Selling to New York means writing on proposal. Three chapters and a detailed synopsis of the book you think you want to write next. Now that is an awesome thing if you're good at it. Me? I run into snags. While I don't have a problem with synos like many writers do--don't get me wrong, I don't enjoy writing them--but I don't have a lot of problem writing them and making them interesting. That's when I do the rough outline of the plot in my head. I find they're helpful for bringing the book into focus for me. I'm not a plotter, but...I need that rough outline in my head because I don't write in order. That's just dandy when you're writing the whole book. It'll all get done eventually, so the scenes I write will work themselves in later. But, a proposal is just the first three chapters. What if the end comes to me first? What if no one buys the book, then those scene that aren't in the first three chapters are pretty pointless, right?
So, you pound away at the keyboard, hoping that three chapters is enough to make someone love your new idea as much as or more than you do. As pain in the butt as it is to write those whole books, and even if someone tosses it aside after the first page, it's easier to tell yourself that they had a shot at the whole picture. And, for me, it means I didn't waste those scenes...they had their shot at a chance in the sun. However. There's always a however, isn't there? The good news is, you only need to write three chapter. Then you know one way or the other if they love it. You get paid before you even finish the book. That's a beautiful thing, you know?
But in the end, it can feel like the nerve wracking, pulse pounded, hands shaking, nausea inducing kind of proposal that men dread the world over.
What do you all think of writing on proposal? Dish!
So my fortune cookie fortune today said: You are a true romantic
At first I laughed and thought oh how well the universe knows me. But then I stopped and wondered...am I really though? Granted I write super hot romances that must have a HEA (happily ever after)--with the exception of the dirty kinky short story I'm finishing up right now. But does that really mean I'm a romantic? I don't look at life and expect men to be romantic. I don't really expect the same things I write about. In reality I'm, well, a bit of a realist. Romance tends to occur for the most part in romance novels. Unless I (and most of my friends) have just had really bad luck. And it's entirely possible. I'm sure there's some massively romantic men out there.
On a similar note, I've realized that I'm not big on chick flicks anymore. I'm not sure when this changed. I used to adore them, and come to think of it, I still do. The older ones. Those ones from the 80's and 90's. The newer ones not so much. I swear to God I wanted to throw myself off a cliff when I had to sit through P.S. I Love You.
The other night a good friend and I tried to see Sex in the City, but there was only one showing way late at night (weirdness!), so we saw Get Smart. I loved it! Totally not what I expected. And you know what else I loved? The previews for all the action fighting movies. Like Hell Boy 2 and The Dark Knight. I think chick flicks still have a place in my heart (girls night in!), but somewhere along the way, I've become an action girl. And I think that transfers over to my writing in some books. Especially my book I sold to Kensington (formerly The Captured Rose, now being renamed!). I love a little action with my books.
So what are your thoughts about romance in life? And when you go to the movies? What do you prefer?
Vision of Seduction is book two of the trilogy and revolves around Katelyn (the Seer) and Prince Grayson.
For those of you who have absolutely no clue what I'm talking about - read on!
From A Vision Of Passion…
Katelyn Hunt is fascinated with the sexy stranger who has been hanging out at her New Age store for the last week. As a Seer, the sensual power she feels from this man of mystery intrigues—and arouses—her. But only his touch allows her to truly see what it would be like to lie beneath him naked and exposed, experiencing complete sexual surrender. And this vision is just the beginning…
To A World Of Pleasure…
As Prince of an otherworldly clan who use sexual energy as their life-force, Grayson de Klatch has searched far and wide for the Seer who can help save his planet. And when he finally finds Katelyn, he knows he has discovered his future mate. His body craves the sex her body so willingly offers and he aches with the need to make this woman his own…
What the Reviewers are saying:
"Deliciously wicked and sexy--intensely satisfying!" --Cheyenne McCray
"Scorching hot sex scenes leave nothing to the imagination." --Romantic Times - 4 Stars
Enough already - show me the excerpt:**Warning, due to word choice, this excerpt is R-rated. Although in relation to the rest of the book - it's pretty PG13...
Misty fog drifted around Katelyn's ankles, even as she recognized the vision for what it was. Twenty-three years of experience made it almost impossible for her to mistake a vision for anything else.
Yet, this one was more vivid than usual—less déjà vu, and more current somehow. She couldn't pinpoint the differences, but she knew.
