Kimberly Menozzi, Author

Teaser One:
Let the Right One In
by John Ajvide Lindqvist

BLURB:
Oskar and Eli.  In very different ways, they were both victims.  Which is why, against the odds, they became friends. 

And how they came to depend on one another, for life itself.

Oskar is a 12 year old boy living with his mother on a dreary housing estate at the city’s edge.  He dreams about his absentee father, gets bullied at school, and wets himself when he’s frightened.

Eli is the young girl who moves in next door.  She doesn’t go to school and never leaves the flat by day.  She is a 200 year old vampire, forever frozen in childhood, and condemned to live on a diet of fresh blood.

Excerpt/Opening Paragraph:

Blackeberg.

It makes you think of coconut-frosted cookies, maybe drugs. "A respectable life." You think subway station, suburb. Probably nothing else comes to mind. People must live there, just like they do in other places. That was why it was built, after all, so that people would have a place to live.

Teaser Two:
Ask Me if I'm Happy
by Kimberly Menozzi

BLURB:
Sometimes the simplest questions are the hardest ones to ask.

Emily Miller is forced to spend a day in Bologna when she'd rather be catching her flight to the US. Determined to put ten years in Italy and her marriage behind her, she wants to have nothing to do with anything - or anyone - Italian ever again.

For Davide Magnani, chivalry isn't yet dead. He accompanies Emily to Milan, if only to reassure himself of her safe arrival. The following morning, he's stunned to realize he's fallen in love with someone he's only known for twenty-four hours - and it seems that she feels the same way.

One year later, Emily and Davide reunite. As their relationship strengthens, unforeseen events reveal deeper, troubling connections all around, which drive Emily away from the first man she's ever really trusted. Can she forgive the lies she's been told, or the truths which have been hidden from her? And how can Davide prove to her, once and for all, that Italy is precisely where she needs to be?

Excerpt:

When he turned, he saw her watching and his smile lit up his face again. His eyes met hers fully and she looked away, her cheeks tingling as she turned to the window and the countryside emerging in the growing daylight beyond it.

In spite of herself, her eyes shifted to follow him yet again when he stepped away from the row with the broken window.

His hair had been tousled by the wind, and upon settling back in his seat he ran one hand cautiously over it, taming any wild, out-of-place waves. His dark eyes behind the oval frames of his glasses flicked in her direction before he turned toward his own window. She thought it was clear that he was trying not to be obvious about watching her.

When I was trying to come up with a post for today, I found myself thinking about the fact that it's now February, which, as it happens is one of my favorite months. It's usually cold, and we have some snow (in fact, this year it has actually been snowing virtually non-stop here in Reggio for two days), and my wedding anniversary comes up at the end. So what's not to love?

As a result of my affection for this particular month, my novel Ask Me if I'm Happy takes place primarily during two consecutive Februaries. So, I thought I'd share some small excerpts showing how the cold is represented in the story.

So now, please allow me to present to you:

1) Shivering, she looked around at the other pre-dawn travelers. A few hopeful faces turned to look down the length of track visible from the platform in the faint light. However, the approach of the rhythmic clacking and chuffing didn’t slow. A freight train rattled past and disappeared into the mists, taking Emily’s fleeting optimism with it.

Earlier, after exchanging most of her euros for American dollars, she’d used the rest to buy a train ticket from the machine inside the station, and then a magazine at the Valentine-infested newsstand outside. Now she was obliged to forgo any additional purchases. Though as time dragged on, the station’s offerings became more tempting. A shift in the wind nudged the steam of her nearest neighbor’s tiny cup of espresso her way, bringing with it the warm, rich scent.

Maybe just a hot chocolate? Or a caffè macchiato?

Another passenger’s watch beeped but Emily kept her focus out on the tracks, refusing to read the station clock.

Stamping her feet, she carefully rubbed her numbed, raw hands to warm them. Fingers aching down deep, she pictured her sheepskin-lined gloves, cozy, warm and forgotten on the kitchen table back at the apartment.

Yet another scatterbrained moment and here I am, paying for it.

Finally she stood up and scuffed to and fro, never straying far from the bench and her suitcase.

“Sei disattenta,” Jacopo’s voice chided inside her head. “You’re careless to do something like that, but that’s just exactly what you always do, isn’t it?”

With a small mental jerk she drew her thoughts back to the present.

Stop worrying about Jacopo. Right now.

