Welcome to My Worlds

by Kelly Gottuso Mortimer

“Mom, I’m here. I’m safe.”

Ah, music to a mother’s ears, at least in part. For “here” meant Kuwait. And safe? For how long? Her next stop—Iraq. I’m speaking of my then eighteen-year-old daughter, Private Nicole Giovanna Mortimer—known to family and friends as Nikki. [The Sassy Child]

Her vibrant blue-green eyes gazed at me from a photo taken in her senior year of high school, hand resting proudly on her Bible. And the snapshot from her prom, dressed in her billowing gown, her lovely figure swathed in pale pink lace and tulle. A rhinestone tiara perched proudly on her shiny, light-brown hair, and the glittering necklace that once belonged to her grandmother dangled from her swan-like neck. Next to that, her latest picture.

Nikki dressed in fatigues, cradling an M-16.

Why would such a happy, carefree girl want to spend her summer at boot camp in the unbearable heat and humidity of South Carolina’s Fort Jackson? Then the trek to the windy desert over Iraq, followed by a jump out of a helicopter in 130-degree heat?

Because I asked her to.

I know what you’re thinking, “Come again?” Yes, for better or worse, her old mom convinced her to enlist when a war raged in a foreign country.

Nikki didn’t know what she wanted to do after high school, so, like any good daughter, she asked her parents for suggestions. I’m so patriotic; I bleed red, white, and blue. Nikki’s a girlie-girl, but “fearless” is her middle name. Why not the Armed Forces? She could help those less fortunate than herself, master an interesting trade, learn self-discipline, and garner a healthy respect for those in authority.

Of course, the decision would have to be hers. She’d turned eighteen, a legal adult in California. Eighteen! Could a random set of numbers comprised of a simple “one” and an “eight” make her an adult? Nikki couldn’t be an adult. Wasn’t it yesterday morning I dropped my baby daughter off for her first day of kindergarten? Okay, I guess my dates are off, but that’s to be expected, considering my advanced age.

Regardless, I’m sure I was more mature at eighteen than Nikki, wasn’t I? She’d spent good money on an “In Sync” CD. At eighteen, I listened to Aerosmith.

Shock enveloped me when she took my advice. What was up with that? I didn’t listen to my mother when I was eighteen, or ever, for that matter. Of course, I didn’t need to, as I already knew everything. Sorry, Mom. Seriously, what soon-to-be-a-woman takes it to heart when her mom tells her to enlist in the Army? I know, I know. Apparently, mine.

My friends and family asked if I worried about Nikki coming home safely. I said no, as a giant angel in body armor guarded her back. And if the angel needed a rest, she had the finest soldiers in the world next to her. So, off she went with the family’s blessing.

I couldn’t wait to speak with her. When I finally did, I asked her how many cities she’d stormed, and what interesting trade she’d learned. Computer processing, air-traffic control, public relations perhaps? Nope, no storming. And her trade? She decided to be a cook. I taught her how to cook; shouldn’t I get the credit for that? Did she need to enlist in the Army to learn something she already knew? She didn’t have the joy of cooking for hundreds of people here at home, but she did have access to more spices.

Then her superior offered her a different position: driving her commanding officer on missions. My heart thundered in my chest, then stopped. Did the poor man realize he was in more danger from Nikki driving him around Iraq, than from fifty homicide bombers? Within a

month of having her first car, Nikki crashed it. She wasn’t hurt, but I’m afraid the T-bird didn’t make it. And her driving skills never improved with age. I visited her on base in Colorado. In the span of fifteen minutes, she parked and left the headlights on, ran a stop sign, and if I hadn’t intervened, she’d have driven the wrong way down a one-way street. I know; she’d be driving in the desert. Not much there to plow into. Trust me. If there was anything to hit, Nikki’d find it.

Nikki had one minor mishap while in Iraq: A piece of shrapnel scored her shoulder when her camp came under attack. I told her I’d put it on a chain and make a necklace out of it. Her reply? “No, Mom, it’s radioactive. Just stick it in the drawer.” I thank her angel for protecting her. No missing limbs, no gunshot wounds. True to form, as soon as she became a civilian, Nikki broke her ankle, but you should’ve seen the other guy.

So, Nikki’s not the best driver in the world. She has a lot of good qualities. While stationed in Iraq, she started a Bible study with her friend. By the time she left, nineteen soldiers attended. Could a mom melt? I was so proud of her. Even in the blazing desert, Nikki remembered what we taught her. Jesus should always be the most important thing in her life. Leaving to rescue defenseless Iraqis ran a close second.

In her last letter to me before she came home Nikki wrote, “Mom, I’m proud to be doing something really important with my life. I’m making the world a better place, and keeping America safe for my little sister to grow up in.”

So, did I make a huge mistake putting my teenaged daughter in harm’s way? I think not. What more could a mother ask for than to have a daughter who was happy, healthy, and out there saving the world?

Welcome to My Worlds.

Sal’s hard gaze flew from his friend to the front of the cave. The silhouette of several men, rifles in hand, caused his eyes to widen and his chest to constrict. Then came the whispers of North Korean soldiers. A man crept toward them, cautiously moving forward about three feet. Another two and no question about it: discovery, torture, death.

Sal prayed. But would God be sick of hearing his requests by now? His glance riveted to the enemy, closing in on their position in the shadows. Then the North Korean stopped and cocked an ear. Sal didn’t dare breath. His now clammy hand clamped over the boy’s mouth. The soldier took a step, then turned, and exited.

Is their any limit to God’s grace?

“Let’s get back to camp,” Sal said, wiping sweat from his brow.

The boy scampered off, and he and Neal trudged down the mountain.

Sal retired to the canvas tent he shared with fourteen other men. He slept fitfully, waking with a start, chills sweeping through him. His gaze flew to the opening flap. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and then he saw it: a thin wisp of smoke creeping through the canvas. It slithered like a snake up the seam of the tent, pausing where the side met the ceiling, then drifting toward him with agonizing slowness.

His breath caught in his throat. He slammed his eyelids closed, whispering a prayer the vapor would disappear, then opened his eyes. The death-mist inched closer. His limbs froze, then shook as if his body was a rattle in the hands of a baby. Heinous pictures of war flashed in his mind like vacation slides.

Sal ducked his head under the protection of his sleeping bag, fists clenched, head thrashing side-to-side. He knew what would happen if he uncovered his face, but an unseen force seemed to pull him back into the open, and the filmy smoke attacked his skin, invading his flaring nostrils. He shrieked like a prisoner in the throes of agonizing torture.

The smell of the dead seeped into his pores, permeating his senses. He slapped at the air, but couldn’t bat the mist away. Another high-pitched scream tore from his throat. Then another.

He couldn’t escape.

They sent him to a hospital ship anchored in the harbor, diagnosing him with battle fatigue. The area onboard consisted of rows of narrow bunks stacked three high, covered with thin mattresses. He inhabited one of the penthouses.

Sal lay there listening to another man beneath him and across the way. “Jesu, Jesu, Jesu,” he mumbled in Spanish.

Sal looked down to see him, but swung his head away and toward the wall. That guy has no chance. The dying man’s insides were in clear view, the skin of his stomach peeled back like the lid on a tin can. Sal considered himself fortunate. He added his own prayer: that God would take the suffering Marine home.

October waned, and General MacArthur announced the war neared an end. Sal’d “rested” for two weeks. They were about to ship out for R & R in Japan.

Sal asked to see his C.O. “Sir, I need to go back to my unit.”

“I hear what you need is rest.”

“Respectfully, I can’t go to Japan. My place is with the men, sir.”

He sighed. “Permission granted.”

***

Orders arrived that would prove costly. President Truman discounted vital information stating the Chinese would intervene. So, Truman sent the troops north of the 38^th Parallel to supposedly crush the remnants of the North Koreans and unify the country.

Sal and the 5^th sailed to the West Coast, landing in Wonson at the bottom of the entry to the Chosin Reservoir.

But the Chinese did join the fray. They feigned east, sneaking behind the Marines.

Ice covered the top of Sal’s helmet and light parka. If Hell had a spot the opposite of blazing hot, this place had to be it. In cold so deep it seeped through his skin to chill his bones, he manned a trench with the rest of his company in the most dismal of conditions.

