Scarlet Letters

The not-so-private thoughts and rants of Elizabeth Donald, journalist/author and founder of the Literary Underworld.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Father's Day Drive

Jim and I were alone on Father's Day, so we drove up the Great River Road and had wine at the Pere Marquette Lodge. Jimmy got sleepy and I did some shooting. We love Pere Marquette; the views are so spectacular they can't really be captured with my photographic skill (yet) and it's a giant no-cell zone, which was poorly timed since the phone died in the middle of chatting with my dad.

This was my second experiment with manual focus. I switched back and forth between manual and autofocus in the prom shoot, but that was different; I was using a tripod with humans who mostly stood still. This was handheld on a floating dock or by the side of the river on unstable rock. Turns out there's a few kinks in the system. One of them: It's really hard to adjust manual focus when the sun is shining directly in your eyes. I tried sunglasses, but then I could barely see at all.

Here's a few of them. I will have to decide which go up on the shop; I can't afford to put all of them out there anymore, and I'm slowly phasing out the ones that don't sell as well. If I ever get a handle on this new software, I'm planning to build a separate photography site. If I get a handle on this software...

Pick two for the site!

River Shed across from Pere Marquette


Feeder stream to the Mississippi. Jim thinks there are mega-bass in this inlet.


Grafton Lighthouse


Fishing Boat - the color was unremarkable here, so I tried black and white


Sunset on the Great River Road


Birds on the Bluff - I'd need a much better lens to get close to that eagle


Full Moon - I think this one is my favorite.

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Sunday, June 19, 2016

Dream office

I must have made some kind of enormous salary leap in my dream world, because my office was amazing. A lovely, sunlit room with a comfortable sitting area apart from my desk, a fireplace that was clearly for cooler days, and windows everywhere.

There was a patio door that overlooked a lovely pool, clean and inviting. Beyond the pool patio lay a strip of beach clearly shared with the two mansions on either side, running all the way to the shining ocean.

Someone had been busy. The sand castles out there were worthy of a TV special. I wanted to go snag my camera and get some pictures. It was a staggeringly beautiful day, with blue skies and an inviting beach not dissimilar to Jamaica.

But first I had to interview security guard candidates, and I was trying to come up with intelligent questions and scenarios while I made them wait. It's not like it would matter; the first was such a total bozo I'd already decided not to hire him; he fell asleep while waiting and he'd brought his swimsuit. 

I never got to take pictures of the sand castles, because Jim's alarm went off. No fair. Can't I go back? I have better interview questions now!

Thursday, June 16, 2016

One man down

I'm writing this on the day the world lost a good man. It won't post for a while yet, because his family doesn't know.* It seems somehow wrong that those of us who worked with him know before his family does. But sometimes that's the way it happens.

Shortly after work tonight - Wednesday night - I was killing time in a Wal-mart checkout line by cruising Facebook. I saw a post from a local police department stating that they had found an unconscious man in jogging attire on the running trail of a local park. They were unable to save him, and he was carrying no ID. They asked for the public's help in identifying him.

I hadn't seen anything on our website about it, so I called it in to the newsroom. I asked one of the guys on the copy desk if we already had someone working on the unidentified man in the park. He said no, and I told him about the police department's post.

"Mainer's missing," he replied.

And heaven help me, for a brief second I thought he was kidding. Newsroom humor is sometimes dark humor, and I thought he was making a joke and at that very moment, Mainer was giving him the quiet raised eyebrow we had all received from him on occasion.

Then I realized there's a limit even to newsroom humor. "What?" I asked brilliantly.

"Mainer didn't come into work today," he said.

I looked back at my phone and reread the physical description of the man they'd found. "Oh Christ," I said. "He, uh, matches their description. Who's on the desk?"

I filled in the night reporter, who handled it very professionally. From what I understand, the night crew all read the police department's Facebook post while our executive editor went to assist the police with the identification. I can't imagine how much harder it was on him than on the rest of us, waiting by our phones for the news.

