• Who is this gal?
  • Write Me!

Robin Coyle

~ Ink of Me

Robin Coyle

Monthly Archives: January 2013

Funny Signs

31 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by robincoyle in In Search . . .

≈ 116 Comments

Tags

Funny Signs, Humor, writers, writing

I have a thing for signs. Not signs as in harbingers or black cat omens, but more like, well . . . signs. Weird that I am, I take pictures of signs that amuse me. I also snap shots of signs I want to edit. A writer’s work is never done.

Here is a sign I want to edit.

Trader Joe's

Have you heard this cardinal rule? “Never use a big word when a diminutive word will do.”

I think the sign should read, “Trader Joe’s not responsible for damage caused by inconsiderate people who leave their shopping carts in places where they are likely to roll into the side of your car.”

~~~~~

This store is not familiar with a commonplace punctuation mark.

Children Objects

My children objects are very heavy too. Don’t tell my girls I said so.

~~~~~

I saw this sign at a rest stop along the verdant Bonnyville Salt Flats in Utah. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

snakes and scorpions

~~~~~

Some signs make me chuckle. I love dog humor.

Beware of the dog

~~~~~

This sandwich shop was in Kilkenny, Ireland. I told you Irishmen have a grand sense of humor.

Blaa Blaa Blaa

~~~~~

I used this sign in a recent post about typos.

Typo

~~~~~

Nothing says, “I love you, Mom” better than taking her pole dancing.

Pole Dancing

~~~~~

I should have used this sign in my now famous (or should I say infamous) Freshly Pressed post about cursive writing.

IMG_2134

~~~~~

And finally, no post is complete without a second mention of beer.

Brewer's Haven

Los Angeles . . . A Foreign Country

29 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by robincoyle in In Search . . .

≈ 78 Comments

Tags

California Health and Longevity Institute, Humor, writers, writing

My husband and I are in Los Angeles right now. To be precise, we are in Westlake Village, which is 30 miles west of Hollywood. My husband is here for a conference and I am here to be his arm-candy.

Westlake is the only village I know of that has 8,000-square-foot cottages with 8-figure price tags, and come with pools, armed guards, and indoor tennis courts. The downtrodden masses here endure glorious sunshine most days, and are forced to bundle up when the temperature drops below 75 degrees. A common side effect of being rich is thin blood. That is why Charlie Sheen loads sweet young things into his mansion, er, cottage, right up the street from our hotel.

I’m a born and raised Californian, but Los Angeles is a foreign country to me. They do things differently here. Let me give you a few examples.

We are staying at the ever-so-swanky Four Seasons hotel. I highly recommend this place o’pampering and celebrity treatment. They treat you like a movie star here because for all they know, you are one. Heck, Britney Spears (not a movie star unless you call the Mickey Mouse Club excellence in cinema) got on the elevator with me when I was on the way to the gym to work out. She was on her way to the bar. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Next to the hotel’s fancy-dancy spa is the California Health and Longevity Institute. The beautiful people of Westwood Village, meaning everyone who lives here, goes to the Institute for personal training, cosmetic and restorative dentistry (read veneers), acupuncture, acupressure, and energy healing, and dermatology and cosmetic treatments (read plastic surgery), etc.

My husband and I took a cooking class in the Institute’s wellness kitchen today. Chef in residence, Paulette Lambert, taught the interactive class. She is a registered dietitian and certified diabetic educator. Paulette was personable, cute-as-a-button, and a wealth of information. She also is a TV star as the dietician for Extreme Makeover: Weight Loss Edition.

Note to self: Robin, you do not need to sauté everything in four tablespoons of butter. Otherwise, you might be the star on the next season of Extreme Makeover.

The Health and Longevity institute was founded/funded by Dole Food Company’s billionaire owner, David Murdock. Coincidentally, I read in the Los Angeles Times today that Mr. Murdock’s 8-acre estate in Bel Air, California held the record for the highest-price home transaction for over a decade, with a price tag of $94-million. Who knew there is so much money in canned fruit? (A home in Woodside, California recently sold for $117.5-million, breaking Mr. Murdock’s record. I hear he was crushed-pineapple over the fall of his record.)

