Photos: How I spent my birthday
The Face ID meltdown
In middle school, I was part of the generation of kids who had introductory computer programming classes mandatory in the curriculum. Everyone had to sit at the IBM computer and learn DOS commands. It was 1989, and we had no idea why we would ever need to do this. Our parents were farmers, mechanics, plumbers and other blue collar workers.
At the same time, we saw our first local farms sold and turned into developments. One summer, school let out and in September, at one farm on my bus route, suddenly 8 kids stood at the end of a road by a field that now had houses all over it. But the real shock was when some of these kids had dads that worked in offices and wore suits and carried briefcases.
My dad went back and forth between an OTR truck driver and a diesel mechanic. Periodically he would buy a truck (twice he bought the same 1965 Kenworth) and when he had driven our family into debt with the cost of massive tires and gasoline, my mom would force him back to work as a diesel mechanic at a local paving company.
In high school, we got ONE computer in the back of the classroom to print the stories for the high school newspaper and literary magazine. Previously, we sent our copy down to the business classes so those students could type it in columns. Whether the business students typed it or we did it on the computer, we cut it out and glued it on blue grids with rubber cement.
By college, we all had email addresses and computer labs and web sites on Geocities.
My college roommate had an IBM computer that ran Windows 95. And after my freshman year, I saved ALL my money, drove two hours and bought a floor display model of a Powerbook 165, which if you do not know, was the first real consumer laptop.
I’ve been a die-hard, fight-to-the-death Mac girl ever since. And if you want to have the Mac vs PC fight, save your breath and remember, Steve Jobs and Bill Gates both stole their ideas from Xerox.
My point is, I am not a Luddite.
But I have reached the age– and tomorrow is my birthday– where technology issues can unhinge me. I ate half a bag of flaming hot Cheetos last night because the FaceID on my iPhone 13 suddenly stopped working.
I tried being patient. I tried restarting it. At the behest of The Teenager (who only has one more month of being a teenager) I tried to reset it. That failed. And suddenly I was being asked for the password to my bank account. I was faced (pun intended) with having to TYPE passwords and I, for a moment, wondered if fingerprint ID would work… and then I remembered fingerprint ID went out with FaceID.
I tried again. I could not reset FaceID.
Well, I thought, the sensors that read my face must have died. And then suddenly it worked.
I reset my FaceID. Without the help of a teenager.
It still only works about 50% of the time. But, somehow, I will persevere.
Looking for my tribe
So I had two professional meetings today— both regarding professional opportunities. One was a second interview for a niche professional journal, a publisher and sales position.
The other led me to Lehighton, to the Times-News building where I met with some staff members about the possibility of doing some copy editing work for them.
Regardless of how either of these opportunities work out, I had a great day talking to committee people in print media, an industry that has a lot of issues to overcome every day.
But talking to these professionals at these polar opposites of publications, that reminded me of my own passions and what it’s like to connect with others who share that.
Plus…
I love Palmerton, the coal regions and rural post-industrial Pennsylvania.
Life lessons according to Grey’s Anatomy
Periodically, I select a random television series and watch the whole thing, as much as I can get my hands on. Some of the shows come as recommendations from friends or family. Some are pop culture references that I feel the need to know.
With the variety of streaming services, I watch these shows when dining alone or when doing the dishes or folding wash. And I think I like seeing the various storytelling styles and the various characters built over the arcs of these long-running shows.
But no matter what– I just don’t like Meredith Grey as a person.
So with no further ado.
10 Life Lessons from Grey’s Anatomy
1. The people you love will die in car accidents at a young age. Or have catastrophic accidents and have miraculous recoveries. There are a lot of car accidents in the show, and some of them are downright crazy. Some people shouldn’t survive, and some should. Or some people get hit by a bus and die, others fly out a windshield and manage to bounce back from the most dramatic surgeries ever and don’t even have a scar. Drowning is also an issue.
2. Marriage is temporary. Just go with it. People get married quickly and divorce just as quickly. The average marriage on Grey’s lasts six months. And if it does last, people die in car accidents. People marry for love, for lust, for medical benefits.
3. 1 in 4 surgeons get brain tumors. At least. At least THREE of the main characters have specifically brain tumors and then in an unusual moment, one surgeon gets a spinal tumor in season 15. And brain. surgery, even with inoperable or cancerous tumors, is really easy to come back from in the Grey’s universerse.