And since I'm writing this, you know that it was him. Steve Mainer, copy editor for the Belleville News-Democrat and a damn fine journalist. I think Steve was around even longer than I, and that's saying something when you realize I've been at the paper for 16 years.

Steve was a true metro-east native: graduate of Alton High School and Southern Illinois University Edwardsville, lived and worked in Belleville. He was meticulous, taking all the changes in the job in stride and maintaining the highest quality in his work and ours. He was 56 years old - too goddamn young - taciturn with a dry wit and an even temperament.

In a profession that tends to attract, er, unusual personalities, Steve stood out by his quiet, even nature. We got along well, and I respected him professionally as well as liking him personally. Copy editors are the unsung heroes of the news business. They don't get awards, their names don't appear on a byline, and nobody can pick them out in public. But they fix our mistakes, ask the questions we forgot to ask, and put together a product every single day of the year that informs the public of the things they need to know. When I sent a piece up to the desk when Mainer was on, I knew it was going to be handled right.

We don't know yet why he died. He seemed to be in fine shape, and he was a regular runner. He was found at 8:30 a.m., which is early for heatstroke, but the metro-east is enveloped in a horrible heat wave right now, so it's not beyond the realm of possibility. I suppose they'll tell us eventually.

We are a strange, sometimes-dysfunctional family in the newsroom, but we are a family, and I think that's the case with any newsroom. Back when I worked in a bureau office, we sometimes remarked that we literally spent more hours with each other than we did with our spouses and children. It's true, and an odd twist to modern society that you may not choose your coworkers, but you will literally spend your life with them. Years mount up over years, and we live through some stressful, dark times together, as well as jubilant and exciting times. Holidays and snowstorms, an on-deadline power failure, massive computer issues, a burgeoning crisis and a layoff day, we're together, for better or worse.

So if it feels as though we suddenly lost a family member, that's because we did.

I'm trying to imagine what it will be like working a Saturday shift without Mainer on the desk. I can't picture it. A few years ago, we lost another long-time copy editor, who likewise just... didn't come in one day. Roger was a good friend, and I wrote his obituary story. Mourning is not something that just dissipates after an appropriate period of time. It comes back each time we are reminded of friends we have lost, of the holes left in our lives.

Tonight, the staff is putting together a newspaper one man short. It's hardest for them, because they don't have the luxury of dumping their feelings into a blog post. They still have to shovel coal into the furnace. Tomorrow the page will be wiped clean, and we will start again, filling the pages with stories that our copy editors will repair and shape into the day's news, as Steve did for so many years.

As the editor in The Paper says, every day you still start from zero. That's the way of it, and Steve would understand.

But it's not going to be quite the same for us, and we are all the poorer for his loss.

Steve Mainer, 1959-2016




* I am told Steve's parents were informed late Wednesday night. They have my deepest condolences.

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Monday, June 13, 2016

Snippets

I was playing around on Bed Bath and Beyond's website, because sometimes I get to nesting and I can't help myself. Also, we still have a bit of wedding gift card left to spend.

ME: We have been married for 574 days. So sayeth this website.
JIM: Is that all?
ME: ... It feels longer, is that what you're saying?
JIM: No... You can't track perfection, that's what I'm saying.
ME: Nice try, Sparky. You rolled a two on your saving throw.

-------

BOY: Mom! I'm trying to watch Daredevil and Netflix won't let me.
ME: The bill is paid. Why not?
BOY: It says it exceeds the maturity level.
ME: We don't have a maturity restriction... (opens site) Oh. It does on your profile. "Teen and below."
BOY: Fix it please?
ME: Hmmm. The next level is "all content." That means you'd have access to everything on Netflix. Your poor innocent eyes.
BOY: *sigh* I'm trying to watch superheroes!
ME: Okay, I'll reset it, but you'd best behave yourself.
BOY: *mutters as he leaves my office* Ya nasty...

