I’m with the wind
I’m on the road
Where am I going?
Nobody knows
Not even me
I’ve loved and lost
And lost again
But lose a lover
Keep a friend
If you know how
There’s peace and beauty
All around
Secret places
To be found
And they are mine
I’ll roam and roam
My heart’s caressed
The open road
Is freedom’s rest
Come out and see
Don’t you fret
I’ll not be far
A picture, a postcard
The shoot of a star
I’ll see you again
I’ve not songed and danced enough about the latest publication I’m involved in. It is a book of blood. It may cause you sweat and tears. And it comes with a wee warning: Tis not for those who cannot read outside the box; tis not for those who are too scared to peek under the bed.
This book is a collaboration. Helena Hann-Basquiat recruited writers of intrigue from around the world to join together and produce something that’s a bit meta. Call it paranormal thriller, call it psychological horror, call it what you will. It comes from the place where the creepy crawlies hide.
The author gathered voices in the same way the grim reaper gathers souls and trapped them in the pages. If you want a taster of the type of things they have to say, read Voices – a short story collection that is teaser and terror combined. To read reviews of Singularity, visit Goodreads. To meet the authors, go to Pen Paper Pad, where the wonderful Tamara Woods explored what makes our characters tick. For some background, go straight to the source and read about the route down the rabbit hole: The Road So Far. Also, there be trailers – character trailers as well as a taste of the whole that you can view below.
At the time of writing, there are sixty hours left to order from Indiegogo. If the target is hit, it will continue to be possible to order bundles and bonuses. If it’s not – this is your last chance to get a starter, side or desert with your main.
Queenstown. Seasons change – folk leave. It’s a transient place with transient people, people with one thing among others in common. They live large. They’re larger than life. They go hard, then some go home, or hound it to the next bright light. Others can hack it and hang out. Some keep coming back. But there’s always another adventure round the corner; there’s always something calling. You’ll meet the most amazing people, though keeping hold of them might be a game of catch-me-if-you-can. Perhaps FOMO is the philosophy here, but if you can embrace it, you live life from outstanding day to outstanding day, ride to ride, wave to wave, moment to moment. And wherever you end up in the end, you’ll never forget how it felt to fly…
So here’s one for the thrill-chasers, the moment-makers, the life-livers – the Queenstowners. And hey, who knows, chase a little life yourself, you might see them again.
Life Sans Regret
I’m a bird, bro
Don’t cage me
Things to do
People to see
Shit to learn
Clichés a plenty
But if you were gonna see
The things that I’ll see
And surf the snow
Ride the water
Hit the dirt
You’d get it with me
How it is just to be
Be here, be now
Be free
And to all the broken hearts
I’ll leave in my wake
Don’t angst out too much
I’m not a mistake
Enjoy me right now
And just don’t forget
Wherever I’ve gone
Whatever the scene
I’ll live sans regret
Life on the drop-off
With GCs I’ve met
No borders, no boundaries
No fun with a ban
Snow’s sweet for a season
Ride hard while you can
(c) 2015 Sara Litchfield
Most people who know me (and, at this juncture, many people who don’t know me at all) have an inkling that I’ve got a lot of love for Instagram.
Getting my first touch-screen phone with a passable camera (which only happened last September – judge away!) made it possible for me jump on the bandwagon, and I’ve been a happy addict ever since. During a darkish time, it motivated me to find a bit of beauty in every single day – it got me outdoors in search of moments I didn’t just want to memorise, but play with and publish with a line that would remind me of what it really looked like, how it really felt.
Social media sometimes gets a bad rap. We’re saturated with images, memes, gifs… smart-ass comments, shares and over-shares… But you can’t deny that amongst the plethora of posts out there, some can be provoking. Some can be show-stopping. Some can reach out a hand and hold your heart, even lift it, spiral it to new heights.
Often, I’m in search of a smile. Often, I have one person in mind in whom I think a post might provoke that delightful lilt to the lips. And that makes sharing worth it for me. It’s not about courting your envy or inspiring your awe – it’s about inviting you in. It’s me shouting a greeting: I wish you were here. It’s beautiful. I wish you could see what I see.
