Excerpt: Stop the Diet; I Want to Get Off! by Lisa Tillinger Johansen

stopthediet

 
Health, Nutrition, Diet, Weight Loss
 
Date Published: July 15, 2015
 
 

The Paleo.  The Zone.  The Gluten-free.  Another day, another diet.  We’re caught in a never-ending merry-go-round of weight loss plans, fueled by celebrity endorsers, TV doctors and companies angling for a piece of a $60 billion industry.  But do these diets really work?  And how healthy are they?

Registered Dietitian Lisa Tillinger Johansen examines dozens of the most wildly popular diets based on medical facts, not hype.  And along the way, she reveals tried-and-true weight loss strategies, relying on her years of hospital experience, weight-loss seminars and community outreach efforts.  With insight and humor, Stop The Diet, I Want To Get Off shows that the best answer is often not a trendy celebrity-endorsed diet, but easy-to-follow guidelines that are best for our health and our waistlines.

EXCERPT:

The idea for this book began at a wedding.

Who doesn’t love a good wedding? The clothes, the flowers, the romance, the food…

Ah, the food. As we moved into the banquet hall for the reception, the culinary feast was on everyone’s minds. It was all anyone seemed talk about. But for some reason, guests weren’t conversing about the dishes being served; they were swapping stories of diets they had heard about from friends, magazine articles, even celebrities on talk shows.

I’m a registered dietitian with a master’s degree in nutritional science and years of clinical and health education experience. I’ve counseled thousands of patients and clients on all of these diets. But hearing the guests only momentarily distracted me from my horrible faux pas of wearing white (gasp!) to a friend’s wedding.

“I’m on the Blood Type Diet,” said a woman with an impossibly high bouffant hairdo. “You’ve heard of that, haven’t you? It’s the one where you choose your foods based on your blood type. I’m an AB, so I’ll be having the fish.”

“Really?” her friend replied. “I swear by the gluten-free diet. I’m on it, my daughter’s on it, and my granddaughter’s on it.” I happened to know her granddaughter was six and didn’t have a gluten sensitivity or celiac disease.

Then there was the stocky guy who was trying to impress one of the bridesmaids. “I’m a paleo man myself,” he said, piling his plate high with beef kebabs. “It gives me more stamina, know what I mean? It puts me in touch with my inner caveman. There’s a restaurant near my apartment that’s paleo friendly. Maybe we can grab a bite there sometime, or… Hey wait, where are you going?”

And there were three Weight Watchers sisters who typed furiously on their phones and argued over their meals’ point values. Apparently there was some discrepancy between their various apps, and the sisters’ discussion was becoming more heated by the moment.

I’m past the point of being surprised by the wide range of weight-loss strategies—some worthless, some crazy, some quite reasonable—being tossed around. In the last few years, there has been a tidal wave of diets washing up on the shores of our nutritional consciousness. Celebrities prance across our screens, promoting a variety of weight-loss schemes on talk shows and infomercials. Medical doctors star in their own syndicated television programs, exposing millions to weight-management techniques, often unsupported by medical research. Other diets get traction on the Internet, racing all over the globe in social media posts, YouTube videos, and often unwanted spam e-mails. And it’s hard to walk past a shopping center vitamin store without being approached by salespeople trying to pitch the latest weight-loss supplements. It seems that everyone wants a piece of the pie; the American diet industry tops $60 billion annually.

It’s classic information overload. You can’t blame people for being confused by all the diets out there, even as crazy as some of them may sound. I didn’t speak up to my fellow wedding guests that day, but it occurred to me they would benefit from science-based facts about the diets they so ardently follow.

So during the toasts, I thought to myself, I should write a book.

I counsel clients on these matters each week, giving them information they need to make the best choices for their health and waistlines. I find that all too often there are issues with the diets presented to me in my counseling sessions and classes. They just plain don’t work, particularly over the long term. And some of them are harmful, even potentially lethal. But it’s also unhealthy to carry extra weight on our frames. So how do we separate good diets from the bad?