4. Even if you spent a decade in school and have a lucrative career, feel free to start over in a new path on a whim. Doctors change specialties, or turn down impressive fellowships, or leave the country on a moments notice. And sometimes they become firemen.
5. You can easily change your name, leave the state and go to med school without anyone questioning it. OR if you run into immigration issues, the hospital can ship you off to Switzerland overnight so you don’t get deported.
6. Real friends cover up each other’s crimes and improprieties. I sometimes think this show should be named after the MORALLY GREY aspects of their lives. It doesn’t matter if you sabotage a clinical trial or beat the life out of someone, you can still be a doctor.
7. Most women doctors are lesbians or bisexual. A strange number of the female leads sleep with each other, but it takes until season 15 to have male characters in a gay relationship.
8. Doctors have no child care issues ever, even as a single parent with three kids. These doctors have the most convenient 24-hour day care that allows them to drop off their kids even if they are not scheduled to work.
9. Planes and helicopters crash A LOT. Not only do several characters die in a plane crash– but another character jokes about his plane crash. And those helicopters have a lot of mishaps.
10. Doctors have sex all over the hospital.
Journaling as a reset
A good portion of what I am going to write today will probably reappear in a smoother format over on the Parisian Phoenix Publishing page. (ParisianPhoenix.com) My brain is swirling. My frustration tolerance is low. Anxiety is taking advantage of point one and point two to paralyze my concentration.
These are growing pains. These are the realities that accompany change and even more so, success.
Cocktail contemplations
Last night, I really would have loved a cold beer to sit and sip while I pondered the events of the last few days– but my frugal self would not justify spending money on something so frivolous nor did I want to put on shoes. So I opted to make a cocktail of whatever we had in the house. We had grenadine (the kind with alcohol), creme de menthe and creme de cacoa, because a few weeks ago I had a craving for a grasshopper. That was short-lived. Since then, my occasional cocktail has been a creme de cacao and Coke Zero, because who doesn’t appreciate a chocolate Coke?
Last night I opted to skip the mixer and head toward “Dirty Girl Scout” territory, but I didn’t measure so my pour led to slightly chocolatey mint drink.
Why did I desire a cocktail last night? Because…
Sex Down South Atlanta
I was sitting in my reading chair, hoping to capitalize on the cool evening breeze and spend some time with my cats and my naughty Goffin’s cockatoo. I need to proofread McKenna Graf’s upcoming poetry book, review Larry Sceurman’s new middle-grade dragon story, and somehow manage to not only score some time for my ghostwriting client, but also prepare for the upcoming comic con in Phillipsburg and finish my workshop for Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group.
Let’s be honest. Comic con is a Friday problem, and this was Wednesday. GLVWG is a Sunday problem, and again this is Wednesday. But the other stuff was/is yesterday/today problems.
I receive an email from the organizers of Sex Down South Atlanta. It talked about the 200+ presenters that proposed workshops and they were sorry they could not accept them all. They told us all we could have a discount code to come to the conference and shared the list of accepted workshops.
Now, a friend of mine had proposed a workshop and I was her accountability partner for getting the proposal in. At the last minute she told me to enter a proposal and I laughed– because what do I have to offer at a big sex conference? She said they had a category for writing and erotica.
So, I entered a proposal.
I opened the file attached to the email last night to see if my friend’s workshop was selected. I did not see it. I scroll through the list and reach #31 and see: Explore Your Fantasies and Write Your Own Erotica, and I think, that sounds like a nice offering. As I finish the sentence, my jaw drops to the floor. It reads: Explore Your Fantasies and Write Your Own Erotica with Angel.
Which means the acceptances and the rejections went out in the same email. My proposal was accepted.
I went through my files looking for the proposal and sighed with relief that 1. I have it and 2. It’s reasonable. I spent the rest of the evening talking with friends. Because I’m shocked. And excited. And wondering how the heck I am going to pull off traveling to Atlanta. But that’s a future problem.
So that’s why I needed a cocktail and why my brain is even more overextended and fried than usual.
The Rocket Ship Construction Zone
I had an MRI this morning.
