Transformational Travel and Writer’s Retreats

Transformational Travel is a gift that we give ourselves!

I am delighted to be teaming up with various experts to create a variety of travel experiences within the US and abroad.

 Transformational Travel - Tucson!

Yoga + Writing

The next retreat will be a Writing and Yoga Retreat held at the Historic Hacienda Del Sol Guest Ranch and Resort in Tucson, AZ  5/30 - 6/2 2013.  I will be working with Yoga Master Karen Kalil Callan.  

Go to www.yogaandwriting.weebly.com  for details.  We are accepting registration now!  Space is limited so don't delay!!  Early bird pricing through March 1st~

 Transformational Travel - Italia!

The second opportunity is a seven day transformational travel experience with travel expert Lynn O'Rourke Hayes on the Italian Riviera. It is an amazing journey of the heart and soul.  For info and photos go to www.italyretreat.weebly.com  

We will be unrolling the 2013 Italy Adventure on March 1.  Mark your calendars and check back then!

"I am not the same having seen the moon shine on the other side of the world"

~Mary Anne Radmacher

It would be my honor and pleasure to meet you at one of these.

Take a chance...do what you love with your one precious life!

~Susan

The Next Big Thing

  Last week, my friend Karen McCann tagged me to participate in the Next Big Thing online event. Of course, I am always up for some online fun. The Next Big Thing is a way for authors and bloggers to share the news about their most exciting upcoming projects.  Karen is the author of  Dancing in the Fountain, a charming and inspiring book about her decision to move from Cleveland, Ohio to Seville, Spain.  She also writes a great blog called Enjoy Living Abroad that is chock full of information about the nuts and bolts of living the expat life.  She has a warm and honest approach, like an old friend letting you in on the secret to happiness. I can honestly say I am jealous of her Next Big Thing, a trip with her husband through the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Slovenia, Croatia, Romania, Bulgaria, maybe Albania and a few other countries. So, what’s my next big thing? I am quite full of news on many fronts as I have taken this year to start a business. I am happily teaching fiction/memoir to adults, hosting writing retreats (the first of which took place in Italy this past October 2012, the second will combine yoga/writing in Tucson's famous Hacienda Del Sol in June), teaming up with a few dynamic women to start an Arizona Authors Series, and I am in the midst of rewrites for a second book. For the sake of brevity, however, I’ll focus on the book. I am happy to answer a list of question from the NBT team: What is the working title of your book? Right now it is called Book 2.  I prefer an organic approach to writing and the title has yet to raise it’s hand and wave it in my face.  At some point, probably during draft #4 or so, a phrase will stand up and clear its throat.  I’ll let you know when that happens! Where did the idea come from for the book? Again, a story has a way of finding us when the time is right. On the eve of turning 50, I found myself emotionally wobbly and depressed. Here I thought I had already had my mid-life crisis, played out in our unplanned move to Italy, and now another was banging on my door. It just didn’t seem fair. Feeling anxious, I sought out a few experts on midlife transition and began to read about menopause and how fifty is the new forty. The books were pleasant enough. I learned that my midsection was supposedly thickening due to some ancient pre-determined survival instinct (though I would suspect it had something to do with the huge bag of M&M’s sitting to my right). There were a few moments of “Hell, yes, I am woman!” and the summoning of chutzpah to stand up for myself and tell people who I really am and how they needed to move over and give me elbow room so I could transform into all that I was meant to be. But honestly?  These books did not help much in the peace and happiness category. I felt manipulated by marketing. Fifty is not the new forty at all. There was a profound emotional shift going on for me, one for which I had no words. I decided then and there to attack the other side of fifty by recommitting myself to the transformational power of surrender. The same philosophy I had come to love and understand years earlier when we lived in Liguria.  