So, since I’m back sharing here, I thought I’d invite you to smile at a recent, in-progress Instagram series of mine: Happiness is…
One thing to note: They’re not really pictures of snowboarders or mountains or lakes I’ve seen or book I’ve written. They are posts about passion. Whether with words or phone-photography, I’d love to provoke someone somewhere to find a moment of passionate engagement with something, with anything. A moment that makes them pause, that makes them smile, that makes them think: Happiness is… this.
Happiness is: Snow, sunshine, stories, and overhearing conversations that make you smile
Follow me on Instagram: Sara Litchfield
Friends and neighbours, I’ve been absent. I’ve been around, about and everywhere, and I have been writing. There are plenty exciting project things in the pipeline. We’ve a book launch tomorrow for a start! But I’ve not been here. And I’ve probably not been round yours so much lately either. I’m sorry. But I’m going to change that. I’m coming back. I’m going to be more present. Recently, the offline world has all been very distracting. I’ll tell you all about it later. Madness on the mountain; exhilaration on the ice; rides in cars and boats and planes. And all sorts of interesting, all-consuming work in the spaces in between.
What to share with you after so long? Perhaps just a piece of me. My writers’ group challenge this week was to write an open letter to yourself – yourself ten years hence. A step through the looking glass…
———–
Dear Me,
I hope you have not changed. I hope you still have no regrets. I hope you still carry a big heart and wear a big smile. I hope that whatever hurt has come your way, you have learnt from it, laughed at it, and sent it on its way.
Perhaps a letter at your end would warn me against life’s foes. Perhaps you would look back at my lost battles, my dips and trenches, my grazed knees, and shake your head. Perhaps you would say, ‘You shouldn’t get so attached.’
But let me let you know – I am happy. I am full. I am boundless.
And so you cannot say to me, ‘Do not get attached.’
That is who I am. That is what I do.
I fall everyday. For places, people, things. For moments. For memories. For little pockets of wonder in the jacket of life.
I tether myself to them with an open cord – I open my heart wide. I cast a net to bring beauty and brilliance to my side and I drown in it with delight.
I cannot do ‘no stings attached’ – I can only make pretend. I am a ball of twine. But I like to think the good kind. I don’t tie people into knots; I wrap myself up and present myself to them with a bow. I am the string on a helium balloon, inviting them to fly with me.
I love people. I can fall for someone in a week, make fast friendships in a weekend. People leave marks on my soul. I can tell a stranger my hopes and dreams. My innermost everything is an open book. I crave connection, affection, to read the story of someone’s life and invite them to be a highlight in my own. It makes my story that much richer, that much more of an adventure. I will love you if you let me.
I hope you have not changed. I hope you still have no regrets. I hope you still carry a big heart and wear a big smile. I hope that whatever hurt has come your way, you have learnt from it, laughed at it, and sent it on its way.
Sincerely,
Me
————-
What would you say to yourself ten years hence, or ten years ago? Everything you do today is the gift of a memory given to a future you. Make it a good gift.
The Routeburn: Towards Harris Saddle
This weekend, I ran away. I’ve been burning the candle at all sorts of ends – it’s basically just a puddle of wax on the floor. I’m consistently over-ambitious, over-extended, and aching all over. But I’m more energised than I’ve been in a really long time.
I’m not ashamed to say the last six months have been tough. At times a bit of a warzone I’ve had to battle through, struggling to keep my head up. But if they’ve been a battle, this last month’s been a revolution.
Being broken up with out the blue is a lot like being dropped from a team for no reason. You’ve lost a connection. But the main thing to keep in mind is this: However much a better person someone else makes you, it’s possible to lose them and still become an even better one. Another thing to remember: Just because you’re now flying solo, it doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.
In the last couple of months I’ve got back on board with the Queenstown Creative Writing Group, taken photos with the Snappers, joined the triumphant TEDx Queenstown team (the videos are up!), jumped on wheels to spin around with the Roller Derby squad, and hit the ice to become a part of Queenstown’s first and currently only women’s ice hockey team. I’ve also spent time with friends who have cemented into a crew to wind up and down the days with – making a living, of course, taking up the multitude of hours in between.
I’ve been out the loop a little with #1000Speak and the gang, but I’ve been keeping up with posts and marvelling at the continued energy that has turned into monthly efforts to foster a world-wide community dedicated to compassion. The theme this month was connection, so I’d like to add my belated mite.