Hunger gnawed at his empty stomach; his vigor ebbed like the departing daylight. He reached for a ration, then tossed it, ignoring the thud it made when it landed. Frozen solid, like everything else. He cupped shaking hands into the snow and swallowed it, desperate to keep hydrated, even though he knew his core temperature would fall to scary depths.

Engines of Chinese planes roared overhead, then the sky rained paper. Flyers fell all around him. He grabbed one and read: We will annihilate the 1^st Marine Division; the flower of the UN fighting force.

A hopeless situation. He glanced at the others. Some couldn’t walk from the pain of their frostbitten feet, some pockets remained empty, as the men manning them died at the hands of the Chinese.

Surrounded, Sal and the few survivors able to fight engaged 120,000 Chinese soldiers who kept comin’. Even when wounded, the Chinese advanced due to the opium balls they ingested. Apparently, they felt no pain. Sal wished he could say the same.

The combat ignited again. Starving, strength sapped, fingertips a nice shade of blue; Sal ignored the forty-below weather and concentrated on destroying the enemy, including the soldier who’d slipped on the bank while trying to kill him.

Lord, give me strength.

Heat surged into his veins, infusing him with power. He continued to battle as men dropped all around him. Was there any way to emerge victorious? He fired off another round, then remembered a Bible verse: With God, all things are possible. Mark 10:27.

He’d hang on, and he’d make it out alive.

I have God’s word on it.

***

Early December, 1950

The remaining troops of the 5^th and 7^th held out against heavy attacks. They mounted a bitter assault and against all odds, broke from the reservoir, sheer force of will driving them. These brave men earned the title: The Chosin Few. Some within the ranks lovingly dubbed them, The Frozen Chosin.

The Chinese suffered massive losses at the reservoir, gaining only a hollow, pyrrhic victory.

***

Christmas Eve, 1950

Sal watched the campfires on the hills above Wonsan Harbor from a LSD. Now a scant 128 pounds, he waited in line for what would be his first hot meal in weeks. Every man had to get a shot before they received their chow, and he hated needles, but ignored the minor prick as his mouth watered. Too bad his cramping stomach couldn’t keep the food down.

I’ll get over this. I’ll go on. That’s what I have to do. That’s what I will do. So help me God.

Sal paced a path in the dirt. The ship’d made him stir-crazy, and now the camp penned him in again. He decided to take a chance and escape his confines for an evening, sure the North Koreans weren’t on the prowl this time.

He and Neal finally made it to the Black Cat Inn, settling in an upstairs room to kick off

their shoes and relax. They played dominoes and for a few fleeting hours, forgot they were on foreign soil fighting a brutal war.

Then the thud of doors slamming and men yelling vibrated the thin walls. Sal looked at Neal. “I bet it’s the Army MPs raidin’ the place. Sounds like a whole battalion is floodin’ in.”

Neal scratched his head. “How we gonna sneak back into camp?”

“We’ve only got one shot,” Sal said, glancing at the lone window on the opposite wall.

They sprinted over, tugged the widow open, and hung their heads out to see how far the drop would be.

Sal moaned, then said, “Anything but that.”

Below them rested a huge vat of what stank like liquid fertilizer.

Sal gave Neal a shrug. “I’ll go first.”

With parka and shoes held over his head, Sal leapt from the second story with Neal following. They emerged stinking worse than a pile of steaming manure, but put on their boots and barreled back to camp.

Sal and Neal shimmied up the fence and dropped to the other side.

Neal suppressed a laugh. “Man, your hair has spikes of smelly icicles standing straight up.”

“Shh. Lower your voice.” Sal touched his head. “I guess that’s what happens when this stuff dries. Like you look any better. C’mon; let’s go.”

They used the rows of tents for cover. Crouching, then moving. Crouching; moving. A blast of light blinded Sal. “What the….” He put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare.

When focus returned, he stood in front of Major Treadwell. Sal’s stomach lurched.

Their superior officer looked them up and down, stroked his curling mustache, and said in a smooth Alabama drawl, “Nice of you gentlemen to join us.”

***

May 26, 1951

Corporal Sal Gottuso was the first Marine to disembark the U.S.S. General Hase in San Francisco, California. A Navy “wave” [a cute gal assigned to welcome them home] waited at the bottom of the gangplank to greet him and pose for a picture. But he sped by her and into the arms of a tiny woman who’d ducked around the Marines holding the crowd back.

“Mama, I’m home!” Sal embraced his mother, who smacked his cheek with a kiss as his sister-in-law stood behind the pair weeping tears of joy. Thankfully, the photographer snapped that shot, which Sal saw in the next morning’s paper.

“God brought me through each trial; answered every one of my prayers, Mama. And I kept Him busy.”

His mother’s eyes glistened as she looked at him. “I had feelings some days, and I knew you were in trouble, Salvy. Your father prayed. I prayed—told everyone to pray.”

Sal produced a shining grin. “Thanks, Mama. It worked.”

***

…This wasn’t the end of my dad’s military career. For his service in Korea, he made Sergeant. He also entered an MP outfit, never losing a prisoner.

When his service was up, his superior encouraged him to attend Officer’s Candidate School to become a second lieutenant, writing him every three months to convince him to come back.

Dad considered the offer, but after twelve months of careful thought, he declined, although he never stopped loving the Marine Corps. He eventually married my mother, Doreen, and had us three children.

Years later, the horrors of war continued to haunt him. He woke many nights in a cold

sweat, staring at the bedroom closet. The doors jiggled, and he surmised the mist swirled there, desperately trying to free itself.

His doctor’d told him to face his fears. So, he’d rise and pull the sliding door back with a flourish, then scream as the vapor rushed to envelope him. Invade him. Smother him.

It carried the rotting stench of the dead. Still.

When I asked my dad what he remembered most about the war, he replied, “There was tension all the time; it never let-up. I lost a lot of good friends over there, and I never prayed so much in all my life.”

My dad: Bronze Star nominee, undefeated Marine Corps boxer [the original pound-for-pound Italian Stallion], passed away on March 27, 2006. Cancer accomplished what the Chinese army couldn’t. My dad’s in heaven now, but I’ll see him again. Until then: Semper Fi, Daddy. You’ll always be my hero.

Author’s Note: My dad wanted everyone to know when I interviewed him his memory wasn’t what it used to be. If any of the statements written as fact are incorrect, he wanted to apologize. [Rest easy, Daddy. You're forgiven.]

This is probably one of the few serious works of mine you’ll get to read. In honor of all Veterans. Better late than never….

November 27, 1950

Lord, help me—or I’m gonna die.

Corporal Salvatore Frank Gottuso stared at the Chinese soldier bearing down on him. Snow crunched under the booted feet of the enemy. Dawn broke the horizon, highlighting the soldier’s silhouette as the odor of spent mortars clung to the icy air. There wasn’t time to react. The Chinese combatant unfurled his pike, ready to thrust.

Looked like the freezing foxhole in the Chosin Reservoir could be—probably would be—Sal’s grave. He’d never leave Korea. He held his breath, reciting another silent prayer as time seemed suspended.

Kettledrums beat in the distance, releasing their eerie tones amidst the screaming men and discharging weapons. Sal stayed in a crouch, frozen into position. The sharpened point of the pike had a clean shot at his exposed chest. No time to fire his M-1 rifle. This was it. Dead at nineteen. He’d never know what married life might be like, never have children, never feel the welcoming hugs of his parents or nine siblings again.

It’s all over.

The Chinese soldier lunged at Sal, but miraculously, slipped on the bank. Sal instinctively raised his weapon, his bayonet sinking into his enemy’s heart, killing him instantly.

Thank you, God, for your protection. For answering my prayer.

Mixed emotions flowed through him: relief he’d be alive to fight another day, and sorrow at taking another man’s life. His first kill in hand-to-hand combat.

But victory wasn’t sweet.

***

…I’ll be forever grateful God kept Sal Gottuso from harm. I’m his youngest child, Kelly. My siblings, Carl and Gina, and I, wouldn’t be here today if God hadn’t been faithful to my dad.

This was a tough story to write. I cringed as my dad related the harrowing details to me: stories of escape from certain death on several occasions as he served his tour of duty in Korea. I’ll start at the beginning, and pray I do his words justice.

***

Albany, New York – September 8, 1948

Sal strode to the officer. ”Sir, I’d like to enlist.”

The man handed him a clipboard and pen, then smiled. “Son, you don’t look old enough, or strong enough for what you may face.”