It was my first MRI, to monitor an aneurysm in my brain discovered last year during my random heart issues. Last year they did a CT scan with contrast as I did not know if tooth implants would count as metal. (It does not. They are non-ferrous. I learned this as a more-or-less universal fact from the radiology tech. And to think I made my poor dentist research the screw in my mouth.)
When I called to schedule a few weeks ago, they asked where I wanted to receive an MRI and I chose the hospital that is 600 steps away from my front door. They offered me an appointment at 7:15 a.m. on a Sunday. I agreed.
Roll out of bed, wander to the hospital, get an MRI, and be home while it’s still early for a cup of coffee.
And that is indeed how it played out, and I had my coffee in my hand before 8 a.m.
On the walk over, I noticed this Subura station wagon from Vermont with roses on the hood. Now, between the apartment building across the street and the hospital itself, one finds a lot of out-of-state cars and doctors-in-training. And while I did not linger long enough to read what was written on the windshield, it said something like “you and me forever” and someone had laid a wrapped bouquet of roses on the hood. A marriage proposal? A stalker? A farewell from a lover returning to a place far away as a promise to come back?
I surely hope they aren’t roses, because leaving roses on the hood of a car in the middle of the city in the rain, especially if it’s a marriage proposal is certainly both romantic and stupid.
I arrived at the hospital around 6:50, in part because I know they ask you to register at the front desk and then meander through the facility to reach the waiting room of your particular appointment where you start the registering process again. There are usually insurance card checks, and headshots taken to prevent fraud.
I walk in the front doors and there’s one person, in a hospital t-shirt, sitting right inside. Before I even have a chance to pause or plot a course, she greets me with, “Are you hear for an MRI?”
I say yes, and then she follows with, “Is your name Angel?”
I again say yes.
Now, I know this particular hospital doesn’t do much hospital-ing. They literally only have one floor of inpatient services, and I experienced that last year. I must say the renovations are looking gorgeous, again, nothing like the room I stayed in last year straight out of mid-twentieth-century Americana. At this early hour on Sunday morning, there is no one in the hospital but me and this employee, Rose. No one.
“As soon as I clock in, I’ll take you back,” Rose says. “But we have a few minutes. So have a seat.”
I sit behind Rose in the waiting area in front of the not-even-staffed-yet registration desk.
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll read my book.”
I have a lovely conversation about Rose, her retirement from one of the larger hospitals in the network, and how she has really enjoyed reading again since her retirement. She clocks in and escorts me upstairs and down the hall to the MRI suite where I sit in another waiting room and Rose greets the staff who are arriving with us for their shift.
I sit and read my book, and the techs come for me. For the first time ever, I am given hospital pants. I peel off my civilian layers and tie on my gown and pants.
Much to my relief they have a metal detector as the final phase of the pre-MRI adventure. I am pleased to report I am not magnetic.
So many of these tests come with so much hype, and I have to say, I think I prefer the MRI to the CT with contrast, because an MRI doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to or in the middle of urinating in my pants.
And they tell you to stay as still as you can– which always makes me super aware of every twitch in my body.
They warn you that the machine is loud and they give you ear protection. If I had to describe the experience I would say space rocket meets construction site. And so many different types of squealing, clanging and banging.
The Starter House
In January 2003, my now estranged husband and I bought our house. We hadn’t been planning on buying a house. Some time in the months after we got married we moved from our first apartment to a bigger one, and I honestly don’t remember why. Maybe the rent went up in that shoddy building or maybe I got sick of incidents like the time the landlord had someone take the tires off my car thinking my car belonged to a tenant who owed him money.
Darrell and I loved our first apartment. We could pass the groceries directly from the sidewalk through the kitchen window. We could sit outside with our cat who liked to play with the neighbor’s dog. And the guy who owed my landlord money– I think he owned ‘The Cat Who Came to Visit,’ the cat who used to sneak in our open windows and sit and watch our fish tank. Or was it our lizards?
Our second apartment was in a sorta-questionable neighborhood but it was only $100 more a month than our first apartment for a lot more space and essentially what was a two-story cottage attached to an apartment building. (This was circa 2000: $475 for our one bedroom in downtown Easton, $575 for our “two bedroom” on Easton’s South Side. Compare that to today. If you want to, do a real estate search on zip 18042.)
That particular landlord and his administrative partner kept putting the property on the market because the insurance assessor kept claiming the building was worth far more than the owners thought it was worth and to prove it, they would try to sell it for that price.
