First of all, I’m in it. That’s all kinds of wrong.
I’m not fond of having my picture taken and neither is Harrell, which is one reason we have so few photos in the house. This time, for whatever reason, he wanted a cell shot of me holding one of the gourds I was about to purchase last week. In a moment of weakness, I agreed.
I blame the heat, the dirt, a touch of dehydration, and that fact that we were both bone-tired. It won’t happen again.
I’m posting this travesty of a shot because this may be the last time I pose for a photo. That’s a shame, not because I should be in more pictures, but because… it’s this photo. I admit, I’m not an expert when it comes to taking cell pics. Looking at this one, though, it feels to me as if the large gourd in the foreground could possibly have been removed or repositioned before the shot was taken. Maybe I could have been encouraged to step to one side or the other. Perhaps the photographer could have shifted a little before snapping the image.
Because, in my opinion, no one looking at this photo is going to focus on anything but the large phallic-looking gourd that’s centered at the lower part of my waist. The good news is, people won’t be looking at me. The bad news is, I could be wrong about that. People might be looking at the picture and thinking, why did that woman want that large phallic-looking gourd positioned at her waist?
Enough about that. Let’s move on.
Harrell and I have just returned from a long overdue visit with family and friends. We’ve missed those people for too long. We had the opportunity to attend a spectacular wedding that was held in a beautiful wooded setting, without any bears in sight. (This only became a consideration after a bear visited the three-story cabin we were in the night before.) Toward the end of our 11-day journey, we visited the Welburn Gourd Farm, famous for its thick-skinned gourds. You might not care about thick-skinned gourds, but gourders (it is, too, a word) go out of their way to find such prizes. I loaded the trunk of our rental car with gourds of all sizes, and felt very happy to have them, indeed.
We made it home safely, but that’s the end of the good news. Writing-wise, the bad news is that the Kindle Countdown Deal didn’t do anything to help us find new readers for The Runaway Mail-Order Bride. The novel rose a little in the Amazon rankings, but that’s because a couple of curious readers paid full price for the book. They didn’t return it for a refund, either, which is increasingly a problem for some of my fellow writers. Oh, yes, that’s become a thing. Less for us, though, than for others. Mail-order bride readers tend to be honorable folks.
And, then, there’s the Amazon Vella saga. I had such hopes. Instead, it’s been such a….
I don’t want to get into it at this moment. Next week, okay? I’ll tell all.
I’m not fond of having my picture taken and neither is Harrell, which is one reason we have so few photos in the house. This time, for whatever reason, he wanted a cell shot of me holding one of the gourds I was about to purchase last week. In a moment of weakness, I agreed.
I blame the heat, the dirt, a touch of dehydration, and that fact that we were both bone-tired. It won’t happen again.
I’m posting this travesty of a shot because this may be the last time I pose for a photo. That’s a shame, not because I should be in more pictures, but because… it’s this photo. I admit, I’m not an expert when it comes to taking cell pics. Looking at this one, though, it feels to me as if the large gourd in the foreground could possibly have been removed or repositioned before the shot was taken. Maybe I could have been encouraged to step to one side or the other. Perhaps the photographer could have shifted a little before snapping the image.
Because, in my opinion, no one looking at this photo is going to focus on anything but the large phallic-looking gourd that’s centered at the lower part of my waist. The good news is, people won’t be looking at me. The bad news is, I could be wrong about that. People might be looking at the picture and thinking, why did that woman want that large phallic-looking gourd positioned at her waist?
Enough about that. Let’s move on.
Harrell and I have just returned from a long overdue visit with family and friends. We’ve missed those people for too long. We had the opportunity to attend a spectacular wedding that was held in a beautiful wooded setting, without any bears in sight. (This only became a consideration after a bear visited the three-story cabin we were in the night before.) Toward the end of our 11-day journey, we visited the Welburn Gourd Farm, famous for its thick-skinned gourds. You might not care about thick-skinned gourds, but gourders (it is, too, a word) go out of their way to find such prizes. I loaded the trunk of our rental car with gourds of all sizes, and felt very happy to have them, indeed.
We made it home safely, but that’s the end of the good news. Writing-wise, the bad news is that the Kindle Countdown Deal didn’t do anything to help us find new readers for The Runaway Mail-Order Bride. The novel rose a little in the Amazon rankings, but that’s because a couple of curious readers paid full price for the book. They didn’t return it for a refund, either, which is increasingly a problem for some of my fellow writers. Oh, yes, that’s become a thing. Less for us, though, than for others. Mail-order bride readers tend to be honorable folks.
And, then, there’s the Amazon Vella saga. I had such hopes. Instead, it’s been such a….
I don’t want to get into it at this moment. Next week, okay? I’ll tell all.
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