NEWS FLASH

I've been waiting a very long time to say this:
SOMEONE WANTS TO PUBLISH ONE OF MY BOOKS!

I just signed a contract with Curiosity Quills to publish HOW TO DATE DEAD GUYS.
Who is Curiosity Quills?
You can check them out here:  http://curiosityquills.com/

You may have questions: 
Where will it be sold? 
When will it be available? 
What is it about? 

At the moment, I can only answer the last one.  The others will be revealed in time.

HAHA

Some version of the following write up may end up on the back of my published book.


HOW TO DATE DEAD GUYS

Quiet college sophomore Emma Roberts remembers her mother’s sage advice:  “don’t sleep around, don’t burp in public, and don’t tell anyone you see ghosts”.  But when cute Mike Carlson drowns in the campus river under her watch, Emma’s sheltered life shatters. 

 

Blamed for Mike’s death and haunted by nightmares, Emma turns to witchcraft and a mysterious Book of Shadows to bring him back.  Under a Blood Moon, she lights candles, draws a pentacle on the campus bridge, and casts a spell.  The invoked river rages up against her, but she escapes its fury.  As she stumbles back to the dorm, a stranger drags himself from the water and follows her home.  

This is a Blood Moon.  So cool.  Right?

 

Instead of raising Mike, Emma assists the others she stole back from the dead—a pre-med student who jumped off the bridge, a young father determined to solve his own murder, and a frat boy Emma can’t stand…at first.  More comfortable with the dead than the living, Emma delves deeper into the seductive Book of Shadows.  Her powers grow, but witchcraft may not be enough to protect her against the vengeful river and the killers that feed it their victims.

  (Look at cute little innocent Willow.)

Emma is a cross between Whoopi Goldberg’s psychic in Ghost and Willow’s transformation from bookworm to witch in Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  Inspired by the controversial Smiley Face Murders theory, HOW TO DATE DEAD GUYS will appeal to paranormal fans of all ages. 

 

 (This is powerful, angry Willow)

 

So what made me write about witchcraft, death, and misguided resurrection?

Read about it in my previous blog:  http://annandersonnoser.blogspot.com/2013/06/mile-20-why-do-you-write-sudden.html

 

 

 

 

PET HALLOWEEN SAFETY TIPS

BOO!



OK, so these aren't the most fearsome ghoulies you've ever seen.

But some of the things that can happen to pets on Halloween ARE quite scary.

I'd advise reading the following article to keep your pets safe on this fun holiday:

http://www.postbulletin.com/life/lifestyles/pet-vet-practice-safety-with-pets-for-halloween/article_db897cc4-9cd7-5a40-835c-c5c864061d1c.html

- Happy Halloween!
Dr. Ann M. Anderson

THIS IS HOW I FEEL ABOUT ALZHEIMER'S DISEASE

 

My mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease a dozen years ago.

She now resides in a Memory Care facility.

She hasn't called me by my own name in at least a year.

This morning was the first time that, when she looked into my face,

she saw a complete stranger.

 

Hence the poem.  My form of therapy, I guess.

 

 

I MISS YOU

I miss you, Mom

Even when we’re in the same room.

I push your wheelchair down the hallway to church

And remember our hikes through falling leaves.

I even miss our arguments.

Couldn’t you, just once, tell me to not wear so much black?

That my hair is too long for a woman my age?

That my father wishes I’d take out the belly ring and go back to church?

But you can’t, because you don’t even remember my name.

This is what’s left of your life:

Monotonous days staring at the TV,

Institutional meals,

Elastic-waist pants the Real You would call “tacky”.

Brave, kind nurses

tending to you in this waiting room of death.

Days, weeks, and months go by

But you no longer mark them off on your calendar.

Your eyes don’t light up when I bring you flowers

Because your love for them faded away.

Your meticulously arranged photo albums

Confuse you

Who are these people?

Someday you won’t even smile at my kids.