I would wait for moments to speak to me of life: where I had come from, who I was now, and where I might be going.  I would wander this unchartered territory without the rulebooks of experts in my hand.  What do they know of me? So, with a sense of adventure, like that which had breathed new life into my soul long ago,  I headed back to Italy (I was gifted with an unexpected plane ticket... thank you God and the universe, once again.) and sought Travel as my guru and guide.  Travel and adventure are powerful teachers during times of transition. They allow us the emotional space to figure things out, to hear the whispers of our hearts, to claim our truths. Travel helps us slip out of cultural constraints for a time so we can regards ourselves in an honest way. This book is a compilation of some of these moments abroad. How they taught me to navigate transition and feel inspired once again. They look backward, forward, and inward. They are the moments that have taught me to accept and love who I have become and look forward to the next chapter of my life with renewed vigor and sense of worth. The process of this book has been so inspiring that I started a blog called ExPat Chat for people who have lived and traveled abroad to share their amazing stories of transformation. I love the joy that emanates from each post. What genre does your book fall under? Creative Non-fiction/Memoir Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency? I have a great agent, Judith Riven, who will guide me, once again.  I wouldn’t do it without her! How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? It took awhile because one can’t force inspiration. That’s the hitch with this whole surrender thing... the teacher comes when you are ready. It’s about listening and following rather than leading. Quite countercultural, but worth the wait.  I’m in the midst of rewriting at this time. It is my favorite part of the process. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest? The insights are wrapped around a girlfriend-y trip through Florence.  Who doesn’t want to go to Florence with her best friend?  I can’t say that the “research” for this book was torture. And now it's my pleasure to pass the torch on to four of my favorite writer pals, so that they can tell us about their Next Big Thing. Stephanie Elliot is a writer, editor, a book reviewer, and has been blogging since 2004. Her first two novels almost-but-not-quite made it to publication the traditional route via her agent. She will self-publish her third novel, What She Left Us via Kindle Direct Publishing in 2013. She lives in Scottsdale, AZ with her husband of almost 20 years and their three children. Find her at Manic Mommy, friend her on Facebook. Follow her on Twitter. Lian Dolan is an award winning broadcaster and writer. She created Satellite Sisters, a nationally syndicated radio show that won nine Gracie Allen Awards for Excellence. She created and produces The Chaos Chronicles, a humor blog and podcast about modern motherhood. She wrote regular columns for O, The Oprah Magazine and Working Mother and is now the parenting expert at oprah.com. Helen of Pasadena is her first book. Lynn O'Rourke Hayes For more than twenty-five years Lynn has been writing and speaking about travel, technology, and family issues. From the halls of Congress to the peaks of Peru, she has combined her passion for travel and adventure with her love of family to create a varied and meaningful career. Now through her writing, photography, and consulting, she relishes sharing strategies for balancing family, work, and exploration. She is the owner and editor of FamilyTravel.com and a weekly travel columnist for the Dallas Morning News. She has worked for two hotel companies and consulted to numerous other organizations within the travel industry. Laura Munson is the author of the New York Times and international best-seller This Is Not The Story You Think It Is.  She lives and writes in Montana where she leads year-round writing retreats to help people free themselves on the page, no matter where they are in their writing journey.  Spaces are still available for the February 27th- March 3rd retreat.  For more info, click here:  http://lauramunson.com/retreats.php. Laura’s website: http://lauramunson.com/index.php            