Los Angeles does cars like Debbie does Dallas. Not exactly, but Los Angelinos have a love affair with their cars. Good thing, because they spend half of their life sitting in their cars while stuck in artery-clogged traffic jams. The freeways here look like used luxury car sales lots. The cars here don’t come with mundane names like Ford or Toyota. If you don’t know how to spell Lamborghini, you can’t afford one.

I ran to the grocery store to buy a bottle of wine. Why? I paid $14 for a single glass of wine at the hotel bar. A bottle of El Cheapo at the grocery store was $9. While loading my jug of hooch into the car, one of the checkout ladies got into her car, which was parked next to mine. Apparently, her workday was at an end. Nothing against Los Angeles grocery clerks, but they can afford to drive Jaguars?

Lastly, I cruised around the charming Old Town Pasadena one afternoon. A store clerk said to me, “Don’t you look nice. Are you from out-of-town?”  I said, “Yes, I am. How did you know?”

With a snort, she said, “Women don’t wear anything but jeans and tee shirts in Los Angeles. Ever.”

I guess I shouldn’t have worn my tiara and ermine stole while shopping. It was a dead giveaway that I was a foreigner.

Whaaaaaat? I'm not supposed to fry my chicken in lard?

Whaaaaaat? I shouldn’t fry chicken in lard?

Irish Farmers Not Allowed To Drive Their Tractors While Drunk

25 Friday Jan 2013

Posted by robincoyle in In Search . . .

≈ 80 Comments

Tags

Irish Farmers Can't Drink and Drive, writers, writing

You gotta love the Irish.

My husband and I went to Ireland several years ago for a milestone birthday. We fell in love with the place and the people. Gorgeous emerald expanses, breathtaking views, and a pub on every corner. Our kind of place.

Irish villages, no larger than a wide spot in the road, have more pubs than the town’s population. At any time of day, the pubs are filled with locals enjoying a pint. How did we know this? We were enjoying a pint alongside them.

One thing about Ireland we didn’t’ enjoy was the roads. Sure, they took us to magically delicious places, but most of the roads outside of Dublin are rutted and narrow and those wacky Irishmen decided it would be fun to stump American tourists by driving on the wrong side of the road. Irishmen are known for their sense of humor.

Hundreds of years ago, out in the Irish countryside, farmers took on the backbreaking task of clearing boulders for their horse carts. Since the damn boulders were so heavy, they simply stacked them into walls lining the paths. A nice benefit of the road clearing was, voila . . . walls. Ergo, the two-lane country roads are the same width as a horse cart with little or no shoulder. Heaven forbid you get stuck behind a tractor or Irishman herding sheep up the road. You might as well sit back, open a beer, and sing Irish chanties because no way, no how, are you going to pass them.

An article in the paper today about my beloved Ireland and her beer-swilling citizens made me laugh.

“Councilmen in Kerry, southwest Ireland, passed a motion this week asking the government to create a permit that would allow isolated farmers the ability to drink a few pints and then return home in their cars, or on their tractors, without fear of being busted.”

“Its backers say the measure is needed to combat an epidemic of boredom and depression on farms ever since Ireland imposed new blood-alcohol limits on drivers in 2011.”

It isn’t a surprise that the motion was shot down in the Parliament as being “grossly irresponsible.” The Justice Minister is a real buzz kill.

“A generation ago, drunken driving was commonplace in Ireland, and even the smallest villages or forlorn crossroads featured a pub. But in this century the country has steadily improved road safety standards, introducing mandatory driving tests, blood and breath tests and above all a penalty-points system that removes licenses from dangerous drivers, particularly drunks.”

“The effort has slashed road-related deaths from more than 400 annually in the l990s to just 162 last year.”

“Kerry pub owners say their business has plummeted right along with that nationwide carnage . . . They describe the often narrow, lightly trafficked roads near their businesses as safe for people to navigate even after three British pints (about 57 U.S. ounces total) of beer.”

