Writer Dad

Missing You

March 15, 2010

I’ve missed you.

I’ve missed sitting down, sparking thought like a current through my fingers, then standing satisfied.

I miss the reflection and the typographical look in the mirror.

But I’m happy. Really, really happy.

For those of you who don’t read Ghostwriter Dad, Dave and I have started working with Lori Taylor and her awesome team at REV Marketing.

Turns out, I’m not just there to be a writer.

I’m there because of my quick brain and fluid ideas, for my ability to see the bright side of most anything and because I adapt well and with admirable speed. I’m there for my wit, and for a smile you can probably see between the lines of an email. I’m there because I like to say yes and then proceed to run as fast as I can.

For the first time in my life, I am being paid to be me.

That is a remarkable thing and all my cells are grateful.

Mia woke up on Friday with something angry in her stomach, mad enough I guess to make her miss a day of school. She lay in bed all day, a few feet away from me, barely saying a word. Yet, despite the silence I think it’s a day that’ll blink back in her memory.

The sun set and the hues of respect in Mia’s eyes had deepened since the morning.

Mia knows her daddy is a writer, though I’m not so sure she fully understands what that entails. Maybe she figured I sit at the desk typing from time to time, head lost in the clouds at others, thinking of new things to write. Perhaps to her it seems like a fun, or easy job.

Mia watched on Friday as I absorbed an endless stream of phone calls, Skype chats and email, seeing me without ceasing, typing and talking through the length of an entire day.

“I had no idea, Daddy,” she said in a voice about two years older than I expected.

The voice matched her new haircut, chopped into a bob earlier in the week, her first major head revision since she moved from bald to bushy.

Her new hair shapes her face differently. Though still wonderfully oval with rich chocolate eyes, it now looks pointier somehow, as though this past year has spent longer shaping the angles.

Just as beautiful, but obviously older.

The difference was there, but the new bob was a yellow highlighter making me wonder if I’d have missed it minus the new do.

Those were the wedges of my week, though there were some other significant slices along the way to Saturday, but I’ll save them for another post at another some time pretty soon.

This weekend, somewhere in between feeling the want to write for Writer Dad and wondering when I’d find the time, I stubbed by brain on the obvious.

I know precisely where I’d like to take this site. Pin on the map, gas in the tank, iPod loaded – exactly where to go.

It’s not only awesome, but threads many elements together into a much tighter tapestry.

I can’t wait to share.

{ 2 comments }

Today I Am Me!

March 11, 2010

Today is my birthday and you know what is weird.

There’s something so odd (though it’s just as I feared).

I’m one whole year older though muchly the same.

I have on an old outfit and I’m called the same name.

When I woke up this morning, much to my surprise,

I had the same ears, nose, mouth and two eyes.

That by itself would have been a bit strange,

But I swear I could not see even one single change.

The scratch is still there from my scuffle with Saul

And I still line right up with that notch on the wall.

I counted my fingers and sure enough, like my toes.

All of the digits are lined up in rows.

I know it seems silly, but I truly thought

I’d wake up a bit different, but I guess I did not.

When I complained to my father that nothing had changed,

He just started smiling, “Son, you must be deranged!

Why would you want to change all that is awesome?

Blooms shouldn’t be in a hurry to blossom.

Changing takes time, a lot more than you know.

You can see something grown, but cannot watch it grow.

Time is your friend, but he will not be rushed,

Rooted or muted or silenced or crushed

One day you’ll stare in the mirror and wonder

How time tore through your life as though lightning and thunder.

When that day comes, you’ll know just what to do -

Squeeze your eyes tight and remember this you.”

Then he pointed at me and he gave me a lift,

With this perfectly unparalleled incomparable gift.

He taught me a trick – how to travel through ages,

Like I picked up a book and then flipped back the pages.

You can never go forward, but you can always reverse.

“Come over here,” he waved, “and we can rehearse.“

Then we remembered, one or two years from before.

Then after those memories we remembered some more.

My daddy showed me that tomorrow’s not here,

But today is right now and will soon disappear.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t mind what I see

Because today is today and today I am me.

{ 21 comments }

Clickitty Clackitty…DING!

March 9, 2010

There was a once upon a time, back in the foggy days of my early childhood when I eagerly wrote stories for myself and a small audience of my parents, friends and teachers.