Moments in Montclair 4

Sr. Kenneth

Part 2

Sr. Kenneth Mary lived in the convent across the street from the school on the corner of Munn St. and Cottage Pl.  When I passed it, I would walk quickly. It may have been a plain brick building, but it held mystery.  It made my palms sweat. We had all seen Sr. Kenneth and the other Sisters of Charity go in and come out from to time, but for the life of us, we could not figure out what went on in there.  Rumor had it that the sisters were on lockdown between the hours of 4:00 PM and 7:00 AM.  They weren’t allowed to leave, and they never ate. Maybe they were allowed to sleep but they wore their full habits. Just trying to picture Sr. Kenneth in a flannel nightgown made us queasy. Not once did I ever see one of the Sisters around town, and believe me, I looked for them. Besides teaching us perfect penmanship, Sr. Kenneth loved tests. Not just spelling and math, though you could tell she thought they were thrilling by the way her voice went up an octave when she gave directions. She loved to trick us with tests of courage and moral rectitude, and we wouldn’t know she was doing it until someone was busted. The first time she pulled it on us was after a morning recess. She sat quietly behind her desk with a stenographer's notebook and a Bic pen. The rule was that we were to come in and fold our arms on our desk and put our heads down until the class was calm. Then she would give us the next direction. On this seemingly regular Thursday morning, we came in and put our heads down, but she didn’t say a word.  The silence dragged on to an alarming extent, at least five minutes. Though no one was bold enough to raise his/her head to see what was amiss, I could see frantic eyeballs rolling in every direction. What was going on here? Kathy, a sweet girl with brown pigtails to my left, began to whisper to those of us within earshot that she had a few of those chocolate “Ice Cube” candies left over from her snack.  She swore that they tasted really cold. The more she whispered the more I wanted to taste one to see if it really was as frosty as something that comes from a freezer. As Sr. Kenneth sat staring opaquely from her chair, Kathy began to slip them to her friends. My mother never bought such frivolous things for our lunch bags, so I slipped my hand across the aisle in a stealth-like fashion making sure that the rest of my body and head did not move. Kathy placed the Ice Cube, wrapped in shiny gold foil, in my hand. Continuing my stealth move to my lap, I promptly unwrapped the candy and slipped into my mouth as I fake coughed the way I had seen my brother Timmy do when he would sneak ribbon candy from a bowl at my grandmother’s house. Just as I silently declared that there was nothing even remotely cold about this chocolate, Sr. Kenneth announced, “If I call your name please stand.” “Kathy.” “Maureen.” “John.” “MIchael” “Susan.” One by one we stood, shaking and swallowing. Then she went on to deliver a lengthy sermon about the importance of trust and rule following and the reality of evil and its whispers all around us. Kathy and I exchanged shocked looks. Evil? The only whisper I had heard was Kathy’s. Then later that afternoon, Sr. Kenneth entered after lunch in an even more morose mood, if that was even possible.  When an hour of The Palmer Method ceased to enliven her, she asked us to sit with our hands folded at our desks.  There was nothing odd about that as this was our “go to” posture between subjects.  After this morning’s humiliation I sat up straight and placed my palms together in the holiest way possible, lining up my fingers perfectly with those on the other hand the way she showed us.  I didn’t move a muscle and refused to listen to any evil whispers that might be swirling about. After a few long, silent minutes she asked, “Is there anyone in the class that can tell time?”  I had no idea how to read a clock, but when a dozen other hands shot up I joined them.  Heck, I wanted to be seen as savvy and advanced. I wanted to redeem myself. There was no clock on our wall, and it wasn’t like she was asking anyone to prove it. She looked around the room slowly, searching the faces of the proud few of us time-tellers and said, “Susan, why don’t you go out to the hallway, see what time it is, and come back in and tell us.” “Okay,” I whispered.  I stood up, gulped, smoothed my blue plaid jumper, pulled up my navy knee socks and started up the aisle.  Faces of classmates loomed and smiled, growing distorted like those in a funhouse mirror. I was screwed, again.  There was nothing I could do but leave the classroom and figure it out. I slipped out the door and leaned against the wall, afraid to move.  I had never been in the hallway alone, and, suddenly it was the biggest space I had ever seen.  Pale green walls the color of mucous punctuated here and there by varnished wood doors.  Only a few steps to my left was THE OFFICE. I’d never been in there either, and I hoped I never would. My brother Todd had told me all sorts of scary tales about the principal, Sr. Maria Michael. She had something he called “a hairy eyeball” that she was always giving him. Todd spent a fair share of time in this hallway ‘gathering’ himself before Mrs. Docken would let him come back into their second grade classroom.  As a matter of fact I knew he was sitting behind the last door on the left right now. The clock was a huge white orb that clung to the wall near the ceiling, its thin black arms like those of a traffic cop when he signals the lanes in front of him to stop. I looked around in a panic.  Though I knew that time was ticking away, I had no idea how to name it.  The whole class was waiting for me to come back and enlighten them. If I said the wrong thing, I would be doomed forever.  I searched the hall for help. Nothing, not a soul.  My heart pounded in my ears, I stepped toward the wall clock as if closer proximity would reveal the answer.  I watched the second hand travel.  I bent my head back and looked to the ceiling so the tears in my eyes could pool at the corners rather than roll down my cheeks. Things were not going well for me in First Grade either. I had such high hopes when I started. And then, just as I was about to pull the classroom door open in shame, an angel appeared. An honest to goodness eighth grader on her way to THE OFFICE with a note. “Excuse me,” I asked timidly, my voice but a squeak in the vast emptiness.  “Can you tell me what time it is?”  She stopped, her kindness like a welcome mist in the desert, and said, “Why, it’s twelve past one.” “Thank you,” I replied as I watched her sashay past me and disappear in a blonde swish into THE OFFICE.  Obviously, my holy hands had not been for naught.  I dried my tears with the hem of my jumper and opened the classroom door. Then I stepped before the class and announced, “Twelve past one.” Sr. Kenneth looked at me over her spectacles, checked her watch and said, “Thirteen past. But close enough. Fine work.” “Thank you.”  These were the moments that made God real to a six year old.  I walked back down the row, careful not to appear too proud, and resumed my seated position. Left hand against the right, lining up the fingers in the holiest way possible.     ************************************************************************************************************************* Dear Readers:  After this post I will be posting all Moments in Montclair pieces on my other WP blog called Moments that Matter.  Please come over and join my mailing list if you'd like to continue receiving them.  I am composing them for fun, nostalgia, and as a way to force myself to create memoir pieces that my children will both treasure and, as one of my present students said to me last week, read back to me at the end of my life when I may not be able to remember the rich and blessed life I have lead.   (Her statement stopped our whole class in our tracks. In a good way.) The stories of our lives are important to share. In this busy world, it is a priceless gift to carve out the time to record them. This blog gives me a deadline.  One tale every two weeks.  Anyone can do that.  I hope to inspire all of you to do the same. Please feel free to share your nostalgia with us as well! Susan~