To put things in perspective, three British pints is roughly one beer shy of a six-pack.

This is where I snorted in an unbecoming manner:

“ . . . Kerry’s most famous and flamboyant political family says farmers should be able to drive tipsy on their tractors because they don’t go fast enough to kill anyone.”

I wish I could type with an Irish accent in sharing this line from the article with you.

“Pub-loving farmers are living in isolated rural areas where there’s no public transport of any kind. They end up at home looking at the four walls, night in and night out, because they don’t want to take the risk of losing their license.”

As if Irish roads aren’t challenging enough, let’s fill them with imbibed farmers on tractors.

An Irish pub.
Another Irish pub.
Another Irish pub.

Yet another Irish pub.
An Irishman tells me how he would solve the world’s problems.
Then he tackles this road!

Cheeky Typos

24 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by robincoyle in In Search . . .

≈ 107 Comments

Tags

Typos, writers, writing

I started blogging almost one year ago. My, how tempus fugit. My 10th post was viewed by a whopping nine of my undying fans, had three “likes,” and two comments (thank you Tess and Russel). Man, I was on fire with that one!

Back by unpopular demand, I am sharing it again.

Not long after I bought my iPhone, my daughter send me a text to say she received a B+ on a college paper she toiled over. If I recall, the prompt for the essay was asinine and about as clear as a foggy day in London. But that’s not the point here.

I responded to her text about the grade on her paper by saying “That’s excrement, honey!!!!!!!!” (Yes, I use eight exclamation points when I am excited.)

She wrote back with, “Geez, Mom. Don’t you think that is a little harsh?”

Damn autocorrect took advantage of my terrible texting ability and changed “EXCELLENT” to “EXCREMENT.” I meant excellent, excellent, excellent!!!!!!!!

So . . . the point here is autocorrect is both a blessing and excrement. Be careful out there.

Sorry, honey! I really WAS proud of you!

Brilliance in blogging.

However, brilliance aside, I’ve been thinking. A dangerous pastime, I know.

How is it that typos sneak into our work when we aren’t looking? I’ve read my manuscript a good 30 or 40 thousand times. One would think it would be squeaky-clean and typo-free, right? No-siree-bob! Each set of fresh eyes (thank you beta readers) that gaze upon my manuscript and mist over because of the powerful writing, still have the clarity of mind to spot another cheeky typo. Or, as I like to call them, sneaky buggers.

For example, I know the word should be “by,” so my eye and my brain reads “by,” even though the word on the page is “buy.”

I stopped buy the store to by a dictionary.

Or . . .

They need to made spellcheck foolproof.

Or . . .

I love you blog, Robin.

Cheeky-sneaky-bugger typos often rear their ugly heads in comments on blogs. Here is Robin commenting on a blog:

Read post.

Chuckle at post.

Write profound or amusing comment.

Proofread profound or idiotic comment.

Press “Post Comment.”

Scream “&)^#!*%$^&*” after spotting a typo.

Write second comment apologizing for said typo.

Rather than suffering from future humiliating “comment typo apologies,” I apologize to you in advance for comment missteps on my part.

Eons ago, when I was in my twenties, I was a secretary for a pharmaceutical company. I typed up a clinical trial report using a stone slab and chisel. Throughout the report I typed “reslut” instead of “result.” I’m surprised I wasn’t fired.

But here is a typo I can’t forgive. I took this photo at a convenience store where the sign has been proudly displayed for weeks.  How did they miss the typo?

Really?

Really?

P.S. Gosh, if there is a typo in this post, will you gently wring my neck?

 

Sentences That Sing

17 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by robincoyle in In Search . . .

≈ 126 Comments

Tags

writers, writing

I’ll hazard a guess that you are like me. Stop cringing.

What I mean is you love nearly every word in your manuscript. You infuse your sentences with wisdom, jocularity, or sorrow. Or at least you try to do that. Some sentences and paragraphs sing to you. Others mutter into their oatmeal.

I’ve spent time wondering why some sentences warble like Beverly Sills or Lady Gaga (note my clever multigenerational reference), and others have speech impediments and lie flat on the page.