Yet there were more than two decades bookending the last time I wrote anything for the gee whiz fun of it all and when I finally picked up the pen to compose whimsy once again.

Back when I was around five, and up until around the time I was eight, I wanted to be a writer. I’m not sure I wanted to be a writer as a profession. At least not exclusively. I just wanted it to be one of the many things I did, in between being a fireman, astronaut and super hero.

But even if I wasn’t willing to grant exclusivity, I understood the magic of writing at a primitive level; the ability to create something from nothing, like a magician, but with pages and ink instead of smoke and mirrors.

Before I was born, my mom worked as a secretary at TRW. In her previous life at the office, she could type about eighty words per minute on her IBM Selectric. Though there was rarely a need to use it, we had an electric typewriter from Sears which we kept in a high shelf in a rarely explored closet. The typewriter probably weighed about as much as I did, with a black snake coiling from the body of the behemoth and into the wall. When you flipped the switch, there was a powerful hum which vibrated at a volume which was only a whisper less than a generator.

I remember my mother feeding the beast with a sheet of pure white paper, then marring its innocence with ink at a speed that amazed me.

Clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity-DING!

She’d type for half a page or so, then rip the sheet from the mouth of the monster. A few times, stories were delivered at the other end of her display. These stories were simple, and though I remember none specifically, I’m sure they were parables about little boys who should have better manners at the dinner table, or perhaps show more kindness toward their younger sister.

One day, my father brought home a manual typewriter, also from Sears. It had the same beige, hard plastic cover. But under the hood there were more differences than just the dimensions. The manual had no cord and no current. The ribbon was dirty and got all over your fingers, smudging the white of the paper before you even fed it. There was no fancy backspace key which would allow you to erase your mistakes.

None of that mattered. The typewriter was mine, and my daddy said I could use it whenever I wanted.

Clackity…click-click…Clackity…click-click…Clackity…click-click…Clackity…click-click…Clackity…DING!

I started writing that day. Most of my early work was about robots, space, and probably He-Man, though I do remember one story featuring Spiderman in an epic battle with a monster snowman. Living in Southern California had lent snow a rather mystical quality to my eyes.

Though I’m sure each new story was every bit as horrible as the one which preceded it, I was five years old at the time and my parents seemed impressed. That was all that mattered to me. Same went for school. Though I always enjoyed writing amid the clickety clackety dings of the typewriter most, I often scribbled my stories at school as well. Whether they were humoring me or not I will never know, but the teachers seemed to enjoy them and regularly asked me to share.

Though I was kindergarten age, I was not in kindergarten. My parents had enrolled me in a school where they slipped books into my hands so early, I have no memory of ever learning to read them. The neighborhood school we were supposed to attend was an atrocity. My oldest sister went there, at least until the day one of the teachers told my father in a conference that “some kids are destined for mediocrity,” and “everyone would be a lot happier if they accepted this truth early on.”

The school was a mile and a half from our house. Still, had the rest of us been home, we would’ve probably been able to hear our father’s anger echoing across the campus hallways.

That was all my parents needed to pull my sister, now the senior nurse in her city’s largest hospital, from campus and enroll her in a private school just beyond our means. My other two sisters and I immediately followed. The school was small, owned by the same people who owned the preschool I’d been attending since I was two. The tuition was significantly less than a typical private school, but my family was by no means wealthy. The tuition eventually drifted from difficult to inconceivable, at which point my sister and I migrated to the best public school our parents could manage.

Even if the report cards said something different, the private school had no grades. Instead, students were encouraged to continually reach for the next rung of their ability. It was one of the biggest shocks of my life, moving from a school where my brain was given breath, to one where I was bored out of my skull, day upon day, in a never ending purgatory of doldrums and deja vu. Oz to Kansas it was.

In my old school, I would finish my work and then be offered a choice: I could either read, or write.

In my new school, I would finish my work and then be offered a choice: I could either sit and stare at the wall, or sit and lay with my head on the desk.

On the few occasions when I did manage to write a story, the teachers didn’t care. At least not like I remembered my old teachers caring. How could they, with thirty-five other students all clamoring for the same slice of validation?

I’m not exactly sure why I allowed the death of the writing spirit at school to follow me home, but like a wayward puppy it did. I was eight when I changed schools for the first time. Shortly after that, the manual typewriter was placed back on a high shelf and I never felt my fingers on the keys again.