The Dragonflies

        I just returned from four glorious days nestled deep in the evergreen woodlands of Northern Arizona.  Rim country they called it, referring to the Mogollon Rim. Two hundred miles of dramatic rock formations, deep canyons and more sky than you have ever seen at one time.  Three of my treasured writing pals and I gathered at a mountain cabin in Christopher Creek. Call it retreating, recharging, the rebirth of the muse, call it the long exhale.  Okay, call it heaven if you must. I am well into a job transition, deciding to leave the classroom and develop a writing based business that encompasses all of my loves: writing, teaching, speaking, traveling, and more writing.  It has not been an easy road.  And though I knew, as I stepped in that direction, that few writers can make a living this way, I felt a pull toward it. A call. And if I have learned anything from writing Halfway to Each Other, it is to follow that call, no matter how absurd it may sound to you or those around you.  It is the call of your creative soul, the dwelling place of sanity, of peace. It will only call you, and if you don’t answer it...who will? These past two months, particularly, I have been working furiously on a new book.  It has taken awhile to get started on it, but now I am in the thick of process, shaping and rewording and spilling blood. Recently the pieces were more difficult to birth. The muse was stingy, my well of words running dry.  Pulling the proper ones into place became arduous like lining up pebbles on a steep slant. They kept rolling, shifting, falling over edges. I didn’t realize that I was entering extreme fatigue, not the kind that sends you in search of a pillow, but the kind that sends you in search of a glass of wine hoping your muse is swimming in it. When I was invited to join these writers, I left my computer at home. I found an old notebook and pen and off I went without expectation. I awoke the first morning, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, grabbed a mug of steaming coffee and ventured onto a wraparound deck that stood fifty feet from a creek, the border of the Tonto National Forest.  Surrounded by greens of every shade and texture, I felt immediately calmed. The sort of calm that comes from a mother’s hand on your shoulder. I could stand and stare into that green forever, watch the tall grasses gently bending with drops of dew, count and recount the species of trees and bushes and wildflowers that poked their heads up to greet the sun. All of a sudden a large dragonfly with bulging iridescent blue green eyes stopped about twenty feet from me and hovered as if he was surprised that a human had appeared.  I stood still and held his gaze to see what he might do. He continued to hover, did not go about his merry dragonfly way.  Then he slowly advanced toward me, inch by steady inch, until I could hear the beating of his wings. “Hello there, my friend,” I whispered thinking my words would scare him off. “Good morning to you, too!”  The sound did not scare him at all, he only moved closer.  And when it became uncomfortable I waved him off until he buzzed above my head and over the roof of the cabin. I was intrigued by our greeting of each other and chewed on it all day as I went for a hike through the forest and then sat with my friends as we shared meals and writing prompts and picked apart shorts stories written by the masters of our time.  The memory of him perched on my shoulder as I fixed an early afternoon gin and tonic, that we all agreed was medicinal, for one of us who had received a deflating rejection letter that very noon. And he haunted my dreams, in a good way, as I slept the deep restorative sleep that comes when you find the courage to break open the shell of your heart and share your fears with like minded comrades around a campfire that sends red sparks to meet the full moon. The next day, he returned, but it was not for a morning greeting and it was not alone.  The four of us were seated in folding chairs, in the shade of the bordering forest, working silently on the art of imagery. We were, if I may speak for all of us, happily lost in creative wonderfulness. The way it feels when your words are pulsing upwards like geysers and soothing hot springs. As we painted metaphors and placed poetic phrases in our notebooks and wrapped these images around our hearts, the dragonflies appeared. As we answered the knocking doors of our souls, walked toward that voice that has called us, quietly and persistently, all of our lives, to write and claim our places as true artists, they swarmed in gentle circles over our heads. We looked up from our notebooks and remarked about the magic of that particular moment. Indeed it was. The dragonflies never landed, never bothered us in any way. They did, however, perform a dragonfly ballet to the music that only a writer can hear as he/she creates. Their dance, a visual response to our collective song of joy. Upon my return home, yesterday, I looked up the meaning of the dragonfly and was not surprised at what I found.  A powerful symbol in many cultures it represents a number of things.  It stands for renewal, positive force and the power of life.  Because it has wings sensitive to even the slightest breezes, it represents change. Also a creature of water, it is symbolic of the subconscious, the dreaming mind, a reminder to pay attention to our deeper thoughts and desires. Lastly, because it has such a short life it reminds us of the value of living in the moment. Living life to the fullest by heeding the call of our souls and making choices to connect and give birth to that which we are called to create, whatever that means and however that looks. Those moments with the dragonflies will inspire me the rest of my life. Those four days were vital ones that have restored me on many levels.  I share this story, this moment in my writer’s journey, as encouragement to others who may feel stuck or unsure. For those who have written themselves dry, or have piled manuscripts into a drawer afraid to share them with the light of day. Seek renewal from those who share your creative journey. Find the courage to stand before the dragonfly and bid him a fine morning then welcome him to begin his pirouettes as you let your soul free.