“I’m seventeen. Be eighteen on January 7^th. I’m old enough. As for strong, you try figthin’ seven brothers, with a few sisters thrown in on occasion.”

The officer read the form. “Salvatore Frank Gottuso. Five-feet seven; 135 pounds.” He glanced up. “So, we’ve got a scrappy Italian in the United States Marine Corps?”

“Yes, sir. You do.”

“Why the Marines, son?”

Sal spoke without pause. “I wanted to be in the toughest branch of the military, sir. I may not be the biggest Marine, but no one has more heart, and I trust God to take care of me.”

“Very good, then. We’re proud to have you.”

***

July, 1950

Sal emerged from boot camp in Honor Platoon 217, one stripe already on his shoulder.

After intense training in amphibious assault conducted on Guam and at Camp Pendleton, he headed for Korea with the 1^st Provisional Marine Brigade, 5^th Marines. My unit.

The sky shown bright orange and dark gray when the Landing Ship Dock (LSD) pulled into Pusan Harbor as evening stole over southeast Korea. Sal glanced at the land, then at his friends Neal and Jimmy.

His excitement mingled with apprehension, heart pumping erratically. “Boy, guys, we’re gonna be in there tonight.”

The North Koreans made a statement, crossing over the 38^th Parallel into South Korea, pushing the U.S. Army occupation troops back. Sal’s Brigade ran some forty miles to assume defensive positions near the southwest corner of the Pusan Perimeter. Air support came from the U.S.S. Sicily that night, as Corsairs bombed the North Koreans, clearing the way.

His muscles ached as he moved, hefting his full field transport pack and M-1 Rifle with bayonet. Every breath harder to take than the last, but with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he made no complaints.

I’m a United States Marine.

General MacArthur formed a special group named “X Corps.” Sal’s 5^th division made the cut. They boarded a ship to the Naktong Bulge, about halfway up the Pusan Perimeter, where the North Korean People’s Army (NKPA) infested the area.

Ten Corps went on the offensive, but the North Koreans wouldn’t go down without a fight. They launched a counterattack with Russian-built T-34 tanks.

“Don’t worry guys,” Sal shouted over the noise. “We’ll get ’em.”

Using rocket launchers, rifles, and 90-mm tank fire, plus the aide of the Corsairs, they completed their first goal mid-morning.

The North Koreans retreated, badly battered. Obongni or “No Name Ridge” belonged to the victorious Americans. Still, their main objective loomed before them: an assault on Inchon, then the retaking of Seoul.

Sal had a long way to go.

***

September 15, 1950

Time for the assault on Inchon. The general picked a controversial spot to land: near the seawall with as much as 32’ tides, limiting landing times to a few hours a day. The beaches seemed poor places to dock. Thick mud abounded, and the Marines had a long approach through shallow channels. Enemy mines were a worry as well. And if the Marines made it intact, the troops would have to scale metal ladders to reach their destination.

Sal sat back, waiting for the Amtrac to reach the seawall. Two men sat between him and his friend Bob. Just before disembarking, a cracking sound made him jump. “Bob, what the heck was that?” But Bob’s head bent back, a bullet hole embedded in his forehead.

Lord, give me strength.

Trepidation skittered through Sal, but stiff resolve followed. He couldn’t stop to mourn Bob. This was real.

This was war.

He held his breath, his gaze locked on Inchon, the city in the distance. It seemed like a blaze shot to the clouds and all the way to heaven. Orange-yellow flames rose like enemy arms in surrender.

The whole city must be burning.

He snapped out of his musings as small-arms fire continued to haunt the Marines on Green Beach. Sal and the men landed and fought hard, killing over 200 of the enemy, and capturing 136 prisoners.

Mission accomplished, but back to work. They set out to retake Seoul, South Korea’s capital city. Their wave of Amtracs moved at less than three knots while crossing the Han River. Splashes sounded up ahead.

They’re shootin’ at us!

Every few feet, the spraying water came closer. And closer. It seemed impossible for the Marines to escape the river bombs. The next mortar attack would blast their Amtrac apart and sink them. Sal’s heart nearly stopped.

Help us, Lord.

A welcoming sound reached his ears: a buzzing in the sky. He smiled. Corsairs soared over the cove and took out the North Korean threat. Saved once again.

Thank you, God.

Waiting on shore, their enemies hid in the hills surrounding Seoul, and the 5^th faced a heavy battle. The NKPA weren’t willing to surrender, but by late afternoon, the Marines proved too much for them, and the American flag whipped proudly in the breeze. The firefight left fields of stinking, NKPA corpses, but the Marines held their ground.

The noise of popping buttons sounded as the overtaxed uniforms of the dead succumbed when the bodies swelled. Skin inflated out of their ears and mouths, flapping in the breeze like gruesome balloons.He’d never forget the stench of the dead. Never.

The 5^th transported to a fenced rest camp. Even as one of the Commanders of the Guard, Sal couldn’t stand the confinement. One night when no moon loomed to give their position away, Sal and his buddy Neal snuck out and along with a Korean boy they’d befriended earlier. Their destination was an establishment called the Black Cat Inn, located in Inchon.

They traveled up a winding mountain road, and were halfway to the top when Sal heard a distinct noise: the clinking of rifles against canteens.

North Korean soldiers.

Some called them farmers by day, snipers by night. Whichever, they were on the other side of the hill, so close, the trio wouldn’t have a shot to double-time it back to safety. Sweat beaded on his forehead, even with the chill breeze. He ground his teeth.

Lord, what should I do?

Sal looked left, then right. A cave! It was their only chance. He led the way to the farthest reaches of the shallow overhang, as quickly and quietly as he could. They settled back, and Sal put his hand over the boy’s mouth in case the kid might be in league with the NKPA. In Korea, you never knew who your friends were.

Sal’s body tensed. He reached for his rifle, but only grasped air. His hair stood on end. Marines didn’t take their weapons outside the rest area fence unless they sought punishment. Stiff penalties. Neither he nor Neal would risk that. Sal had nothing to defend them with, and if found, the enemy would shoot them on sight.

The shuffling sound of many feet echoed off the rock walls of their tenuous hiding place. His breath quickened, then a gnawing ache clenched his gut.

His hard gaze flew from his friend to the front of the cave. The silhouette of several men, rifles in hand, caused his eyes to widen and his chest to constrict. Then came the whispers of North Korean soldiers.

A man crept toward them, cautiously moving forward about three feet. Another two and no question about it: discovery, torture, death.

[Part II on Friday!]

Now This Is Romance

So, I told y’all about the horrors (for me) of the RWA conference, 2008. This installment covers the good stuff. Unfortunately, the good things aren’t funny, but what the heck? Just didn’t want ya to think everything was gnarly.

Once I made it on the plane, I thought, I must be on the Space Mountain ride at Disneyland…. I flew Virgin America. Their planes are Phly! (No pun intended … well, maybe.) The side lights overhead are neon amethyst, the seats are black leather (yeah, even in coach), the seatbacks are slick, pristine, white high-gloss whatever-they-make-’em–out-of (I realize I only allow my authors two such descriptive words, but I’m an agent, and this is my blog. Oh, the power…). Great leg room too.

They had lots of spiffy flight attendants, and I knew my other, other business (4 Gals Designs) was well on the way to making it big, cuz when I trolled down the aisle, flight attendant Brad took one look at the briefcase I made (not the one I nearly lost a thumb over), stopped me and said, “Oh, my. I love your bag!" (Sigh.)

The plane arrived on time and without incident: no crashes, no turbulence, no warning of a possible water landing—what a letdown! But at least the pilot and co-pilot came out to say goodbye, although neither commented on my bag. (Sigh.)

Hotel check-in was a breeze, unlike a few years ago at the Adam’s Mark when it took two hours of waiting in line. Some genius decided to book RWA and Mary Kaye at the same time. (Beastly!)

Since I was still incognito, as I was too late to register and get my name badge, two gals strollin’ toward the elevator didn’t know who I was. They were commenting on the ribbons on one of their badges. One gal was explaining what the PRO ribbon meant, (means you’ve submitted a full manuscript to an editor/agent and received an answer, even if it’s a rejection) and that as a PRO member, she was supposed to get a better shot at an agent appointment. I asked who she booked with, and she said she couldn’t get anyone. So, I got to play Santa. I whipped out a business card (from the sassy handbag I’d made in addition to the briefcase) and told her to show up fifteen minutes before my scheduled appointments. Man, she looked stunned. I love helping people. (Sigh.)