Being part of a team, whether sports squad, arts gathering or friendship group, is about connection. Connection is what makes us human; it’s what keeps us compassionate, empathetic, enthusiastic – it allows us to come together with a common purpose and achieve common goals as well as individual ones. Being part of team, being connected to anything – it motivates us, lifts us, cheers us. Completes us.
Sometimes, like this weekend for me, you want to get away from the maelstrom and wander about in the quiet. I went with a friend, but it could be you’d rather spend some time alone. Whichever way, there’s still connection there. Wherever you are, even in silence, you can find connection with your surroundings.
Biophilia translates as ‘love of life’. It was coined by Erich Fromm to describe an innate psychological attraction to what is alive and vital – to nature. It’s something I certainly experienced this weekend as I walked the Routeburn, one of New Zealand’s Great Walks, to show-stopping views such as those captured above and below.
Whatever you’ve been through and wherever you’re going, make sure you pause to consider the connections you’re making along the way. Make sure to embrace them. Make sure to love life.
Where have you been lately? What have you been doing and with whom? Do you ever pause to contemplate how we’re all connected?
The Routeburn: Coming up the highest part of the track
The Routeburn: Also known as Middle Earth
Glenorchy Lagoon: A warm-down walk at sunset
“Live for Awesome” – Cam Calkoen
Anyone who’s read this blog regularly since I started winding words together in early 2013 will know that Queenstown New Zealand, of Middle Earth & bungy-jumping fame, is not only one of the most beautiful and vibrant places in the world – it’s where I make my home. It’s where I wrote my first book and where I founded my business. And I love it here.
I can go on and on about the mountains and lakes, the activities and aesthetics, the bars and buzz, and, yes, the real estate and rentals… But have I said enough about the people that put the extreme-ideas-capital of the world on the map?
It was my great privilege to volunteer at TEDx Queenstown this weekend. Queenstown’s movers and shakers have fingers in a great many pies, but the creative cooks of this fast-paced, entrepreneurial hub came together to put on something particularly special when they took up the TED mantle.
For the uninitiated, TED stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design. It’s a non-profit devoted to communicating ‘ideas worth spreading’, mostly in the form of 18 minute talks. It all began with a California conference the year I was born, 1984, and since then has whipped its way across the world with the help of TEDx events, where the x indicates the event has been independently organised by local volunteers to bring the spirit of TED to the community. All talks are recorded and made freely available on the interwebs.
This year, over 4000 hours of volunteer work went into illuminating Queenstown with the words of some of the finest inspirational speakers the world has to offer. Volunteering, I didn’t get to see everyone live, but those I did get to witness absolutely blew me away.
I’d been looking forward to Trey Ratcliff, local travel photographer extraordinaire, but all I caught was the thunderous applause from the other side of the door I was guarding – needless to say I’m looking forward to the recording! I nearly had a heart attack when I saw he’d followed me on Twitter.
My highlight from setting up on the Saturday was getting to see Graeme James rehearse. On the Sunday I was lucky enough to catch his show-stopping speech, with its powerful instrumental punctuation proving how you can reach people through music.
Mark Balla‘s toilet humour was a juxtaposition to a serious message that really made you stop and think about the things we take for granted – his organisation aims to make sustainable sanitation a reality for the whole world. Jamie Fitzgerald‘s rousing talk was as motivating as they come – inspiration to succeed from an adventurer who’s walked unaided to the South Pole and who holds the world record for rowing across the Atlantic Ocean.
Closing off the day’s brilliance was a name I didn’t previously know but will now never forget – Cam Calkoen. He is beyond a doubt one of the finest and most incredible people I’ve ever heard speak – a standing ovation tells me that more than one person will have walked away believing, like him, that absolutely anyone can live their dream.
And that’s the truth. Anyone can make their mark on the wall of the world. Not only the speakers proved that to me, but the people behind the scenes, seeing it run smoothly, but, above all, making it possible for inspirational ideas to spread – for people to catch fire and light up others upon leaving, in keeping with the theme of illumination.
How wonderful, how powerful, how world-changing words can be.
I’ve not felt like I’ve been very inspirational or motivational here lately, mostly because I’ve been struggling with finding inspiration and motivation for myself. Since being stirred up by compassion posts for #1000Speak, I’ve mostly floundered finding something meaningful to say. And my latest manuscript has been moulding.