The air was heavy with water and ripe with the scents of plants and earth. Katelyn couldn't see anything past the mist even though the sun warmed her and shined off the soft green grass under her bare toes. From the smells, this place reminded her of the beautiful grassy meadow in her last vision.
"Good morning, Katelyn."
The deep bass rumble that made her name sound like an exotic delicacy, startled her and she turned toward the voice.
Grayson emerged out of the mist looking much as he had when she'd first seen him walk into her shop. A plain black T-shirt stretched over broad shoulders, which veed down to a tapered waist. Tight jeans molded over muscular thighs before covering the tops of well-worn black cowboy boots.
His dark hair gleamed with amber highlights in the sunlight. He'd pulled it back into a simple ponytail. It looked soft and satiny, and her fingers literally itched to reach out and touch.
Grayson's chiseled jaw and sensual lips would be enough to make him handsome, but those eyes the color of deep melted amethysts made him breathtaking.
Unease skittered along Katelyn's spine as images of the battle inside her shop flooded back. Shit! Did that actually happen?
It must've been another vision. Yet, it hadn't felt like a vision, but something that actually occurred. And why would she vision something so bizarre when all her visions usually came true in some form?
A sinking sensation churned deep inside her belly and she concentrated, attempting to crystallize the images inside her mind's eye.
Try as she might, she couldn't remember anything past the blue beam that slammed into her chest like a sledgehammer. When the vivid memory of the pain searing into her chest made her wince, she knew she hadn't imagined the attack.
Katelyn squeezed her eyes shut trying to block out the memory. Somehow, when the sizzling beam struck her, she had known if it didn't stop draining her energy, she would die. She brought her hand to her chest, wincing as she touched the sore spot left by the beam.
"Am I dead?" Even in her vision, her voice sounded hoarse and unused. Grayson's deep chuckle vibrated through her. She longed to press her body flush against his and ask him to laugh or even speak, so she could see what those wonderful low rumbles would do to her in close proximity.
"No, far from dead, my beautiful Seer. Unconscious, or maybe even asleep, but not dead." He stepped close, and Katelyn's breath caught in her throat.
Heat and energy pulsed between them and every coherent thought fled her mind as she gave herself up to this vision.
"I'm glad you are all right. I have come to help you heal—to help heal us both, actually." Grayson captured a strand of her hair and rubbed it between his thumb and first two fingers. The innocent caress sent gooseflesh marching over her entire body followed by a tingling wave of heat just under her skin. A low moan escaped before she could stop it.
She nearly let her head fall back in surrender before his words, and not his actions filtered to the front of her awareness. "Are you a healer?" she asked. "Your energy is very powerful, but it doesn't feel quite right for a healer."
Grayson laughed, and once again, the beguiling sound roamed over her like a verbal caress. "No, my beautiful Seer. I'm no healer." He traced a single callused finger over her bottom lip and she clenched her fists to keep from leaning into the light friction of his touch. "I'm a Klatch witch, an ancient line of otherworldly witches whose life force is sexual energy."
It was Katelyn's turn to laugh. "Wow, I'll be happy to lend any help in that arena you might need. Although, unfortunately, I'm only human, and while sex is nice—stellar, if I'm lucky—I need rest and time to heal. That is, if I were sick or injured, which I'm not."
He brushed his lips over hers, which left a pleasant buzzing sensation against her skin. "You're wrong, Seer. Healing doesn't follow human rules here. And you're still injured from the energy blast. Trust me."
She stepped back.
"I don't trust anyone," she surprised herself by blurting out something she had thought to herself countless times before.
Grayson only smiled. "I know, my beautiful Seer. Then let me show you instead." Before she could argue the point, he pulled her tight against him. He plunged his fingers into her hair while he captured her mouth with his.
Her hands found his chest, and her frantic mind sent her arms a signal to push him away, but her body betrayed her, and her fingers fisted in the soft cloth of his T-shirt. Heat sizzled between them and she felt like she would drown in the overwhelming sensations. Finally, his lips gentled against hers and she was able to step away from him. She swayed slightly, but locked her knees and stared him down. "What are you doing to me?"
Grayson didn't state the obvious, but seemed to instinctively understand her real question. "Every Klatch has a special gift, and mine is to cause arousal in others. I can control it, but it comes very naturally, and most of the time, I don't even realize I'm doing it."
