IT WILL NEVER, EVER SELL

“It will never, ever sell,” Sofia decreed in her Doge of Venice voice, shaking her head as she ate the last shrimp on her $22.95 seafood salad platter. “Trust me. Nobody will read it,” she continued, taking a sip of her Chablis.


I didn’t respond and, instead, took a bite of my $6.99 burger, wondering why I had let a chance meeting, after five years of not seeing each other, lead to a ‘catch-up-on-old times’ luncheon two days later.

“It’s simply never, ever done. It’s all wrong.” she insisted.

Perhaps Sofia was right. Maybe my historical romance set in the Florida Keys in 1880 was all wrong. But I’ve never been a great fan of drafty English castles or misty moorlands. Give me a steamy swamp or a mangrove jungle with alligators any day.

I want egalitarian heroes and heroines, and not Dukes and Earls burdened with cumbersome pedigrees.
But at that moment none of this was on my mind, I suddenly remembered why I had let five years go by without getting in touch with Sofia—I had never, ever liked her.

Damn if I was going to pay for her lunch!Never, ever.

My Old Friend!

My friend Maggie got me into Facebook. I had been reluctant to join, thinking it was an invasion of privacy, but I finally succumbed. How could I not? As a writer one cannot really afford the luxury of privacy. Invasion or not, one’s name has to be out there. My page, I’m ashamed to say, does not have the number of friends and fans that Maggie’s page has. She is much better at social networking than I am and has a huge family. I don’t even know 90% of my ‘so called’ friends, but… I have collected beautiful eggs and hatchlings along the way (what for I don’t know).


One day last week, I decided to look up an old friend--someone I had gone to school with in Spain many years ago. Her name is not common, so I figured I would be lucky and typed it into the search bar. Several choices popped up and I picked one that sounded possible. Before sending her a message I remembered I was sending it under my writer’s pseudonym. I can only imagine her wondering who ‘the hell is Diana Flori’.

Are you so and so? She writes me back.

My delight is immense! Facebook is amazing indeed! After so many years, it seemed unbelievable that I had found my old friend. I immediately called my younger brother, who also went to school with my friend’s sister and brother. On her end, my friend had already told her siblings as well. As we interchanged emails, catching up on old times, I promise to send them old photos.

Yesterday, my brother and I spent Sunday morning looking through old family albums. We laughed as we turned the pages, happily reliving old times and forgotten memories. Guiltily, I remember hating all those photos my camera-happy father would make us pose for. What a fool I was then? Had my late-father known that someday I would regret it? Maybe even thank him? I hope so.

Thanks Dad!

Can't live without it

I don’t care if the beds are still unmade, if the gas tank in my car is past the three drops remaining mark, or if the only edible thing in my refrigerator is a can of sliced peaches. When I’m writing and on a roll everything else can wait.
Unfortunately, I’m not on a roll, and my bed, car and refrigerator are still in the state I left them.
This last week, I’ve divided my time between staring at a blank page on my computer and staring out my home office window at my neighbors’ goings on.
The UPS man has visited this street three times; one of my neighbors had a barbeque party and did not invite me; several dogs have left souvenirs on my lawn; and now my Type A husband is in the garage prepping the generator in advance of any hurricanes heading our way (not that there are any). And still no inspiration.
Why it is there’s no magic pill for writer’s block?
*sigh*

Suddenly, I remember what will definitely get my 'little gray cells', a la Hercule Poirot, going. A shot, maybe two, of that lethal but pleasurable concoction  that, no doubt, will probably keep me up half the night. But I don't care. Ahh...yes...Cuban coffee. What would I do without it?

Diana Flori - Home

Diana Flori - Home

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No, you can't get the girl!

Nash Bolero is a scalawag. He's a two-faced liar, a cheat and a horse thief. In short, Nash is a nasty bit of goods, or so I thought.
He started out as a minor character in my new novel, with a few cameo appearances here and there--nothing too important, mind you. Little did I know that what I had in mind for Nash was not exactly what Nash had in mind for himself. But at first, he does what I tell him to do-- he lies, he cheats and he tries at every opportunity to seduce his brother's girlfriend, Becky, the virginal heroine, who quite frankly is beginning to get on my nerves. Lately, however, I notice that things are beginning to take a different turn. Nash is starting to question my decisions, to defy my authority, to want to mend his ways...to what??? Wait a minute! When did all of this start happening?
Is Nash getting psychoanalysis on the sly? Of course not, It's 1880 and Sigmund is in Vienna, nowhere near Key West or the Florida mainland.
Perplexed and a tad pissed, I turn back the pages looking for clues. Aha!!! Could this be it? Is Nash in love? No, that can't be. He doesn't even like Becky. He's just seducing her to get back at his brother, Duke. Hey, Nash, wake up! This was not supposed to happened. Don't you remember the synopsis? Duke gets the girl, you get...the girl? No, that's not the way the story goes. No, Nash, you can't have a menage a trois.

Prelude to madness?

It's 1:00 p.m. on a Wednesday and my friend and fellow writer, Maggie Dove and I are sitting in our favorite Cuban dive, waiting for our plate of 'vaca frita' (fried cow literally) to arrive. The place smells of garlic, onions and grease. We are in heaven!
Our favorite booth was occupied today, and so was our usual waitress, the one who knows we like two side orders of chopped raw onions with parsley. We definitely didn't want the server with the 'whadda ya want' attitude, whose hair is heavily lacquered and whose tight polyester pants are three sizes too small, but today is not our day.
While we wait for our order to arrive, we get down to the real purpose of our lunch--to talk about our works in progress. Do we care about anything else? Sometimes I wonder! Other times I think not. Ever since we started writing, that's all that seems to consume our time. It's as if we've cast aside our husbands, children, friends, and social life for our make-believe world. Is this a prelude to madness? Or is it what's keping us sane?
Who's to say? In today's world of economic crisis and unemployment, what's so bad about a cozy Victorian drawing room or a Carson City saloon?

Message in a bottle?

Why do I blog?

It's tough being a writer! It's tough sitting in front of a computer, creating out of a blank page, conjuring up scenarios and giving birth to imaginary people, who only yesterday weren't even figments of my own imagination.

Which brings me to the point...I blog because it gives me instant gratification--I write and Presto! with just a click of a key, anything I write gets published immediately. (Love that word 'immediately'. It's so...je ne sais quoi...so today! )

There's no sitting around, no waiting for a response from a publisher, or an editor, or an agent. There are no rejection form letters or emails. No edits, or revision.

I blog because it's my message in a bottle, and I know that somewhere out there someone will pick it up!