Finally, I had enough. We had a great landlord in that second apartment. And we didn’t want another landlord who would take the tires off of my car.
So we bought a house. At apparently the ideal time to buy a house. It was out of our price range at $95,000 but luckily the price dropped while we were talking to our real estate agent. It dropped to $89,9000. I have never felt so old as I do today writing that.
The next year, the other half of our twin sold for $120,000. The following year (or so) an almost identical home a couple doors down (but without a garage) sold for more than $150,000. And I’m not sure, but now some of these homes are selling for $200,000. I can’t even.
Anyway, the point of this post was not to comment on the insanity of the real estate market. I wanted to tell you my definition of a “starter home.” Our home is “half a double” in town with a nice school district and in an almost completely walkable neighborhood. We have three bedrooms. We had two full baths until I asked the plumber to rip out the rotted downstairs shower in favor of a stacked washer and dryer so I don’t have to worry about falling down the basement stairs.
But now I can say I have two washing machines.
We have an enclosed (heated) sun porch, a detached garage that’s got an entire workshop, and despite some issues and small or weirdly shaped rooms, it’s a solid brick house. And when we bought it, I thought about people who called it a starter house. They implied that some day we would buy something bigger and better.
But now I think I have a different definition of starter house. It’s the house you learn on, practice maintaining, and in so many ways, the house I have both cherished and failed.
I have learned– the hard way– that the starter house teaches you about plumbing, windows, drafts, electricity, floods, patching plaster, staining floors and painting walls, all on a regular timeline to keep the house functioning. My toilets exploded a year or so ago. The toilets were probably eighty years old and my daughter sat on one too hard and cracked the tank in the middle of the night. It ran and ran and flooded the house.
Which was our second bathroom related flood in this home.
I’ve learned a lot about deferred maintenance and things I should have done and things I need to do. And the costs of owning home. Which is still way less than the cost of renting in my area. So, I use my home as a learning tool for my daughter who has taken home repair and wood shop and pays attention to every person she meets who has skills.
Because her father and I do not.
So on Wednesday, I had a job interview and a business meeting and when I got home, The Teenager had successfully patched the concrete on the garage floor. She decided to tackle replacing our faucet. Because we have an external dishwasher, it puts pressure on the faucet and they have a shorter-than-usual shelf life. We found a new one that I could review for Amazon, saving us the expense.
But we found we didn’t have the strength to remove the old one– which was regularly flooding the counters and the floor. Apparently the plumber had used a power tool to install it. The Teenager emptied the trap and removed the pipe. Unfortunately when we disconnected everything, the one piece of old pipe disintegrated.
The next day we called the plumber. Since The Teenager did most of the work already, it took the plumber minimal effort to attach everything and we really like our new faucet. Now, we just need to find another way to use the dishwasher or hand wash dishes, which I haven’t done in 20 years (20 years almost exactly as I got the dishwasher in May 2004 right before The Teenager was born).
Two weeks later… April reflections
It’s no secret that time mutates according to your age and stage of life, or maybe as we get older our mental sharpness as it relates to time fades.
I normally try to share the adventures, the decisions, and the flavors of life with a bent toward advocacy and speaking up not only for oneself but also for creatures unable to do so.
The weather is experiencing schizophrenia as I recover from several weeks of conferences, class appearances and meetings. Friday night we had a freeze warning and today it’s 86 degrees.
I haven’t been keeping up with my workouts, at first due to a sternum injury that just healed this week, and now I’m afraid I won’t have the finances to go back. I also haven’t kept up with my medical team– mostly out of fear of medical bills and knowing that I have an MRI scheduled for my brain aneurysm next week. I will have to pay for that out of pocket, but I’m hoping that will cover my deductible.
Nobody wants to hear about those struggles. We all have struggles like that but I will tell you one thing: the less financial security I have in terms of a standard 9 to 5 job, the simpler my needs become. And so far, as New Age laws and the Bible all say, the universe always provides enough. Or maybe we learn to be content with less. Or our priorities shift. It’s been seven-and-a-half months since I lost my full-time job, and in some ways, not doing physical labor every day has made my life better.
But in other ways, it certainly makes the unknown in my life that much scarier.