"It's bad enough you're a walking wet dream, but now you think you can cause magical arousal?" She slapped her hand over her mouth as she realized she'd said the words out loud. Arousal, hell. So far he's some sort of truth serum!
A pleased expression lit his already too-handsome features. "Not only have you shown more resistance to my inherent gift than any Klatch woman ever has, but you seem to have the same effect on me. No woman has ever affected me like this. Until you."
Inside her mind, she laughed at the ridiculousness of his statement. He thought she'd shown resistance? Hell, if Ethel hadn't interrupted, she might've backed him up against her display case and taken advantage of him right there.
Besides, he was delusional. He had to be. She'd never encountered any type of magick or energy that would do what he described. It sounded more like a case of male ego, and less like an "inherent gift." Katelyn held up her hand stop sign fashion. "On demand arousal. Right. I don't buy it." She fisted her hands on her hips and glared up at him. "Hit me with your best shot, Mr.-Goddess's-Gift-to-Womankind. Show me this 'inherent gift.'"
Grayson sighed as if disappointed in her lack of belief. "You're a very stubborn woman, Seer. Please remember that you specifically asked for this demonstration." He shrugged. "Although it will help you heal, so I suppose it can't hurt."
She snorted. "You have no idea how stubborn I can be." Katelyn held her arms wide as if making herself a bigger target. "Bring it on, stud."
Grayson never moved, but a wave of his energy surrounded her and her entire body burned with desire.
Her breasts ached almost painfully.
Her pussy throbbed with need.
Even her skin felt like it might explode if she didn't have Grayson inside her.
Katelyn wanted hot, kinky, explosive sex, and she wanted it now.
She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, drawing in lungfulls of air as she battled against her urges and desires.
Katelyn pictured a shield made of pure white light that surrounded her body and blocked his energy.
Immediately, the assault lessened, but didn't stop. Apparently, even her strongest shields couldn't totally protect her. He hadn't been kidding about his "gift."
"Enough." The word slipped from her lips with effort, and she hoped Grayson heard it over the pounding of blood inside her head.
Just as quickly as the desire began, it stopped, as if Grayson had flipped a switch.
Katelyn locked her knees, fisted her hands, and screwed her eyes shut tight. She refused to crumple to the ground with relief like she wanted to.
When her heart had slowed enough that she was sure it wouldn't pound right out of her chest, she opened her eyes. She expected his expression to be smug. Instead, it was apologetic. He stood stock still as if afraid to come closer.
"Okay." Katelyn sucked in a shaky breath. "Remind me not to ask for any future demonstrations from you."
It's been a while since I blogged here-mainly because I had the usual crazy book deadlines to deal with. That's one of the problems when you foolishly decide to write for more than one publisher, every thing turns up at once. I had 2 books to finish, copy edits on one, galleys on another and covers to check. Of course, I always forget about real life as well.
I can guarantee that my family will also decide to behave completely out of character the moment I HAVE to finish a book. They fall on their faces and require root canals, end up in the Emergency Room with slashed hands, throw up everywhere...and with 4 kids (and a husband, a dog and a cat) there is plenty of the bad stuff to go around.
Machines stop functioning as well, drains block, toilets stop flushing, the dryer emits worrying black smoke. All my carefully acquired writing time slowly trickles away waiting for stuff to happen or waiting for other people to fix stuff that has happened.
I used to think it was just me but the more I talk to other writers, the more I realize it is the universe having a little laugh at me. Maybe it's because creative people aren't supposed to have to deal with the real world-in my dreams maybe :)
I decided I need an assistant.I was totally impressed by authors who had assistants at the RT convention-people who set out their books at the signing, made sure their water bottle was placed correctly, escorted them through hallways at an impressive pace. That's what I want-'people' to make my life work smoothly like that.
Unfortunately to get people I'll have to keep writing and hoping that the kids stay in one piece for a few more years!
Anyone else noticed this family disaster phenomenon whenever a book is due? Readers do you ever wonder whether writers really live glamorous lives?
Posted by Unknown ::
1:13 PM ::
"Bump in the night" reminds me of Snoopy's opening line, "It was a dark and stormy night". Darn it, I wish he'd finish the book because I love stories that give me that shiver down the spine.
