I have a reputation for getting lost. I’ve been lovingly nicknamed Wrong Way Denise and rightly so. Friends suggested I invest in a GPS. I tried it once. I didn’t agree with the voice emanating from the little box .How could they know? Their direction didn’t seem right; so I turned them off and went my own route, much to the dismay of those carpooling with me. It’s true, I usually arrive late, but boy do I have stories to tell when I get there.
It’s no surprise then, that my favorite TV series of all time was LOST. I watched it faithfully right up to the bitter end. I won’t waste time telling you how I felt about the ending. Well maybe in another blog, but not now. Never the less, it was a great series, with a great story and most of all, memorable characters that became like family.
I fell in love with John Locke. Not the romantic crush kind of love but a deep admiration and love for a real man with substance. I’d like to be lost with a man like him. He could kill a wild boar and make a cradle for a baby on the same day. He had faith and belief that he was meant for something great. He embraced his hardship because he believed he had a purpose to fulfill. That’s why his mantra was, “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!” The first time he yelled that phrase, (Season 1 episode 4; Walkabout) I cried like a baby.
Why, because I dream of my own walkabout. Because I, like John Locke believe I have a purpose…a calling on my life and like him, I was told I was delusional.
They (I will protect their identity) said I was delusional because I wanted to write books. They told me in light of the college education I never received, that I couldn’t do it. They said I would need to go back to school first and take English and writing courses and maybe….I could write a novel. They said the market was too competitive and I was a nobody, and would never be heard. Their advice was to go back to the hair salon and continue my career as a hairdresser because that was my future.
How could they know? Their directions didn’t seem right so I turned them off and went my own way because I believe some things can’t be taught. You can sit in a class and learn story structure but no one can teach you how to dream one up. So, I adopted John’s mantra and yelled, “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!”
So guess what? I wrote a book, a great book. It’s about someone getting lost and ending up in a peculiar town hidden deep in the Appalachians. It’s creepy and exciting and everyone who reads it says they lose all track of time because they can’t put it down.
I was told not to self-publish; so I turned the box off again and put my story up as an ebook because I wanted to share it, like the creators of LOST shared their story with me. I must have done something right because in less than three months over a thousand people read it! A friend said I should tweet the great news so I went to Twitter and got lost again. I was groping my way around, trying to navigate the site when I stumbled upon John Locke! I was thrilled. Imagine my excitement when I discovered he wrote an ebook telling how he sold over a million books! My hero is also a writer? I was intrigued so I began to stalk him and discovered there are TWO John Locke’s! Talk about good fortune! If this new John Locke was anything like the LOST Locke then I was an immediate fan. I went to his page, and he was handsome and bald like the other John Locke! I was more intrigued. I immediately downloaded his book and devoured it, enjoying every page. He is an entrepreneur and a devout believer in self-publishing. His words encouraged me, inspired me. He’s the reason I am writing this blog and he made me believe I am an OOU. I bet he cooks a mean wild boar and I bet he doesn’t let people tell him what he can’t do.
So what can I say? I enjoy getting lost because it’s then that I discover new ground and in so doing I discover something about myself. Just like Bronwyn in my book The Secrets of Moonshine. Her bus breaks down on the side of a forgotten highway and when she goes looking for help she stumbles upon the mysterious town of Moonshine. There she makes a startling discovery and unearths cryptic secrets the town’s kept hidden for over two hundred years. If you like LOST or Jon Locke or John Locke, you should read it. I hope JJ Abrahams reads it and plans on making it his next big series. I’d like John Locke to have a part. While we were filming we could get to know each other better and maybe we could play a game of backgammon and he could tell me the secret he told Walt that day on the beach and when he is finished I will tell him The Secrets of Moonshine.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004Z1N372
Denise Daisy
Author
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
What is going on?
Since May 4th I have been promoting my first novel The Secrets of Moonshine. It is available on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble.com and Smashwords as an ebook. In less than a month it has been downloaded well over 100 times and has received some great 5 star reviews.
I love telling a good story. You know the kind, the ones where you have your audience on the edge of their seats and their eyes are engaged on yours and if you stop to take a breather they beg for more.
I believe I was born to be a story teller. It comes natural. My family accuses me of seeing life different than the average person. They say I can witness an event and retell it in a way where the others who were privy to it wonder if they saw the same event.