The cold air seeped through her coat and she rubbed her arms uselessly. The coat itself seemed to have stiffened in the frosty air, the sleeves bunching and folding between her fingers.

Closing her eyes, she blew into her hands and reconsidered buying a hot drink from the vending machine nearby. All at once, her fellow travelers began shuffling toward the yellow line. Emily opened her eyes to find them leaning forward as one to peer toward the approaching lights.

2) When he drew out an eyeglass case from the inside pocket of his coat, she turned to the reflection in the window once more. He perused a copy of La Repubblica—not Libero, not La Padania—so she was reasonably sure he wasn’t from Veneto. Despite her fugue, this thought made her smile again. A glimpse of his dark eyes straying in her direction, followed by his own secretive smile, sent a pleasant shimmy down her spine.

Her heart leapt skittishly even as she pushed the expression off her face and felt the blush creep up from her collar to tint her cheeks.

The broken window fell open with a soft thump and the banging and rattling of the train’s progress drowned out the soft hum of conversation around her. A steady, chilling wind blew inside the carriage. Several passengers grumbled their disapproval and tugged their scarves and coats more tightly around themselves, but none made an effort to close the window.

After a moment or two, the man stood and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with an air of determination. Emily observed even more openly this time as he returned to the broken window, shoved it upward and stuffed the wedge of paper between the Plexiglas and the frame once more.

When he turned, he saw her watching and his smile lit up his face again. His eyes met hers fully and she looked away, her cheeks tingling as she turned to the window and the countryside emerging in the growing daylight beyond it.

In spite of herself, her eyes shifted to follow him yet again when he stepped away from the row with the broken window.

His hair had been tousled by the wind, and upon settling back in his seat he ran one hand cautiously over it, taming any wild, out-of-place waves. His dark eyes behind the oval frames of his glasses flicked in her direction before he turned toward his own window. She thought it was clear that he was trying not to be obvious about watching her.

_

3) She shut her eyes and put her hands up to the edge of the window when a quick wave of vertigo crested and fell to make the sidewalk undulate beneath her feet. Davide’s touch on her shoulder seemed distant and unreal, as though a dozen layers of clothing separated her from him instead of her sweater and woolen overcoat.

Icy cold filled her stomach while her skin flushed hot, the perspiration along her neck chilling in the winter air. She wanted to undo her ponytail and flail her hair around to cool and warm herself at the same time, but her hands remained still.

He held her arms in a light but firm grasp as he lowered his head to meet her eyes with his own.

“Emilia, stai bene?” he asked, a hint of startled urgency in his voice. “Are you okay?”

A nod was all she could manage at first, her head still reeling. “Sì, sì... I’m okay.” She raised one shaking hand to her forehead to wipe away the sheen of perspiration there. “I suppose it’s just been a very long day already.” Meeting his eyes, she added, “I didn’t sleep well last night. I never do before a big trip.”

Davide raised one hand to press his fingers to her cheek, as though checking her temperature. Her heart clenched at such a tender gesture from a virtual stranger, but she didn’t move away.

“But do you need to rest? Something more to eat, perhaps, or to drink?”

The cold air prickled at her cheeks, a good sign that her blush at his gentle attention was warming her skin from within.

4) “Well, I’m certainly fit to burst.” As they stepped out of the restaurant, Emily had expected more daylight. “How long were we in there?”

“A little more than two hours.” Also scanning the sky, Davide fussed with his scarf. “It’s getting colder.”

“It smells like snow.”

“You noticed that, too?” Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply through his nose, held his breath and then exhaled. “Did you notice the other smells?”

“What other smells?” she asked, sniffing the cold air and feeling it chill the back of her throat. It should have been invigorating but the large meal was already making her groggy.

“Shut your eyes and try.”

“Why?”

“Just try it.”

Closing her eyes, Emily took in the air. The brittle, icy scent of snow was still there but other scents were, too: charcoal from a pizza oven, bread baking, the dusty aroma of concrete and stone and a savory smell she couldn’t pinpoint, something more elusive than the rest.

Suddenly, the sound of something rasping near her cheek made her jump, even as she identified the scent. Opening her eyes, she found Davide rubbing a twig of rosemary between his fingers, grinning mischievously.