The first kind of sentence propels the story forward or has the uncanny ability to stop the reader in their tracks to say, “Whoa. That is one heck of a sentence.” The flatfooted sentences also stop readers to give them a chance to think, “Why am I reading this drivel?”

Sure, sure, sure, some sentences play an important utilitarian role to set the scene, give the reader a chance to regroup, or help with pacing. Not every sentence can, or should, rock the world off its axis and cause the Pulitzer Prize Nominating Committee to wake up and smell the printer ink.

However, I have hundreds dozens many several one or two sentences in my novel that haunt me. Like a song stuck in my head, the words play on repeat. Every time I read/think about the words I think, “Hot damn, Robin. That is one heck of a sentence.”

(Here’s a little known fact. Songs stuck in your head are called ‘earworms.’ For my German readers, they are called ‘ohrwurms.’ Don’t believe me? Look it up.)

Do you have sentences or sections in your novel, poem, or letter to your illicit lover that sing to you? The ones that never fail to please? Or drive you crazy because you hear it in your head? Will you share it with us?

Here is mine. As a bit of an intro, my main character was selfish, brash, and overly confident . . . as in . . . downright unpleasant to be around. When her mom dies, she has a talk with herself.

“The last, and most important promise I made to myself was if Mom was alive, she would be proud of my behavior. I would make my life full of value, meaning, and friendship. I cast off my heavy coat of pomposity and donned a more comfortable one. It was made of humility and lined with humanity.”

Someone call Mr. Pulitzer. We have a winner.

What’s in your novel?

Sentences that Sing

Now here is a sentence that sings.

Grocery Shopping Extravaganza, Tattoos and All!

14 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by robincoyle in In Search . . .

≈ 97 Comments

Tags

Shopping at WinCo, WinCo Foods, writers, writing

Here in the western states we have a non-union, employee-owned grocery store chain called WinCo. It is like a Sam’s Club or Costco without the need to buy food in a convenient pallet-size handy-pack. You can buy one box of macaroni and cheese and not commit yourself to a life-time supply.

 

The prices at WinCo are a fraction of the big-boy stores like Safeway and Lucky’s. It is a no-frills-bag-your-own-groceries-and-don’t-even-think-about-asking-for-help-to-your-car kind of place. I’m okay with that. Why pay $5.46 for a box of Cheerios at a grocery store with mood lighting and Fabio as the head bagboy when you can pay $2.62 at WinCo under the glare of fluorescent lighting, right? Cheerios are Cheerios.

 

Another good reason to shop at WinCo is the experience boosts your ego a notch or two. The clientele is . . . well . . . how can I put this delicately . . . a bit rough around the edges. The beautiful people shop elsewhere.

 

Feeling a little down about the three pounds you put on over the holidays? Head to WinCo! You walk through the doors and feel as svelte as a runway model, or maybe a gazelle on a starvation diet.

 

The shopping carts have signs on them that say, “Wide Load” and they are not referring to the cart, but the cart pushee. If the Centers for Disease Control commissions a study on the nation’s obesity problem, they can just set up shop in WinCo and watch the world go by with Oreo and Ding Dong-filled carts. Before you get your dander up over my observation about the customers-at-large at WinCo, I have nothing against these Jenny Craig eschewers. I simply made an observation from behind my tofu and bean sprout-filled cart. My Oreos were hidden under the tofu.

 

Aside from tasty treats in foil packets, my fellow WinCo female shoppers love their manicures. The woman in front of me had nine-inch nails. No, she wasn’t from the band of same name.  She had the longest nails I’ve ever seen and they were painted Pepto Bismol pink. I’m sure the nail polish bottle had a catchy name like “Barbie Claws Ken” and she couldn’t resist the celebration of neon pink.  I had to stare. At the base of each nail was a filigree tattoo and all I could think was, “That had to hurt.” I get a hangnail and I’m off to the emergency room.

 

Speaking of tattoos, some of the good folks at WinCo have more tattoos than teeth. There was a mother-daughter pair who looked quite fetching in their matching tube tops (san’s undergarments) and florid dragons sprawled across acne-pocked creamy-white backs. Ew.