It would be more than twenty years before I would write another story.

It is possible, my abandonment of the pen had nothing to do with my change in schools. It was also at that age when I discovered Stephen King and my world of words forever changed. Before I read The Talisman, stories seemed simple. I could mimic them in my own primitive way. After The Talisman I was content to go along for the ride as often as I could.

Exercise: Did you ever make up stories or draw pictures as a child? Were you encouraged or discouraged, and how did that attention make you feel? What sorts of things would you create? Don’t be embarrassed. Pretend you are that age right now, and write a story to impress your mom or dad.

{ 16 comments }

Thank You, All is Well

March 5, 2010

Thank you.

Before I ever managed to make an online dollar, my primary currency was comments, compliments and the occasional email encouraging me to continue.

Though I was always willing to work hard, these kudos kept me going; digital high-fives from around the globe giving me gallons of gas when my tank might have otherwise run dry.

Thank you so much for the emails on that last post, “A Promise to My Family.” I was stunned. Your outpouring and outreach were overwhelming.

I’ve returned home and all is well. I saw both Dave and snow for the first time, but I also stared right in the eyes of one possible future and turned my head with a smile.

The people we will be working with are absolutely wonderful. A truly delightful group of highly intelligent, fiercely motivated and wonderfully funny women (with a gentleman here and there just to liven things up).

My Magic 8-Ball is no better than yours, but things feel as they should.

I have a lot of catching up to do so I’ll be scarce for a bit, but I promise I’ll back and better than ever soon.

Thank you again, all is well.

{ 6 comments }

A Promise to My Family

March 2, 2010

I‘ve never written a post on a plane before.

But here I am up in the sky and on my way to new adventure. The acid of the unknown has settled, finally fleeing along with the feeling that there’s something I’m forgetting – that emotional carry-on that seems to accompany every flight.

Before I land, I’d like to make a promise. But before I do I would like to say thanks to the trinity of people who have saturated my days and nights with their eternal support and unflinching faith.

You three have been there to see me type my fingers down to raw and blistered digits, to constantly inspire and encourage, and to hold me on the rare occasion when I finally vented a cry, wondering with shuddering tears if I would ever make it.

Cindy, you never doubted it. Mia, you never stopped reminding me I was the world’s best writer, no matter how many times I assured you I wasn’t. And Max, it would be impossible for you to love me any more. Believe me, buddy, the feeling’s mutual.

We set to render our online dreams to reality and we have, though at times we’ve had to hack through the hedges of Hades to get here. Back when we first started, our dreams were fresh, and they alone were enough to give us all the energy we needed. We worked the preschool by daylight, then flipped the candle and burned the other end until well past midnight. Night after night after night.

Write a fresh post, answer comments and emails, get my name out there as much as I could. Go to sleep spent, then wake up and do it again.

“I promise,” I said. “It won’t be this way forever.”

You believed in the dream.

We closed our school and the money dried immediately. We tightened our belts and prepared for hard times. Even poised, things were a high multiple worse than expected.

Our dream was clear, but far away. Like a mountain’s peak looming at the edge of an endless sweeping plain. Though we remained forever hopeful, we were under no illusions.

It would be difficult.

And it was.

Month after month our dreams mushroomed in cost and our horizon continued to pixelate. My ambition to write for a living shifted to cruel mockery. I dreamed of writing fiction and gorgeous prose that might someday pass between friends and lovers. In reality I wrote about lawnmowers, barbecues, DUI’s and auto warranties – when I was lucky.

I wrote garbage articles that no one would ever read. As much as I loathed them, I did my best to keep the smile on my face. The three of you needed to see it, and though the pay was pennies, pennies made dollars and we needed them badly.

Every morning you would rise, Cindy, to the tip-tip-tapping of my keyboard. Max would climb on one side and Mia on the other. My arms would snake around the smallish set of similar shoulders, but I kept tip-tip-tapping the entire time.

Off to school, then home again home again, jiggity gig… The sun low in the sky, Daddy was still tip-tap-tapping.

“Daddy needs more time,” Mommy would say, “But he’ll be down for dinner.”

A bite to eat, a glance at the homework, then back upstairs. Another few hours of hammering at the keys, racing to minimize the next days to-do’s while my mind tried to part the creeping fog that always seemed to settle in around midnight. Eventually, I’d slip into bed exhausted.

