An Update from Holly Geely

At the beginning of the year I optimistically promised holiday fiction for this blog at least twice a month. Unfortunately, due to multiple events, that won’t be as consistent as I’d hoped. Here it is close to the end of May and life still feels like a whirlwind.

I will spare you the personal details, but these past weeks have been filled with regret and self-doubt. Most of it was unrelated to blogging or writing or even being online, but all of that has taken a hit.

I’m still writing. Whenever I think about giving it up, I remember the young person who approached me in the store one day and said they were a fan of my work. It was random and amazing and I will never forget it. Even if that young person remains my one and only fan (or has indeed taken a disliking to me in the interim) I am going to write when the writing mood takes me, whether I can sell it or not.

Finnaly #3 will be out in the next couple of months, once editing/cover are done. (#1 here, #2 here…books about dragons, adventure, romance, and potty humour!) Another book in the same universe struck me one day and is now in the preliminary stages. I’ve volunteered for a Christmas anthology (yay!) and I have another silly project on the go that may or may not see the light of day.

In the meantime, I will attempt to post here more frequently so the poor blog doesn’t feel such neglect. I’ve had a heck of a time coming up with interesting topics, but I’ll do my best.

 

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Why I Never Cook

We use coconut oil for cooking, and if the temperature is too high it gets smoky in the kitchen. This is not unusual. What is unusual is the amount of smoke billowing from the pan yesterday.

“Huh,” I said. “There must be something stuck to the burner, or the pan, or something.”

“COUGH COUGH,” said my brother.

“Sorry. I know the coconut smoke bothers you. The chicken should be done soon,” I said. The pink in the chicken had nearly disappeared, and soon I would be able to package it up for the week’s lunches.

“Should we start the next Murder She Wrote?” my brother asked.

“Yeah, why not?” I said.

“BEEP BEEP,” screamed the alarm.

“What the…is that the smoke alarm?” I said. I went up to check. It was, indeed, the fire alarm. I waved a doily in front of it to clear the smoke that had evidently drifted upstairs. It stopped beeping.

Unfortunately, the smoke had also alerted my home alarm to the presence of “fire.”

“BEEP.” Pause. “BEEP.” Pause.

“Uh, your alarm says FIRE,” said my brother.

In a few moments (a testament of the abilities of the fire department; I know they have to be fast but I was impressed by how fast) fire fighters arrived at my door. I held a struggling and yapping chihuahua while heavily-booted  people tromped into my house.

“I burned the chicken,” I said.

I apologized profusely, but they didn’t seem bothered. They thanked me for calling in the false alarm and I promised I’d never cook chicken again.