More Moments in Montclair

 

More Moments in Montclair

My older brother, Todd, wrote a book one year and gave it to the family for Christmas.  It is a treasure.  A small, unassuming book titled Moments in Montclair, it lists various memories of our childhood in random order. I can’t read it without laughing myself to tears or crying myself into a fit of giggles. I don’t assume that our childhood was any better or more magical than anyone else’s but I do know that the mere fact that I grew up with five brothers and no sisters provided much entertainment, physical activity, and subterfuge. In honor of my family, whom I continue to adore beyond words, I am feeling pulled to those years more than ever.  Perhaps it is because my own children are now off on their own, or perhaps I am feeling that summertime nostalgia that hits me this time of year. And part of me would like to do put my reminiscing down on paper so that when I am moved into a nursing home, hopefully some time far in the future, I can whip it out and read it to the kindly nurses and candy stripers who feign interest or, in the dim light of evening they can read it to me. My childhood spanned the 1960’s and 1970’s.  Our family of eight shared a modest four bedroom house in Montclair, NJ. It was pre-computer, pre-cell phone, pre-everything digital.  Looking back, I would argue that this “Pre Era” had a power all its own. A magic that surpassed anything one can purchase at Best Buy or the Apple Store.  It was an era that demanded creativity and initiative, when kids had to work issues out on their own and parents rarely stormed the principal’s office except to agree that their kid was a schmuck. As an experiment I am going to write a short memory every other Monday. Please feel free to share this backward journey with me as it just may stir up wonderful memories of your own. Comments and personal sharing are encouraged and welcomed!  Let the trip begin~

