I was so honored to meet the inspiring Connie Dwyer at the Connie Dwyer Breast Center Annual Spring Luncheon where I was invited to speak about the writing and publishing of The Memory Box and the topics of the day: Perseverance, Gratitude and Women Empowering Women.
The Connie Dwyer Breast Center is a comprehensive, state-of-the-art facility providing expert diagnosis and treatment of breast disease and the finest breast cancer prevention, early detection, and educational outreach programs to women in Newark and the surrounding areas regardless of their ability to pay. Just last year, over 20,000 women sought out the services of the center. Thanks to the vision and generosity of Connie Dwyer, all of this is possible.
Just received the 400th review for my psychological thriller, THE MEMORY BOX (about a woman who Googles herself and discovers the shocking details of a past she doesn’t remember) on Amazon! And it was a goodie! Thank you Mtngrannie wherever (whoever) you are!
I am so grateful to all you reviewers out there! I read every single one. And since we all know that 1 in 87.3 readers write reviews for books, my calculations tell me that 43,962.7 people have presumably read THE MEMORY BOX. Whoa, my brain is exploding right now . . . (Not sure about any of those figures, honestly.)
It’s time for me to share some love right back atcha. Since today is Mother’s Day, I’m going to give away 5 signed copies of Not Your Mother’s Book On Being a Mom & Not Your Mother’s Book On Family. My story, Where Did I Go Wrong? was anthologized is this book of funny, poignant, sweet, irreverent stories about motherhood. For those of you familiar with my essays on parenting, it is chock full of insecurity and blunders, so you should not be disappointed.
I WILL CHOOSE 5 PEOPLE WHO SHARE THIS POST. (Choosing the winners will be at random while wearing a blindfold as my kids spin me around in my desk chair). If you share this post, you will multiply your chances of winning a signed copy by 87.3%. Whoa. Right? That’s what my calculations tell me. However, I don’t know for sure, actually. But I do know you can’t win it, unless you’re in it.
Isn’t this fun! It’s like a game show! Share this post and YOU COULD WIN! What have you got to lose? I will post the winners later this week. (And they will send me their address via private message, savvy?)
P.S. I should mention that I am also giving away a signed copy of THE MEMORY BOX on Goodreads, so get yourself over there to enter! Good luck everyone!
By the way, may I call you that? Pigs? It’s meant with the utmost respect, and after all, it is your name. Believe me, pig. I’ve never used your name in vain when referring to perverts or sleazeballs. I don’t know who started that. Uncool. Nor have I ever said, “Go clean up, you filthy pig!” to either of my kids or my husband. Even that time when they were so foul I wouldn’t let them in the house without hosing off in the backyard first. I’ve read that elephants and rhinos are much dirtier than pigs, but the dirtiest of all, obviously, is the dung beetle. Just so you know, whenever possible I do correct people by saying, “Go clean up, you filthy dung beetle!”
Okay, that’s not why I’m writing you. I need to talk to you about the state of pigs. Read more on the Huffington Post:
Winter drags its massive lumbering heels on its way to meet Spring. Its hair has grown long, its thick woolly layers are tattered and dirty. Spring should be close, should be here, but it’s impossible to see. Not with Winter’s defiant air—harsh and billowing, relentless—it bullies the sweet, green Spring away.
Winter fingers the baton tight in its grasp. Teasing. Torturing. It curls its grip narrower while its gate is weighed down with spite and beef stew. In the thick of Winter are roasts and chowders. Noodles and gratins soothe the deepest darkest cold. Desserts piled high with whipped cream, warm pies, chortle at Spring. Arrogant. Impudent. As though they’ll never meet. Layers of comfort expand under Winter’s heavy coats; then Winter’s promise goes cold. Threatening to turn its shoulder on Spring. Snuff it with one gruff callused hand. Groaning, moaning. Solace is taken in crackling fires and down blankets, cassoulets and buttered biscuits.
Then, out of the grey—without the slightest hint—while deep in slumber, a bird appears. On the sill of Spring. A song in its breast. Feathers flitting in a sliver of sun. Spring has arrived! In a wink. With every color. The brightest clearest sounds. Warm air. Wool lies in puddles on the floor. But Winter has left souvenirs. What to do with those now?