I was honored to attend St. George's Episcopal Church's book club meeting. We had fun discussing Pura Vida and enjoying a theme-inspired spread of tamales, flan, and other Mexican goodies. What a great group of ladies. Thanks for having me!
What fun! On Thursday night, I had dinner with a great group of ladies. Their book club read Pura Vida and invited me for dinner and discussion. Thank you ladies. I enjoyed it so much. Now I need to finish my next book so I can come back! :)
When I decided to write a book, I looked for help. I turned to an online writers' programs. I applied to UCLA's Writers' Program Online and took classes offered through Writers' League of Texas. I will talk about that experience in a later post. For now, let's just talk about the importance of reading.
Reading is a writer's foundation. Remembering back to my childhood, I can still sense the magic of reading. I know that sounds cliché because everyone says it. You know what they say, "You open a book, and voilá, you are transported to a different time and place!" Kind of magical what our brains are able to accomplish with imagination.
When I was in third grade, our teacher would take us to the library and tell us to pick out a book. Naturally, I looked to the book shelves that were just my height. There, I spotted a big, fat book called Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, which by the way, was first published in 1868. So there I was in 1969, a little Catholic, Lat...
He stole one bomb component from each small shop. The process took longer, but it kept him off the government’s radar. Small, disparate thefts didn’t raise red flags. He doubted the shop owners even missed the stolen items.
It was four o’clock on a chilly November morning. Javier clicked off his headlights and the Escalade’s bright, colorful dials and gauges went dark. The black SUV hulked along the block of small, patched-up houses of East Austin. Only the occasional porch light illuminated his way.
He didn’t own a computer, nor did he use a cell phone. He knew better than to create an Internet footprint. Javier didn’t buy bomb components with cash either, for once the explosive did its job; forensics would trace its parts, leading police to a description of the buyer. Him. He took no chances. Prison wasn’t an option.
He was thirty-two years old, six feet tall, lean and clean-shaven. He melded into the night with his black clothing, boots, and gloves. His black...