Cindy, I’m sorry for every night you waited up for a me who was too exhausted to speak. And I’m sorry for every night you waited on me, only to succumb to sleep before I arrived.

The seven day scheduled stretched for far too long. When we finally took the Macbook in to get the keyboard repaired, the Apple Genius said he’d never seen one so battered.

“I promise,” I said, looking all three of you in the eyes more times than I can count. “I’m only working this hard now so I won’t always have to.”

You all believed me because I’ve never let you down before.

Eventually the nickel and dime articles evaporated and David and I managed to build our business to a point where all our needs were being met. A growing list of happy clients were in love with our work, eager to book, and even willing to wait in line.

Then, after waiting so long for our patience to yield triumph, I’ve gone and laid it all on the line. I’ve embraced the gaping chasm of a certain unknown and pulled those I love most, once again into the trenches of risk.

And you haven’t flinched.

Cindy, your faith is unwavering as always. Max and Mia you both believe in me with a pristine perspective that I find both inspiring and entirely humbling.

Thank you.

The gentleman sitting to my left probably thinks me sad. It might be my red eyes and shallow breath, or the tear that’s nested at the edge of my eye, threatening to fall.

And though that tear will make good on its promise, I’m sure, before I finish this page, I am not sad in the least.

Just reflective.

Perhaps it’s being thousands of feet in the air, miles melting between us by the second. Or maybe it’s because I’m about to turn a decisive page in our family history. Could be because in another couple of hours I’m going to shake the hand of a man who has become impossibly important to all our lives, and yet whom I’ve not actually met until today.

I’ve taken the long way around my thoughts today. I suppose it’s because for the first time in I don’t know how long, I’m writing without hurry. I look outside the tiny window and see nothing but sky. I close my eyes and see nothing but the wide expanse of pregnant promise.

Despite my meandering thoughts, I’ve not forgotten my point.

I want need to make a promise.

I know these last two weeks have swallowed me and that it’s probably scary for you.

I know I promised I was only working so hard so that I wouldn’t always have to, and that in the last several days I’ve returned to some of my old, worst habits.

I know that we grow older each day, that there are no do-overs and that I owe all three of you the best possible life.

I’ve not forgotten a thing.

I promise that you will always come first and that if this change isn’t right for us, then it will not be right for me.

Years will pass and I will remember the chaos of the past two weeks, but the specifics will fade to haze.

But Max, I will ALWAYS remember out picnic adventure, “boys time” last Saturday and the way you made the most of every second we had together. I wish I could have been less distracted. You certainly deserve it. I promise I’m not oblivious. I misted you too.

Mia, I will always remember you coming home with Pepper, and a smile as wide as a sunset at sea. I know that your ”not wanting to talk about it“ was your way of silently saying, ”I really wish you wouldn’t leave, Daddy.“ You are my first born and my life has been richer every day and in every way for having you in it.

Cindy, I will always remember how you squeezed my hand tighter, thought harder and said more with your eyes than I can sometimes manage with a pen full of ink.

Thank you for trusting me through this transition. I promise my aim is true and we will hit our mark.

Mia, I’m sure you are reading. Would you please do me a favor and read this to your brother?

Max, tuck in the lip buddy, I’ll be home soon.

Cindy, thank you for everything. We are but two books in a single volume.

I love you all.

{ 39 comments }

The Moments Captured on the Page

February 25, 2010

Weird.

I remember hearing a story a few years back (I think I’m getting old since a few years back was actually over 10 now that I think about it) where Ray Davies from the Kinks was in a small New York Club, listening to a punk trio blaze through their set.

There was one song in particular that seemed to tickle the ear of Mr. Davies. He found himself tapping his feet, bouncing his head and humming along at the club. The beat stayed with him and Ray found himself bopping his head to the same tune as he sang in the shower the following morning.

It wasn’t until two days later when the “Well Respected Man” finally realized that the song in his head was something he’d written some 20 years earlier.

I remember hearing that story and being filled with disbelief. “That’s impossible!” I thought,”how could anyone be so disconnected from their art?”

I had similar feelings when I read Stephen King’s on Writing and he talked about how he couldn’t remember writing a single page of Cujo. At least he offered an explanation. Seems at the time old Uncle Stevie was self medicating with about 87 different kinds of mostly illegal pharmaceuticals.