_ 5) The coffee bars and the pubs were open; the heady, dark scents of coffee and hot chocolate wafted out of doors on waves of warmth from inside. Windows fogged at the edges, as lights switched on over displays of elaborate pastries and sandwiches, attempting to lure inside prankish students and retirees alike.

Emily saw it all as if through a haze. Davide spoke louder and faster but she was only half-listening.

It’s too hard to believe that there are men who reject women like that. I mean, isn’t that the standard here? It’s certainly what Jacopo wanted – repeatedly, from the look of things.

How was it possible that the mere thought of Jacopo could stir her emotions so easily? She was trembling now, most certainly not from the cold. Her face warmed with her own anger and she wondered how Davide hadn’t noticed. Was he really so oblivious?

Disappointed, she found herself resigned to boarding the train for Milan and resuming her trip. A sour hint of dread remained while she feigned interest in Davide’s monologue.

6) Quickening his pace, her hand clutched in his own, he pushed her suitcase ahead of them through clusters of luggage-laden passengers, muttering hasty apologies. Once through the archway to the main hall, he took her down the stairs which led to the bus queues.

He looked at his watch and sighed, his breath misting in the frosty air. A glance was enough to tell that the hotel shuttle bus had already come and gone—just a few moments ago, in all likelihood—and they’d have to wait for the next one.

“It looks like we’ve missed it.” He paused to consult the schedule that hung on the wall. “The next one won’t be here for at least forty-five minutes.”

“Oh, well. That’s okay.” Emily peered around him to read the board for herself. “Why don’t we wait inside? It’s awfully cold out here.”

“Good idea. I think the bar is still open. Perhaps we could have a coffee while we wait?”

Her smile seemed more tired than before but nonetheless sincere. “All right. That sounds good.”

Though the initial rush of travelers had thinned out, Davide still kept her hand in his as they walked back up the stairs to the main floor and the coffee shop there. He liked how her hand felt, warm and small, fitting neatly in his own.

7) He snatched his keys from the telephone table and tried to smooth his mussed hair with one hand, then rushed down the stairs to the front door, nearly losing his slippers a time or two in the process.

The corridor was freezing cold, untouched by the heat of the radiators in the flats. The front door was propped open by a rather large man, himself bundled up against the February cold in a puffy coat and a skullcap which made his head seem absurdly small.

“Signor Magnani?” the man asked, his voice surprisingly soft in the quiet of the main lobby.

“Sì, sì, sono io.” Davide crossed to him and took the pen the man offered, signed the slip on the clipboard and handed them back. The man slid the suitcase toward Davide, spared a brief glimpse at his slippered feet and gave him half a smile.

“Buongiorno, Signore,” he said, already turning to go and pulling the door closed behind him.

Davide waved distractedly in his direction and bent to grasp the suitcase handle. The shuffle of feet behind him got his attention and he turned to find Mr. Montanari eyeing him suspiciously.

“Going somewhere?” the old man asked.

“No,” Davide said, working to keep his sudden annoyance out of his voice.

He sidestepped around his neighbor, dragging the suitcase along, the wheels leaving wet, gray tracks as he went.

“Watch that, Magnani! They don’t come to clean the floors again until Tuesday.”

Davide arched one eyebrow and then shook his head, deliberately stepping closer to the old man and continuing to drag the suitcase behind him. “Mi dispiace, Signore, but it’s too heavy to lift.”

“Va bene, ma –” Montanari cut short his blossoming tirade, nostrils flaring. He regarded Davide’s slippered feet with a scowl of profound distaste which contorted his wrinkled features, then huffed again. Without another word, he stumped away toward the door, his cane making rubbery thuds on the tiles as he went.

Stifling laughter, Davide crossed to the stairs and started up, the suitcase much lighter than he’d expected.

8) Tugging at her gloves, Emily snuggled her hands inside them as she came out of the station, remembering the night Davide had given them to her. The bite of the wind soon diverted her attention from this pleasant memory. She pulled her bag more securely onto her shoulder and made her way toward the taxi stand. With every step in that direction, she cursed Jacopo and his notaio for having arranged a lunch meeting.

No doubt about it: he did it so it would take forever. I know how Jacopo takes his time eating.

A fresh gust of wind swept around her, lifting her hair and toying with her scarf while she waited for a taxi to arrive. She had plenty of time to get the notaio’s offices, but her impatience built with every second.

I just want to get this over with. Is it too much to ask?