-------

JIM: *hugs me* I love my wife.
ME: Really? What does that mean for me, then?
JIM: *rolls eyes* Woman! You are my wife.
ME: Oh yeah, I forgot. *grin* You're so fun to torment.
JIM: Don't torment me! Why do you torment me?
ME: You married me.
JIM: That doesn't mean you have to torment me!
ME: Did you look up the definition?

------

At Walmart, Boy spies a Captain America bicycle helmet.

BOY: Yes! *grabs*
ME: For ages 6 to 10.
BOY: It'll fit!

He puts it on. It does not fit.

ME: *snicker*
BOY: Whyyyy don't they make this stuff in adult sizes!
ME: Because when you grow up you are supposed to give up all fun and be boring.
BOY: You know if we set up a booth at con with these things we would sell them like crazy.
ME: You're probably right. Because con people are creative and fun.
BOY: *addresses Walmart ceiling* Make this in adult sizes!

------

ME: Did you make coffee?
MAN: Not yet. 
ME: The Bible requires that the man of the house makes the coffee. It says so in the Book of Hebrews.
MAN: ...
ME: HE-brews.
MAN: Blucky.
ME: I am totally unappreciated in this house.
MAN: That. is. awful.
ME: Just the other day, Ian and I were watching Angel and Lilah released a tarantula to crawl across her keyboard - don't ask, it was a thing - and Ian asked, 'What is she doing with that spider??' And I replied, 'It's a web designer.'
MAN: ...
ME: See? Just like Ian! I got nothing. You all need a sense of humor. Rent one!
MAN: I have a sense of humor. When something's funny.
ME: Other people think I'm hilarious.

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Friday, June 03, 2016

Fighting the Beast 2016

Today is our Relay for Life. Usually I drive folks crazy in the weeks leading up to Relay with exhortations and incentives to donate, but life intervened this year and I've only issued the one plea. This is probably why as of now, I've raised $10 toward my personal $300 goal, and my team is still nearly $1,000 short of its $3,000 goal.

I am speaking at tonight's Survivor Dinner (no, I'm not a cancer survivor, I just run my mouth a lot.) Below is the speech I intend to give. Please read it, and if you are so moved, consider donating before 10 p.m. CST. It reflects the number of people in my life who have been touched by cancer - at times, it feels like it is all around me. And if you're reading this, I imagine it has touched you, too.

Thank you for your time.


Fighting the Beast

I’m Elizabeth Donald, captain of the St. Andrew’s team. I’ve been walking Relays off and on for 18 years, most of them here in Edwardsville. And I feel a little funny being the one to speak to you today, because I’m not a cancer survivor or caregiver. You are fighting a battle I’ve only observed, which definitely makes me a civilian.

But I am angry.

I’m angry because there’s a list of people in my life I should be able to introduce you to, and they’re not here anymore.

I want you to meet David Black. I met David when I hired him to be my son’s tutor, at a time when Ian was struggling with middle school, ADHD and generally being a teenager. He was very good at being late to class and not paying attention; he was very bad at passing the seventh grade. His teachers were pretty much giving up on him.

David was more like Ian’s warden than his tutor, and that’s exactly what we needed. He picked Ian up every day after school and took him to the library, where they studied English and fractions with an extra dose of study skills and work ethic. A nontraditional student on his second career, David had just graduated from SIUE with his teaching degree, but it was the depth of the recession, and he hadn’t snagged a full-time job.

So Ian became his classroom of one. David had worked extensively with ADHD kids as a student teacher, and his glowing recommendations were right on the money. He found ways to motivate my child I would never have thought of. He was funny and dedicated; but he was also tough and did not put up with any tween shenanigans. Thanks in large part to David, Ian passed the seventh grade and is now on the verge of his senior year in this very high school.

David became a friend, an advisor and guide through the most difficult years this mom ever had. He was also a writer, and asked my advice as a published author on publishing his books. I gave him the advice I’ve given so many, about the best ways to hone your craft and how to approach publishers, with lots of patience because publishing is a slow industry.