Next, I met my fantabulous roomie, Jennifer. Thank you, God. She’s great. Most agents don’t offer to share their room, and it wasn’t until later we found we were sharin’ more than that. The “Executive King Suite" not only had an “open floor plan,” but it only sported one bed! (I wanna know why they call it a suite when it had one room with a half-wall that hid the bed if you’re in the bathroom. Sheesh.) No worries. We managed nicely.

I had a great time at the Death by Chocolate Party, even though my clients didn’t win Daphnes. (Yeah, I agree, they were robbed.)

Friday mornin’ rolled around. I had no choice but to skip the showcase (editors from major houses tell everyone what they’re lookin’ for) I wanted to attend, and go buy some shoes, drat the luck! Of course, one pair wouldn’t be worth my time, so I bought three pairs (or would that be “three pair”?).

I loved seeing my clients at our annual Friday night dinner, as I don’t get a lot of face time with them. Some also made appointments with me. Sharp!

I ran into a gaggle of gals (well, not literally) who, boo-hoo, also didn’t get agent appointments. Yes, I already have too much to read, and yes, I wanted to meet with all of them anyway. Imagine spendin’ all that money for a conference and not getting’ an appointment. Not. On. My. Watch.

Poor Marjorie was workin’ a walker, and was last person to reach me. I had no time left. I’d booked every minute I wasn’t already meeting anyone, or attending something. (Yes, literally.) But wait … no obstacle can overcome “the mominator" (what daughter #3, The Genius Child, calls me). I asked Marjorie if she was game to put her walker into high gear and hoof it up to my room at 8:15 a.m. before my Saturday morning appointments. Think she wasn’t? (In Kelly-speak, that means “yes.")

In rolls the Mighty Marjorie. I was dressed, but sans make-up (and the brave lady still came in!) I moved the desk chair in front of the bathroom door for her to sit in, grabbed all the stuff that makes me look human (or close), and applied my make-up while Marjorie pitched. (See, told ya I was a regular gal.)

Skip to the appointment room. (No, I didn’t really skip.) All us “industry professionals" had little tables to sit behind with are appointment lists in front of us, and empty chairs across. No way I was gonna sit there and wait. I got up and moved to the empty-chair side.

I memorized the prospective clients’ names, and when the rigid line of hopefuls marched in with a wee bit of trepidation, I was all excited, leaning in to get a better view of the nametags. It felt like old times, when you could actually wait for your loved-one disembarking the plane to rush out into your awaiting arms—which is just what I did. I opened my arms wide and said, “There’s my Esther!, My Fiona (Julie couldn’t make it)!, My Mary!, My Marsha!, My Cindy!, My Barbara!, My Anne Marie!, My Sandra!" Gave each a big hug and babbled, “I’m honored you had one agent appointment, and ya chose me." (FYI: I meant it.)

Well, as if anything could get better than that, I snagged a coveted spot on Esri Rose’s “Shoe Revue." Only the coolest shoes make the cut. Yep, this proved what I’d known about me all along. I don’t crack under pressure and just settle for any old shoe. I found three gorgeous pairs (or would that be “three pair"?) in forty minutes flat (well, actually, I bought stilettos.).

To view my spiffy lava-like pumps and read my quality quote, go to: www.elvesamongus.com. On the right top margin, click on “Shoe Revue." My foot is under the header, “And I’ll take the even higher road…" I’m foot #1, of course. (Sigh.)

So, I make it home after another uneventful (boring) flight, and finally set foot on my piece of heaven on earth. What could be better?

My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) grins and tells me to sit down, as he has a surprise for me. My anniversary gift was comin’ early. Hmm. I sit, he reaches under the couch, then jostles to hide something behind his back. Hmm.

He jerks his hands forward, and reveals the prize. I jump up, I scream, I shout, “Yes! Yes!" with all the joy I can muster. What was in the box my hubby (he’s such a sweet man) handed me? AMMO! And I knew what was comin’ next. BOO-YAH!

Then it was in my hands, in all it’s titanium glory. A new Taurus, .38 Special (+P) Revolver. I know some of y’all opt for semi-automatics like the Glock or Sig, but a revolver has its place. Recently, a nasty Iraqi terrorist went to a local area and hassled a local chieftain. The chief refused to back down, so the nasty Iraqi pulled his Glock and fired at point-blank range. Oops! The Glock jammed. The chief calmly whipped out his revolver, probably unearthed from 500 A.D., fired, and shot that nasty Iraqi, who’ll never know why he didn’t get a shot off.

Still, I stood perplexed for a moment ’cause I already had a titanium, Taurus .45 Colt. Hmm. This new weapon was lighter, and the handgrip was the perfect size for me. How sweet is that hubby?! (And where’s that interrobang when ya need it?!) But wait, Johnny, that’s not all—no bored holes in the barrel. This puppy not only fires regular bullets, it shoots, you guessed it: SNAKESHOT! (Sigh.)

Now that’s what I call R-O-M-A-N-C-E. My hubby really is such a sweet man.

Welcome to My Worlds. (Sigh.)

A “Welcome to My Worlds: A Bipolar Christian Tells All” Story 

Since the Romance Writers of America’s (RWA) National Conference, 2009 is almost upon us, I thought a look back at my 2008 adventure appropriate. Here’s the tale of when I winged my way to beautiful San Francisco…

Being me, I planned way ahead of time. Overjoyed the conference was in California this year (it rotates from East, Central, West—although it takes less time to get from So Cal to Arizona than to Northern Cal), I realized I could actually avoid going on Wednesday. One extra day home. Double sigh. I guess I should clear something up. Yes, as an agent, I should wanna spend numerous days networking, but due to rampant Bipolar Disorder and numerous OCD’s (I make Monk look like a lightweight), I have juuust a bit of trouble changing my routine.

Anyway, I booked a 5:00 p.m. flight on Thursday, front of the plane on the aisle (for a quick getaway). The flight was only 1.5 hours, so that’d give me time to get acclimated. My agent appointments weren’t until Saturday morning, so I was set.

A few weeks later, I received an invite to the “Death by Chocolate” party. Two of my authors (Kelly Ann Riley, Terry Odell) were up for a Daphne award, and I figured I should be there. Is there such a thing as a triple sigh? So, I called my airline and changed my 5:00 flight to the 1:20 p.m. flight. Cost me $40.00, but I could justify the expense. I gritted my teeth and whipped out my debit card. Grrr.

Some of you know; I have three businesses. One being 4 Gals Designs for my custom line of handbags. I’d been taking sewing lessons at night, and was hoping to finish what I call a “mini-briefcase” to show off at the conference. Technically, it’s a laptop carrier, but I don’t like laptops. Can’t get used to the rollerball instead of the mouse. (Wonder if that would bother Monk?) The size is perfect for a partial or two, and the one I was making was so hot, it was cool.

I have to say, I’m darn good at most everything I try, but sewing? Oiy! I’m an artist. I love squiggly lines that trail off the page. If any of you sew, you know it’s kind of important to cut and sew straight. In my valiant attempt, I sewed through my thumb. Literally. Needle went through my nail and out the bottom/side.

I yelped, but didn’t cry. (I have a high threshold of pain.) My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) turned from his desk. He saw the blood and nearly fainted, then decided he had to “rush” me to the hospital for a tetanus shot. (The closest hospital is an hour away, so I’d probably bleed-out before arrival.) Besides, we’re too close to the Mexican border. In the Emergency Rooms around here, English is a second language. (Yeah, I know. But we’ll save that for another blog.) My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) froze. I told him to get his behind in gear and grab a paper towel, ’cause if I bled on my mini-briefcase, he was toast.

Then I got revenge on my sewing machine, so to speak—I broke the needle. (No, not with my other thumb.) Happens when working with heavy fabric. I have Brother computerized machines, and I think I need commercial-grade Singers. Grrr. No problemo. Exchange needle and re-thread machine, lickety split. (Wonder where that phrase came from.)

I worked feverishly, doing everything I could at home to save time at my next class. I always get hung up because the teacher doesn’t use the instructions that go with the pattern. She’s been sewing for roughly 100 years (I’m counting her time in the womb), and simply does things her way. Great … until I go home and try to follow the instructions and cute picture diagrams on the patterns. My 400-level finance classes were easier to figure out.