In the chapters to come, we’ll take a good, hard look at the various weight-loss plans out there. I’ll pull no punches in my professional evaluation of some of the most wildly popular diets, both bad and good, of the past few years. And along the way, I’ll explore tried-and-true strategies for losing weight, based on my years of hospital experience, weight-loss seminars, and community outreach efforts. More often than not, the best answer is not a trendy celebrity-endorsed diet, but instead a few easy-to-follow guidelines that I’ve seen work in literally thousands of cases.

Enough is enough. It’s time for the madness—and the diets—to stop.

LISA TILLINGER JOHANSEN is a Registered Dietitian who counsels clients on a wide range of health issues. Her debut nutrition book, Fast Food Vindication, received the Discovery Award (sponsored by USA Today, Kirkus and The Huffington Post).  She johansenlisa_author_piclives in Southern California.

 

Contact Information

Website: http://stopthediet.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lisa-Tillinger-Johansen/371723646229812

Twitter: @LisaTJohansen

Blog: http://consultthedietitian.com/

Any Others: http://fastfoodvindication.com/

 

Purchase Links

Amazon: www.amazon.com/Stop-Diet-Want-Get-Off/dp/0996310207/

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Book Blitz: Approaching Twi-Night by M. Thomas Apple

Literary Fiction / Sports Fiction
Date Published: February 2015

 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

An aging baseball player is given one final chance at professional and personal redemption in small town America as he struggles to come to grips with his past, his sense of self, and his career.
Journeyman relief pitcher Jonathan “Ditch” Klein was all set to be a replacement player during the 1994-1995 baseball strike…until the strike ended. Offered a contract in the minor leagues, playing at the same Upstate NY ballpark he once found success in high school, Ditch has one last chance to prove his worth. But to whom? A manager with an axe to grind, a father second-guessing his pitching decisions, a local sportswriter hailing him as a hometown hero, a decade older than his teammates and trying to resurrect an injury-ridden career…Ditch thinks he may have a possible back-up plan: become a sportswriter himself. The only question is whether he is a pitcher who aspires to be a writer, or the other way around…
EXCERPT
From his perch on the mound, Ditch shaded his eyes and watched the foul ball gently curve over the grandstand toward the parking lot. As he held his glove out for the new ball, he could hear his father’s voice from a high school game: “Straighten that out, Johnny, just straighten it out!” And he could remember himself at the plate, thinking, “I can’t, Dad. I can’t hit it.”
He gripped the dull white leather in his pitching hand, tucked the glove under his left arm and slowly circled the mound. Ditch’s hands worked the leather, trying to deftly massage life into the ball. His fingernails found the seams and began to pull them up from the leather; Ditch had always wondered as a kid why pitchers on TV wasted so much time walking the infield grass, if “raised seams” actually did anything to curves like his father claimed, if pitchers who stared out at the crowd were actually looking for someone. He stopped on the first base side of the mound and glanced at the runners on first and second, not really to check on them, just let them know he knew they were there. The runners strayed a step or two from their bags, sauntering back and forth with hands on hips, kicking the bags a couple times impatiently. They knew Ditch wouldn’t throw, he knew they wouldn’t run, not on Holforth’s arm.
Ditch tugged at his cap and deliberately ignored the anxious hometown crowd on “Opening Day Two.” Absently he wondered if his family was in the stands somewhere, his father holding little Jennifer up on his shoulders, pointing, “There’s John, there he is.” He climbed back up to the pitching rubber, haphazardly pulling his short sleeves up and shrugging them down again. The murmurs changed to a soft buzz of rushing air in his ears as he dug in with his right foot and stared in at Holforth behind the plate. He squinted on purpose at the flashing fingers, set for the third pitch, and threw.
The batter fouled it off again, this time straight into the visiting team dugout, nearly hitting the coaches at the top of the steps. Ditch received the next new ball and began his ritual anew. The batter fidgeted, stepping out of the box with one foot and nervously swinging his bat a few times and changing his grip as if he were uncomfortable using wood instead of aluminum. Ditch looked at the wispy clouds overhead, the one-two count in the back of his mind, and decided to waste a pitch.