Still, how can you create something, be deeply committed to it in the moment, then barely remember it a couple of decades removed? Maybe that’s the way it was for other people, I thought, but surely not for me.

I was wrong.

I’ve been preparing something special lately. A present I’d like to give to the Writer Dad audience. No big deal really, I’ve just gathered a few reader favorites from the last year and a half. Those stories which have generated the most response, either in comments or emails received.

The weird thing was that as I was reading some of the posts, I had barely any memory of them. These were deep, intimate moments as I wrote them. Some even made me cry and yet the memory on the reread was distant enough to make me seriously wonder how well I would remember them 20 years later.

Phrases used, feelings captured, the way I once used a semi-colon; a nickname for my wife abandoned. Moments in time captured before they shifted, now forever frozen like a ship in a bottle.

Written or not, our human moments are soft, and subject to fading memory as the sun will bleach the ink in a photograph.

I’ve never been more appreciative of the man moments captured on the page.

{ 14 comments }

Mac N’ Cheese Never Hurt

February 24, 2010

mac and cheese

You know I don’t like Mac N’ Cheese.
Will you make me something different please?
Pizza or pasta, peas and potatoes,
Tacos or turkey, tofu and tomatoes.
Hamburgers, hot dogs, fish sticks or fries,
Sausage or soup or spaghetti surprise.
I’m really not picky, but I want something new.
You say I like it, I swear that’s not true.
Wait… what’s that you say? Ice cream for dessert!
Oh, what the heck… Mac N’ Cheese never hurt

{ 14 comments }

At Least She’ll Never Outgrow Me

February 22, 2010

This last year was a bolt of lightning with an endless flicker. It flew right by, but lingered all the way.

We’ve changed a lot. Can’t help it. The planet orbits and we evolve, inevitable as inhale and exhale.

Two weekends ago we had the annual Valentine’s Ball at our school, the same Father Daughter Dance I wrote about last year.

Mia and I had attended the two previous years together because Max had not yet started Kindergarten and tickets were limited. We didn’t want to take another child’s ticket.

This year, Max is in Kinder so it was our first time as a family. The children were a fountain of energy from first light to early star, sweet and happy all day long.

The four of us counted the many minutes until we could finally put on our fancy clothes and drive to the school.

Like last year, my daughter squeezed my hand, looked up at me adoringly in her poofy dress and blushing cheeks, and said with her eyes, “You are the most wonderful thing in the world, Daddy. I love you with all my heart and spending time with you is the bestest thing I could ever imagine.”

Then we entered the cafeteria and I became the invisible man.

Well that’s not true. Invisible men don’t get impatient glances and tapping feet.

Mia’s eight, so I’m totally used to the scriggles (screamy girly giggles) every time she sees her friends, just not when we’re wearing shiny shoes. From the second we entered the cafeteria ballroom, a series of scriggling second graders commanded all our daughter’s attention.

Mia looked over, around and through me to make eye contact with her friends, but never at me. She was off as soon as the music started. Eventually I headed out to the dance floor to look for my first born. I found her two songs in and asked her for a dance.

“No dice dad!”

Is what she might have said if she had taken the time to stop and say something intelligible on her scriggly whiz by.

That’s fine, I thought. No biggie.

Another four or five songs passed before the DJ hopped on the mic and invited all the dads and daughters to the dance floor for the father daughter dance.

I smiled. It was just what I’d been waiting for. I went out to the dance floor to find Mia, but she was nowhere to be found.

I found her a song and a half later. She’d been on a sequin safari with one of her friends, gathering the glittering hearts from abandoned tables and collecting them in an empty cup. She ran up to me with a foot long grin and a scriggle bubbling from her lips. “Look at all the hearts we found!”

“Dance with me,” I said, taking her hand.

“Okay.” I might’ve asked if she wanted seconds on vegetables.

We headed to the dance floor where we started to sway back and forth for all of six seconds before she was looking over, around and through me to see what her friends were doing.

I’m no fool. I know my daughter will grow up and away from me and I don’t want to keep her tiny forever, nor do I think she did anything abnormal or wanted to hurt my feelings in any way.

But I’m human, and find it impossible to ignore the incessant marching of time and all the evidence he leaves carelessly behind. Last year I was the only thing in the room that mattered. This year I wasn’t.