That is how I see life. It’s full and amazing and rich in buried treasures and great secrets.
Some look up into the sky and see rain clouds. I see angry dark warriors riding across the expanse on ghostly horses; their hooves thundering in the distance as all nature cowers at their arrival. The warriors have a secret. Secrets of where they have been, where they are headed and what they are fighting for.
I love to discover their secrets and write their stories.
The Secrets of Moonshine will transport you to a small town hidden deep in the Appalachian chain. The people who reside in the town are guarding something…something big….something they have kept a secret for over 200 years.
Want to know their secrets…..?
I love telling a good story. You know the kind, the ones where you have your audience on the edge of their seats and their eyes are engaged on yours and if you stop to take a breather they beg for more.
I believe I was born to be a story teller. It comes natural. My family accuses me of seeing life different than the average person. They say I can witness an event and retell it in a way where the others who were privy to it wonder if they saw the same event.
That is how I see life. It’s full and amazing and rich in buried treasures and great secrets.
Some look up into the sky and see rain clouds. I see angry dark warriors riding across the expanse on ghostly horses; their hooves thundering in the distance as all nature cowers at their arrival. The warriors have a secret. Secrets of where they have been, where they are headed and what they are fighting for.
I love to discover their secrets and write their stories.
The Secrets of Moonshine will transport you to a small town hidden deep in the Appalachian chain. The people who reside in the town are guarding something…something big….something they have kept a secret for over 200 years.
Want to know their secrets…..?
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Talking Walls
Two weeks ago I packed up several dozen cardboard boxes, filled tons of hefty garbage bags with trash and sold what was left in a garage sale.
I despise moving I’ve done it way too many times and each time I find myself wrapping my dishes in newspaper I promise myself this will be the last move I make.
This particular move was almost unexpected. I say almost because ever since the day I moved into 448 Sandalwood Drive I counted down the days until I could move out again.
It was an old house in a bad part of town. Nightly search copters flew overhead announcing that residents should lock their doors because a fugitive was on the run from the police. The first time I experienced this I battened down the hatches, turned off the lights and hunkered down in a corner. Now, three years later when the search copters continue their nightly searches I make chocolate chip cookies and brew a pot of tea just in case the perpetrator happens to drop in. On one particular evening the cops chased a man into our yard and slammed him up against the side of the house. I heard the racket and looked out of my bedroom window only to see the guilty party’s cheek pressed against it while he was being cuffed. I immediately took advantage of the situation held up two different pairs of shoes and asked him which ones he thought went best with what I was wearing.
Did I mention the house was old? It was built in the 1950’s and still has the original plumbing, and paint and appliances. Tiny windows offer little light and barely any air during the scorching El Cajon summers. If I turn on the air conditioner the whole house will experience a blackout due to the aging electrical system. The only way we can run the air is to turn everything that plugs into a socket off and the only time we can do that is while we are sleeping. So I am the night crier running down the hallway every night making sure all the girls have finished with their nightly rituals and in bed before I flip the switch to cool.
The walls are dingy, the carpet is a thirty year old shag, the plumbing is always backing up, the hallway too narrow the house dim, the floors creak, the appliances barely work and the neighborhood is questionable complete with a ninety-nine year old woman who lives across the street with long flowing white hair and wears a purple velvet gown as she glides across her front yard like a ghostly apparition.
So, if it is so horrid why did I cry when I finally pulled out of the driveway for the last time?
Because a house is a house but a home is where you really live, where life truly takes place. Life exploded in that house the past three years. It was the last place me and my four daughters all lived together and for that reason alone, it was the best place I ever hung my hat. But, if you were to walk through the house today you will find the rooms empty except for the occasional piece of trash or a lone clothes hanger left behind in the closet. You will see indentions in the carpet where furniture once sat and if you called out our names the place will remain silent for none of us are there to answer. However the walls will speak to you...
The past three years we made it a habit to write on the walls. On many occasions we would take a sharpie and start scribbling a banner across a drab wall. Our declarations would be a quote of inspiration, a dream, a scripture verse, a poignant date on the calendar, or a thought or word from God that entered into our hearts and we would begin to scribble.
As I walked through the house for the last time my eyes fell upon the walls and they spoke loud and clear bringing a smile to my face and a tear to my eyes as I relived some very poignant memories
“Never the Less- God’s answer for human weakness”
“Go after a plan that’s destined to fail without divine intervention”
“We are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed but those who believe and are saved”
“Your playing small does not save the world”
“Do not fear what they fear”
“The Spirit of the sovereign Lord is upon me”
“Hope does not disappoint.”