I don’t know what has given me the guts to forge this path of pursuing my own business (Parisian Phoenix Publishing) but I do know that now, when I feel stress, I also have the power to do something about it. When life at my non-profit jobs or my warehouse job got stressful, what control did I have?
Now, I at least have that freedom to change direction as I see fit.
I am the boss in charge of using and selling my skills and talents.
Hopefully the world sees that.
And I have the opportunity to work in spaces like Panera Bread, my sunporch and at my desk with my jelly fish lamp.
And if you’ve seen my jelly fish lamp, then you know, it’s pretty cool.
Occasionally times might be lean, and we might get creative and inventive with food. Such as last night’s casserole? mexi-corn dish? I called it a concoction.
Angel’s Mexi-Corn Concoction
I’m not positive but I think one could locate all of these ingredients at the dollar store. My local dollar store is The Dollar Tree.
In one pan, start one cup rice. When I added the rice, I also added a sprinkle of chili powder and parsley. I use real rice so I covered that and reduced to a simmer.
In a small skillet, I combined:
- One can, about 6 ounces, of white meat chicken
- One can creamed corn
- probably two ounces mild cheese*
- black pepper
- smoked paprika (if you are doing the dollar store you might only find regular paprika)
- a touch of the chili powder
*cheese might be the one ingredient not available at the dollar store. I added it to thicken the corn and make it creamier versus juicy if that makes sense
I stirred that and made it into a sauce.
Then, I opened a can of refried beans.
I layered the dish so that the beans were on the bottom, the rice in the middle and the corn sauce on top, but it turned out surprisingly satisfying and so I mixed it into a big, old mess.
What I really wanted was extra creamy mac and cheese, but I thought that would use up all the cheese and milk in my house and so I pulled out random ingredients and tried to replicate the savory, creamy textures but with more nutritional value than just cheese and pasta. I have been eating some sort of pasta or cheese dish for lunch for weeks now.
Yes, you might look at this and think it “weird” but I enjoy a culinary challenge of using up what you’ve got before going out and buying more. And I’m tired and just don’t feel like going to the store.
Almost like a vacation
This year’s Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group THE WRITE STUFF Conference came and went in a flurry of excitement and camaraderie (in the middle of Mercury retrograde to boot). I gave myself Sunday off–and swore I would stay in bed all day watching Grey’s Anatomy, which didn’t happen, in part because I started reading books and talking to my authors and associates at Parisian Phoenix Publishing about the conference.
I attended all three days of the conference, as I am president of the group, and I treated myself to a hotel room at the venue Friday night so I could stay and enjoy the social. My friend William Prystauk and I keep saying we’re going to book a hotel room and sit at our laptops all weekend, so I invited him to join me. I figured we could have a nice dinner between events and catch up.
Yes, you read that correctly. We are writers, after all, so we want to book a hotel room and hide from the world at our keyboards.
Some history… and notes for memoir.
Anyway… last year’s GLVWG conference happened not long after I was released from the hospital after the scariest series of falls in my life. (If you’d like to read more about that, you can read it here. I have to say, I was reviewing it this morning, 13 months later, and my sense of humor amazes me. This was the second fall I had last March, the first of which happened at work on the first day of Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month. That fall is memorialized here.)
(One of the sessions I attended at this year’s conference was Jordan Sonnenblick’s session on memoir writing. I have known Jordan for 20 years and I did not know he wrote memoirs, but it turns out this is a recent turn of events so then I felt better. What I find fascinating about Jordan’s memoirs is that he writes them like his middle-grade fiction, but with his as a protagonist. I bring this up because one of his techniques for recreating his past was to map the scars on his body. I finished The Boy Who Failed Show and Tell last night, and I reviewed it on Goodreads. Some people classified the book as historical fiction and slammed Jordan for “promoting toxic masculinity” — as if in 1978 there was a universe without toxic masculinity.)
Last year, the conference occurred during the same weekend as The Lehigh Valley Book Festival, where I had volunteered, but I was nervous to attend the event, alone, after so many medical incidents. Joan asked me to be her photography assistant and so I did. This year, Bill ended up working as her assistant since he was in the building anyway. Joan provides author headshots at the event for a $40 charge. It’s a bargain, and the photos have many versatile uses that I don’t think writers consider.
So this year’s conference had not only a great conference line-up, but many of my friends milling about as extras. And I had the naive idea that I might have time to connect with some old friends I hadn’t seen in a while and connect with some new folks. That did not happen.