A white station wagon with a “Taxi” sign on the roof pulled up alongside her. She checked the station to reassure herself she wasn’t poaching someone’s ride.

“Vai in centro?” she asked when he rolled the window down.

“Sì, certo…” he said, waving her inside, and she slipped into the backseat, grateful for the warm interior as she gave him the address in the city center.

9) She snapped her phone closed, returning to Jacopo. “So. What do you have to say to me?”

“I have an appointment in an hour,” he said and raised one hand to stay her protest. “As I said, I’ve reserved you a room, so if you would wait for me –”

“I have other ways to spend my time, thanks. I’m not going to sit around while you’re doing business anymore.” She spun the word as hard as possible, filling it with every lurid inference she could manage.

Amazingly, he looked chagrined.

“Emily, I’m supposed to appraise some properties for the bank, here in the center. It’ll take a couple of hours at most, but I can’t—I won’t let you leave without talking to me.”

“You don’t have a choice.” She turned and began walking toward the station, ignoring the wind which numbed her face as she went. The winter sunset cast deep red shades along the street, darkening fast.

The sound of Jacopo’s footfalls caught up to her in no time. “Don’t do this, Emily, please.” He grasped her arm and pulled her to a halt. “It’s not safe to walk to the station at night. At least let me take you, or something.”

“What happened to not letting me leave?”

Jacopo shook his head, his complexion ruddy in the late afternoon light. “I have no right to ask this of you.”

“No, you don’t.”

10) In spite of the cold, Davide was already sweating. When Emily’s call didn’t come by ten a.m., he gave up and went for a run. Though he hadn’t given up completely; his mobile phone jounced in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, fastened to a cord to keep it from falling out. His chosen route would only take him about halfway around the circonvallazione, not into the hills outside the city.

If Emily called, he could be home in roughly half an hour. Less, perhaps, depending on where he was. Enough time had passed, however, for him to think this was unlikely.

To be fair, he had received a call the night before. She’d rung from a hotel in Rovigo, telling him she would be in Bologna in the morning. With considerable reluctance, he thought, she’d told him about Jacopo’s last-minute kiss, and her refusal.

He wished this information did more for his spirits.

Emily had also said there was more to tell him, but it would be best to talk in person, in the morning.

Now the morning was nearly over and no calls had come. He’d only brought his phone because he hoped to hear from her—normally, he ran without it, hating the distraction. The bouncing in his pocket made him wonder whether he’d felt the vibration of an incoming call. After checking five times in fifteen minutes, he resolved to hold off until he’d covered a quarter of the ring road.

After an hour he completed the circuit, slowing his pace as he entered his street. As he cooled down his clothes clung to him, the brisk winter air prickling at the perspiration on his face and in his hair. By the time he arrived at his building, he felt as though he’d stepped out from a sauna and into the snow.

His breath misted around his face while he fumbled out his keys and unlocked the portone, then went inside to collect his mail. For what seemed like the first time in ages, Mr. Montanari wasn’t there to complain about Davide’s mail being in the wrong box. He was tempted—albeit briefly—to leave some of his junk mail in the old man’s cubby.

11) “I’d like that,” she said. “Let me get ready first.” Emily got out from under the covers and the carpet felt pleasingly soft beneath her feet when she stood beside the bed. Feeling foolish, she found herself trying to face away from Davide in a senseless show of modesty. What was there to be embarrassed about now? He’d known her as intimately as possible, hadn’t he?

The marble-tiled floor was absolutely freezing. With a quick, almost silent hiss of surprise, Emily stepped back onto the carpet that surrounded the bed. Davide chuckled again, sitting up to grab his slippers off the floor and offer them to her.

“Take these.”

“No, I can’t. You’ll need them.”

“Okay.” He got out of bed, apparently free of any modest impulses of his own, and crossed to the bureau along the wall. It was hard not to watch him, not to observe the way the light caressed him and settled into soft shadows which accented the muscles of his legs and the lines of his back. A soft shimmer centered itself in her and negated the chill she’d gotten from the floor.

12) He didn’t give her the chance to say anything more. He lost himself in the warm, eager yielding of her lips and tongue to his. Her arms wrapped tight around his neck while his hands sought out her curves through the heavy material of her winter coat.