Holforth almost failed to block the errant pitch, but he managed to smother the forty-foot curve, hurriedly flipping his mask off and alertly checking the runners back to their bags. The catcher turned to ask for time, and Ditch turned his back on the plate. Holforth was bound to be angry. He knew Holforth hated it when his calls weren’t taken seriously. He tugged his cap and kicked at his trench.
The catcher pulled the ball out of his mitt and placed it in Ditch’s. Holforth darted a look at the vacant right field foul line bullpen, then back at Ditch. “You can let go now,” Ditch said. “I’ve got it.”
Holforth withdrew his hand from the glove. “Inside and high,” he stated. “This guy’s never used a wooden bat before.” He turned back to the plate and pulled his face mask on over his hard hat. Neither have you, Ditch thought, already pacing at the back of the mound, massaging the ball. He found the soft spot, brown from the last pitch. The Majors spoiled their pitchers, he thought. They want a new ball, they get one. Even now, he knew, a batboy was rounding up the foul balls in the dugouts and along the foul line, ready to hand them over to the plate ump between half-innings. He randomly glanced at the rust-green electronic scoreboard with the Pepsi label slapped on it in left-center field. A two-run lead he was supposed to protect, for the last two innings. Collins had made that clear; Ditch was on his own. He felt the urge to spit, then changed his mind, then did it anyway. What the hell, he thought, pushing his sleeves up again.
He stepped up again and caught the signs. High and inside. At the hands. He checked the runners, reared, and threw at the batter’s head. The kid ducked as the ball flew at the backstop. He could hear Holforth’s muffled curse as the catcher futilely flung his glove hand back and followed it with his body. Ditch loped to the plate to cover, but the runners stopped at third and second as Holforth got the ball back in play. Someone in the crowd behind third base booed, but his neighbors quickly hushed him. Ditch cleared the dirt around the plate with the tip of his shoe and tugged again at the hat. He headed back to his incantations. The infielders hesitantly moved back to their positions, pounding their gloves and muttering nearly inaudible words of encouragement. A hit would tie the game. Ditch let his sleeves fall down as he mounted.
Holforth was standing right in front of him. Ditch betrayed no surprise. “You’re making me look bad, man,” the catcher said tersely. He rubbed the sweat dripping down his chin onto a sleeve. “We can’t do that again, so I want you to throw the pitch.”
He shook his head and dug at the trench. Holforth called it “the pitch,” as if it were a secret weapon of some kind; he wanted the awkward slider he made Ditch work on in the bullpen, the one he could throw with the bent finger underneath. He hated it. He hated using a trick pitch.
“I’m telling you, do it,” Holforth repeated. “Cut the crap and get this guy.” He turned abruptly and trotted back to the plate. Ditch placed his right foot behind the rubber and looked up. The other ump had moved to behind third base. Only two umpires in this league, Ditch remembered with a chagrin. He looked in at the plate and jerked his head back to third as he faked a throw. The runner froze, then looked embarrassed, realizing that the third baseman wasn’t anywhere near the bag for a pick-off throw. Ditch smiled to himself and tugged at his cap with his ball hand. The third baseman edged towards the bag, pulling the runner closer. Ditch paid the two no mind.
He looked back in. Holforth signaled for the pitch. Ditch shook his head. Holforth signed for it again. Again, Ditch shook it off. Exasperated, Holforth audibly slapped his thigh. He angrily flipped down a single finger. Ditch laughed out loud. The batter called time. Ditch stepped off and put his head down. He could hear the plate ump say, “Let’s go gentlemen.” Gentlemen, he thought. Yeah. He watched the batter take a few more swings, adjust his helmet without adjusting it at all, and then step back in. The crowd noise briefly interrupted then seemed to recede.
He looked in and he saw Holforth stand up and adjust his cup before squatting again. Ditch turned his head to peer at the runners momentarily, then turned back and got the expected signal. He didn’t respond. The signal came again, insistent. He lowered his head, and stood, hands ready at his belt. He could sense Holforth settling back, the ump crouching behind with a hand on Holforth’s shoulder. The bent third underneath and two forefingers on the seams, he withdrew his hand from the glove. His wrist snapped out and down, and the ball spun towards the batter’s waist. It seemed to rise and curve left, directly into the batter’s wheelhouse, but suddenly it dropped to the right at knee-level. The batter swung.