A hotel with history
Bill left work a little before 5 p.m. to meet me at the hotel. My daughter had stopped by at 4 p.m. at the end of the workshop with Jonathan Maberry to have him sign her battered copy of Rot and Ruin. We are slowly collecting the whole series, as the last books of the series seem to be harder to find. We currently have books one through three of the series, and I have ordered four and five, but I’m not sure I have the Texas bits…
A bunch of conference attendees and presenters were meeting at the hotel restaurant for a light dinner before the evening events and the social. I encouraged as many as possible to line up in a big, long table that we kept adding squares to the bottom. Bill arrived in time to join us.
Now, here’s where things get very interesting from a writer’s perspective. More than a decade ago, during one of my previous incarnations as the group’s president, we used to flip-flop between the current hotel and the one by the airport. Both were mid-range hotels with plenty of space for a large keynote and enough smaller rooms for break-out sessions. As prices would go up, we would pit the two hotels against each other and the venue that gave us the best deal won.
I’ve been away from the group for almost a dozen years, and a pandemic happened which made the conference virtual only for a while, and now we are building up the GLVWG conference game again, last year with Maria V. Snyder and this year with Maberry.
The hotel though has seen better days, in part because for more than a year now the owner of the land has submitted a proposal to the township to knock down the hotel and build a warehouse. As a consequence, the maintenance on this octopus of a hotel (the floor plan has arms jutting out everywhere) has been minimal.
Jordan Sonnenblick said his wedding used the venue in 1994, and nothing has changed since then. Well, except the name. I think that hotel changes names every other year. The toilets run and/or have low water pressure. Some areas of the hotel smell like “weed and old people” as The Teenager puts it. The restaurant is small. The food is limited. The coffee is terrible. And while the staff is delightful and they keep the place clean and functioning, there were a lot of small but important mishaps probably due to being understaffed. The parking lot is always full of trucks and there’s what appears to be a much nicer Hampton Inn right next door.
But amidst all of this– Bill knew the bartender from earlier in the hotel’s history and apparently she makes good drinks. So after dinner, we stayed for a beverage and heard from a staff member that they have been told the hotel is closing for good in December 2024. We shall see.
The Social
From there, we moved down to the social. Mark Twain was kind enough to visit and I noticed a lot of people in literary cosplay.
I had a lovely time surrounded by friends and some of my favorite writers.
[I had intended this blog entry to be about my personal life, but I didn’t quite get there. I wanted to at least mention my OVR planning session yesterday. Better luck next time I guess.
PS–I still don’t like Grey’s Anatomy, and with every episode that passes I like Meredith Grey less and less. And I was so excited to get to Derek Shepherd’s death. But man– the whole arc of Meredith disappearing for a year to have another baby. So dumb.
And I cannot believe how you never see the kids, and Meredith never has any paid help, but yet she’s raising three kids as a single mom. And Alex just sells her her house back because it’s important to her to be at home and not in her family house.
Meredith is a spoiled, entitled brat who thanks to her past traumas believes she can behave however she wants and rules don’t apply to her.]
First Day of GLVWG Write Stuff
So today was the first day of the 2024 Write Stuff Conference with Amy Deardon on marketing and Melissa Koberlein on podcasting. The morning presentation provided an overview marketing checklist. The afternoon workshop allowed participants to workshop some ideas for podcasting to provide a realistic overview of what it takes to put a podcast together.
The conference will continue through April 13th, with a small workshop setting with keynote Jonathan Maberry tomorrow and a series of sessions on Saturday with Maberry, Deardon, Koberlein and YA author Jordan Sonnenblick and appointments with editor Donna Tollarico of Hippocampus magazine, agent Mark Gottlieb and agent Marie Lamba. As I maneuvered cookies from the dining salon to our meeting room 1,000 steps away on the other side of the hotel, I ran into Jonathan as he was checking into the hotel.
I saw the leftover cookies on the buffet table and felt it was my duty to transport some to the workshop room to combat the afternoon slump.
It’s always interesting to see the energy in the room and what people are looking for from an event such as a writers conference.
Personally, I’ve been devouring books by Sonnenblick and Maberry– finishing Curveball last night and INK earlier this week.
Angel Ackerman 