They stood at a distance from the sidewalk in a recessed doorway beneath the porticos, yet the feeling of exposure persisted, as though they were in the middle of a piazza. The sound of passing footsteps echoed, twanging off the concrete-and-plaster of the archway over their heads and the wooden door at their shoulders. The frosty air he tasted between kisses was slightly metallic, sharp and mixed with a hint of snow. There were no distinct thoughts in his head, only the recollection of their kisses from before in his office and a silent plea for more of her than he could legally ask in public like this.

As though of its own volition, his hand sought a gap in her coat, seeking the warmth of her skin against his own, if only for a moment.

“Prof?”

Davide quickly withdrew his hand and straightened up as best he could with Emily’s arms still wound around his neck. Together, they turned toward the speaker and found a number of students looking on, several with expressions of surprise on their faces, some self-conscious grins scattered throughout the group. One in particular stood out and Davide was compelled to address him directly since he’d been the one to speak.

13) “You’re doing it again.” Her voice was weighted with disappointment.

“Doing what?”

She said nothing. He moved away from the door and put his back to it. She stepped quietly past him to open it and step out into the corridor. Cold air crept into his flat, icy fingers slipping around him before the door closed, the soft click of the latch cutting them off.

He became aware of the photo in its frame, still in his hand. With a disgusted sound, he threw it back into the living room, the gesture followed by a tinkle of broken glass.

The echo of Emily’s footsteps on the stairs had scarcely faded before he snatched his keys out of the basket. The door slammed shut behind him as he raced down the stairs, intent on catching her before she could leave the relative warmth of the lobby.

No such luck. He reached the last step and rushed around the corner to the empty lobby. A sharp, frigid wind blew along the street as he saw her walking away huddled against the cold. No matter what she’d said to him, no matter how much it might have hurt, his heart went out to the small, lonely woman making her way along the street.

He jogged after her, doing his best to ignore the chill, his footfalls clapping noisily first along the rough paving of the street and then the marble floors of the portico.

And there you are, thirteen examples of frosty scenes in Ask Me if I'm Happy.






I hope you've enjoyed this glimpse into the world my characters inhabit in that particular tale.












I hope I didn't give too much away, but I also hope I've enticed you into reading more of their story.













I also hope I didn't get you too chilled.










In case I did, with a little luck...













This might warm you up! (Or, at least, give you a giggle.)

First, the blurb and a teaser from the first page of the book
I'm currently reading, which is
Stephen King's 11.22.63
(available at Amazon, of course, or just about anywhere else you can think of.)

_Blurb:

On November 22, 1963, three shots rang out in Dallas, President Kennedy died, and the world changed. What if you could change it back? Stephen King’s heart-stoppingly dramatic new novel is about a man who travels back in time to prevent the JFK assassination—a thousand page tour de force.

Following his massively successful novel Under the Dome, King sweeps readers back in time to another moment—a real life moment—when everything went wrong: the JFK assassination. And he introduces readers to a character who has the power to change the course of history.


Jake Epping is a thirty-five-year-old high school English teacher in Lisbon Falls, Maine, who makes extra money teaching adults in the GED program. He receives an essay from one of the students—a gruesome, harrowing first person story about the night 50 years ago when Harry Dunning’s father came home and killed his mother, his sister, and his brother with a hammer. Harry escaped with a smashed leg, as evidenced by his crooked walk.

Not much later, Jake’s friend Al, who runs the local diner, divulges a secret: his storeroom is a portal to 1958. He enlists Jake on an insane—and insanely possible—mission to try to prevent the Kennedy assassination. So begins Jake’s new life as George Amberson and his new world of Elvis and JFK, of big American cars and sock hops, of a troubled loner named Lee Harvey Oswald and a beautiful high school librarian named Sadie Dunhill, who becomes the love of Jake’s life—a life that transgresses all the normal rules of time.

A tribute to a simpler era and a devastating exercise in escalating suspense, 11/22/63 is Stephen King at his epic best.

_Teaser from Chapter One:

I have never been what you'd call a crying man.

My ex-wife said that my 'nonexistent emotional gradient' was the main reason she was leaving me (as if the guy she met in her AA meetings was beside the point). Christy said she supposed she could forgive me not crying at her father's funeral; I had only known him for six years and couldn't understand what a wonderful, giving man he had been (a Mustang convertible as a high school graduation present, for instance). But then, when I didn't cry at my own parents' funerals -- they died just two years apart, Dad of stomach cancer and Mom of a thunderclap heart attack while walking on a Florida beach -- she began to understand the nonexistent gradient thing. I 'was unable to feel my feelings,' in AA-speak.