But today I woke up feeling different to the new normal (partly due to the cold – winter is coming (and, on a tangent, DRAGONS – bring it on GoT! (Gosh it’s been a long time since I parenthesised in parentheses))… but partly something else). Still with me? Good.
I’ve been waiting for it – a turn, a switch, a flip. I knew it was coming. Week by week since The Return, I have felt better. There have been smiles & laughs amidst the crash landings; I’ve found my feet amongst old and new friends; I’ve taken up old and new tasks. There have been challenges around the setbacks – but overall, an upward curve that’s becoming a grin. Heartbreak’s a bitch, but what kind of writer could I be without being eviscerated once in a while? And if you’re never brought low, how will you know how good it is to fly high?
I have a million things to do, so I’ve been writing and re-writing lists rather than achieving much of any of them. I’ve fire-fought – dealing with the urgent tasks and letting the important-but-not-immediate ones slide into the next day’s list – Future-Sara’s issue. I have been kinder to myself when it comes to time and goals. And I have thanked my lucky stars for my friends and for my resilient sense of humour, which between them have softened several assaults on my recovering sunny nature with their sense of the ridiculous.
One wee issue I’ve been wrestling is my faithless steed, Imp Lannister. Many of you will know by now that, much like my love for people, my love for inanimate objects can know no bounds. Take Bella (“I neglected to realise that while living in her would be a dream, getting anywhere would be a nightmare”), Enid (“Life always throws a herd of cows in your way when you want to get somewhere”) & Nicki (“A teddy bear can be so much more than a possession”), for example.
I adore The Imp, and it breaks my heart that he’s on his way out. But I still have him on the road at the moment. And the roads are busy. It’s often a nightmare finding somewhere to park – sometimes plain impossible.
Life can be like finding a parking space. A massive pain. You can sometimes be over-ambitious or under-discerning, attempting to fit into a gap where you just won’t fit, whether due to the lack of space, your lack of spatial awareness, or your pure inability to parallel park. This can lead, at best, to jokes, jeers and jibes, at worst, to bumps, bruises and insurance claims.
You can find yourself circling the same spot, the same taken spaces, close to your destination, hoping for an opening, feeling frustrated. You can curse those who take the places you were aiming for, nipping in before you.
Or… you can go a bit farther afield and make peace with a longer walk to where you want to be. You can practise patience. You can understand that if you don’t give up, you’ll find somewhere eventually.
At the beginning of the year, I was turning in frustrated circles, cursing people stealing my parking spaces but obstinately refusing to change tack and make life easier for myself. I was wasting time. Now, I’ve realised I needed to keep driving. I’ve woken up more willing to walk a little to make it work. Even uphill.
Anyhow, in a week, I’m moving into town from the ranch, where I will retire my wheels and learn to use my legs again (Yes. I am moving. Again.). Life is a lot like walking – but that’s a story for another day…
Dropkicked heart
You’ll be okay
What’s a war wound anyway?
You’ve had ’em before
And you’ll have ’em again
Dropkicked heart
You know you’ll mend
–
Dropkicked heart
Who can say
Why it is they walk away?
You know, you know
They’ll come and go
Dropkicked heart
It’s how you’ll grow
–
Dropkicked heart
Don’t you cry
A waste of time to wonder why
Climb and climb
And rise above
Dropkicked heart
–
Many times before you’re done
Many times before you’re done
If you walk with coat cast off
You’ll find the ones who’ll be enough
To keep you laughing everyday
You’ll cry out when they’re off away
–
But keep on trying
Keep on flying
Keep on going
Keep on flowing
–
One day you’ll be scooped right up
And treasured like a precious cargo
They will go as far as you’ll go
Help you heal forever and oh
–
Dropkicked heart
You’ll keep the scars
But they’ll be stories
They’ll be ours
There is a place, a dark place, just outside of the GTA (that’s the Greater Toronto Area, if you’re interested, darlings) where darkness dwells. A place where the smog hangs over Lake Ontario like a malignant force – for the Dwarves that lived there burned the fires of steel refining day and night, pumping their smoke into the sky, leaving a desolation usually reserved for such detestable places as Pittsburgh or (shudder) Cleveland. In the long dead language of the people who once dwelt there, it is called Khazad-dûm, but people today refer to it as Hamilton, and its name is spoken in hushed, fearful tones. Children are warned never to venture north of King Street in the dark, and in particular to avoid the dreaded Barton Street, where all manner of twisted creatures dwell, seeking to prey on any weak straggler who might venture into their path. It is a place of horror, where…
“Seriously, Helena?” Penny interjected.
