Much low humor,
namely farce, slapstick, and the like, is employed to engine the protagonist
from one end of this story to the other. See, it begins with someones
head being lopped off.
you didnt make stew? Im famished! My MMA workouts squeeze the
calories out of me.
I made a pot of
rice, yesterday. Besides, in this tale, marriages are consummated, babies are
born, and an individual, who is eyebrow high in racketeering, joins a witness
like junk. You shoulda made the stew.
Says you and
which agents? Mine already emailed me that he's looking forward to this
manuscript. After all, the heroine faces down an unwitting heiress who bumps up
against a peanut butter and jelly sushi chef, an horse whisperer intent upon
reducing a python to passivity, and a literally
glass-eyed oncologist with a penchant for chemistry-based mischief. As well,
that main character meets up with a gal who paints New England landscapes on
leather purses, a road tripping news crew, and a band of Junior Leaguers bent
on killing highway meridian wildflowers.
I bet those
Junior Leaguers remembered to cook their kids some stew.
They had hired
help. As for the leading lady, she stood to lose the one million dollars that
she accidentally won at a Fur Meet if she didnt shed ten kilo by the end
of the year. Im guessing she nay-sayed cooking.
He was an Italian
tailor who spent his free time dabbling in herbal medicine, childbirth
education, and actual basket weaving.
I get it; not a
macho man... more metrosexual.
Kidding me? It
takes a strong stomach to assist in childbirth.
It takes an empty
stomach to miss dinner. Youre joking, right? Its really already in
a pot in the fridge.
Sorry. No. But
you can have some of this.
I picked them while I was working on the books final chapter. I prewrite
in my mind.
I salivate in my
mouth. Bits of green stuff isnt going to help, Mom.
Sweetie, I give
conference papers. I teach service courses. I sit on sleep-inducing committees.
Come sabbatical, I try to answer my needs.
I want food.
Get a job. Work
in a burger joint. Chow on leftovers or on rejects.
kid. Youre supposed to feed me.
than twice that.
care if Im hungry? Im your forever child.
I was always
hungry after belly dancing classes. Tofu worked as did quinoa.
didnt shop this week; Ive been too busy with this
protagonist remains pudgy and must, in the final chapter, find a means to repay
the hundreds of thousands of dollars she spent during her championship season,
my book ends on a happy note.
with your child does not. Im going out for pizza.
Ill be at