I was sure I’d finish the bag at my last class, the Tuesday night before I left. Nope. All these pesky problems cropped up, so I had to go it alone. No problemo. I was on the second-to-last step when I decided I needed to add a few things. I won’t give you the gory details. I stayed up all night. Well, close. I went to sleep at 4:30 a.m., and got up at 6:30 a.m. Then I tried to fix all the damage I’d caused the night before, but couldn’t. No bag. Grrr.

Lightbulb moment. I knew what would make me feel better. I cut and color my own hair. Not with that boxed stuff. I had to read up on the procedure and learn the process like the “pros.” (One should never stop learning new things. Right? Just don’t ask my thumb that question.) Never had a problem dyin’ my hair before. But a simple application of color couldn’t overcome my feelings of d—de—defeat. Nope. I figured a weave was in order. Didn’t matter that I’d never done one; I used to get them all the time. I had bleach and a dark blond-colored dye in my supply cupboard. I even had pre-cut foil. Didn’t matter that I had to catch a plane in a few hours. I’m a “go for it” kinda gal.

The bleach worked, except the hair at my part and in front processed lighter than the rest. Cool. Those dark-blond highlights around the face would soften the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. (Wonder who thought that idea up.) Step two: I applied the dye, then looked at the time. OMGosh!

I sprinted to the closet, grabbed some clothes, and tossed everything in my suitcase like it was last night’s soggy salad headed for the garbage. Except my shoes. Sigh. Those, I loving wrapped with tissue and care and placed them into the special bags made to slip inside my suitcase, all snug and safe. Double sigh.

Sheesh. I forgot; I still had to rinse the dye out of my hair! I streaked to the shower (no wisecracks) and shampooed. Couldn’t wait to see the new color. (I shoulda waited.) Orange! Yes, orange is my favorite color, but not on my hair. Grrr. What to do? No time to use more dye, and all I had left was my hubby’s (he’s such a sweet man) jet black. Talk about lookin’ like a walking gothic novel. No thanks. Ingenuity. I could handle this. I took a minute to think up a solution. (Actually, it was half a minute—thirty seconds was all I could spare.)

I rummaged through my used make-up drawer and found a sponge applicator and some chocolate-brown eye shadow. Perfect. My brassy orange turned into a sort of caramel color … kinda. That would suffice for the flight. On the way to the airport I could make a pitstop at the beauty supply store and pick up some non-permanent rinse. I figured I’d get to the conference and have plenty of time to implement the color change before the party. Whew. I felt better. Had to hurry, though.

I dressed in comfy clothes, and being the smart gal I am, slipped my feet into my black mules with the kitten heels. (Still haven’t found a pair of brown ones.) That way, when I hit the plastic containers at airport security, I could shuck the shoes off in record time.

My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) hefted my suitcase and off we went. If we broke Mach 1, I juuust might make my flight. I was already nervous, as I wasn’t flyin’ out of my airport: O-N-T, Ontario, CA. I know where everything is there, have the security checkpoints figured out, etc. They didn’t have a flight to San Fran, so we headed to our default: San Diego Airport.

First stop: Pick up the rinse. I rushed into the store, grabbed some Fanciful (never used it before, but how hard could it be?), a squirt bottle, and a pair of latex gloves, then zipped them in the outside pocket of my suitcase, and we were back in business, baby.

We pulled into the airport and it was late. I mean late. My flight departed in twenty minutes. Did I give up? Think I would? No way. We cruised curbside, but couldn’t find the Virgin America drop-off spot. Grrr. I figured I’d find it inside. My family waved goodbye, and I hustled (not the dance, although that used to be totally fun), trotted up and down, back and forth, but didn’t see a counter for Virgin. Grrr. Thinking it must be upstairs, I hit the elevator. (Not literally—with my luck, I’d anger “Hal” and the darn thing would stop between floors.) I taped my kitten heel, waitin’ for the chute to open so I could charge out like a scared calf.

Glance at my watch: Ten minutes until my flight flew. I looked up and smiled at the nice Transportation Safety Administration (TSA) lady, and waved my boarding pass and ID at her. I glanced at the disrobing line, trying to hide my scowl, and asked if I’d make a 1:20 flight. She checked her watch and nodded. Great. No problemo.

I stood behind four people and my Secret antiperspirant wasn’t keepin’ my secret. (No, I don’t really use the stuff, as they’ve linked aluminum with Alzheimer’s, but it made for a good line, don’t ya think?) At least the nice gentleman in front of me let me cut in front of him. (A last resort, I assure you.)

The nice TSA gentleman looked at the size of my bag, then at me. The depth of his frown wasn’t a good sign. He asked if I had any liquids over three ounces. Of course not; I knew the rules. Drat, my rinse! He told me I’d have to ditch it, or go back and check my bag. Since I had no idea where to check it, and my flight left in eight minutes, I coughed up the bottle. Grrr. If I hadn’t stopped to buy it, I wouldn’t have been so late. Sigh. I passed through the metal detector without a glitch. (I know, but the impossible happens at times.) Could I still make the flight? I juuust might squeak by.

Then another nice TSA lady flagged me and pulled me aside next to an elderly woman leaning on her walker, and a young gal cradling a tiny baby. (You never know; the newborn might be hidin’ an explosive device in his diaper.) I shoulda grabbed that white towel I dry my hair with instead of concentrating on my black mules. If they thought I was from the Middle East, they probably woulda saluted and given me a personal escort aboard the plane. (Yeah, I know. But we’ll save that for another blog.)

I grabbed my belongings and she gave me the favored parting words, “Don’t worry; you’ll make your flight.” I scooted to the gate where a lone dude with a nametag reading “John John” (no, I’m not kidding) said, “Are you Kelly?” I huffed out a yes and asked if I’d missed my 1:20 flight. Yep. I glanced at my watch, which read 1:15. I looked out the window and there was the plane, just restin’ up before the big flight. Unfortunately, it’d moved about three inches from the narrow hallway where passengers embark.

No problemo. I could jump it. (Have I mentioned I went to the state finals in track? Yeah, as a sprinter, but I was also nasty at the running long jump.) Yep, I’d simply squat into position, pound the ground at a flat-out run like a flamin’ demon trailed me (Or one of my ex-mother-in-laws. The second one, I think), tap my foot on the board, and soar through the air like I was Jonathon Livingston Seagull.

John John crushed my dreams of glory. Even though the plane wouldn’t go anywhere for another ten minutes, once they’d moved, no cigar. He asked if I wanted to be on standby for the 5:00 flight. I answered in the affirmative, but told him he’d have to wait a minute to sign me up, as I had an important errand to run.

I turned and hoofed it back to the security station. I figured if I had to wait 3.5 hours for the next flight, I might as well get my rinse back and check my bag. I’d have plenty of time to hunt for the elusive Virgin American counter.

I moved past the nice TSA lady who’d promised me I wouldn’t miss my flight, making sure my fake smile didn’t morph into a genuine grimace. (Didn’t wanna lose the yogurt she let me keep in the first round.) I politely asked the nice TAS gentleman for my rinse back, to which he informed me one of the lady janitors had just emptied his “rubbish receptacle” about one minute before I re-appeared. Grrr.

I turned away, head down, bag dragging. (Hey, even I have my limits.) Wait! Janitor at two o’clock! It only took me a minute to convince her I wasn’t a nut. (Which proves my theory I shoulda been an actor.) I don’t speak Spanish, and she didn’t speak English. (Yeah, I know. But we’ll save that for another blog.) She said something kinda resembling the word “ticket” and I nodded. (Not a lie, as I had no idea how close the words “hair rinse” and “ticket” were in Spanish.)

I almost grabbed the latex gloves meant for my rinse operation, but opted to go bare, confident in the knowledge my hubby (he’s such a sweet man) put a travel-size container of hand sanitizer in my gorgeous handbag. (Yep, I made that one. Well, that was the second time I made it. The first time I crashed and burned.) I rummaged through the trash, but no rinse. Grrr.

So, I trudged back to John John, and he put me on standby. I didn’t wanna contemplate what I’d do if I didn’t get on the 5:00. I parked it, and did some line editing after I called Gayle Link. (I tell ya, I couldn’t survive without that women. No joke. She’s the life-preserver in my sea of chaos.)

