03/2/12
Welcome Guest Blogger, Cynthia D’Alba!
by Robin Kaye
This post is proudly a stop on the TEXAS TWO STEP Blog Tour. For a complete listing of all stops on this tour, please visit here. All contests are for U.S. residents only unless otherwise noted. Comments left on this blog will be counted toward the Texas Two Step Faithful Follower Gift Certificate. To see a complete listing of Blog Tour Prizes, click here. Be sure to check out the freebies. Yours for the asking as long as they last.
A big old kiss to Robin Kaye for being such a good friend and supportive of my blog tour. Robin, you’ve gone above and beyond for me. I owe you!
Love tokens can come in many forms but jewelry is definitely a tried and true symbol of caring. As I look back at all the “expressions of love” I’ve gotten from guys, I wondered how many of you shared similar experiences.
First up, the puppy loves from grade school, when you were sure that cute seven-year-old boy sitting across the room was destined to be your husband and you would live happily-ever-after. Except what first grader (or second or third, etc) can afford that big, honking diamond ring to show his love? So instead of rings, we gave half-heart necklaces. Anyone remember those? The boy wore half a heart on a chain and the girlfriend wore the other half. I looked for a picture to show you but I couldn’t find one like we used to give. I found half-heart pictures just none like we had.
Then we left those childish half-hearts behind for ID bracelets. You too? The guy’s name was engraved on the silver bar and the girl would wear it as a sign they were going steady. But now that I actually look at an ID bracelet, it kind of reminds me of handcuffs and shackles. Umm. Anyone else? I remember in the ninth grade “going steady” with a boy I’ll call “Kenny” (because that was his name!). We were going to a “formal” dance. I wore a long turquoise chiffon dress with (get this!) over the elbow gloves! My date got mad because I wouldn’t wear his ID bracelet on top of my gloves. I was appalled. That would totally have destroyed “the look of sophistication” I was going for. Needless to say, that relationship did last. J
By the ninth grade we had added wearing “our guy’s” letterman jacket. Of course these were always huge on the girl but it was an obvious sign of “going steady.” Back then, we didn’t have girls’ sports so other than the cheerleaders, girls couldn’t “earn” a letterman’s jacket. The only way to get one was from your feller! (Isn’t that an awesome picture? It’s the REAL ONE from my junior high days with the guys in their letterman jackets. As I was posting this, I wondered how many of them had to get the jacket back from some girl before this picture could be taken.)
Graduating to high school meant leaving behind silly things like ID bracelets, but we held on to those lettermen’s jackets as a status symbol. But as we aged and crushes became love (immature as it might have been) rings began to make statement about the couple’s commitment. 
Sometimes it was an initial ring. Or it could be a senior ring. Both of these required yards of yarn wrapped about the ring’s band because like the jacket, these items never fit. But a new type of ring came into fashion… the “Promise Ring.” (see the picture to the right.) I think it was supposed to mean more than going steady, but it never did to me! I had that ring for years until I gave it to my niece, who was nice enough to photograph it and send it for this blog.
So why am I talking about this today? In my book, Texas Two Step, my hero (Mitch) gives the heroine (Olivia) a diamond locket for her birthday while they are dating as a sign of his affection. In it, she carries a picture of her son and Mitch. When she wears it to the wedding rehearsal and Mitch asks her if she ever put any pictures in it, she lies. What choice did she have? Mitch doesn’t know about her son and seeing a picture in a locket might not be the best way to tell him.
Now that you’ve been down my memory lane, tell me about yours. What symbols of devotion did you give or receive when you were growing up? ID bracelets? Initial rings? Senior rings? Matching tattoos?
If you’ve stumbled across my Texas Two Step blog tour over the past month, you may be aware that many of my author friends volunteered books for me to give as prizes. Today’s Tour Sponsor is Indie Author Melissa Ohnoutka. Melissa will send Target of Betrayal to one lucky person who leaves a comment. To learn more about my kind benefactor, visit her Website, Twitter, Facebook.
To learn more about me check out these links:
Website , Facebook. Twitter, Group Blog , and Personal Blog
And if those aren’t enough, Sign up for inside scoops and special contests by receiving the newsletter I share with my blog buddies.
Remember! Leave a comment for a chance to win Melissa book!
Texas Two Step is available at Samhain, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble
Consider buying it as a token of love! J
12/1/11
Introducing Karma Kincaid from Wild Thing
by Robin Kaye
I’m so excited to be beginning my blog tour for Wild Thing so I thought I’d celebrate by flying out to Boise, Idaho, one of my favorite places in the world, and stop by Humpin’ Hannah’s—the bar featured in my last book, Yours for the Taking, and introduce you to one of my characters from Wild Thing and the Domestic Gods Gone Wild series—Karma Kincaid. Now I’ve known Karma for a while—after all, she’s been in two of my books, but she’s never met me in person so I thought I’d surprise her.
11/8/11
by Robin Kaye
By Robin Kaye
I spent the weekend listening to one of my favorite people, Michael Hauge. Michael is a story and script consultant, author and lecturer who works with writers and filmmakers on their screenplays, novels, movies and television projects. (and yes, I did copy this from his bio on his website www.storymastery.com).
To me, Michael Hague is a lifesaver.
10/31/11
by Robin Kaye
10/31/11
by Robin Kaye
10/31/11
by Robin Kaye
10/31/11
by Robin Kaye
10/31/11
by Robin Kaye
06/24/11
by Robin Kaye
By Robin Kaye
The day before yesterday I read a seemingly technically perfect book, and after I turned off my Kindle, I wondered at my feeling of dissatisfaction. The book was fine. Don’t you just hate that word—fine? There was nothing wrong with the book I read—believe me, I looked for it.
Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t read books to find fault. I read to find joy, to escape, to be grabbed by the throat with no choice but to finish a fabulous book in one sitting. I want to find myself day dreaming or talking about the characters long after I morn reading the End. I live to read books like that.
It’s been two days since I read that technically perfect yet somehow soulless book. I no longer remember the hero and heroine’s names, the title, or even the author, but the memory of feeling dissatisfied remains quite clear and still haunts me. Obviously my dissatisfaction was not as forgettable as the book. I feel horrible for the poor, nameless author who, I’m sure with all the best intentions in the world, spent three to six months of her life pouring her heart into a book that for some reason, and I do hope it’s only in my opinion, remained completely forgettable.
I’ve tried to put my finger on why some books are technically perfect, seem to have nothing wrong with them, and somehow fail to have anything right with them either. What ingredient is missing? How can I be sure, as an author, that I never produce a technically perfect, yet utterly forgettable book?
Yesterday I drove to Harrisburg to see my daughter dance in a ballet. Throughout the entire two-hour drive, my mind kept rolling over the problem of dissatisfaction with the book I could no longer recall the title to. I decided I needed to go back into my kindle, find the book I’d forgotten, and take another look at it. I sat in my box seat at the theater before the show and instead of reading the playbill; I was searching through my Kindle. Just then, the lights went down, music filled the room, and the curtain went up.
Now my daughter’s dance school is not the typical “Dolly Dinkle” neighborhood ballet school. No, hers is arguably the best pre-professional ballet school in the country. Their ballets are like a professional ballet only with shorter dancers. I’m always amazed by the performances. So when the curtains open and the stage is filled with the little ones or barn babies as they call them, you’re still going to see something awe inspiring. Now, I don’t know about you, but I think there’s nothing cuter than little ballerinas and little boy dancers in beautiful costumes lined up on the stage in perfect fifth position, just waiting for their cue to move and show you what they’ve learned all year. These kids vibrated with energy, excitement, and passion. My eyes immediately went to a little dark-haired girl. I didn’t know her; I don’t think she was any more proficient in the dance than any other of the twenty kids on stage. But for some reason, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. I tried to watch the others, really I did. I tried to figure out the difference between this little dark-haired girl and everyone else. What did she posses that the other kids lacked? The only things I could come up with were presence, passion, and a spark of magic.
I was terribly disappointed because it’s not as if presence, passion, and magic are sold in the spice aisle of the grocery store. They are as indefinable as they are precious. I wondered if it was something you can learn, does it come with practice or experience? But then looking at this five or six year-old little dark-haired girl, I don’t see how since these were babies after all. Still, I watched looking for the secret.
All night I studied the most amazing ballets with incredibly talented dancers. I realized that some of the dances could be thought of as synchronized swimming minus the water and in tights rather than a Speedo. I didn’t notice one mistake, but I noticed those who shined and those who, while technically perfect, did not.
My fear grew; perhaps the magic was something you are born with and could not learn. Maybe it’s a gift. And then I saw her—this redheaded dancer I’ve watched for the last three years. I realized early on that she was a technically perfect ballerina and she’s been in many, many of the company’s performances. Over the years I’ve marveled at her lack of that special something and honestly wondered why she was so sought after and in so many dances. This girl who never seemed to have the magic before came on stage and stole the ballet. It was as if she learned the secret. Last night she didn’t dance, she floated, she soared, and she transcended everyone else on that stage with her—many of whom had the magic too, just not as much as the redhead did. It was her night to shine and she outshone all the other stars that graced the heavens with her.
Me, I blinked back tears of relief. Whatever that magic is, the redhead who had lacked it for the last three year finally found it and in transcending the others around her, she gave me hope that I could somehow find it too.
I hope that redheaded ballerina could point me in the direction of magic. I’d love to hear the secret. Anyone willing to give me a hint?
03/17/11
by Robin Kaye
Having three special needs kids has changed my life in too many ways to count. One has physical disabilities and all three have learning disabilities.
When a team of doctors told me my one year-old daughter would never walk, I asked how they knew. When they said that they just knew these things, without anything to back up their supposed knowledge, I got angry. That wasn’t good enough for me or her. We did three hours of physical therapy a day and my daughter walked when she was three years old. The doctors pronounced it a miracle. I knew better. It was just a lot of hard work and determination on her part and time and encouragement on mine.
Every step on my daughter’s journey was riddled with a combination of hope, fear, sweat, and determination. Every milestone was celebrated. The happiest moments in my life were the moments she did things that most other kids and parents take for granted. The first step, the first time she pulled up her own pants, the first day she made it up the steps of her school bus without help.
Whenever I think I can’t do something I remember the day we were working on walking up steps. She was covered with sweat and her little muscles shaking after a long hard session. I was below her on the stairs and told her that it was time for a break. She turned, patted my cheek, and said, “Don’t worry, Mama. I’ll do better tomorrow.”
My fifteen year-old daughter is a ballerina. Twinkle Toes lives with a host family, goes to high school, and dances forty hours a week; my son is going for his Eagle in the Boy Scouts and working toward an ROTC scholarship; and my youngest is a Special Olympian who not only walks, but runs the 50-yard dash. All three have overcome so much, whether it be physical disabilities or a combination of processing problems, dyslexia, and dysgraphia, or both. They are my heroes. So when I’m working and I’m not getting where I want to be, they’ve taught me that I will reach my goals but only if I work as hard as they do.
I’d love to say that I work as hard as they do all the time but it’s probably not true. That’s okay once in a while because I’ll do better tomorrow.
What about you? Who are your heroes and what about them inspires you?