Our House Looked Like a Yellow Version of This

Let me introduce you to my family: My dad’s name is Harry. Back then, we referred to him amongst ourselves as H-Bomb since he was a force to be reckoned with.  The quintessential Wonder Years Dad, he left every morning in a slate grey suit carrying a briefcase and drove to a place called Kearfott.  We had no idea where that was or what happened there, but it was important.  He returned precisely at 6:00 PM.  The air in the house changed when he walked through the door. Our steps became lighter, our words more carefully chosen. Six PM was the time to straighten up, set the table, and get washed up for dinner. He’s the one who taught us all to “have a little class for God’s sakes.” Lois, our mother, won a Shirley Temple contest when she was five years old for two reasons: she looked like Shirly Temple and she sang Red Sails in the Sunset on the radio. None of us could get over this.  Who else had a mother who sang on the radio?  In our eyes she had experience with fame. She also was voted Homecoming Queen in High School and went on to become a nurse in a white hat.  Luckily none of this went to her head. First and foremost she was our MOM.  A whirling dervish of cooking, cleaning, washing, shopping, nursing, and confidant when we needed one.  For one half hour a day she sat and read The Star Ledger with an open-faced PB&J. No one was allowed to to talk to her during that time unless there was blood involved. David was the oldest.  The only one of us too cool to have a nickname, unless you regard  ‘Dave’ as a nickname.  He was the Greg Brady of the family only more mysterious. He wore his hair down over his eyes to the horror of my father, had his own pool cue in a narrow faux leather protective case that zipped, and dated an older women who had a driver’s license.  My parents cleaned out the attic so he could have his own space. I can still feel the delight of parting the hippie beads that hung in the doorway to enter his groovy pad. A bit of an artist, he hammered numerous nails into the paneled wall and created a mural of string art that remains to this day. Timothy, Timmy, Timbo, Tim was the opposite of Dave. He was the all-American kid who loved sports and girls. He played football, hockey, and baseball during various seasons but boxed and wrestled with David all year long.  Sometimes my dad would order them into the backyard to “figure things out”. Once I had to disturb my mother during her half-hour break because blood was involved.  I think this all had something to do with David getting his own space. Todd, Toddio, Toddio Potatio, Odd Todd Half Turtle and Half Frog, was a year older than me.  He was our Eddie Haskell with wiry blond hair and an innocent face. If there was something amiss, if we could smell smoke, hear firecrackers, or hear a friendly game ending in an explosion of “not fair’s!” Todd was usually involved.  After he got in trouble he would always invite us into his bedroom to tell us about it and then laugh as hard as he could. Susan, Susan Boosan, Sue, is me.  I was the only girl and thus the only one with my own room.  No one thought this was fair except for me. The only thing that I thought was NOT fair was that I was not allowed to put a lock on the door. My parents assured us that we needed to learn to respect other’s property and privacy by exercising self control.  That never happened.  I was the perfect follower.  When you are surrounded by brothers who are ready at any moment to give you red ears, a dead arm, a charlie horse, an indian rub, a purple nurple, or pin you down so they can drip saliva over your face, you learn to do what you are told and not to tattle under any circumstances.  The only place I could exert any power was during board games when the rules were written on plain white paper so no one could take over by making up his/her own rules on the spot.  We went through three Trouble games one year because we wore out the pop-o-matic dice popper. Eventually we had to move to Hand’s Down. Kevin, Kev, Kevvy Baby, Devon, Devonport Chesterfield, was two years behind me. He was the brother who always (and still does) make us all laugh.  He was emotional, funny, and the constant brunt of Todd’s mischief. He had the misfortune of being born with a huge freckle on his cheek that we all claimed was a beauty mark. The teasing was relentless and that premature dead front tooth the color of a stormy sky didn’t help matters for him. Joseph, Joe, Hobart, Hoey, Hoey Joey Come and Mow My Lawn, was born when I was seven.  Cute and docile, he was our real life doll that we loved and stuffed into various costumes.  He was especially useful at Christmas that first year when we put on a play about the Nativity in our basement.  For the first five years of his life he probably thought he had two mothers.  He was the first one I was able to boss around. But I did it with love.  With five older siblings, Joe grew to be good natured, creative and wise beyond his years with the diplomatic savvy of the leader of the UN. Outside of Todd and Kevin’s salamanders,  geckos,  gerbils, guinea pigs, fish and rabbits, we had two dogs and cat at various times... but we’ll get to them later.

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So, ordering Adipex-P online, Adipex-P schedule, my tweets tomorrow will start with thanking my agent, Judith Riven.  Judith didn't know me from Adam, but she saw the power in the imperfect manuscript that I, foolishly, thought was a final draft. She read my book proposal, which I suspect screamed naivete, and took a chance on me.  We have worked together for almost five years now, and she has been every author's hope, Buy Adipex-P Without Prescription.  She's tough, honest, and in my (our) corner.  I consider her a good friend as well as partner in this endeavor. She will hate that I am doing this because she does not seek the limelight, though, in my opinion, she deserves it.

So thank you, Judith.  For the countless hours you spent reading and rereading this manuscript, pushing me to create a deeper and more meaningful experience for the reader even when we both feared it would never find a publisher. Thank you for the pep talks and the "Well, I warned you that editors are a tough bunch" talks and for crossing your fingers for that added magic boost while we waited for an offer. And finally, thank you for choosing to spend some of the precious hours on your life's journey, to bring to readers some of the precious hours of my life's journey.

With gratitude,

Susan.

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