“What?” I asked, standing firmly by my assessment.
“Well, iss not very noice, issit?” the Countess Penelope of Arcadia accused. You remember Penny, darlings. Tends to talk like a Dickensian street urchin from time to time, fancies herself something of a fashion trendsetter because of a incomparable collection of stripey socks, and is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a fan of the writing of one Mr. J.R.R. Tolkien.
“No, Penny, Hamilton isn’t very nice,” I agreed, knowing full well that’s not what she meant.
“You know full well thass not wot I meant, ya daft cow!” Penny protested passionately.
A couple of months ago, Penny and I had moved into her grandmother’s house in Hamilton in order to help look after her, and it had been an adjustment for everyone.
“Besides,” the Countess of Arcadia continued, “I fought you loiked West-day-oh.”
“Westdale? Oh yes. Three coffee shops, a bakery, a shitty pub, a Pita Pit and a TCBY. What’s not to love?” I held my hand over my heart, all a-flutter.
“Hmm,” the Countess of Arcadia said, tapping a finger to her lips and looking pensive. “Interesting. How very interesting.”
I wasn’t going to bite. I had an inkling as to where this was going, having just sat through Star Trek: Into Darkness, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and two seasons of the BBC’s Sherlock on the weekend. Neither of us were feeling well, and so we loaded up on junk food and bundled our bacteria-besieged bodies in blankets and binged on Bandersnatch. Cummerbund Bandersnatch, that is, and if you want some back story on that silly sounding bit of schizophasia, it’s simple, darlings. One night, after one too many vodka and cranberries, the Countess declared her undying love for the star of Sherlock, one Benedict Cumberbatch, only in her drunkified state (drunkified is a good, fine, strong word, thank you very much, and seeing as it’s referring to a state in which one slurs one’s speech and engages in such dreadful activities as neologism, I’m standing by my use of it) she insisted (quite insistently, if I recall correctly, and I always do, darlings) that his name was Cummerbund Bandersnatch. It took, and that will forever be how we refer to the man in Casa de Hann-Basquiat.
“Fascinating,” the Countess continued, caressing her mouth as if deep in deductive thought.
“Okay,” I sighed. “What’s so fucking fascinating?”
“You seriously just swore for the sake of alliteration, didn’t you?” the Countess queried capriciously.
“You’re one to talk with your capricious queries,” I quipped.
“You need help,” the Countess Penelope of Arcadia accused, not unkindly.
“Yes, I thought we determined that,” I grinned. “Now go on, then. What do you find fascinating?”
“Ah yes,” the Countess of Arcadia (which is somewhere in the vicinity of 221B Baker Street, it would seem) resumed. “I find it fascinating that you claim to know so much about the village of Westdale, and claim to find it disagreeable and pedantic, and yet the true story of how you feel about it can be found in what you deliberately neglected to mention.”
I was driving Penny to the train station. One of the adjustments that we both had to make when we moved to Hamilton was a longer commute, and while neither of us enjoyed that very much, we tried to make the best of it.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I deflected, and then tried a different tact. “So are you going to go see the Desolation of Smaug this weekend?”
“You’re pronouncing that wrong, Helena, and you know you’re pronouncing that wrong.” the Countess Penelope of Arcadia (which is somewhere in the Misty Mountains) accused.
“How can you tell?” I asked, amused.
“Well, iss all in the bloody title, ennit?” the Dickensian street urchin that contrarily fancies herself a Countess replied. “You’re sayin’ it to rhyme with fog, but it don’t go loik that, does it? And Smaug don’t live in the Misty Mountains, neither. ‘E lives in the Lonely Mountain. And don’t fink I ‘aven’t noticed that you’ve, loik, changed the bleeding subject, you devious dilettante!”
I snickered into my coffee, nearly spilling it and driving us off the road.
“I thought you hated Tolkien,” I reminded her.
“I do,” Penny admitted. “Horrible writing. Archaic, laughable plot devices and in terrible need of an editor – but that man’s voice…”
“Cummerbund Bandersnatch,” I volunteered.