 

Don’t get your dragon tattoo in a kerfuffle. I have nothing against tattoos except when they are on a body, say mine.

 

One stately gentleman standing in the beer aisle had a charming tee shirt worthy of Sir John Gielgud’s closet. The shirt gently molded the man’s rotund middle, had a cartoon image of a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and read, “Yeah, I got six-pack abs. Jealous?”

 

The women are equally fond of their body-hugging clothing. Bare midriffs and cleavage abounds. But enough about me.

 

Shopping at WinCo is a shopping extravaganza. All the groceries you need at low, low prices and fodder for sparkling dinnertime conversations that start with, “You won’t believe what I saw at WinCo today.” Also, much can be gleaned from the adventure and put smack dab in the middle of your novel. You can’t make this stuff up.

 

WinCo Food

The WinCo Food Festival of Fun (Photo credit: Michael Batfish)

 

 

 

Enhanced by Zemanta

So, What’s It Like Being Freshly Pressed, Robin?

10 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by robincoyle in In Search . . .

≈ 113 Comments

Tags

FreshlyPressed, writers, writing

Dozens of you asked what happened to my stats when I was Freshly Pressed.

Well, maybe a handful of readers asked.

Er, make that a few people.

Ok, ok, ok, I confess . . . one person inquired. It was the elderly lady in front of me in the grocery store checkout line who feigned interest when I rambled on about being Freshly Pressed. She said, “Yes, dear. I believe the Freshly Pressed dryer sheets are on Aisle 9.”

I feel rather uncomfortable bragging talking about my stats. I wouldn’t want you to think I am the bragadocious sort. So, what I will talk about is the overall experience.

On Monday, November 26th, I did a post titled, “Is Cursive Handwriting Dead?” A newspaper article about the elimination of cursive handwriting from many school’s curriculum inspired me to write the post. The issue struck a nerve with my regular buddies and we had a lively conversation.

On Thursday of the same week, I received an email from WordPress saying I was to be “Pressed” in a day or two.  Whaaaaaaaaaa? Me? No way, Jose.

I refused to look at my email for the rest of the day for fear there would be another one from WordPress saying:

Dear Ms. Coyle:

We made a terrible mistake. We meant to send that email to Ms. Doyle. There will be no Freshly Pressed for you!

Love,

Your Friends at WordPress

On Friday of that week, my husband and I went to San Francisco for the weekend. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Until . . . 1:00 pm when blog comments started flooding in. I though, “Oh look! Everyone is so engaged in blogging today.” Then I looked at my stats. Yowza.

My phone vibrated so often with comment alerts that I suspect our hotel-room-neighbors suspected we were up to something else.

As we watched the view number rise and comments roll in, my husband said, “Do you think you will reach 500 views today?” “Nah . . . That is not going to happen!”

We were in San Francisco for fun, and my husband’s idea of a good time isn’t watching me answer comments. He is funny that way. So, I figured I would attend to the comments after our weekend get-away.

At the end of Day One of being Freshly Pressed I had 1,204 views.

The next morning, figuring the Freshly Pressed moment was over, I looked at my stats with mild interest. I had several hundred views before I had a chance to brush my teeth. I thought, “Surely this will slow down now. Who wants to read a post about handwriting?”

Day Two: 1,537 views

Day Three: 1,043 views

Day Four: 685 views

From then on, it has been a slow decline in viewership, but it is still a far cry from what it was pre-Freshly-Pressed-ness.

I gained 192 new followers thanks to being Freshly Pressed. A handful of those folks continue to come around for a cup of coffee and comment. I guess I bored the rest of them.

My post had 464 people “like” it but there are only 100 or so of those Gravatar-thingys. Anyone know why?

I lost track of how many times the post was re-blogged and pingbacked. Let’s just say dozens.

Let’s also talk about the comments. I couldn’t keep up. Like I said, we were in San Francisco when I was Freshly Pressed. I left for Portland the next day to move my mom into an Alzheimer’s home. I thought, “No problem. I’ll answer comments in the evenings while recovering from the trauma of facing Mom’s illness head on.”

