossroad
Where everything is in conflict in your head
And you know you cant go on like this

When the sun comes out you don’t feel alive
And the people that walk around are faceless
No one really cares where your coming from
Another life that’s lost...Another life that's lost...

What makes me so knowledgeable? Not years of experience, I admit. I'm new to the market myself, but I have spent the last year truly immersed in the industry, reading books, attending conferences, participating in a critique group, and writing daily.

I'm close enough to remembering what it's like to be brand-spanking new and more bubbly than a Kindergarten teacher on the first day of school. But I'm also educated enough to help others avoid common pitfalls.

Let's review the steps posted earlier...

• You’ve got a great idea for a picture book.

Terrific! Congratulations! Take some time to think and really develop that idea. What makes it unique and appealing to children?

• You sit down and write it out.

You are on your way! Keep writing. Like any discipline, you get better with regular practice.

• You give it to your children to read. They love it.

You mean you haven't edited it yet? Put the story aside and give it some time. You'll probably think of new ideas and different, clever ways to express your story.  And honestly, your children are going to love everything you create. Well, except that experimental limburger and asparagus casserole.

• You give it to your mother. She corrects a grammar mistake but otherwise dubs it “perfect.”

Aww, you gotta love mothers. Unconditional love 'tis a beautiful thing.

• You give it to your neighbor. She thinks it’s wonderful and offers to illustrate it for you.

Unless she's a professional illustrator, tell her thank you, but a publisher will match your manuscript with an illustrator. Finding an illustrator for your book is your editor's responsibility, not yours. Your words should sell the story, and it's possible that any illustrations you send could make a bad impression.

However, if either you or your friend have a professional art background, you should read up on how to submit a picture book dummy.

• You buy a copy of The Children’s Writer’s and Illustrator’s Market.

It's true that CWIM is an amazing resource, but trust me, you're not ready for it quite yet. And keep in mind that many smaller publishers, some of the most approachable markets for new writers, are not even listen in CWIM. (They may get overwhelmed by the volume of submissions a listing in CWIM creates.)

• You print out a copy of your story, attach your neighbor’s illustrations to each page and mail it out to every publisher in CWIM.

Every publisher? Phew, that's a lot. They each have their own unique niche. Are you sure that your manuscript fits with their current list of titles? They also have their own submission guidelines. Be sure to follow those guidelines exactly or you could be rejected just on the basis of not following directions.

Successful authors are those who were able to match their manuscript with the right publisher. It's a little like finding your soulmate---you have to click on a variety of different levels. Some publishers like rhyming stories, some do not. Some like quirky tales, others will cringe at a farting character. Do your research first.

Want to learn more about writing for children? I can't cover it all here. I'm just one woman. With a husband and two kids who want me to fix lunch. And three novels whose characters are bugging me to finish writing their scenes. So I'll just turn you onto these great resources and wish you all the best!

Harold Underdown's The Purple Crayon
Cynthea Liu's Writing for Children and Teens
Nancy Lamb's The Writer's Guide to Crafting Stories for Children
Uri Shulevitz's Writing with Pictures

Bound Company? As in...bound books? As in...publishing? As in...someone is offering me a contract for one of my picture books?! I didn't submit anything to Bound, but maybe it's a subsidiary of a publisher I had contacted.

My husband plucked the bright yellow DHL envelope off our porch and asked me if I was expecting something.

"Who's it addressed to?"

"It just says Lazar."

My heart did little flips. I always imagined I'd get a phone call offering me a book deal, but an express letter will do just fine, thankyouverymuch.

I ripped it open without even looking at the address label.

"It's a bunch of checks, and they're not for us," I told my husband, confused.

Turns out, he was saying "Bowne Company," not Bound. And the checks are for his employees.

Go back to what you were doing. Nothing to see here.