In the end, David decided to self-publish his book, because it turned out he didn’t have time to wait for the publishing industry. See, in a fair and just world, I’d be introducing you to David Black the schoolteacher. He’d be standing before a classroom of kids, snarking at them as he opened their minds to the really cool stuff in history and literature. He’d be finding new ways to reach kids that other teachers gave up on, because that’s what he did. He truly had the gift.

I wish it had happened that way.

Not long after he ceased being Ian’s warden, David was diagnosed with a fairly aggressive cancer. And he fought it just as hard as he fought Ian’s attitude, as hard as he’d worked his way through college. He wrestled it for years, and we all watched him fight the Beast as he and a few of his buddies taped a live podcast every week. They called it Fade to Black. They wanted it to be a chronicle of their friendship, of David’s life, funny and profane and occasionally angry. 

He must have invited me four or five times to appear on it with them. I asked him if he wanted me there as an author - usually the reason people ask me to speak - or as a journalist, or as a Relay for Life team captain. All of the above, he said. 

And I always meant to do it, you know. It taped on a difficult night for me, but I always meant to clear my schedule just once, make the time, arrange to be there. I wanted to be there.

Time ran out. David Black lost his battle two years ago May. He never got his classroom. The Beast won.



And it really hacks me off. 

I’ve been angry since Rachael died, and David rose up my fury all over again. See, Rachael was a dear friend of mine who had been fighting breast cancer since she was in her early 20s. Rachael was proud not to be what she called a “typical cancer patient.” She believed that we hide illness and ailments behind closed doors as if it’s something to be ashamed of, and too often cancer patients are expected to wane quietly in private as though they must shut themselves away and not upset anyone.

But in all her life, Rachael was never typical, folks. She had a personality you could see shining across a room. She shared the details of her illness willingly, hoping to demystify it, showing anyone her battle scars. She loved life, she loved her friends, and she loved her husband, author Bryan Smith.

Rachael was a dear friend and a voracious reader, even if our tastes did not always cross paths; mine tend toward the creepy, hers to the literary. But she had a wicked sense of humor. She knew that I am completely squicked by anything happening to the eyes - hey, everyone’s got a phobia - and since there was a particularly grotesque eye scene in Bryan’s latest book…. let’s just say she special-ordered squishy candy eyeballs for the book release party because she knew I was going to be there, and she wanted to demonstrate the scene for me in her mad-scientist coat.

Ewww.



I miss her so very much.

Rachael fought her cancer to the end, but the Beast won in 2011. She was only 37. And I’ve been angry ever since, because Rachael should be here laughing and chewing candy eyeballs with me. Just as David Black should be in his classroom, ready for another year of thickheaded kids to teach.

And as Shorty should be mixing up another batch of booze. His real name was Stuart Bergman, but I never once heard anyone call him Stuart. Nearly seven feet tall, of course his name was Shorty. He was known to all us writers on the convention circuit in the midwest and mid-south - after all, he was hard to miss.

Shorty. A gentle giant with a bellowing voice and an omnipresent bottle of the mysterious Blue Stuff, an alcoholic mixture of his own devising that left your mouth numb if you were foolish enough to bolt the shot.

Shorty. The man who ran the authors’ hall, who corralled all of us in and out of the hall where we sold our books year after year, always willing to haul a box, and no one dared lift a book from your booth when Shorty was watching.

Shorty. Smoked like a chimney since long before I knew him, often sharing a pack with my future husband out on the loading docks before Jim quit. Sadly, it caught up to him. The cancer struck Shorty hard, robbing him of his hair and trademark beard before it robbed him of his life. 

He should still be here.



You know who else should be here? Patrick Swayze. Sally Ride. Alan Rickman. Farrah Fawcett. Jerry Orbach. Anne Bancroft. Eartha Kitt. David Bowie. They aren’t more important than the ones I know, than the empty chairs in this room, than the ones we’ve lost. But they’re the ones you also might have known. 