Ditch looked over his shoulder as the second baseman scooped up the ball and lazily tossed it to first for the third out. He was out of it. He tugged his cap, maybe to acknowledge the smattering of applause, and walked to the dugout. He was vaguely aware of the fielders passing him, some smacking him on the back, some not, as Holforth appeared at his left elbow. “Told you,” was all he said, then found his place on the bench. He passed his manager on the steps. Collins pretended to be absorbed in pitching charts. Whatever, Ditch thought. He found his jacket and shoved his right arm into the sleeve. The end of eight. Maybe he would get through this after all.
One of the starting pitchers approached from the left side of his peripheral vision: the tallish Hansen, the deposed starter of the day. Hansen looked tired, but not beat. He held a cup of water, and nodded towards the bench. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked. Ditch shrugged, watching a Wildcat batter, the first baseman Reynalds, take a hefty cut at an eye-level pitch. After Reynalds would come a second-string outfielder, Williams or something, batting as designated hitter in the pitcher’s place. He was glad he didn’t have to bat, the only good thing about the minors.
The kid sat down with a contented sigh and took a sip from his Gatorade cup. “Hey, you want any water?” he asked.
Ditch shook his head. “Nah.”
 “Lemme get you one.” The teenager was up and at the cooler before he could say anything else. He opened his mouth and shut it after a moment. Why not, he thought. Doesn’t really matter. Reynalds swung mightily at a pathetic curve and topped it back to the pitcher. Just one more run, he thought, no, make that two, or three. He moved forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he pulled his cap off and worked the rim.
Hansen walked over and handed him a paper cup with rosin-stained fingers. The chalk clung to the green cup as Ditch mumbled a thanks and took a small sip. Hansen sat down again with a thump and said nothing for a moment. The DH was at the plate, wildly swinging at anything near the strike zone. Ditch sighed, thinking that maybe he should be allowed to bat for himself.
Hansen finally spoke. “Thanks for getting me out of that jam.”
Ditch was silent. What jam? Oh, yeah, he remembered, he had inherited the first runner. He turned to Hansen. “Sure thing. I didn’t help myself with that walk, but…yeah, sure.”
“Hey, you’re saving my game for me, right?” Hansen paused to finish his water and toss the cup aside. “I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Ditch mumbled. “It’s my job.”
Hansen was quiet. The DH finally connected — luck, Ditch thought — and hit a worm-burner past the shortstop for a hit. Now one of the outfielders was up, somebody, he didn’t know his name. All he hoped for now was that the batters took a few pitches and gave him a little more time to sit. The next batter swung at the first pitch and popped it straight up to the catcher. Ditch hung his head and spit at his feet as the third baseman Corrales took his turn batting.
Hansen coughed into a fist and shifted on the bench. The batter was taking his time. Ditch hoped so. Corrales was their “star player,” according to friend Grant. In the on deck circle, Holforth was taking his practice swings with his chest protector and shin-guards on. Ditch sat back and pulled his glove on, half-heartedly to head back to the mound. “Hey, Ditch,” Hansen began. Ditch didn’t take his eyes off the field. “Uh…some of the guys were thinking of, you know, hanging out after the game,” Hansen continued. He shoved his hands into his pitching jacket and banged his cleated feet against the concrete floor of the dugout. He had knocked the dirt from his cleats the previous inning, Ditch noted. Hansen cleared his throat. “You know, like go out to a movie or something. You wanna, I mean, if you want to come with…”
Hansen let a breath out slowly and stopped kicking. Ditch finally looked over at him. Jesus, he thought, the kid was actually nervous just talking to him. “Yeah, okay, sure,” he said. Hansen looked at him, then lowered his head and resumed banging his shoes. “Maybe we could hit a bar or something first, you guys don’t mind.
The sharp crack of the bat cut off Hansen’s reply. They both looked up to see the ball soaring straight up, a routine infield fly. The opposing team’s shortstop didn’t have to move as he gloved it.
“Well,” Ditch said, dropping his jacket behind him, “back to work.” He heard Hansen’s voice say “…one, two, three…” as he bounded out of the dugout. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Hansen get to his feet and show signs of pacing. Ditch reached the mound and, stooping to pick up the ball, immediately dug at the seams with dirty fingernails. He mopped off a sudden downpour of forehead sweat and looked back to the dugout. Hansen was sitting again, his face buried in a hand towel.
Ditch waited until the first batter of the ninth slowly stepped in and paused to dramatically spit and flutter his bat menacingly. The crowd murmur rose and fell in waves as he readied for the signs. He wanted this game, he realized suddenly. A fine time to get sentimental, but he wanted to win.
Well, then, he thought, rearing back for the pitch. Here goes nothing.
About the Author