“Thass the one, ‘Elena, my love, my sweet,” she agreed with a lusty grin. “That beautiful man’s glorious voice melts my knickers, it does. And ‘e’s voicing the dragon Smaug, so…”
“I see,” I said plainly.
“Now,” the Countess resumed, composing herself. She may or may not have wiped a string of drool from her lips. “Back to the matter at hand. You deliberately neglected to mention the following bits of information concerning the village of Westdale, which you claim to find boring and uninteresting. One – Westdale has a charming little theatre, which I happen to know that you love, because you have chosen to see not one but three films there lately as opposed to seeing them at the giant cineplexes. Two – Westdale has not one but two comic book stores, and I can’t help but notice that you are not behind in reading Saga or Unwritten – so tell me, Helena – where have you been buying your comics, huh?”
“Well, I…” I began, but was immediately interrupted.
“Three!” The Countess continued presenting her damning evidence against me. “Adjacent to one of these comic book stores is a wonderful little used book store that has the TARDIS-like quality of being much larger on the inside than it appears from the outside. Why, you could get lost in there for days perusing all those wonderful books.”
“Okay, okay, so what’s your point?” I asked, and she ignored me.
“Four!” Penny persisted. “You love one of those coffee shops you so surreptitiously dismissed. Any time we’re even in the vicinity, you’re all Hey, Penny, you wanna go to My Dog Joe? I submit that you are over-compensating, my dear. I have used my highly tuned powers of deduction to see through your ruse!”
“Have you, now?” I replied, amused at her amusement.
“Indeed.” Penny insisted.
“Indubitably.” I agreed.
“Yes. Quite.” The Countess Penelope of Arcadia counted, affecting a posher, more Windsor Castle-like accent. “And we are not amused.”
I laughed. “Oh, you are so amused, darling – admit it.”
Penny smiled at me. “Well, perhaps we are a touch amused. That does not mean I won’t call for your head if you do not agree to accompany me to the film this weekend!”
“So now I have to go with you?” I asked.
“But of course,” the Countess Arcade stated regally. “Who will protect me from the rabid Tolkienites?”
I sighed, “You’re going to wear your FUCK TOLKIEN t-shirt, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, but only because my TOLKIEN WAS A LAZY, UNIMAGINATIVE PRAT shirt got destroyed during that melee at the Role Playing Gamer’s convention, and I thought you promised you’d never bring that up again, thank you very much for re-opening those old wounds.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” I said, completely deadpan.
“Apology accepted, Captain Needa,”[1] the Countess replied in her best Darth Vader (which wasn’t very good, and to be honest, still had a trace of the cockney street urchin in it, if you can imagine that). “But just for that, you’re paying for the tickets.”
“Very well,” I complied.
“And popcorn,” Penny amended.
“Okay,” I agreed.
“And ice cream after the show,” the Countess demanded.
“We’ll see,” I said, as if she were four and not twenty-something.
“And then can we go mini-golfing?” Penny asked, deliberately upping the ante. “Or on pony rides?”
“You just keep pushing it, young lady,” I said in mock parental tones, “and we’ll be spending the weekend giving sponge baths at the old folk’s home.”
The Countess threw me a pathetic looking pout, and we both broke out laughing.
All things considered, it was good to be young and insane.
[1] To complete the trifecta, a Star Wars reference. After Darth Vader kills Captain Needa, he then accepts the man’s apology. You didn’t see that kind of badassery in those horrible prequels.
———–
If you want to read more, BECOME A FAN at PUBSLUSH and pre-order Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume Two and Penelope, Countess of Arcadia
The enigmatic Helena Hann-Basquiat dabbles in whatever she can get her hands into just to say that she has.
Some people attribute the invention of the Ampersand to her, but she has never made that claim herself.
Last year, she published Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume One, and is about to release Volume Two, along with a Shakespearean style tragi-comedy, entitled Penelope, Countess of Arcadia.
Helena writes strange, dark fiction under the name Jessica B. Bell. VISCERA, a collection of strange tales, will be published by Sirens Call Publications later this year. Find more of her writing at http://www.helenahb.com or and http://www.whoisjessica.com Connect with her via Twitter @HHBasquiat , and keep up with her ever growing body of work at GOODREADS, or visit her AMAZON PAGE