Writer Separation Anxiety: Guest Post by Eva Lesko Natiello

evanatiello:

Are you the kind of reader who gets so attached to the characters in a book that you miss them when it’s over? This is for you!

Continue reading Writer Separation Anxiety here:

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Originally posted on change it up editing:

One of my new favorite authors is Eva Lesko Natiello. I had the privilege of editing Eva’s debut novel, The Memory Box, and let me tell you, it’s quite a story! I’m so excited for everyone to read it that I have to share the back cover blurb Eva’s been working on:

Caroline Thompson doesn’t engage in the pettiness that fuels the gossipmonger moms of affluent Farhaven. She pays no mind to their latest pastime: Googling everyone in town to dig up dirt for their lively Bunco babble. When Caroline’s told that her name appears only three times, she’s actually relieved. Then a pang of insecurity prods Caroline to Google her maiden name—a name none of them know. The hits cascade like a tsunami. But there’s a problem. What she reads can’t possibly be true. Every mention is shocking, horrifying even. Worse yet, they contradict everything she remembers.  Divulging this to anyone could be disastrous. Caroline is hurled…

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Think Small: Guest Post by Eva Lesko Natiello

evanatiello:

Today I’m thrilled to be guest blogging on changeitupediting.com – home of Candace Johnson, the fiercest comma-wielding copyeditor west of the Atlantic. Check out her blog where you’ll find a steady stream of writing tips and industry news. My post today is for anyone who is eager to make real change this year, whether it’s in their writing life or beyond that. Don’t wait for the right time to do it. Do it now!

Originally posted on change it up editing:

I love editing, and I’m lucky enough to work with some very talented writers. Since the fall of 2013 I’ve had the pleasure of editing several wonderful novels, and I am excited to share them with you when the time is right. The authors are busy reviewing and revising  now in anticipation of publishing their novels, but I want to whet your appetite with this guest post by Eva Natiello, whose novel The Memory Box had me dreaming about her characters—now that’s writing to get under your readers’ skin! If you don’t know Eva, you simply must go to her website at evanatiello.com and sign up for updates—you’re going to want to read The Memory Box the day it’s released, trust me!

Not only is Eva a wonderful storyteller, but she’s funny to boot. If you missed her previous guest post, “Stormy with a Chance of Writing,” be sure to check it…

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Lead a man to directions, but don’t expect he’ll follow them.

photo by Caesararum

photo by Caesararum

The night of my son’s 14th birthday, he chose to have his celebration dinner at a restaurant in a town about 25 minutes from our house. Typically one would get there by taking the Garden State Parkway for about 10 minutes and exit onto a very busy 3 lane highway for the rest of the trip.

My husband agreed to this choice under one condition: we take the back roads. No parkways or highways. No shopping crowds or traffic lights. No Saturday night crazies. Back roads only.

“But the last time we tried that we got lost and you got irritated and dinner was, well, unpleasant,” I reminded.

“That was before the G.P.S.,” he said. “We’ve got the G.P.S. now. It’s gonna be different this time. Plus, I know these back roads. The G.P.S. will back me up.”

We climbed into the car with rumbling stomachs at about 6. Our reservation was for 6:30. I got behind the wheel as I usually do since I get car sick at the mere mention of a road trip. My husband quickly programmed the G.P.S., or Bev, as we refer to her, it.

Bev chimed in right away. But we really didn’t listen since we knew the way around our own town. My husband told me to drive to my daughter’s school and he would direct me from there.

Early on I had a hunch things would not go well when Bev and my husband spoke simultaneously. I found myself straining to hear what Bev said to see if she contradicted him.

“Don’t worry about her,” he said with a wave of his hand.

(Just a side note. If you were in our car, you’d think this funny, because the voice coming from our nav system is male, though we call her Bev. We actually switched the voice to a female voice for a while, which our G.P.S. allows us to do, but the directions she gave us were horrific. Like when she expected us to drive over train tracks or brought us to the edge of a pond. That’s when we switched the voice back to male and everything was fine. Good directions. It was clear that we got a nav system which identified female, though she’s a factory born male.)