I know the day is coming,

But it hurts just the same.

I can accept that you can’t remember their names.

Or mine.

When you call me anything, I’m your sister.

I don’t mind,

At least you picked a relative I like.

But today you looked at me as you would a stranger

And it makes me wonder

Just how bad is this going to get?

And how many other people cry in the parking lot of the nursing home

After every visit?

 

 

MY THOUGHTS ON LOVE

There's a good reason I don't write romance novels.  Back in undergrad, my roommate devoured romance novels by the bushel.  A generous soul, she said I could read them.  This was a offer I'm sure she soon regretted.  I betrayed her kindness by immediately hopping up on the couch, opening to a juicy scene and performing an improptu dramatic interpretation of the bodice-busting, chest-heaving, loins-throbbing encounter.

I was so amused by my own cleverness.  I can't say the same for my roommate, although I give her full credit for putting up with me.

But the reason I'm pondering romance today is that I went to a wedding this weekend.  Not just any wedding, but the ceremony of one of the best friends I'll ever have.  I met her when I was five years old and her family moved in next door.  I still remember watching Laura and her brother, Joel, spill out of the car that pulled into their drive.


My response:  "YES!!!  They have kids!!!"

Let me explain:  I am an only child.  (Enough said.)



Aren't we cute? From left to right, Joel, Ann (me), and Laura



 





Back to this past weekend:

The vows Laura and her bride spoke to each other were the most beautiful vows I have ever heard.  Which made me wonder what made it so.  After much thought, I decided it was because these two clever and creative people have already been in love for ten years.  Time gives you wisdom (along with lots of things I could complain about, but won't, because I'd rather be smart with crow's feet than stupid without them). 

Time deepens love, if it doesn't drown it. 

The first glimpse I had of actual, true love was at the age of 30, when I met my husband.  No wonder I never thought much of it before, because I simply had no idea how powerful the emotion could be.  But love changes with the years, hopefully growing instead of fading away with the bright fall colors.

I'm so happy I've been fortunate enough to be friends with Laura for all these years. 
I'm thrilled she met Dawn, and that they have built a beautiful life together.



Laura and Dawn

I'm so overjoyed that I can't stop thinking, smiling, and writing about it. 
My best wishes to them both, and my hope that the world can be a place built on love and not hate.

(No, I'm not running for Miss America, but world peace wouldn't be such a bad thing to wish for as well.)




DADDY'S NOT-SO-LITTLE-GIRL

THE LAST PICTURE I TOOK OF MY FATHER, JERRY ANDERSON

 

 

TOMORROW IS THE FOURTH ANNIVERSARY OF MY FATHER'S DEATH.

His body had been weakened by chronic lymphocytic leukemia.  Three days before his death, his beloved pit bull named Melon Head died from heart failure.  I was his veterinarian.  Dad passed away on a Saturday afternoon.  My husband climbed on the roof cleaning the chimney.  I crouched in the bathroom, changing my daughter's diaper when the phone rang.  Naturally, I ignored it.  After I had everything cleaned up, I came out into the kitchen and hit the PLAY MESSAGES button.

My poor mother, who had already suffered from Alzheimer's for almost ten years, spoke to me:  "Jerry's at the bottom of the stairs.  He's covered in blood and he won't speak to me.  Why won't he speak to me?"

Dad had fallen to his death while attempting to attach a coat hook at the top. 

At the time, I felt grateful he'd died so quickly, because his leukemia had weakened him to the point that he required a blood transfusion every two weeks just to stay alive.  But he was always cold and never felt well.  The doctor told him he needed to consider having chemo again, but Dad refused to give him an answer.

This way he didn't have to decide. 

I still miss him, but I miss the parents of my childhood.  Does everyone else feel this way when their parents die or lose their minds, I wonder.