I wore a light sweater, but that infamous air conditioning kicked in. (The airport personnel have to make sure all those nice people visiting from Antarctica stay comfortable.) With no socks on (I was wearing mules; I had no choice!) I shivered. Great. I was a freezing, angry, miserable, bipolarized (if I say it’s a word, it’s a word) orange-haired woman who was gonna blowout two appointments (beastly!) in San Fran, and might miss the party as well. Could anything else go wrong? (Do I haveta answer that?)

A group of six teenaged boys showed up. No biggie until they set up a movie theater with a large-screen laptop and two speakers. I’m not sure, but they coulda been watching Animal House, or mayhap Porky’s. Either way, I found it difficult to give the manuscript a decent edit.

I spotted a row of seats in the high-traffic area. I caught my breath. (No, not literally.) My gaze fell on a skylight complete with a single beam of afternoon sun peeking onto the floor in a criss-cross pattern. (A tiny ray of warmth for the two blocks of ice I once called my humongous feet.) I stampeded my way toward the light like Colin Ferrell was over there, winkin’ at me. (What I really needed was a Xanax, but what if I fell asleep and missed the call for the flight?) Couldn’t risk it, so I stayed in “full manic mode.” Wasn’t pretty. I looked through the skylight to address my Maker. “Okay, God. I get the whole “Job-thing.” (Not job, JOB. Y’know, the guy who ate it, big-time.) “So, God, seriously, do Ya think You can stop now?”

John John approached. He informed me that when I’d gone on standby, there were seven seats available, but now there was one left. Did I want to reserve it? I pondered why he hadn’t given me that choice from the get-go (Wonder where that phrase came from.), but just said “yes.” He mentioned the additional cost: $25.00, oh, and I’d have to sit in the back of the plane, center seat.

Let’s recap, shall we? I’d paid for the 5:00 flight, front row, aisle seat; then paid $40.00 to switch to the 1:20; then paid another $25.00 to get back on my original flight, with a seat in back, dead center. I gritted my teeth and whipped out my debit card. Grrr.

Finally, at 7:35 p.m., I made it to the Marriot, knowin’ I was home-free. Just enough time to unpack and jam on over to the Death by Chocolate party. Went to my executive king suite where I met my lovely and sweet roomie, Jennifer Clark Vihel. (Sharing a room with her was one of the highlights of my stay, even though we soon realized there was one bed, and two of us. At least she can say she slept with an agent at a conference.) Then I unpacked.

No! Waves of shock shook my body. The room spun. I dove for my meds. The horror I found—or didn’t find—in my suitcase vaulted me over the precipice. Somehow, I’d left my separately wrapped, lovingly bagged shoes on my bed at home. “Grrr” didn’t cover it. I peeked at my shoes. Black mules with a kitten heel. Not exactly stylish enough for my RITA ceremony gown, or anything else I’d brought.

I delved deeper into the bowels of my suitcase, praying I was blind instead of bipolar, and my beautiful shoes were hiding under my Godzilla-sized make-up bag. (Gotta disguise all my flaws. Well, at least the ones on my face.) Sigh. No never-worn, fire-engine-red patent leather chunky heels. No black stilettos sporting tiny shoestring bows, toe cleavage, and pointy tips. (No, your toes don’t go all the way to the top. This style elongates the leg.) No copper metallic slingbacks … I can’t go on, it’s too painful.

I didn’t have my glorious shoes, but my extensive suitcase search did reveal three “ball of the feet” gel insoles, two packs of “heel protectors,” and two sets of “firming arch supports.” Grrr.

Welcome to My Worlds.

[Permission to Forward]

Kelly Mortimer of Mortimer Literary Agency Presents:

The First “Hangin’ with a Happenin’ Agent” Conference

Everyone knows I’m certifiably insane, so I need to keep up my rep. I’ve decided to have my own mini-conference. A one-woman conference. [or a two-woman, if ya count my bipolar disorder] Learn. Laugh. De-stress in beautiful Southern California.

WHY?

· Many writers belong to RWA, but can’t afford a trip to their D.C. conference.

· Many writers don’t belong to an organization, and don’t know where to start.

· Many writers can’t afford the high costs of conferences: conference fees, food, lodging, extra editing and seminar costs, transportation. Yikes!

· Many writers don’t get a chance to know an agent in a ten-minute appointment. I wanna make friends! I’m a good friend to have. [So my friends tell me….]

· Many writers don’t like conferences where thousands of people attend. [Sometimes it’s better to be a big fish in a small pond.]

· I guarantee you’ll leave my conference motivated, more knowledgeable, and well rested. [You’ll have downtime, and great ways to spend it.]

· Conference will benefit anyone who wants to rev up their writing, have fun with me, and possibly win ridiculous [the good ridiculous, meaning “awesome”] prizes.

GENERAL INFO:

Place: Calvary Chapel Conference Center, Murrieta, CA. [Note: This is a conference for ALL writers, not just inspirational writers]

Dates: Friday May 29, 2009 at 4 p.m.; to Sunday May 31^st at 10:15.

Registration: Deadline to have forms and money order in my hand: Thursday May 28

AGENDA:

• One-hour workshops with practical, hands-on advice to help writers in different aspects of their careers.
• A one-hour Motivational Speech [I dare ya not to be motivated.]
• A twenty-minute pitch appointment with moi.
• Question-and-Answer time
• Hangin’ out with me. Just wanna gab? I’m up for it.

AMENITIES: [It’s a sic spot, dudes!]

• Mammoth swimming pool [not a pool for Mammoths, it’s just gigantic]
• Roman Spa that holds 80 people [No worries. LOTS of chlorine.]
• 6 Natural Hot Springs
• Tennis
• Volleyball
• Basketball
• Billiards
• Foos ball
• Ping-pong
• The grounds have fountains, waterfalls, palm trees; and rolling, green lawns.

FUN EXTRAS and PRIZES:

• I’ll bring some of my bodacious, blingy bags [custom-made handbags] from Four Gals Designs [www.4galsdesigns.com], as they aren’t yet available in high-end stores. They’re pricey (hundreds), but I’ll give y’all a discount.
• One fortunate attendee will WIN a handbag just for attending a workshop!
• Immediately following the conference, you can win lunch and shopping on me. [Well, I don’t want your lunch on me.][details follow]
• Drawing for a chapter (up to 30 pages) content/line edit.

COST:

• Workshops [kewl], Motivation [priceless], Pitch [my undivided attention—oh, forgot, I’m bipolar…sorry.], All Five Meals (two breakfasts, one lunch, two dinners), and Lodging. [Lodging is dorm-style: two-to-six people per room, but the rooms are off the rip—and I’ll be stayin’ in one of them. Pillow fight, anyone?]

• Total cost for the entire weekend of information, fun, and R&R is only $250.00! Period. Everything’s covered except transportation. An awesome deal!

TENTATIVE SCHEDULE:

Friday:

4:00-5:00 Check in

5:00-5:30 Orientation

5:30-7:00 FREE TIME! Unpack, rest, explore the acreage of waterfalls, gardens, etc., or use the fab facilities.

7:00-7:45 Dinner

8:00-9:00 Motivational Speech: How I Went from Worthless to Worthwhile

Saturday:

8:00-8:45 Breakfast

9-10:00 Workshop: Extreme Makeover: Editing Edition, Part 1 (Bring THREE Full-

Page Overheads of Your Work, and We’ll Edit them!)

10-12:00 Appointments (If you don’t have an appointment, this is FREE TIME!

Rest, explore the acreage of waterfalls, gardens, etc., or use the fab facilities.)

12-12:45 Lunch

1:00-2:00 Workshop: Extreme Makeover: Editing Edition, Part 2 (Bring THREE Full-

Page Overheads of Your Work, and We’ll Edit them!)

2:15-4:00 Appointments (If you don’t have an appointment, this is FREE TIME! Rest, explore the acreage of waterfalls, gardens, etc., or use the fab facilities.)

4:00-5:00 Workshop: Query Letters and Synopses – Make a Great First and Last Impression

5:00-6:00 Let’s hang out! Informal question and answer session, or we’ll just gab. (No pitches allowed!)

6:00-6:45 Dinner

7:00-8:00 Workshop: Bleak to Chic – Dress for Success (My version of What Not to Wear.) Lookin’ great gives you the confidence you need in a field where rejections abound. One fortunate attendee to this workshop will win a $100.00 gift card to buy a new outfit, and if you stay until the conference is over, we’ll go to lunch, and then I’ll take you to the mall and give ya advice on how to spend your winnings!