And Dick Adams. You don’t know who he is, and unfortunately, neither do I. In a fair and just world, he’d be my father-in-law. Dick married a woman with ten children - that’s love, folks - and one of those very young children eventually grew up to become my husband. Dick helped raise Jimmy and his siblings, and taught Jim what kind of man he wanted to be. Jim loved him deeply, enough that his loss still hurts, especially when we walk past his luminary on this night. 

Jim is my husband, a wonderful, caring and compassionate stepfather to my son, a blessing to our house. So sometimes I feel as though Dick’s spirit is in our home, through the man Jim became. 

But I never got to meet Dick, and he never knew me or my son. The Beast took Dick before Jim and I ever met. Another opportunity lost, robbed before its time. 



Then there are those who lost loved ones. Rachel’s husband. David’s fiancee. Jim’s mother, Pauline, who mourned Dick’s loss the rest of her life and now lies beside him. One of my team members has lost both parents, her brother and her son; a friend lost her mother and her life partner within a year, all to cancer. They all have been touched by the Beast, and they carry his mark.

And then there’s the folks who have fought cancer and won their battles. Like Macie and Gail, who both fought cancer within two years of each other. Like Sue, LaVernn, Rudy, Candace, and others from the St. Andrew’s team. My stepfather Curtis and my stepmother Karen, all survivors.

This year, there’s my stepsister Kristen, and friends like Shawn, Kevin, Joann, Hugh, Bob … all of whom have fought cancer this year.

Is there anyone, anywhere, who hasn’t been touched by it?

I often add David Black’s name to the luminaria, even though I can hear him groaning in that cantankerous way of his. David, you see… he didn’t have a lot of patience for the people who told him, “I’ll pray for you,” and did nothing else. He was a man in a pitched battle, and words just didn’t fix anything. Not for him, and not for his kids. He was angry, and felt cheated of the life he wanted. 

As a woman of faith, I do believe that prayer has meaning. But I also think David had a point. Prayer without action isn’t as useful as standing up and doing something about it. 

We donate. We hold fundraisers. We walk the track. And we share our stories, stories of the fight with the Beast. We remind everyone that cancer is the truly universal disease, the one that touches us all. We do not walk the Relay to torture ourselves in the heat, a sponsored endurance test. We do it to stand watch, taking turns into the night, reminding each other that we are all in this together.

It’s my hope that someday, this won’t be necessary. That they’ll make the breakthrough, and we won’t lose any more talented artists, brilliant minds, teachers, spouses, friends.

Because Rachel should be laughing with me. David should be hollering at his class. Shorty should be melting plastic cups with the Blue Stuff. Dick should be throwing a baseball with his grandchildren. 

It isn’t fair.
It isn’t right.
And it can be stopped.

I believe that.

I hope you do, too.









-----

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Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Snippets

Boy is famous for making me pause shows all the time so he can get a snack, run to the bathroom, split the atom, whatever. The joys of ADHD. Watching anything with the both of them is an exercise in patience.

BUFFY: *begins*
BOY: Pause. I need more food.
ME: And we are thirty seconds past the previouslys.
BOY: We took too long starting the episode.
ME: Whatever.
BOY: *goes for food*
ME: Bring me a milk.
BOY: No, because you didn't say please.
ME: Pretty please, with sugar on top, child of my loins, bring me milk.
BOY: Okay, I'll take that, but just this once.
ME: Smartass.

ME: *grabs single-serve bag of Doritos*
ME: *nibbles*
ME: *chokes* Aaah! I got the spicy nacho ones.
BOY: *snickers*
ME: Shut up! You have the regular. Trade?
BOY: *snickers more, passes me the bag* You know, they're not that spicy.
ME: Shush. I acknowledge my wussiness.
...
ME: *bites Doritos* Blech.
BOY: What?
ME: They're stale.
BOY: Yeah, they go stale sometimes.
ME: They're dated from 2014. How did they survive that long in this house?
BOY: ...
ME: That's it. I need chocolate chip cookies.
BOY: I just sat down.
ME: Fine. All you have to do is share your gingersnaps.
BOY: ... Can I throw them to you?
ME: Do not throw gingersnaps at me.