Like that was going to happen.

My evenings were spent swilling valium-laced cocktails. Moving Mom was harder than I thought it would be. I answered many comments, but many more were left hanging in the lurch. What is a lurch, anyway?

So, the post received 490 comments (some of them mine). If I had time to answer all the comments and engage more with the folks who stopped by, I wonder if more of the new followers would have stuck around for more than a quickie.

Maybe in the Freshly Pressed Hall of Fame my stats are pathetic and WordPress is thinking about revoking my status. Maybe these numbers don’t impress the likes of you who get 1,500+ views on a slow day, but I have to say, it was a big dealio for me.

The Freshly Pressed experience was humbling, exhilarating, and overwhelming. It was like competing in a lumberjack logrolling contest wearing flip-flops . . . hard to keep up.

Would I like to have the experience again? You betcha!

Little "ol me!

Little “ol me!

 

Related articles
  • Is Cursive Handwriting Dead? (robincoyle.wordpress.com)
  • The Debate Over Cursive Handwriting (robincoyle.wordpress.com)
Enhanced by Zemanta

Truer Words Were Never Spoken (Sort Of)

07 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by robincoyle in In Search . . .

≈ 103 Comments

Tags

writers, writing

I tried to come up with some amusing verbiage to go along with this photo but failed miserably. Pithy eludes me today. Maybe I left it in the pocket of my other sweatpants. So, sans pithy, I am (pick one):

Posting this photo because it will have a life-changing impact on your writing.

Strike that.

The photo will move mountains, part seas, and publishing deals will flood my in-box because of the powerful (read strong) words the photo conveys.

Strike that one too.

Truer words were never spoken and Hemingway will back me up on that.

Damn. Strike three. I’m out.

The gosh-darn-honest-truth (ever heard of a dishonest truth?) why I’m posting the photo is because it made me laugh and snort coffee out my nose. Ew.

I hope it makes you laugh too and even though I am flippant today, I believe publishing deals will come my way because of this thought-provoking post, er, flask.

If you put words to the photo, what would you say?

Bottoms Up!

Cheers! Bottoms Up!

Moi? The Next Big Thing?

03 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by robincoyle in In Search . . .

≈ 109 Comments

Tags

The Next Big Thing, writers, writing

Screen shot 2012-03-16 at 10.34.36 AMThe usually brilliant Pete Denton, clever Lori DiNardi, and the astute JM McDowell are under the mistaken impression that my novel might be The Next Big Thing. The silly rabbits asked me to do this blog-interview about my novel. (Sorry it took me so long, Pete.)

Try to stay awake folks.

1) What is the title of your book?

In Search of Beef Stroganoff

2) Where did the idea come from for your book?

My husband said to me for years, “You should write a novel.”

I said, “Yeah, right. Easy for you to say. I don’t have an idea for a short story, let alone a novel.”

Well, one night, six or so years ago, we were doing the dishes after a dinner of beef stroganoff. I said, “I’ve got it! What if a woman, who treated her mom poorly, wants to make her mom’s beef stroganoff to feel close to her, but she has to search the world to find her recipe. Brilliant! We will be able to retire to Tahiti on the royalties!”

The look my husband gave me said, “Don’t quit your day job.”

The idea for my novel sat untouched in a dusty corner of my brain until one day when I thought, “I wonder what would happened if I started writing?” Voila! A novel is born.

3) What genre does your book fall under?

Quality Women’s Fiction.

Quit laughing. I didn’t put it in that genre. A literary scout in England read In Search of Beef Stroganoff and said it falls in the category of Quality Women’s Fiction. Hey, who am I to argue with a professional in the literary business?

I can hear you saying, “A likely story, Robin. How did a budding novelist in California bribe coax con a literary scout in England into reading your work?”

Easy. She is a friend of a friend. He pitched my novel to her and she agreed to read it. It’s not what you know, but who you know, right?

I hadn’t heard the term literary scout before. Lucky for me, in her long email after she read my novel, the scout explained her role in the book world.