And on and on they speak….
Over the last three years the old house echoed with hysterical laughter and heavy sobbing, celebrations and devastations, hope and disappointment, courage and fear, peace and unrest, but no matter what the circumstances it always reverberated with love.
If these old walls,
if these old walls could speak
of the things that they remember well,
Stories and faces dearly held,
A couple in loveLivin’ week to week,
Rooms full of laughter,
if these walls could speak.
If these old halls,
if hallowed halls could talk,
these would have a tale to tell
of sun goin’ down and dinner bell,
And children playing at hide and seek
from floor to rafter,if these halls could speak.
They would tell you that I’m sorry
for bein’ cold and blind and weak.
They would tell you that it’s only
That I have a stubborn streak,
If these walls could speak
If these old fashioned window panes were eyes,
I guess they would have seen it all--
Each little tear and sigh and footfall,
And every dream that we came to seek
Or followed after,If these walls could speak.
They would tell you that I owe you
more than I could ever pay.
Here’s someone who really loves you;
don’t ever go away.
That’s what these walls would say.
They would tell you that I owe you
more than I could ever pay.
Here’s someone who really loves you;
don’t ever go away.
That’s what these walls would say.
That’s what these walls would say.
That’s what these walls would say.
-lyrics by Amy Grant
I despise moving I’ve done it way too many times and each time I find myself wrapping my dishes in newspaper I promise myself this will be the last move I make.
This particular move was almost unexpected. I say almost because ever since the day I moved into 448 Sandalwood Drive I counted down the days until I could move out again.
It was an old house in a bad part of town. Nightly search copters flew overhead announcing that residents should lock their doors because a fugitive was on the run from the police. The first time I experienced this I battened down the hatches, turned off the lights and hunkered down in a corner. Now, three years later when the search copters continue their nightly searches I make chocolate chip cookies and brew a pot of tea just in case the perpetrator happens to drop in. On one particular evening the cops chased a man into our yard and slammed him up against the side of the house. I heard the racket and looked out of my bedroom window only to see the guilty party’s cheek pressed against it while he was being cuffed. I immediately took advantage of the situation held up two different pairs of shoes and asked him which ones he thought went best with what I was wearing.
Did I mention the house was old? It was built in the 1950’s and still has the original plumbing, and paint and appliances. Tiny windows offer little light and barely any air during the scorching El Cajon summers. If I turn on the air conditioner the whole house will experience a blackout due to the aging electrical system. The only way we can run the air is to turn everything that plugs into a socket off and the only time we can do that is while we are sleeping. So I am the night crier running down the hallway every night making sure all the girls have finished with their nightly rituals and in bed before I flip the switch to cool.
The walls are dingy, the carpet is a thirty year old shag, the plumbing is always backing up, the hallway too narrow the house dim, the floors creak, the appliances barely work and the neighborhood is questionable complete with a ninety-nine year old woman who lives across the street with long flowing white hair and wears a purple velvet gown as she glides across her front yard like a ghostly apparition.
So, if it is so horrid why did I cry when I finally pulled out of the driveway for the last time?
Because a house is a house but a home is where you really live, where life truly takes place. Life exploded in that house the past three years. It was the last place me and my four daughters all lived together and for that reason alone, it was the best place I ever hung my hat. But, if you were to walk through the house today you will find the rooms empty except for the occasional piece of trash or a lone clothes hanger left behind in the closet. You will see indentions in the carpet where furniture once sat and if you called out our names the place will remain silent for none of us are there to answer. However the walls will speak to you...
The past three years we made it a habit to write on the walls. On many occasions we would take a sharpie and start scribbling a banner across a drab wall. Our declarations would be a quote of inspiration, a dream, a scripture verse, a poignant date on the calendar, or a thought or word from God that entered into our hearts and we would begin to scribble.
As I walked through the house for the last time my eyes fell upon the walls and they spoke loud and clear bringing a smile to my face and a tear to my eyes as I relived some very poignant memories
“Never the Less- God’s answer for human weakness”
“Go after a plan that’s destined to fail without divine intervention”
“We are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed but those who believe and are saved”
“Your playing small does not save the world”
“Do not fear what they fear”
“The Spirit of the sovereign Lord is upon me”
“Hope does not disappoint.”