Hubby said, “Just go to the end of this road. We need to go a little farther west before we head south.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Bev did not agree. “Recalculating,” she quickly chimed.

But I stuck to this road, nonetheless, winding through a residential area, dark already yet it wasn’t very late. There were no street lights, no house lights.

The car rattled and bumped causing me to slow to a crawl as I navigated a street whose black top was raked in preparation for repaving.

“Jeez,” hubby said. “This street wasn’t like this on Monday. Alright, let’s get off this street, turn left.”

I turned left.

“Recalculating.” She was now annoyed.

“Take this to the end,” said my husband.

The end came fast and brought us to a dark, one lane stone-covered bridge. It didn’t look like a bonafide street or feel like one either, as I sensed the surface beneath the tires shift to what felt like dirt. There were no cars in sight.

“Should I go through or turn around?” I asked.

“Go through,” he said with certainty.

Bev was not happy with that choice.

“Bev says to go the other way.”

“It’s alright,” implored my husband, “Go through. And hurry. A truck’s coming this way and only one of you will fit.”

“Recalculating.” Bev disagreed. Vehemently.

God, I hate it when they don’t agree.

I shot through the bridge like a shucked pea and tried to keep the peace between those two, bobbing and weaving her “recalculating” and his “don’t listen to her.”

Then, curiously, we drove for a long stretch during which neither of them spoke a word. Odd, I thought. We must be really, really lost. Thank god the kids knew better than to tell us how hungry they were.

After what felt like a couple of miles, Bev’s voice severed the silence.

“Drive one mile. To destination. On left.”

We all cheered.

My husband took out his phone. “I told you I’d get us there.”

“Yes, you did.” I said, sneaking a peek at the dashboard clock. “Who are you calling?”

“The restaurant. Gotta make sure they didn’t give away our table.”

Summer’s Hottest Trends: Fashion Deja Vu

photo by Dorret

photo by Dorret

Last weekend I got dressed for a party and selected a shirt at my daughter’s urging. This shirt was purchased at my daughter’s urging in a moment of merciless exhaustion. The kind of exhaustion one experiences after shopping with one’s teenage daughter for long hours with a no-end-in-sight spirit. Hours linked together by caffeine runs and bathroom breaks. It was the kind of purchase necessary so that mother and daughter could walk through the lovely vacation town with synchronized swinging bags their our grasp.

This shirt has proven my long-held belief that certain things which appear attractive on vacation, very well may let you down in the real world. (Of course the origin of that belief refers to vacation boyfriends, but clothes and accessories also apply.)

I had been fortunate enough to keep this garment under wraps in my closet for months.

Until the day of the party.

I was naively unaware that it would take thirty minutes, certain special undergarments, a roll of fashion tape and an owner’s manual to get into it. Certainly I would have chosen something else to wear. I also would not have chosen the shoes, worn at my daughter’s urging, which demanded I walk with both arms outstretched, as if I were an airplane, just to keep my balance and dignity. Nor would I have worn my hair in a style, at my daughter’s urging, which only looked good standing in front of a fan or if I were to sprint the perimeter of the backyard party in order to simulate the wind-swept carefree, effortless style. A forewarning: sprinting is not the preferred option here, as it will certainly cause you to “glisten” in all the wrong places. Forewarning #2: fashion tape does not hold up to a deluge of perspiration. Once the tape gives way you are limited to very few body positions and stances, and for God’s sake, do not sit down! Unless, of course, you have the posture of a brick wall. Also, needless-to-say, once the deluge has begun it’s best to put your arms down.

Forewarning #3: wind-swept hair only looks good while the wind is still sweeping. Once the wind dies down you will look something like Lindsay Lohan after a breaking-probation-all-nighter.

Did you know that it’s beyond chic to wear a different nail color on each of your ten fingernails? I was urged to do just that in order to complete my insanely current ensemble.

As I stood there at the party, wearing a shirt meant for someone else, heels that made my ankles wobble, a hair nest I was certain living things had found refuge in and a rainbow manicure, I had a strange deja-vu. It took a few minutes for me to crystalize the faint recollection that I had been in this position before. But when I did it brought a smile to my face.

It was kindergarten. With a jumble of five-year-olds at the dress-up box.