That about sums it up. When life hands you lemons you make lemonade, right? What about when it clobbers you with lemon-sized hail?

I'm sure some wise-guy will say, "melt it down and you've got water". Yeah--water and a concussion or three. So here I am trying to dodge the hail, and afraid to stand under a tree for cover. With my luck lately, lightning would be the next force of nature to strike.

July was supposed to be MY month. Finances were going to improve and that elusive agent was going to make themselves known to me. Instead, finances took a nosedive and all I've heard from agents is how the economy sucks and they're not taking on many new clients.

My supposed "new job" is not working out as planned--surprise, surprise. In fact it's not working at all--or rather I'm not. Turns out I'm losing money--in gas and such. You see, I only get paid if I have a client. The business is new, so there are no existing clients.

And if that's not bad enough, my muse has abandoned me. This is the most writing I've done in a month.

Good-bye, July. August, be kind.

In an attempt to keep up blogging, I thought I'd post a bit of a teaser from Devils' Angel. Let me know what you think.

Claire watched as the heavily muscled angel sat, drinking his Tanqueray. His pale blue eyes seemed to be in a permanent squint, as if he already nursed a massive hangover. His hand completely covered his tumbler, making it impossible to see when he’d finished his drink. Judging from his earlier ones, he was downing them within five minutes, tops.

Claire hadn’t realized how tall he was until he rolled off the stool and stood. Most of the angels she met were etheric beauties. They were the inspiration for such artists as Michelangelo, DaVinci and many other renaissance artists.

This one had a hard quality about him that simply made him mean-looking. He had the same features as most others of his race, but the stubble on his face hid the smooth skin. A scar by his right eye marred the perfection prized by the angelic realm. He didn’t seem to care. Yeah, he dressed all right, in a Ralph Lauren way. He wore a clean, expensive shirt and equally pricey jeans, purposely made to look old. Or perhaps they really were.

He plunged a hand in his jeans pocket, pulling out some cash. The other hand dug through his dark blond hair, which fell just above his shoulders.

“Fuck it.” She heard him mutter, his voice thick with an Aussie accent.

She watched as he swayed, looking around. He turned and headed toward her. He threw down a few twenty-dollar bills.

“That should cover me, eh?”

His expression masked whatever thoughts consumed him at that particular moment. The frown on his face turned into a grimace. But Claire could sense his mind was racing at light speed.
She reached for the money and their fingers touched. For a moment, she thought he made the earth move.

Until she realized it was an explosion that rocked the back of the building.

B. Ella Donna