And on and on they speak….
Over the last three years the old house echoed with hysterical laughter and heavy sobbing, celebrations and devastations, hope and disappointment, courage and fear, peace and unrest, but no matter what the circumstances it always reverberated with love.
If these old walls,
if these old walls could speak
of the things that they remember well,
Stories and faces dearly held,
A couple in loveLivin’ week to week,
Rooms full of laughter,
if these walls could speak.
If these old halls,
if hallowed halls could talk,
these would have a tale to tell
of sun goin’ down and dinner bell,
And children playing at hide and seek
from floor to rafter,if these halls could speak.
They would tell you that I’m sorry
for bein’ cold and blind and weak.
They would tell you that it’s only
That I have a stubborn streak,
If these walls could speak
If these old fashioned window panes were eyes,
I guess they would have seen it all--
Each little tear and sigh and footfall,
And every dream that we came to seek
Or followed after,If these walls could speak.
They would tell you that I owe you
more than I could ever pay.
Here’s someone who really loves you;
don’t ever go away.
That’s what these walls would say.
They would tell you that I owe you
more than I could ever pay.
Here’s someone who really loves you;
don’t ever go away.
That’s what these walls would say.
That’s what these walls would say.
That’s what these walls would say.
-lyrics by Amy Grant
Monday, January 31, 2011
The Haret
How can her pregnancy test be positive when she is still a virgin?
Four home pregnancy test do not lie so when Felicitas Rebold founder of her high schools Purity Club finds out she is pregnant her mind returns to one haunting event. Yet is it possible to get pregnant in a dream?
Felicitas is very strict on her decision to wait until she is married. She even started a group at her school on remaining pure. She wears a purity ring and despite her beauty, popularity and handsome boyfriend she has never had sex.
The news of her pregnancy surfaces along with her cryptic Nocturnal Journal when she mysteriously disappears for a week. The journal cast an accusing finger on her and a secretive stranger.
A week later she is found confused and unaware as to where she has been.
No one believes her and she faces the wrath of an angry Detective Russell and her stern father, Reverend Melvin Rebold, the town’s most prominent Baptist minister.
When Detective Russell suggest her family send her to County Mental Health. She runs away to find her estranged grandmother Rosie who she has never known. Felicitas father has forbidden the family to have contact with Rosie because he believes her to be insane and is convinced she communes with the dead.
Her grandmother eagerly takes her in and hides from the authorities, her father and over zealous boyfriend who is hell bent on finding out who impregnated his girlfriend.
Once in the company of her grandmother Felicitas realizes Rosie is far from crazy and has answers to the secrets shrouding the missing week and how she could have possibly gotten pregnant in a dream.
With her grandmothers help and the aid of a mysterious man she traces her roots back ten generations and makes a startling discovery that someone very close to her is not who they seem.
Excerpt coming soon!
Four home pregnancy test do not lie so when Felicitas Rebold founder of her high schools Purity Club finds out she is pregnant her mind returns to one haunting event. Yet is it possible to get pregnant in a dream?
Felicitas is very strict on her decision to wait until she is married. She even started a group at her school on remaining pure. She wears a purity ring and despite her beauty, popularity and handsome boyfriend she has never had sex.
The news of her pregnancy surfaces along with her cryptic Nocturnal Journal when she mysteriously disappears for a week. The journal cast an accusing finger on her and a secretive stranger.
A week later she is found confused and unaware as to where she has been.
No one believes her and she faces the wrath of an angry Detective Russell and her stern father, Reverend Melvin Rebold, the town’s most prominent Baptist minister.
When Detective Russell suggest her family send her to County Mental Health. She runs away to find her estranged grandmother Rosie who she has never known. Felicitas father has forbidden the family to have contact with Rosie because he believes her to be insane and is convinced she communes with the dead.
Her grandmother eagerly takes her in and hides from the authorities, her father and over zealous boyfriend who is hell bent on finding out who impregnated his girlfriend.
Once in the company of her grandmother Felicitas realizes Rosie is far from crazy and has answers to the secrets shrouding the missing week and how she could have possibly gotten pregnant in a dream.
With her grandmothers help and the aid of a mysterious man she traces her roots back ten generations and makes a startling discovery that someone very close to her is not who they seem.
Excerpt coming soon!
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