Originally from Troy, New York, M. Thomas Apple spent part of his childhood in the hamlet of Berne, in the Helderberg escarpment, and his teenage years in the village of Warrensburg, in the Adirondack Mountains. He studied languages and literature as an undergraduate student at Bard College, creative writing in the University of Notre Dame Creative Writing MFA Program, and language education in a Temple University interdisciplinary doctoral program. He now teaches global issues and English as a second language at Ritsumeikan University in Kyoto, Japan. Approaching Twi-Night is his first novel. A non-fiction book of essays about parenting and childcare (Taking Leave: An American on Paternity Leave in Japan, Perceptia Press), is scheduled for publication in late 2015, followed by a collection of short fiction and poetry (Notes from the Nineties) in early 2016. The lead editor of the bestselling Language Learning Motivation in Japan (Multilingual Matters, 2013), he is currently co-editing a non-fiction educational research book, writing a science fiction novel, and outlining a baseball story set in the Japanese corporate leagues.

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Guest Post: Does EXAMINER.com profit the freelance writer? by Chris DeBrie

A calculating examination of Examiners' pay.
A calculating examination of Examiners’ pay.

Sometimes we have an idea and don’t act, because we figure someone else much be working on it. We didn’t want this to be one of those times. No one is currently asking the question, so let’s do it here.

The issue is that of freelance, part-time and casual writers working for websites like Examiner.com. Avenue Books is ‘bumping’ this conversation thread on the Inter-Web.

Does writing for content sites profit the writer?

Apparently, there was a time leading up to 2007-08 when online writers enjoyed a bubble. These writers could farm out their talents to sites like Examiner, pick a topic, and plug away, actually seeing some fruit of this effort.

I missed the bubble, writing fiction and blogging on my own, never considering content writing until 2009, when flesh-and-blood jobs in town were drying up and we were in search of supplemental (residual?) income. I signed up for every farm I could find: Associated Content, Examiner, Suite101, Constant Content, even a place where site owners supposedly bid on your content called Ghostbloggers. There were others that blurred past. I never tried About.com, nor any similar “how-to” sites.

I remember a lot of excitement from these sites’ communities. Some of these people were making profits that rustled, not jingled; or they were getting exposure, or a combination. I pulled in $3,000 last month, you would see in the threads. My first month was maybe $250. Like listening to a trucker’s story, it’s best to be prepared for exaggeration. But there was an optimism and a sharing of ideas on platforms like Suite.