THE POEM I WROTE ON HIS FIRST BIRTHDAY AFTER HE DIED

 

You wore the uniform of the elderly

A band aid on your elbow and a striped polo tee

A dark belt hiking up your faded old slacks

Your basement packed with things from the past

Inside your clothes

There was too much room

You had never been this skinny

You had never been so cold

I will never again hear your stories retold

 

Now that you’re gone

I see you everywhere

In slow moving vans

Pocket protectors and grey hair

But none of these strangers have your sputtering laugh

Or twenty-five napkins of penned physics graphs

None of them read me the Little House books

Or made TV dinners when Mom couldn’t cook

You ate Quaker Oat Squares

Sat on cracked vinyl chairs                                                                          

Used felt tipped pens

Had church choir friends

Liked big band tunes

Duct taped vacuums

 

But now your basement is empty

And your clothes have been donated

There’s no more chocolate cake for your birthday

And I don’t feel like your little girl anymore

 

 

FIRST FEW PAGES OF NEW BOOK


Here are the results of my portion of the September First Five Pages Workshop (http://firstfivepagesworkshop.blogspot.com/).  A big thanks to everyone who participated.

Included below are the first five pages (four, actually) of my young adult dystopian work-in-progress, currently entitled THE TRUTH.

 

Chapter 1 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

 

My tenth birthday was the worst day of my life.  Dad had to work late, because his replacement didn’t show up on time.  Mom and I waited for him to come home.

 

Five years later, we’re still waiting.

 

Most kids would’ve requested a Vacation Pass for their fifteenth birthday, but not me.  I’d rather forget the whole thing and help Old Gus prepare the chilled bodies in the hospital mortuary.  I drag myself out of bed and pull on teal blue scrubs.

 

I fumble for socks and shoes, and a ray of early sunlight glints off my dad’s picture hanging on the wall.  Once again, his blue eyes capture mine, as if he needs to tell me something important.  On the floor beneath the photo sits a memory trunk full of how things used to be.  But I won’t open it today.  I just can’t. 

 

Dishes clink in the kitchen.  Mom calls out, “Hurry up, Silvia.  I’ve got a surprise for you.”

 

She sounds happy, but I can’t tell if it’s real.  Since Dad’s death, both of us have done a lot of pretending.  So far this year we’ve been able to avoid Psychotherapy Services and Mandated Medication, but sometimes I think I was sent down to Mortuary Services to push me over the edge.  Fortunately, I find autopsies intriguing, not depressing.  And since I never got to see Dad’s body after the accident, caring for other people’s deceased soothes the empty ache inside.

 

So does Gus.  He’s better than any anti-anxiety med.  He always knows what to say and what not to say to me.

 

Too bad Mom doesn’t have a clue.

 

Mom glances up from her green tea as I enter the modular kitchen.  “I planned a big surprise for your birthday.”

 

I tense.  “What is it?”

 

Mom slides over a bowl of organic oatmeal topped with raspberries, a special treat.  “I got us Park and Art passes today.” 

 

“I’m not hungry.”  I shake my head.  “And Gus is expecting me.”

 

“No, he’s not.  He knows all about it.  I told him weeks ago.”

 

“Really?  Gus must be good at keeping secrets.  He never even wished me ‘happy birthday’ yesterday.” 

 

Which proves he knows me better than Mom does.

 

She frowns.  “You should eat something, even if you’re not hungry.  And if it makes you feel better, just pretend it isn’t your birthday.  It’s some other day instead.  A good day, not a bad one.”

 

I want to protest some more, but there’s a determined gleam in Mom’s eyes—one that hasn’t been there for a long time.  And I don’t want to be the one to snuff it out. 

 

I halfheartedly take a few bites of breakfast, swallow my eight prescribed supplements, then return to my bedroom to change into jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt.  All my clothes are soft and plain, without decoration, made by hands like my father’s.  Only Dad proved himself to be Gifted, so he didn’t make Basic Worker Level clothes for long.  Instead, he got promoted to Government Level clothing production—a promotion which cost him his life.