My own last night was an active one and got me to thinking about my comfort zone, not just in what I read and write but the movies or TV I'm comfortable with. To start, it was hotter than hell last night and for some dumb and not to be repeated reason, my dh and I decided we'd prefer the fresh air over AC. Consequently, I spent most of the night sweating. And in there somewhere I had a disturbing dream about a fire in a woodstove that got out of hand. We have a mountain cabin heated entirely by wood and one of my sons is there this weekend which probably accounts for the dream. In it, I did a lot of running around trying to put out a bunch of small fires that sprang up around the woodstove. Finally the flames were gone and things were smoking away so I decided to go to town. (note to self, not a smart idea). Then I was back at the cabin, which was no longer mine, trying to convince the owner that there wasn't much smoke damage.
Okay, so I'm thinking about the disturbing dream when I woke up around dawn. Thunderheads were on the horizon and heat lightning was putting out quite the display. Then with a crash and a boom, a loonngg boom, out goes the electricity and my dog is all over me shaking and whimpering.
The point of all this: I fast-forwarded my thinking to why I can read horror but you ain't never gonna get me in a theatre to watch horror on the big screen. It has to be the visual component, plus feeling trapped in the dark theatre. When I'm reading horror or suspense, I can put it down and walk away. I can look around and see the dust piling up on my furniture. I can pet my snoring on-my-lap dog. In other words, the real world is still there when I'm reading. Not when there's a slasher in the basement and the too dumb to live actress is heading down the stairs.
I write erotica. I love writing erotica. But someday I'm going to tackle a horror story that takes place in a mountain cabin during the mother of all thunder storms and a slasher heading my way.
Question: is there a difference in your personal comfort zone when it comes to the written word vs movies or TV?
And as I wander off to fix breakfast for my dh, I can hardly wait for Tues, the 24th when GOING DOWN hits the stands.
If you’ve ever browsed for books on Amazon you’ve no doubt read a review by Harriet Klausner. She is the number one reviewer. At the time I wrote this blog she had reviewed 16,630 books.
Not only is Harriet quite prolific (on December 9, 2006 she reviewed 59 books) but she loves everything she reads (she rates a book as either a 4 or 5 stars out of 5 stars).
The great debate is over whether or not Harriet is a real person. Now on Amazon she has one of those “real name” badges on her profile but I’m just not buying it because the math doesn’t add up.
Despite her claim that she is a speed reader I find it impossible that someone could not only read 59 books in a day, but also write a review on each one.
To get a grasp of how absurd this is let’s say the average book is 300 pages. So 59 books x 300 pages = 17,700 pages. Let’s say each page has 250 words so 250 x 17,700 = 4,425,000 words. Let’s then assume she is a ballistic speed reader with a rate of 500 words per minute (200-300 is considered average) so 4,425,000 divided by 500 would be 8,850 minutes, which would be 147.5 hours.
Far as I know there are only 24 hours in a day. Mind you this doesn’t include the time it took to write the review. Well, maybe with all that reading she’s developed a device that slows time.
Even if I make the numbers extremely conservative with an average book at 200 pages and only 200 words per page and up her rate to 1000 words per minute I still end up at 39.3 hours. Sorry folks, but the numbers just don’t compute. And numbers don’t lie. I know this as an accountant. You can get creative with your numbers but numbers themselves can’t be forced to lie for you.
And don’t think for a moment I’m the only one to notice this. Below are several links to others who have pondered this most compelling mystery.
So why did I bring this up? Well, it’s been bothering me for a long time. I expect people to read the books they review. I dislike “puff” reviews just as much as I dislike “revenge” reviews--that’s where one writer will trash another writer’s work out of jealousy or an overactive competition bone.
Harriet reduces the fine art of reviewing to a simplistic formula. (Er, to get what I mean, all she had to do was read the back blurb, the promo material, and one or two lines of the actual book.) When I see her reviews, I ignore them because in my humble opinion they are meaningless.
Will we ever know who the real Harriet Klausner is? Does it even matter if she’s a collective of reviewers or simply a tool to give good reviews to almost everyone’s book? I guess the reason why I care is that I like to read reviews but I always take them with a grain of salt. Harriet Klausner annoys me because her reviews are “puff” without any real insight.
Writers are neurotic. Don’t you think? I am, and it seems to me every other writer I’ve met – in person or by email – is as well. Often, we get swamped by self-doubt.