Also: We have way too much cake in this house. Leftovers from the Relay Cafe. Once upon a time I could foist them off on coworkers. Ah, the trials of working remote...

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Sunday, May 08, 2016

Guest Stars: Georgia L. Jones!

Today's blog post is brought to you by Georgia L. Jones, an amazing writer with Seventh Star Press, courtesy of Tomorrow Comes Media! Georgia is doing her blog tour this week sharing snippets from her terrific new releases, Legends of Darkness and Witches.



Guest Post from Kyan
(Character in Legends of Darkness by Georgia L. Jones)
 I allowed my mind to wonder back to a time that was so much like today.  My hatred for the humans around me was founded deep in my soul.  They deserve no more compassion than you would show a snake, slithering through the grass.  They all should die.

It was June 10, 1692, a day that will haunt me for as long as my soul exists.  That was the day that they hanged me for being a witch.  If they only knew, I thought.  Now I am much stronger than any witch I have ever known, and I have known a few. 

I owned a couple of bars, and didn’t want to act and dress according to their standards. I drank some, liked to play games, and had been married three times.  I did have company late at night, and yes, I even entertained men.  I had no husband; he had died, just like the others. 

As I look down at the black silk that encases me, I can only imagine what those Puritan, cob up their ass, women would say if they could see me now.  I love the feel of the material on as little of my body as I can afford.  I enjoy the way it caresses me as I move.  The feel of it rubbing my inner thighs with every step I take.

I may be dead. I may be a warrior.  I may never feel the love that I have always, dead and alive, yearned for, but one thing is certain. I can wear whatever I choose, and have what I want to possess.  I will take as much advantage of that as I can.  I thought of the town dyer that testified at my trial.  He had made public knowledge of my under things.  What business was it of theirs what I wore under my clothes? 

It had been an argument that I had with myself often at first.  I was angry at what had happened.  I felt the judgment that had been passed on me, unfair. 

When I first awoke in my current skin, I wanted to tear them all, limb from limb.  I wanted to show them the evil that lay within them.  I wanted them to know that Jonathan Corwin, himself, had lain with me, and drunk wine.  He had even indulged in shovel board with me on occasion.  It was too late though.  I had waited, and now to die another death would not be for any good. 

I turned my back on Salem Village and on Mr. Hale’s Church in Beverly, and never looked back.  I thought of when I went to Vicus.  The Danbue in the great forest there were kind and gentle to me.  They healed me, and gave me a name.  Kyan was what they called me.  I had enjoyed the name.
When I met Drake, it was in the early 1800s.  I can’t recall the year exactly.  I do remember the moment though.  It was right here in New York, while he was visiting the country. 

The first time I laid eyes on him, I was smitten.  I wanted him in every way.  I knew he would be my mate for all eternity.  His beauty has never been rivaled by any man in my mind.  His heart was better than any I had ever known.  He was the best of everything I had ever known.

He rejected me, opening wounds that had been there, lying dormant, forever.  I could not just stand by and let him get away.  I tried in every way to impress him, to make him love me the way I did him.  Nothing worked, he simply was not interested in loving me, and I could never understand why.Somewhere between the battles, and Thomas showing up, I lost a part of myself.  I felt wounded and betrayed.  I felt alone, even with the clan around me.  My life seemed to be no more than it was on that fateful day in June, 1692, when my human life ended.  I still hide my true self every moment, to keep the secrets and the betterment of the humans; the despicable humans. They may as well have been the ones who hanged me that day.  They were just as shallow and thoughtless in their views and lives.

I often wonder why?  Why do they deserve my loyal protection?  Maybe it’s time for me to not hide the true me.  Maybe it’s time for me to live my life, the life that I have never lived; while alive, or in death.  Then Thomas showed up.