Sunday:

8:00-8:45 Breakfast

8:45-9:00 Drawing for Four Gals Designs handbag and Chapter Edit. Collect survey sheets. Closing remarks for those who don’t have Sunday appointments and wanna bail.

9:15 Shuttle to airport, or hang out until noon (when they kick ya out).

9:15-10:15 Appointments (If you don’t have an appointment, this is your last chance to take advantage of the facilities until noon, or you can get the heck outta Dodge.)

10:30-1:30 Shopping trip and lunch for workshop winner, if still around. (Hint: Duh!)

ACQUISITIONS LIST:

[You don’t have to write in the genres listed below to attend. Still have great info.]

• Single Title and Category/Series
• Contemporary Romance/Romantic Comedy (No Chick Lit)
• Historical Fiction
• Historical Romance
• Paranormal/Fantasy/Speculative (Both romance and not)
• Romantic Suspense (No Cozy Mysteries)
• Suspense/Thrillers
• Women’s Fiction
• Young Adult/Middle Grade
• Non-Fiction
• Screenplays/TV Scripts

Not Looking For:

• Science Fiction
• Children’s Books
• Westerns
• Poetry

ABOUT THE AGENCY/KELLY MORTIMER:

• Kelly is a Two-Time Nominee, and the American Christian Fiction Writers “Agent of the Year,” 2008
• Top 5 : Publisher’s Marketplace Top 100 Dealmakers–Romance Category, 2008
• Top 10: Publisher’s Marketplace Top 100 Dealmakers–Romance Category, 2007
• Founder and Operating President of the new Christian Writers’ Organization, CMA: Christian Media Association www.joincma.org (not live yet)
• Represents ABA Writers (Secular), and CBA Writers (Inspirational)
• Agency is Romance Writers of America (RWA) Recognized www.rwanational.org
• Member: Orange County Chapter, RWA www.occrwa.org
• Monthly Snarky Humor Columnist – Christian Fiction Online Magazine www.christianfictiononlinemagazine.com
• Monthly “Ask an Agent” Columnist – Romance Writers United http://rwunited.freehostia.com
• Agency Site: www.mortimerliterary.com
• Web Site For Writers: www.perilsofpublishing.com
• Blog: www.welcometomyworlds.com
• Loop: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Agent_of_the_People

MISCELLANEOUS INFO:

• Handouts for workshops given
• No tape recorders, please.
• If traveling via air, Ontario Airport (ONT) is the closest, roughly 40 minutes from the site. We’ll run one shuttle from the airport on Friday at 3:00 p.m.—can fit the first 6 people who request a ride, and one on Sunday at 9:15 a.m. No charge!
• Dress is ultra-casual. [I know what I said about dressin’ up, but not for this conference.]
• More questions? E-mail me: kmortimer@mortimerliterary.com
• Sorry, no refunds.

Let me know if you’re in, I’ll e-mail you a registration form, then you pony up the dough by Cashier’s Check or Money Order only, made out and sent to:

Kelly Mortimer

52645 Paui Road

Aguanga, CA 92536

Hope to meet some serious, non-hobby writers and get to know ya. Boo-Yah!

The dreaded bailout has passed the House, but not the Senate. My first question is: What the heck is President Bush thinkin’? I’m pleasantly astonished that a few conservatives finally found their backbones and told him, “No!” Sheesh. You’d think he was a liberal the way he spends our money. I give him points on protecting us, and that he’s pro-life, but his reckless spending [to me, anything that doesn’t haveta do with the military], and his comments on the Bible don’t make him my favorite president. Are we ever gonna get a true conservative to vote for? [Sorry, my clients need me.]

This is insanity gone rampant. Don’t the idiots [pardon] that run GM and Chrysler realize they’re being NATIONALIZED? Does our government seek to run everything? [Actually, if you think like the liberals, the answer is yes, as they know what’s best for us. And, oh, we need them to take care of us.]

First, the banks/mortgage companies. That frosts me, as the bleepin’ Democrats forced sub-prime loans down their throats, then what happens? People can’t pay, and the government has to bailout the industry. Pardon, WE bailout the industry. It’s our tax money. [Wonder where all that money already appropriated for the banking industry disappeared to?]

As for the car manufacturers, what a joke. Guess what? This really isn’t a bailout for the automakers; it’s a bailout for the UAW (United Auto Workers Union). They don’t wanna lose their bloated concessions. Do you realize that automakers have to pay pensions after union workers are dead? When they can’t work? How high their wages are? (Approximately 70 bucks an hour for a line worker, including benefits.) The Japanese get $45; in India, $19.00 an hour. What about the suits? Roughly 20 million a year [I bet those suckers get free cars too.] I saw Norma Rae, but this is ridiculous [the bad connotation].

Add to that the libs and the environmental fascists put so many restrictions on our automakers, it’s no wonder they’re in trouble. What with the CAFE standards (Corporate Average Fuel Economy), which tells Detroit the MPG they should get for the types of cars they sell, I’m shocked they didn’t ask for a handout sooner. Now the Democrats wanna have a “Car Czar” oversee the industry and control the money. Want Nancy Pelosi tellin’ you you haveta drive a Yugo, right before she takes off in a gigantic military plane? [Where are those terrorists when ya need ’em. Yes, that was a joke … kinda.]

Will it end? GM and Chrysler said they need $14 billion to operate through March 31. We’re lookin’ at up to 25 billion to start. Since they’re losin’ about 2 billion a month, this bailout is milk money. It’s usin’ a Band Aide for a decapitation. No. No! NO!

What about the foreign automakers? They get a free ride. [You know, the companies that assemble cars here, so you really aren’t buying a “foreign” car.] They aren’t unionized, so they can afford to sell their cars for less money. I don’t care if I had two broken legs and a broken arm. I’d use my good arm to drag myself down the road before I’d buy a foreign car. [Yes, I had a 7-series BMW, but that was when I was in my 30’s, young and stupid. FYI: If anyone sees me drivin’ that KIA Minivan, it’s a rental. Driving it is my punishment for killin’ the Silver Bullet, may she rest in peace.]

Look, I don’t want a bunch of people out of work, but this can’t be helped. We have a system for businesses that can’t make a go of it—it’s called bankruptcy. Oh, but the automakers are too big. We can’t afford to lose them! That doesn’t mean they go out of business, they just have to reorganize and get leaner and meaner. Nearly all the major airlines went through bankruptcy. Gone on a trip recently? Gee, somehow we still have airplanes to fly us places.

What about the publishing industry? I don’t see the government charging in to stop layoffs there. And the newspapers. [Actually, the leftist papers are getting’ what they deserve.] But, seriously, don’t the liberals care about writers? Editors? Agents? Truth is, no one bails our businesses out. Yeah, some of the problems stem from idiotic policies and the UAW, but some blame falls on the suits as well. Either way, I don’t think they’re entitled to my money.

We need to lose CAFÉ standards. We need to lose our Democrat-controlled Congress. We need to lose the corrupt union bosses—all of which are strangling the industry.

That’s it for now. This makes me ill, especially that some Republicans are for the bailout.

President Bush, ya done us wrong!

K. – “The Crazed Conservative”

Ode to Obama

(Sung to the tune of the theme songs [one at the beginning of the show, one at the end] from Gilligan’s Island)
Lyrics by Kelly Gottuso Mortimer
Copyright 2008

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale
A tale of a fateful trip
That started with the “Messiah”
Who’d make the Clintons flip.

The dude was a mighty speakin’ man
His words were brave and sure
Fifty-two per-cent would vote that day
For a three-year Sen-a-tor.

A three-year Sen-a-tor [Sound of thunder: Crack!]

The economy started getting rough
Dow averages were tossed
If not for the courage of a fearless man
The U.S. would be lost.

The U.S. would be lost.

The Weather Underground had a man in this
Who’d reach across the aisle—
With Reverend Wrighhht, the ACORN crew
Plus William Ayerssss—and his wife
Rez-ko, Rashid—the Professors and Farrakhan,
Hear the Liberals sighhh!

****

Now here’s the wail of Conservatives—
“They’re here for a long, long time
We’ll have to make the best of things
The Hill is in decline.”

