I know what you’re thinking . . . Wow, back-to-back posts!? No worries, I’m still keeping my once a week slacker blogger status. I haven’t made enough money yet to hire those angry clowns to chase me around the house until I get stuff done. I just make exceptions for Curiosity Quills Publishing sisters like Gerilyn. But while I have your attention (hopefully), I’d also like to mention I’m on J.Keller Ford’s blog today for a guest post about What Made Me Write 18 Things. So check it out!
And my hubs has been insane in the membrane for this Thrift Shop rap by Macklemore *warning: if you do have a listen, there is quite a bit of inappropriate language if your kiddos are in the room* Probably because the thrift shop is hubs favorite place to buy some goofy T-shirts. Then I heard this interesting convo on the radio station about how some people are afraid of thrift shop clothes because demons can attach themselves to them?! This was in response to a segment on the 700 Club when a viewer wrote in to Pat Robertson and asked him about it. I don’t agree with his response, but I thought I should mention it here because it might spark a cool paranormal book idea for one of you . . . and because it leads into Gerilyn’s guest post on her true paranormal experience. Take it away, friend!
Okay, this isn’t a scary or spooky story (though, I guess the latter depends on the reader’s perspective), but I think it’s good to remember that not all paranormal experiences are.
The backdrop needed to understand this is that I live in my great grandmother’s house- the top floor of a two family home (my grandmother lives in the first floor house). Great gram’ma, Mary Zenzian (maiden name Capp), was psychic—incidents from predicting the year of my sister’s birth as my mother and father walked out of the church on their wedding day to go to the reception, to feeling it when her brother, a cook in the army during WWI had received a severe grease burn on the face. I spent a lot of days, from infancy to the age of four (when she passed away) with her. As you can imagine, I don’t remember much, but my mother says there was a connection between gram’ma and me, and seeing I’m the only one to inherit even a touch of Mary’s ‘gift’, I would say I’m inclined to believe mom.
Okay, enough background info.
About a month after we first moved in, my husband and I were tasked with spending a week house/pet sitting for my parents. The day we’re supposed to leave I’m puttering back and forth across the house, making certain the everything is packed and ready to go for the excursion. It was the first morning since moving in that I’d been forced to make instant coffee, ’cause we were out of ground. I don’t even know what made me notice it, but I walked through the kitchen and noticed that the coffee maker had been switched on. It wasn’t fully electric- one has to manually press the button to start the pot. I don’t think much of it, I just switch it off and keep going about what I’m doing.
Then it happens again, 4 or 5 times, again. Now, my husband wouldn’t touch the coffee maker ’cause if our house has a barista, then it’s me, and he knows it, and our son, Alex, was only 1 at the time and not nearly tall enough to reach the counter the coffee maker was on. I can’t figure out what’s happening, but I don’t want to leave the house with the thing plugged in, in case it keeps malfunctioning, which could possibly start an electrical fire. I unplug it and we leave for the house sitting chore.
At the end of the week, my mother helps us bring all of our stuff (and Alex) back into the house and we cross through the kitchen. I see the coffee maker (now, thankfully having ground coffee in my possession) and I—thinking I’m joking- quip to my mother, “Did gram’ma have a thing about coffee?”
My mother just looks at me for a moment and then says, “Yeah. She would get up before anyone else in the morning and put a fresh pot of coffee on the stove—you could smell it throughout both floors. Why?”
So, I tell her about what happened while we were packing.
Thirteen years later, I only ever drink instant coffee in extreme, caffeine-deprived emergency . . . and I apologize aloud for it every, single time.
Book One of The Paranormalville Trilogy
Fane’s Cove isn’t the average coastal town- not with wandering apparitions, disembodied voices and poltergeist activity occurring on a regular basis- but the residents are used to it. As far as they know, it’s simply always been that way. Somehow, Cadence McKenna can’t shake the feeling that normal-seeming new resident Grey Addison is hiding something stranger than all of the town’s odd happenings combined and she’s determined to find out what that is.
*Oh, I love a grandmother who doesn’t let her granddaughter drink instant coffee *gag*
One more cool thing I wanted to share. It’s something my fabulous editor and friend, Krystal Wade, emailed me this week. It’s a link to another post by Agent Rachelle Gardner, who talked about manuscript perfection. She also discussed author rights and responsibilities, and why thinking negative thoughts can be a good thing. I found it very insightful.
So was my Thursday post T-E-R-R-I-F-I-C?! Did you check out any of the links? Want to read Buried? Are you gonna pray first before you pop some tags;-)