We ignore twenty great reviews and agonize over one bad one.
We check Amazon numbers even though everyone tells us they’re not a good indicator of anything at all. And when our ranking drops, we’re shattered.
With each book we write, we hit a point where we think our characters are stupid, our story is stupid and, most of all, we’re stupid and will never be able to turn this pile of c**p into a book.
How do we survive without slitting our wrists? [g]
That’s my question for today? What gets us through the bad times? (And hey, I won’t restrict the question to writers. If there’s anyone else out there who’s just as neurotic as we are, please feel free to answer.) Let’s share our tips, tell what keeps us motivated. Maybe we can learn something from each other.
Speaking for myself, there are a couple of things I try to remember when I’m wallowing in self-doubt:
1. I actually do know how to do what I do, and I can do it again [g].
2. I have good reasons for writing. I do it to bring the characters in my head to life, and to give readers something that entertains them, moves them, and maybe even makes them think.
I have a number of techniques that help me remember these things. One is to frame my book covers and hang them in my office, along with the awards my books have won. On my bookcase sits the vase of silk roses that my local RWA Chapters award for book sales. And something I plan to do is set up a scrapbook where I save little motivational items, so I can turn to them when I’m feeling down. Like, the contest judge who said, “Susan Lyons is one of my favorite writers.” Wow! The sailor who told me one of my characters reminded me of his wife, then shared the terrific story of how the two of them met. The readers who tell me that I gave them hope when I wrote about a plus-size woman finding a man who believes she’s truly beautiful. All these are reminders of why I do what I do – and that I do a halfway decent job of it too!
How about you? How do you keep yourself motivated, especially when you’re going through a period of self-doubt?
Recently, a recruiter I’ve worked with several times in getting day job gigs called me about a job opportunity. With a voice brimming with enthusiasm, she listed all the requirements and duties, while I listened with growing dread. Despite this “fantastic” opportunity, all I could see was the dwindling hours per day left for me to spend on writing.
“And, they’re looking for someone with a high Emotional IQ,” she said.
“A what?” I laughed, thinking she was joking.
She then explained all the warm and fuzzy skills they were looking for in the areas of adaptability, motivating others with varying personality traits, working with difficult personalities to get the job done, etc. etc. This triggered a flashback of the Myers-Briggs test, which a company I’d worked for early in my career, had administered to all employees in my department. The results were supposed to enlighten us to our personality type – and those of others, facilitate our ability to work well with those who were different than us, and enable us to work together in harmony.
After the call, I searched the Internet for more information. Apparently, researchers had determined that traditional IQ tests, which only test intelligence, were inadequate in predicting success in life. Those tests were missing the emotional factor.
Enter the missing link: the Emotional Intelligence Test (EIQ). After oodles of studies, researchers determined that people with a high EIQ seemed to be more successful in life than those with a lower EIQ, even if their “traditional” IQ score was high – or, even average.
I took an EIQ test at Queendom.com, “the land of tests.” It was an interesting test. The subjective part asked me to give my responses on how I dealt with my emotions, the emotions of others, how I motivated myself, and more. The objective part showed a series of photographs and asked me to intuit what was going on. An hour later, and $9.95 poorer, I was amazed (and pleased) with the results. It accurately nailed the areas that I thought I was good at, while surprising me with a couple that I needed work in. Armed with a high IQ, I now have proof that I’ll make the bestsellers list one day. LOL
So, if you find yourself in the midst of a procrastination moment with $10 bucks to burn and an overwhelming desire to chart your EIQ, I recommend this test. And if you do take it, wanna discuss our test results?
Well, speaking of that day job, I’m off to put my EIQ skills to the test …
All of us who write need to pamper our muse. Sometimes that's hard to do. We have parents and children and day jobs that need us. We have husbands and boyfriends and lovers. We have our girl friends and classes and exams and shopping and chores. And all of this take away from time for ourselves. I don't mean that in a bad way. I love my life, even as busy as it is. But I need quiet time to think and finding it can sometimes be challenging.
My readers might have noticed that my world building usually includes a lot of elements from nature. I use plant names for my characters. Ivy is the name of my heroine in SHE, and Lady Wisteria is an evil character from THE SUPPLICANT, for example. Where do I get these elements from? In the winter, my desk is covered in gardening catalogs. Listen to this. "...these dropping, milky-white naturalizers have dainty inner tips of emerald green." This is a description of snowdrops from the John Scheepers catalog.