'I have never seen you shed tears,' she said, speaking in the flat tones people use when they are expressing the absolute final deal-breaker in a relationship. 'Even when you told me I had to go to rehab or you were leaving.' This conversation happened about six weeks before she packed her things, drove them across town, and moved in with Mel Thompson. 'Boy meets girl on the AA campus' -- that's another saying they have in those meetings.

And here are the blurb and a teaser from Chapter Fourteen of
my own novel, Ask Me if I'm Happy,
which is also available on Amazon worldwide as well as
many other online retailers,
in ebook and paperback.

_Blurb:

Sometimes the simplest questions are the hardest ones to ask.

Emily Miller is forced to spend a day in Bologna when she'd rather be catching her flight to the US. Determined to put ten years in Italy and her marriage behind her, she wants to have nothing to do with anything - or anyone - Italian ever again.

For Davide Magnani, chivalry isn't yet dead. He accompanies Emily to Milan, if only to reassure himself of her safe arrival. The following morning, he's stunned to realize he's fallen in love with someone he's only known for twenty-four hours - and it seems that she feels the same way.

One year later, Emily and Davide reunite. As their relationship strengthens, unforeseen events reveal deeper, troubling connections all around, which drive Emily away from the first man she's ever really trusted. Can she forgive the lies she's been told, or the truths which have been hidden from her? And how can Davide prove to her, once and for all, that Italy is precisely where she needs to be?

_ 

_Teaser from Chapter Fourteen:

Neither of them spoke while they rose to the fourth floor. The only sound was the quiet hum of the elevator itself. When the doors slid open at her floor, Davide’s heart sank.

This is it. This is where we say goodnight—and goodbye.

He followed her to her room, the suitcase in his hand seeming to grow heavier with every step, until he considered setting it on the hallway carpet to take a rest. Before he knew it, however, she was moving to slide her keycard and open her door.

With wonder, he watched her miss the slot. Her hands were shaking hard enough for him to see and she took a deep breath before trying again. This time the keycard slid home and the small green light blinked, a soft click signaling that the door was unlocked.

It's two-two-two blogs today! I have an interview up on Author Interrupted with Kai Wilson - come by and share your thoughts on what I had to say, won't you?

My  monthly guest blogs for Book After Book continue this year - come over and see why you can enjoy "Cappuccino, Anytime" and leave a comment, as well, why don'cha?

Okay, then. I sincerely hope this helps some of you today.








And no, I'm not saying I'm perfect. I make mistakes too.




















I'm just doing my part to make the world a little more grammatically correct.









Now I'm going to kick back and do some editing, some writing, and then I'm going to relax.











In fact...

Ciao for now!

Found myself in a bit of a time crunch as I've been writing and researching and pestering people for their help with information about the book, lately.

Which is actually how this week's topic came about. So please, permit me to share with you:

1) It's a quick and easy way to see what some of my friends are up to - even better than Facebook, because the whole point of Twitter is to be concise.

2) The reason I joined Twitter in the first place: Cyclists. They're everywhere on the site - from professionals to amateurs, from hobbyists to lobbyists, and I get a real sense of community amongst them.

3) The rapid spread of information is sometimes intriguing to watch on Twitter. The attempts to clear up misinformation are, too.

4) Being able to share news with a large group of people all at once is nice. The instant feedback is gratifying, too.

5) Classic tweets are still funny, even now. I'm pleased to say I've been following my boy Fabian from the start, and I've witnessed first-hand the birth of the words "bevor" and, as seen here, "planket". This is a word used almost daily in my house.

Make of that what you will.

6) Celebrities who use Twitter. I follow only a handful, but they're generally an entertaining bunch.

7) I like the fact I've been able to do some of my research via Twitter. The community there is remarkably good about helping get the word out when you need an answer to a question. I've been able to get lots of information "straight from the horse's mouth", as they say - cyclists, cycling fans and photographers alike have shared details with me which I believe will enrich 27 Stages considerably.

8) Naturally, I've met some wonderful people on Twitter, some of whom have become friends on other social media, and even - dare I say it? - in the "real" world.

9) I mentioned, of course, that I follow professional cyclists on Twitter. I have good reason to - some of their tweets are absolutely hilarious, or at the very least they're enlightening as to what life is like during the races and during the off-season, too.
Very, very useful stuff for me.

