Being a writer is a lonely business, by and large.  If you are lucky enough to write full-time, your life consists of long stretches of solitary effort, populated by nothing more than the voices in your head and a persistent low-grade carpal tunnel ache.  And not that I don’t think it’s the best damn job in the world, but there are times when the presence of friends means more than words can express.

This week was one of those times.

I had surgery (never something you want to do by your lonesome) on Tuesday.  I’ll spare the gory details, but suffice it to say that Percocet is my best friend, and trying to do anything without your abdominal muscles is damn near impossible.  Add to that two small and very physically affectionate rugrats who drag their poor mother through a very active lifestyle and things get ugly.  About as ugly as all the bruising on my abdomen.

But if you’re damn lucky like me, you have a posse of angels who swoop in to your rescue.  Mr. Xandra hauled my poor, wounded carcass home and tucked me into bed to recuperate, and no sooner did he get me situated than my homegirls came to the rescue.  My son had rides to school and afternoon adventures that kept him active and occupied (and less prone to worrying about Mommy or forgetting that he couldn’t head-butt me with affection as is the norm around here).  My daughter found herself with new toys to keep her occupied.  The Girls brought me dinners and pie (pie!  pie rules!) and not a day went by without at least two calls to check and see if I needed anything from the store, or needed some company to help move around.

My mother-in-law (a voracious reader herself, and the woman who kept my kids in clean laundry, bless her) witnessed this, and asked me if I knew how much of a gift I had in these women.  I answered her truthfully - from the start of my friendships with them, there has been a genuine bond between us that has been unexpected, but not in the least unwelcome.  We are five very different women, and we’re constantly amazed at how our diverse backgrounds led us to form such a wonderful circle.  And we’re very much aware at how we really found something special.

You know who you are, ladies. But I wonder if you know how special you are to me. Even though words are my stock in trade, I have a hard time finding the right ones that can express how powerfully blessed I feel because of your friendship. If you were a bra, you’d be sold in an exclusive boutique for more money than a car, and you’d be the kind of bra a girl would wear on the outside, because she needs to share with the world how great that bra is. Jane Russell would be green with envy at the girl who wore that kinda bra.

Yeah, I know–that was demented. But heartfelt. I love you guys.

Something beautiful happens to a book when it gets a cover. Cover art is often the last thing on a book’s production cycle, and if not the very last, then at least it becomes the point of critical mass, where a book goes from the potential of a manuscript to the reality of a book.

Covers attract readers, and entice them to pick up (click on) the book to learn more. No savvy reader judges a book solely by its cover, as the old adage goes, but the cover sure does play a part, whether we’re conscious of it or not.

When I was a teenager, enamored of the teenage romances (back in the dinosaur age the first time the YA market was hot), I used to stare endlessly at the covers of the books I was reading. I read so fast that my mother encouraged me to slow down and enjoy the story (probably so she wouldn’t have to keep buying me new ones so fast!). I’d slow myself down by taking frequent “cover staring” breaks. I’ll never forget the book whose cover didn’t match the inside. It was about a girl who was stranded in a haunted house with her boyfriend and his mother, and her quest to solve the mystery of the ghost girl’s murder. In the book, the heroine had dark hair and the ghost was blonde, but on the cover, the model in the diaphanous robes surrounded by mist (supposed to be the ghost) had dark hair, while the girl dressed in the modern clothes was a blonde.

I don’t remember the title or author of that book, but I do remember the error on the cover, and how angry it made me. Of course, back then, everything made me angry, but having a cover that didn’t fit the story was somehow upsetting enough to stick in my mind long after the lava of teen angst has cooled in my veins (didja like that imagery?).

One thing that has really, truly impressed me about Liquid Silver (and was a deciding factor in my choice to submit to them in the first place) was the classy professionalism of their covers. That’s why I’m pleased to announce the cover of the anthology featuring my second story with them is ready to roll.  This beautiful cover brought to you by April Martinez, who is an art goddess.