 

“Hurry up!” Mom calls from the front door.

 

We clamber down six flights of stairs in the brightly-lit stairwell.  Once we reach the main floor, we push out the airlock into the early morning rush of people flooding the streets.  Dashing across the busy bike path and an empty car lane, we finally reach the closest walk way.  Traffic is orderly today.  No bikers stray from their lanes into ours.  Men and women wearing blue scrubs of various shades hurry towards the hospitals and medical facilities.  Those in green coveralls rush towards the monorail station to speed off to one of the numerous Plant and Protein Production Facilities. 

 

I glance back at a beautiful dark-skinned woman, and try not to feel envious of her green uniform.  Normally, I don’t mind my job.  In fact, I feel more at home in the mortuary than anywhere else.  But part of me still longs to spend all day surrounded by plants.  Nothing can be done about it now.  The Occupation Exam is over, and I’ve been placed where I’m most effective. 

 

We march past rows of buildings, offices on the first two floors and apartments up above.  People whoosh past us on bikes, as those on foot press constantly forward.  Only the car lane remains empty, as usual.

 

We make good time until we hit the Citizen Family Planning and Redistribution Building.  Traffic stalls.  A crowd of walkers fidget in place ahead of us.  I shiver a little in the cool morning breeze.

 

“What’s going on?”  Mom cranes her neck and rises up on her toes.  “Can you see?”

 

Indistinct voices argue up ahead.  Strangers murmur around us, but avoid making eye contact.  After a long pause, the crowd begins to shuffle past the building.  A few cast furtive glances over their shoulders.  Everyone’s in a hurry to get somewhere.  Now I see who is causing the fuss.  A red-haired girl who looks to be about my age shoves an orderly away.  The crowd behind us pushes forward.  Tears stream down the girl’s pale face.  She backs away from the building and turns as if to run.  Then she cries out in pain, and clutches her swollen belly, breathing hard.

 

In her moment of weakness, the orderlies surround and restrain her.    

 

“I won’t do it!  I won’t do it!” the pregnant girl screams as they drag her away.

OOPS, I DID IT AGAIN!



Actually, this isn't an accident.

The 1st Five Pages Workshop on the Adventures in YA Publishing blog is so awesome, that I had to sign up again!

Here's my entry:

http://firstfivepagesworkshop.blogspot.com/2013_09_01_archive.html

There aren't any comments yet, but there will be.  I've signed up to have several complete (non-biased) strangers critique my work.  This is a new story I just started this month.  I'm overly excited and can't wait to finish each chapter as it goes along. 

I also can't wait until I don't have to sweat just to take in the laundry hanging on the line.

this makes me laugh
I hope it does the same for you

If for some reason the link above doesn't work, here it my entry below (but you won't get to read how everyone rips on it...such fun!):

Name:  Ann M. Noser

Genre:  Young Adult Dystopian

Title:  WIP with a TIP (work in progress with a title in progress)

 

Chapter 1 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

 

Dad died five years ago today. 

It was the worst day of my life. 

It was also my tenth birthday.

 

***

 

My birthday is the worst day of the year.  So far fifteen doesn’t feel any better than fourteen.  Most kids request a vacation pass on their birthday, but not me.  I’d rather forget the whole thing and help Old Gus prepare the chilled bodies in the hospital mortuary.  I jump out of bed and pull on teal blue scrubs.

 

I scramble for socks and shoes, and a ray of early sunlight glints off my Dad’s picture hanging on the wall.  Once again, his eyes capture mine, as if he needs to tell me something important.  On the floor beneath the photo sits a memory trunk full of how things used to be.  But I won’t open it today.  I just can’t. 

 

Dishes clink in the kitchen.

 

“Hurry up, Silvia.  I’ve got a surprise for you.”