She said, “ I’m not a literary agent or publisher, rather I’m a literary scout here in the UK, so my job is to read and assess all manuscripts that get sent to my office. I read manuscripts (both non-fiction and fiction from all genres), write feedback, and hand-pick certain ones to send on to our clients, who are foreign publishing houses, who then buy the translation rights to distribute in their country if they like them. Like a book match-making service… we find books in the UK market which match the publishing criteria of our clients abroad.”

She went on to give me encouraging feedback. In part, she said,

“I think it has a very saleable plot hook in Meredith’s exploration of self through her search of one ever-elusive recipe. I especially liked the irony of how she found her mother’s recipe! A lovely touch that added very satisfactory circularity to the story.”

“Astrid’s character was extremely warm and very charming. I think her role as replacement mother figure worked well; the ideal surrogate that gave Meredith scope to evolve and have a second chance at the mother-daughter relationship. I shed tears into my tea.”

“Your writing is fluid and maintains a steady pace throughout that drives the narrative forward. The descriptive sections on food were particularly sensuous and beautifully textured It’s certainly good enough for me to send out in one of our weekly reports to foreign publishers, which I can do over the next few weeks if you’d like. In all, I think you’ve got something great here though – fluid prose with a teary redemptive ending, but which needs a few tweaks to round it off.”

She ended her email with excellent feedback on where and how I can strengthen In Search of Beef Stroganoff, and some insight into the nuts and bolts of the publishing world.

4) Which actors would you choose to play in your movie rendition?

Oh gosh darn it. Let’s get the damn thing published first.

5) What is a one-sentence synopsis of your book?

A young woman searches the world for her mom’s beef stroganoff recipe and in the process finds a love of cooking, happiness, and an 88-year-old best friend.

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Like many of you, I’d love to be picked up by an agent and traditionally published. Since that is a tough row to hoe right now, I most likely will self-publish.

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I wish I kept track of that. I dabbled for a year or so, off and on. Mostly off. Then, when the story started taking shape, I worked on it for a couple of years. I’m still working on it.

8) What other books would you compare this story to?

The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister and Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl.

9) Who or what inspired you to write the book?

My love of reading, writing, and food inspired this story, as well as my husband’s blind faith and encouragement to do so.

10) What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

It is damn good! Wink. Wink.

OK, to be honest, I’d say the novel blends humor and human frailty with the magical power food has in giving comfort and bringing people together.

And now, to pass on this distinction, I’d love to hear about their The Next Big Thing from:

All Things Boys Blog

Corey, M.P.

The Laughing Housewife

Writing by the Numbers

Carrie Rubin

Thank you Pete, Lori, and JM. You guys rock!

My Blog

  • In Search . . . (269)
  • Strong vs Weak Words (48)
  • Uncategorized (14)

Recent Posts

  • A New Book and a New Blog Everyone!
  • Something positive has to come out of this, right?
  • Update on one sick puppy . . .
  • One sick puppy . . . and she needs your help
  • Taking a Stance on Stance Underwear

Who is this gal?

  • Who is this gal?
  • Write Me!

Enter your email to receive notifications of new posts, and no, we won't share your email address!

RobinCoyle.com

RSS Feed RSS - Posts

Archives

  • April 2020
  • March 2020
  • March 2017
  • November 2016
  • August 2016
  • June 2016
  • May 2015
  • April 2015
  • September 2014
  • August 2014
  • April 2014
  • March 2014
  • February 2014
  • January 2014
  • August 2013
  • April 2013
  • March 2013
  • February 2013
  • January 2013
  • December 2012
  • November 2012
  • October 2012
  • September 2012
  • August 2012
  • July 2012
  • June 2012
  • May 2012
  • April 2012
  • March 2012
  • February 2012
  • January 2012
January 2013
M T W T F S S
 123456
78910111213
14151617181920
21222324252627
28293031  
« Dec   Feb »

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

  • Follow Following
    • Robin Coyle
    • Join 1,057 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • Robin Coyle
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
 

Loading Comments...