The First Lady and Joe Biden too
Will do their very best
To make Obama comfortable
While on his hairbrained quest.

No coal! No oil! No motor cars! Not a single luxury
Like Marxists’ spreadin’ wealth, ohhh, it’s primitive as can be
But join us in 2012 my friends; you’re sure to get a smile
’Cause Palin’s gonna save the day; the Libs are in denial!

The Mortinator, a.k.a. – “The Crazed Conservative”

SAXBY WINS IN A LANDSLIDE! No super-majority for the dems. in the Senate. Thanks to all who donated to goptrust.com! 

Promise #2 – Broken: Raise Taxes on the “Rich”

There is a God. Looks like all us “rich folk” get a reprieve for now. I know, all you poor people lookin’ for a handout counted on Obama spreadin’ the wealth, but here’s a newsflash:

WASHINGTON – An economic crisis, rising joblessness and a credit squeeze can make a president-elect refine his words. Today’s word is “repeal.” During his presidential campaign, Barack Obama promised to repeal President George W. Bush’s tax cuts for the wealthy [GRR.] ahead of their scheduled expiration in 2011.

It was part of how Obama would pay for an overall net tax cut aimed at low- and middle-income taxpayers, and an effort to bring what he called “fairness” to the tax system.

No one is talking tax hikes now.

Over the weekend, Obama said he has charged his new economic team with devising a plan that would create or preserve 2.5 million jobs over two years. He said the plan would include broad spending plans as well as the middle- and low-income tax cuts he described during the campaign.

Aides later said the plan would not include any of the tax increases Obama, as a candidate, had said he would impose on taxpayers who make more than $250,000.

Asked Monday when those hikes might go into effect, Obama said, “Whether that’s done through repeal, or whether that’s done because the Bush tax cuts are not renewed, is something that my economic team will be providing me a recommendation on.” [But, I thought You had all the answers.]

If repealed early, Obama’s tax increase on the rich would have generated significant revenue, but not enough to compensate for the cost of his tax cuts. An analysis by the Tax Policy Center, based on January 2008 income projections, estimated that the increases would result in about $43 billion in revenue in 2009 and $45 billion in 2010. Those numbers would be smaller now, as the economy has lowered expected incomes.

Obama’s economic advisers say he will not propose any tax increases in the economic plan he unveils in January. It is to be focused entirely on job creation and economic recovery.

Okay, actually, here’s his “big idea.” Focus on Green alternatives for fuel, [Well, since he’ll stop offshore drilling, won’t touch ANWR, wants to bankrupt the coal industry, and reduce funding for nuclear power, he’d better think of something or a lot of people are gonna be awfully cold.] Also, get that infrastructure goin’. [States have already proven that doesn't work. Guess Mr. Obama wants to learn from his mistakes.]

Promise #3 – Broken: Raise Taxes on Oil Companies

Happy Thanksgiving! I’ve missed you. Well, it’s time to keep track of Mr. Obama. First, we have an emergency on our hands. Al Frankenstein is trying to steal the Senate race in one state, and in Georgia, Saxby is under fire. WE HAVE TO WIN THESE SEATS! As is, Mr. McCain will vote with Obama supporters on things like illegal alien amnesty. These new “citizens” will be votin’ one day. Who do ya think they’ll vote for? The Hispanic vote, not the Black vote is what gave Obama the win. The Black vote only increased by 1%. Young vote was nearly the same as in 2004.

I urge each conservative to make a donation to www.goptrust.com. Saxby’s opponent has deep pockets, and Saxby needs our help. I’ve already donated twice, but I just donated again. We can’t let the liberals who already control both houses and the White House, get a non-filibuster-proof Senate. As you’re reading this, they’re planning their assault on our conservative talk radio hosts via the “Fairness” Doctrine that my hero Ronald Reagan got rid of. Even if ya only have 10 bucks, send it. Every little bit helps!

From the Office of the Gal Reporting on the President-Elect

Whaddaya know. Seems like we have two presidents. Obama’s lookin’ like he’s movin’ in on the morrow. When he makes an announcement, American flags stand proudly behind him, backin’ him up. He grasps the lectern, and this is what chaps my hide, the lectern sports a huge sign: “The Office of the President-Elect.” 

Hello? There’s no such thing. Check the Constitution. [That living, breathing document Mr. Obama said has deep flaws that continue to this day.] Does Mr. Obama even realize he isn’t the President-Elect yet? That’s right, people. As per the Constitution, [boy, that’s an annoying document] the Electoral College has to convene after December 10, then elect Mr. Obama based on the results of the Nov. 4 general election.

Now, we do have The Presidential Transition Act of 1963 [amended in 2000 by my presidential pick, Sen. Fred Thompson; Sen. Joe Lieberman, who stood by his friend, which I admire; and Sen. Dick Durbin]. As amended, the bill provides training for presidential appointees, and background checks to ensure we get people vetted properly, and confirmed for office. [Ah, who did background checks on … oh, never mind.]

Mr. Obama gets a budget of a cool 12 million dollars, 5.2 of that Congress allocated, the rest came from private donations [I don’t think there’s one pre-paid credit card left in the entire state of Illinois….]; and an office and staff [Mr. Obama has 500 staffers. Question: How many staffers does it take to keep Mr. Biden from gaffing publically? Answer: One, as long as she’s packin’ a giant roll of duct tape. I’ll volunteer.]

Look, I know we’re in a crisis and Mr. Obama needs to jump in, but that “The Office of the President-Elect” sign is disrespectful to our sitting president, and it’s tacky. And people say I’m arrogant. Sheesh!

Already Breakin’ Campaign Promises

Didn’t take long. He’s not even due to take office until Jan. 20. I’ll be keeping track of promises, both kept and broken.

Broken Promise #1: CHANGE

Let’s see:

Hillary Clinton: Secretary of State- Former First Lady and rival for the White House. Mortal enemy who woulda stomped all over him in a dark alley, but her neon pantsuits kept givin’ her away. Only Foreign Policy credentials refer to photo ops taken while riding camels.

Rahm Emanuel: Chief of Staff- Clinton Administration. Chicago political operative. In the dictionary, referenced next to the word “Partisan”—sorry, RABID partisan—cross-references: Wise Guy, Enforcer, Hit Man, Pit Bull, One Scary Dude. Another caveat: Rahm looks out for Rahm, but I guess that’s Mr. Obama’s problem. [I can see Rahm reaching across the aisle—to strangle a couple of conservatives….]

Bill Richardson: Commerce Secretary- Clinton Administration. Offered Monica Lewinsky a job at the United Nations. Mayhap an attempt to buy her silence on behalf of President Clinton? [No way-- ya think?] And … both Democrat and Republican senators slapped him around cuz the rocket scientist didn’t safeguard nuclear secrets after leavin’ his U.N. post to take a spin as Energy Secretary. [My kinda guy.]

Eric Holder: Attorney General- Clinton Administration. Pardoned Marc Rich. Remember him? The fugitive billionaire Clinton pardoned before he got outta Dodge. Rich’s estranged wife, [or is that “strange” wife?] Denise Rich, was one of Bill’s major donors. [Major Baggage! What’s Obama thinkin'? Oh, I guess he isn’t.]

Janet Napolitano: Secretary, Homeland Security Department-

Mr. Obama’s keepin’ Robert Gates as Secretary of Defense. [Whoo-hoo, bet the far-left libs are lovin’ him for that pick!]

Change? Who? Where? I don’t see any. Looks like a Clinton White House reunion. But what’s Obama gonna do? He doesn’t have enough connections. He has a small pool of talent to draw from because he hasn’t spent a lot of time on the Hill. Sorry—Ayers, Wright, Farrakhan, Resko, Khaldi, [never did get to see that video], etc., aren’t qualified. Mayhap Mr. Obama can corral some of the ACORN workers, or the gang who broke the law to gather dirt on Joe the Plumber. [And Mr. Obama says he's for the workin’ man? Well, mayhap those who support him….]

About CHANGE, Mr. Obama said: “Understand where the vision of change comes from first and foremost. It comes from me. [What is “it,” exactly, and when is “it” coming?] That is my job, to provide a vision in terms of where we’re going [Where are we going, exactly?] and make sure that my team is implementing it.” [How, exactly? Oh, I forgot. You have Rahm to keep ’em in line.]

Promise #2 next week.

K.