Sometimes (okay, often) I break down and buy these delicious things. As a result my yard is filled with glorious foliage. All of the images here are from my garden. Now that summer is here, my muse is just out the door. And as I water and fertilize my creations, I feed that muse at the same time.
Want a copy of SHE? Post a comment. I'll pick a random winner.
Posted by Lucinda Betts ::
2:16 PM ::
After a very short break between my last deadline and the first draft of BREATHLESS, my anthology for Aphrodisia, I found myself falling in love.
All over again! I'm a fickle woman and it's taken me years to see it. Now, now, I'm married to a wonderful man. The love of my life, and all that stuff.
I've fallen in love with 6 new characters! Right now, they're ready to launch me into 3 wonderful new stories of love, hot sex and deeply (can we say deeply) satisfying romance. And I'm in love again.
Their stories, Breathless, To Die For, and Body by Gibson stretch before me: perfect, golden, exquisitely written. So far, there's not a darn thing wrong with them. The characters are wonderful: head strong, but trainable, gorgeous, but not perfect, warm, willing, sexual, but scared of committing.
All these things are waiting for me to explore. And it's one of the very best moments in writing. Because I'm in love.
You see, by the end, I'll hate every one of them for being difficult, demanding pains in the butt. They'll argue, stomp off...want sex I don't want (g) and will generally try to take over. I'll hang onto my plot, and only that, by the seat of my pants.
I'll fight with them, down and dirty, scrabbling in the bowels of the book to keep the point-of view straight, the words flowing, the love brewing. And it'll work, because I always win.
I'll win because by the time I'm fed up with these characters, I'll have discovered another set that wait for me: perfect, shiny, and agreeable. I'll finish the whole anthology BREATHLESS and send it in to my editor.
And then, like a miracle, I'll fall in love again. Fickle me!
Now, what does it take for you to fall for a writer? Why keep picking up the same writer's books time and again? Is it consistency in the type of books? Or the fresh, new twists? What makes you say: This writer is a must buy?
That's right, I'm here to blog for my fabulous sister, Delilah Devlin. Isn't it just like her to leave it to me to pick up the pieces? Just kidding. My sister lives out in the wilds of Arkansas where they have to pipe in the internet with the sunshine. Well her satellite internet service has been less than adequate and has been out for days! She's to the point she may have to resort to dial-up!!!! Egads! Just shoot me now!
I remember when I lived out in the country in Texas and we were on dial-up. How painful it was to send a file, view a picture, bring up a website. Once you've gone DSL, you'll never go back, NEVER!
I mean really, as a writer, you live a pretty solitary life, especially if you write full time. If not for the internet, it could be a very lonely life. The internet is my/our connection to the outside world. As a writer, it's hard to have friends. When you're not pounding out a book on deadline, you're somewhere knee-deep in the creative process and can't be disturbed or you've broken the process. Those people who used to be your friends are lost on the wayside, especially if they aren't writers like you and can't talk writing and books with the passion and obsession you can.
Thus, the internet is our salvation. Most of my friends are other writers scattered across the United States, Canada and other countries around the world. It's not like I can run out and have a cup of coffee with them. First of all, gulp, I don't drink coffee, I know, to some people that's a sin in itself. Second, they're too darned far! Even my sister, Delilah is 4.5 hours driving away from me and with gas prices skyrocketing. Fugetaboutit! Two years ago, I moved to the northern border of Arkansas and I have yet to make a friend here who is close enough for me to visit with on a regular basis. Not many writers up here who write what I write. Yeah, it makes a difference what you write sometimes.
I rely on the internet to keep in touch with friends, brainstorm ideas, share news and disappointments with people who know what it's like to be me. Who share a passion for writing and reading. Maybe I should say obsession, it's closer to the truth than passion, although passion is definitely a part of it!
What about you? Could you live without your internet, email, instant messaging, Youtube, iTunes, Ebay, google, mapquest, online book orders? Now that you're connected, how would you survive without it?
I pose these questions to all those in cyberspace. You know what I'm talking about.
Your cyberpal Myla Jackson
Posted by Myla Jackson ::
6:55 AM ::