 

Mom sounds happy, but I can’t tell if it’s real or fake.  Since Dad’s death, both of us have done a lot of pretending.  So far this year we’ve been able to avoid Psychotherapy Services and Mandated Medication, but sometimes I think I was sent down to Mortuary Services to push me over the edge.  Instead it was exactly what I needed.  Since I never got to see Dad’s body after the accident, caring for other people’s dead loved ones soothes the empty ache inside.

 

So does Old Gus.  He always knows what to say to me and what not to say.

 

Too bad Mom doesn’t have a clue.

 

I enter the kitchen as she brews green tea. 

 

“Sit down.”  She turns away.  “Happy birthday.”

 

I sigh.  “You know I don’t like my birthday.”

 

“I’m determined to change your mind.”  She forces a smile.  “I planned a big surprise today.”

 

I tense, expecting her to bust into tears at any moment.  “What is it?”

 

She raises her eyebrows.  “Well, first of all.  You’ll need to change.”

 

I glance down at my standard issue medical scrubs.  Things are definitely getting interesting.

 

Mom pours both of us some tea.  “I got us Park and Art passes today.”

 

“What if Gus needs me?”  I take a sip of tea.

 

“Don’t worry.  He knows all about it.  I told him weeks ago.”

 

“Really?  Gus must be good at keeping secrets.  He never even wished me ‘happy birthday’ yesterday.”  Probably because he knows me better than you do.

 

“Eat quickly.  We shouldn’t waste the day.”  Mom slides over a bowl of oatmeal and berries and I dig in.

 

After breakfast, I rush into my room to exchange the work clothes for jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt.  All my clothes are soft and plain, without decoration, made by hands like my father’s.  Only Dad proved himself to be Gifted, so he didn’t make Basic Worker Level clothes for long.  Instead, he got promoted.

 

“Hurry up!” Mom calls from the front door hallway.

 

We clamber down six flights of stairs in the airless stairwell.  Once we reach the main floor, we push out the airlock into the swarms of people flooding the streets.  Dashing across the busy bike path and an empty car lane, we finally reach the closest walk way.  Traffic is orderly today.  No bikers stray from their lanes into ours.  Men, women, and children wearing blue scrubs of various shades hurry towards the hospitals and medical facilities.  Those in green coveralls rush towards the monorail station to speed off to one of the numerous Plant and Protein Production Facilities. 

 

A splash of envy hits me as I glance back at a beautiful dark-skinned woman wearing a green turban.  Normally, I don’t mind my job.  In fact, I feel more at home in the mortuary than anywhere else.  But part of me still longs for the lucky woman’s green uniform.  I’d love to spend all day surrounded by plants.  Nothing can be done about it now.  The Occupation Exam is over, and I’ve been placed where I’m most effective.

 

The street is crowded this time of day.  Men, women, and children whoosh past us on bikes, as those on foot press constantly forward.  Only the car lane remains empty. 

 

We march past building after building, offices on the first two floors and apartments up above.  We make good time until we hit the Citizen Family Planning and Redistribution Building.  Traffic stalls.  A crowd of walkers fidget in place ahead of us.

 

“What’s going on?”  Mom cranes her neck and raises up on her toes.  “Can you see?”

 

After a long pause, the people ahead of us begin to shuffle past the building one at a time.  A few cast furtive glances over their shoulders.  Everyone’s in a hurry to get somewhere.  Now I see who is causing the fuss.  A red-haired girl who looks to be about my age shoves an orderly away.  The crowd behind us pushes us closer.  Tears stream down the girl’s pale face.  She backs away from the building and turns as if to run.  Then she cries out in pain, and clutches her swollen belly, breathing hard.

 

In her moment of weakness, the orderlies surround and restrain her.   

 

“I won’t do it!  I won’t do it!” the pregnant girl screams as they drag her away.

 

---Hello!  It's me again!  Yes, I realize that the pregnant girl is quite young.  That's the point.  You'll need to read on to learn more.---Thanks for reading and have a great day.  Ann.