10) I also like being kept up to date on what my fellow writers are doing. Some of the random thoughts which come out of their heads and through their keyboards are distinctly amusing. Or ouch-worthy.

11) There are "characters" on Twitter, too, such as Sockington the cat. This kitty tweets his everyday experiences for his human audience's amusement, and reassures us that all cats are, at heart, pretty much the same. Bless their fuzzy little hearts.

12) The fact that anyone can share or "retweet" someone else's posts is interesting. You get to see what your friends (and total strangers) are into. It's actually a sometimes fascinating glimpse into people's minds.

13) Self-promo. I know it's been done to death on Twitter, but some people have come up with pretty clever takes on how to promote themselves or their work on this site. I particularly enjoy being able to share the promotion of people I know and love - and their projects I believe in - with people who have thought I'm worth following. Hopefully, all this sharing will lead to something more for all of us, eh?

So there you have them: 13 Things I Like About Twitter.








Feel free to agree or disagree, if you wish.






















To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how well it works for getting the word out about my work, but I'm ever hopeful.






















I mean, I'm really an optimist at heart. Where some people see the glass as half-empty, I say the glass is... well...uh...





















I'm pretty sure I left it around here somewhere when I was reading...

Just for the heck of it, I thought I'd share a reasonably random peek into my life for this week's Thursday Thirteen. So now you have:

1) Offered advice and - in a manner of speaking - counseling to a few different folks via Twitter. I've also been incredibly silly there, too. It's funny - I didn't think I'd like Twitter much, but a friend persuaded me to use it to follow all the cyclists on there. Now I'm pretty well hooked on it!

2) My darling furball, Sophie (a.k.a., Doodlebug) has seen to it that I've been awakened at varying points throughout the night to keep her company/feed her/I have no idea why. So, one reason I don't have a smashing TT post is because I'm incredibly sleepy.

3) This week, I agreed to continue doing guest blogs for Book After Book. I'm pleased to be able to continue my ongoing relationship with this book blog. It's been a lot of fun, so far - and now I'll be writing about more subjects than before, including a fictional piece or two.

4) I've gotten back to work on 27 Stages in a big way. Needless to say, this pleases me. I'm roughly four chapters away from wrapping up the first draft. Wish me luck!

5) I vacuumed most of the house. Except for the bedroom where my kitty was cowering, because I couldn't bring myself to scare her further with the vacuum. Even though she has no qualms about keeping me up at night.

I'm a sucker. I know.

6) I'm reading (will finish it today, actually) my wonderful critique partner Nell Dixon's book, Crystal Clear.

7) On a similar note, I also got to critique a couple of chapters of one of Nell's current Works-in-Progress. I can't wait to see how this one will play out!

8) This week (this morning, in fact) saw the end of Alternate Rialto as one of Amazon's free offerings. I have mixed emotions about this. I enjoyed seeing the (for me) higher "sales" numbers, but I really would like to actually earn some money on this book, too.

9) I saw the New Year in with my hubby's family. We had a quiet evening - well, mostly, as there was a hyper-excited three-and-a-half year old involved - and that's how I prefer to go about it.

10) This week also saw Ask Me if I'm Happy as the Book in the Spotlight for the day over at the Famous Five Plus blog.

11) I've helped my hubby with his Beatles homework*, and we've watched episodes of Beatles Anthology via YouTube almost every night this week. It has been a wonderful way to wind down and end the day, and I'll miss it when we've watched the whole series.

*My hubby was told by a friend of ours to "study" the Beatles albums when he confessed over a dinner that he wasn't exactly familiar with all of their work.

12) I finally managed to get the exercise bike brought up and put in my office. This picture is of the model I have, but it's not a photo of mine. I just wanted you to see that I'm rocking this thing old school. (I can't wait to ride my real bike again!)

13) In relation to #2 above - I spent a couple of hours poring over maps of France in order to plot out the final two race stages of 27 Stages. I even had to negotiate a French train ticket site in order to be sure I hadn't gone mad with the route planning.
I don't speak French.
It was exhausting.

Don't judge me.

I know, it doesn't sound like much when I mention it like this, but these events really have kept me quite busy over the last week.












And I'm pretty prone to distractions, so that doesn't help.



























I mean, I'm wandering around online, here and there, tra-la-la-ing as I go...























And then...


























I'm sorry, I... ah... Hmmm?