Like most writers, I didn’t understand how much it took (if you actually want to make cold profit)

One former top earner at Examiner estimated that
One former top earner at Examiner estimated that “it takes about 1,000 short articles” before you start to make real money. He said it took about seven months for him.

to really build an audience around those sites. I didn’t see results quickly enough, so I tagged out of the grind early, having other means to pay the rent. Examiner and the like require you to write a lot for other people, knowing that a payoff is distant at best. There needs to be a foundation of your stuff, a continuity that people might put into their routine. Meanwhile, you keep on churning and building your own web within the Web. Same as the Space Shuttle, which uses up so much energy just escaping the atmosphere. But maybe it wouldn’t have mattered what I knew, because things were changing in the online freelancer world that I had barely put a toe into.

The freelance community excitement turned into griping at unseen computer geeks who had done us writers wrong. At some point, Google and other search engines began adjusting their algorithms in ways that denied these writers the same earnings. [I know very little of the technical or monetary reasons; feel free to expound.] Added to that was the fact that many of these ‘content mills’, as some term them, seemed to be taking a larger chunk from the advertisers. The writers were at the bottom, knowing that pay had been lowered but never able to get straight answers about rates.

By 2010, writing for ‘pennies a click’ didn’t seem worth the time. Why spend hours a day writing articles that can’t be used as professional clips? when I could concentrate on ONE article, query it, sell it, and get paid for what it takes the Examiner.com girl 100 articles to reach? There was a memorable response  to that reasoning in one site; someone asked, Aren’t you basically writing for free and uncertain when you are querying, shopping from editor to editor?

Many in the publishing industry have said that the pros doesn’t respect any of this online writing; in fact, at least one headhunter claimed if she saw Examiner writing samples in a resume, she would trash the applicant.

Arguments that are pro-writing for these sites include the very real benefit of name exposure. An independent or self-published writer who likes working outside of the editor-publishing-media machine sees a lot of good in Examiner. She can get her ‘brand’ out there, find an audience that will recognize her name in the future… if, of course, she knows what she’s doing in terms of topic, writing style and quality, SEO knowledge, and that good stuff.

“The key is to write topical articles and SEO them very well,” wrote a successful Examiner from the Cleveland area.

Exposure doesn’t matter to some. They are just trying to pay the bills. A swift, motivated writer can finish an Examiner article in a few hours. To them, it is definitely worth it to spend the equivalent of a part time job’s hours, in trade for months of potential monies that will collect while they aren’t even writing. Then again, both AC and Suite famously shut down…

That seems to be what bothers some freelance and professional writers—the Examiner.com, blogger-type who puts out his own ebooks seems some kind of threat. Not a threat to the pro’s livelihood, necessarily, but to his very worldview. To the old school, the online writer who zips out popular pieces on Rihanna and the Jenners is an abomination. Such a writer has lowered the bar and lowered rates, according to the professionals. They have dodged the gate and entered by some other way. This is why many writers for those sites use pseudonyms, one commenter wrote.

This is the same horror that the music industry showed. The big labels went ballistic once digital sharing became an actual thing—‘ripping’, or stealing music is wrong, but it’s not the true issue. The underlying theme of the little guy doing his thing without a cosign from The Man… that shakes the gatekeeper. You can apply it to any industry…

Haven’t seen many updates on those comment sections in months or years. Obviously a lot has changed since those days. So we bring the issue here, to you.

All of this is just musing. Correct us where we’re wrong. Write your experience and opinion.

This is an open call to all you ‘writers-for-hire’… tell me a story.

Chris DeBrie is the author of many novels, comic books, and short stories, including the acclaimed mystery “Cap’n Random.” He earned a B.A. in Communications/Journalism, and has hundreds of writing credits both online and off since 1986.