When I first saw him, I wasn’t taken aback.  He stood tall and handsome, but there was nothing particularly spectacular about him.  He seemed safe, and reminded me a lot of myself.  He didn’t carry compassion for the humans, and I was with him on that idea.  The persecution that he had endured had been much like mine.  We could talk openly with one another.  He understood me.  I never questioned that he was Atherian.  I knew that he was, there was none of our kind that wasn’t. 

As I spent more time with Thomas, I found great comfort in his ways.  I wanted the respect that he demanded.  We are great warriors, and deserved to be treated as such.  It only made sense that we would make our own armies to do our bidding.  I shared in his belief that we should be able to indulge in whatever activity we choose, with whomever we choose.

The first time we mated, I felt the power of him.  I could not be satisfied.  Even afterwards, I wanted more and more.  I wanted to feel the lustful sensation of release.  When his blood mixed with mine, as we intertwined our souls, I felt exactly the way I did the day that my head had been slid into the noose.  I could feel the life being sucked from me, and back into me again.  I felt contempt, hate, lust, greed, and envy.  I embraced the feelings.  The anger that has been held hostage inside of me was released.

As I sit here, I think of all of this, and I think of the future.  I see that I will never be with my beloved Drake.  He has found his mate.  I do, however, vow to destroy them.  I hate Samoda with every fiber of my being. 

Thomas and I, together, will raise an army.  We will reign over this country.  As our power increases, we will eventually rule over all humans.  They will be bred by, and for us.  Their very heartbeat will beat within us.

__________

About the author: Georgia L. Jones was born in Columbia, Missouri on September 21st, 1968. In 1992 she settled in the beautiful Ozarks town of Lebanon, Missouri, where she has lived since.
At a young age Georgia learned the value of getting lost in a good book. She has always enjoyed reading and letting her imagination run wild. In her early teenage years she began to put her own stories down on paper as she plunked out the words

Over the years Georgia has harbored the dream of being a published author and written many short stories. On January 10, 2010 she embarked on the dream as she began to bring the characters from her first novel, Legends of Darkness, to life. Upon completion in June 2010 she realized that it was not a single book but a series, and created the concept of the series Remnants of Life.

On September 5, 2010 the Remnants of Life series was contracted through a small press publishing house out of Louisville, KY., and so her career began. Through that press, Blackwyrm Publishing, Georgia L. Jones published the first two books in the series, Legends of Darkness and Witches, took part in several anthology works both as an author and editor, and created a new character to add to her own multi-faceted personality, Smarty Mic Smartypants who endeavors into the more cynical and snarky side of life. In September of 2015 she became part of the Seventh Star Press family, which is based out of Lexington, KY. The second edition of the first two books in the Remnants of Life series as well as the third book in the series are currently contracted through them.

When her muse isn’t dragging her to lands unknown, you will find her hanging out with her family and friends in the Novalunium Paranormal Mansion, the 1840 farmhouse that she calls home, as well as home base for the small Paranormal Research Group that her and a couple of friends have founded. Find out more about Georgia on Facebook and the Tomorrow Comes Media Tour Page!

Book Synopsis for Legends of Darkness:  Dangerous Saviors...what would you do if your life rested in the hands of something that really wanted to EAT YOU...

Come journey through the realms of the next world where everything you know about Good and Evil are put to the test.

Samantha Garrett lives and dies a good life in the human world. She awakens a new creature, Samoda, a vampire-like warrior in the army of Nuem. She is forced to realize that she has become a part of a world that humans believe to be only “Legends of Darkness.” Samoda finds her new life is entwined with the age old story of Greed, Love, Betrayal, and Vengeance.

Join our heroine as she battles not just for her own existence, but for entire human race’s future.

Book Synopsis for Witches: The second book in the Remnants of Life Series follows the story of the Warriors in their age old battle against evil that constantly fights to take over the human world.

In Witches meet Kali and Seline, a set of seemingly human twins who discover their heritage, which is rich in the blood of the Strega. Learn about the Strega and the role they have played throughout history. Follow our heroes through southwest Missouri and beyond as they pursue the demons and unravel the puzzle that has Kali and Seline right in the middle of it.

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