Seasons change and leaves fall from the tree only to flourish on the same branches the following year. I know we’ve done well to nurture our children’s soil and that growing pains aren’t only for the little ones.

I feel fortunate to know in my heart that though Mia will one day outgrow my lap, she will never outgrow me.

{ 23 comments }

My Puppy’s Using Facebook

February 18, 2010

My puppy started doing something, it startled both my eyes
I walked into the living room and much to my surprise
He was on the Internet and he was surfing all around
His tongue was hanging out, his tail was bouncing on the ground
I said, ”Hey Barkey, whats the deal? Youre breaking natures laws!
You’ve got a keyboard and a mouse, both right beneath your paws!
How can you use a browser…wait… how can you even read?”
”Well, it is a little difficult,” Barkey then agreed.
“I had to start out slowly, by learning all my A, B, Cs
And once I knew ’em fluent, I started on my 1, 2, 3s
I covered all the basics and then I got advanced
I started out on YouTube and soon I was entranced
Now Im checking email – Flickr, Facebook too
I can do a million things that doggies arent supposed to do.”
It was then I noticed as my knees were starting to get weak
That Barkey wasn’t barking. Nope, my dog was full of speak
“So whats next for you, buddy pal,” I was dying then to find
My canine had already detonated out my mind
”Well,” he said, paw on nose,”I guess its time to share
But I think its best if you sit down, so please pull up a chair.”
As I sat down Barkey started barking out his plan
(Maybe the most amazing thing since at least the dawn of man)
“I have a lot of thoughts up here,” he pointed at his top
And no matter what I do, well I can’t get them to stop.
So Im gonna do something thats never been done by a dog
I’ve registered a domain and I’m gonna start a blog.”

{ 3 comments }

YAY! My First Book is FREE!!!

February 17, 2010

This is a guest post from Kelly McCannlis, 5th grade author of the new book, “Penny to a Million.”

Wow, I don’t know what to say!

When Mr. Platt told me I could write something for his site to promote my new book, I was super duper excited. I asked him what I should write about. He told me I should just be myself and that I would do fine.

“Should I tell them about my book?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said, “that’s why you’re guest posting, isn’t it?”

So I guess I should tell you a little bit about the book, but I don’t want to tell you too much since it will be a lot cooler if you read the book without any of the surprises being ruined, especially the one at the end of the second to the last chapter. When it happened I almost had to sweep up my jaw from the floor with a dustpan!!!

It all started the summer before last when my grandma and grandpa invited me to stay with them for a long week out at their lake house. I was really, really REALLY looking forward to it. You probably think that’s weird because most kids don’t really want to hang out with their grandparents, but my grandparents are really awesome.

My grandpa once wrestled a bear and my grandma once chased a mugger for three blocks to get her purse back. And though I don’t really know if the bear story is true, I know for a fact that the one about the mugger is. My grandparents had a picture of my grandma holding her purse up in the air hanging over the cash register in the grocery store they used to run together.

So anyway, me and Grandpa were sitting by the lake eating sandwiches when my grandpa came out of nowhere and told me the secret of life. Well, probably not THE secret, but his secret – the one that let him retire early and take my grandma on a cruise around the world. The same secret that changed my entire life, starting with the last year I would ever spend at Roosevelt Elementary!

That was in the last week of August, right before the new school year started. When I went back to school, it was as a whole different Kelly!

I should probably stop there since I really don’t want to make you feel the way I felt when my friend Jessie Noble ruined the ending of this movie called “The Sixth Sense.” My mom and dad told me that I couldn’t see it until I was in middle school, but Jesse’s parents let him see it in second grade and he told everyone the ending and now I don’t want to see it as much, even though my dad says it was “groundbreaking.”

I really hope you like reading my book. I had a lot of fun writing it. In fact, I think I’m going to write another one, as long as this one does okay. I’m probably going to sell it for like five bucks or something, but right now I just want people to read it. If you go visit my site at Penny to a Million dotcom, you can download the book for free.

You can also follow me on Twitter if you’d like to keep up with my adventures. I don’t tweet often since my mom says that tweeting should really be for the weekend or after I finish my homework and chores. So it’s usually just the weekend. I would really appreciate it, if it’s not too much trouble, if you could click on the retweet button or let your friends know about the book. It’s the first one I ever wrote and I want to make sure it goes bananas.

Thanks!

Click here for a free copy of Penny to a Million.