Links to past discussions on this topic:

http://www.makealivingwriting.com/full-time-living-blogging-examiner/

http://www.angengland.com/can-you-make-money-writing-for-examinercom/

http://writersweekly.com/angela-desk/how-much-are-examiner-com-writers-really-earning-

http://www.residualsandroyalties.com/2010/01/17/make-money-online-writing-for-examiner/

http://paulamooney.blogspot.com/2009/07/how-much-does-examinercom-pay-writers.html

Cover Reveal: Hidden Scars #1 by Amanda Bryne

Hidden Scars by Amanda Byrne

BOOK & AUTHOR INFO:

 
Hidden Scars by Amanda K. Byrne
(Hidden Scars, #1)
Publication date: September 22nd 2015
Genres: Adult, Contemporary.
Synopsis:

Sometimes the past won’t stay where it belongs.

Sara’s number one rule of dating: closed off, secretive men need not apply. Years of therapy helped her move past the damage done by her emotionally abusive boyfriend, and she’s ready to date again. Someone funny, laid back, and easy to talk to. All things her coworker Taylor isn’t.

Taylor’s quiet. Too quiet. He operates in permanent stealth mode, and he hides his secrets as well as Sara does. She doesn’t want to be attracted to him, but after a night spent in a hotel room together, trapped by a blizzard, she can’t deny there’s a fire-hot connection between them, waiting to ignite. Their working relationship inches closer and closer to friendship, until one day she gathers her courage and kisses him.

It’s the match Taylor was waiting for.

What starts as a sweet, fumbling friendship quickly becomes a passionate and intense affair. Just when Sara’s starting to feel safe in Taylor’s arms, his secrets come out, and she wonders if she’ll ever be able to stop looking over her shoulder.

 
 
AUTHOR BIO:

When she’s not plotting ways to sneak her latest shoe purchase past her partner, Amanda writes sexy, snarky romance and urban fantasy. She likes her heroines smart and unafraid to make mistakes, and her heroes strong enough to take them on.Amanda

If she’s not writing, she’s reading, drinking hot chocolate, and trying not to destroy her house with her newest DIY project. She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, and no, it really doesn’t rain that much.

Author links:

YES, NO, MAYBE SO: OR, Congratulations, Your Book Is Coming Out Again, But Written By Someone Else!

GLITTERING SCRIVENER

A little story about strangely full circle writing careers and saying yes for you.

In the summer of 2004, I was 27 years old, and at the Breadloaf Writer’s conference, where I was boring an editor to tears by talking about my short story collection. No editor wants to hear those words, particularly not out of the mouth of a mostly-unpublished writer. In some desperation, I decided that maybe I could save the meeting by making him laugh, and so I started to tell stories about my “Year of Yes,” a year in which I’d accepted every invitation to go on a date – or random experience, as it turned out – in New York City. I did a lot of things that year, including swimming at Coney Island in February with a subway conductor, because hey, NYC. It was, in fact, how I met my then-husband. The editor perked…

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“Cap’n Random” by Chris DeBrie

  

Cap’n Random

by Chris DeBrie

capnrandom-cover-1
free download at Smashwords

Book info:

Cap’n Random by Chris DeBrie

Genre: mystery, detective

When crime scene cleaner Charles ‘Yey’ Reyes helps a detective friend solve a Roanoke homicide, he shuns the praise. He quickly changes his mind when his friend is killed while on duty. But this time, his offer to help is rejected by the police captain. Meanwhile, homegrown celebrity Sydney Estes buys a house near town. As the citizens swoon, Yey notices a link between Sydney and a flurry of homicides. Harangued by the captain, local media, and Sydney’s fans, Yey struggles to connect clues which will prove his theories.

[Yey Reyes] is like Hannibal Lecter’s Will Graham without the Asperger’s… Chris DeBrie Dee-author-2013is in his best literary form…” –Goodreads review

The entire story was underlined with this sardonic and sarcastic tone to it, somewhat humorous as well. It’s very difficult to describe, but I enjoyed this feeling…” —Amazon review

DeBrie’s website: meanpimento.com

Amazon