If Dee's walls could talk, I would move out immediately, but you'd want to move in! I have an opinion, and I'm not afraid to use it! Be sure to view older posts if you haven't stopped by in a while!
…with inspiration and gratefulness! I received a letter in the mail today. It was from Harvest House Publishers. They’re interested in my submission, and would like to offer me, Dr. Deona V. Perry, a contract.
(Feel free to shout, or jump up and down.)
It has been a dream of mine for years now to write and publish a book loosely based on the women in family. So, last June, I took the plunge and pitched it to a couple of publishers. No one responded.
Harvest House, however, is a Christian publishing house. I would not consider the story Christian fiction, but it is about redemption. Not sure if I’m actually going to pursue this deal, but the fact that they offered has me flying high. It has given me strength (I was losing some of mine).
I so needed this jolt!
You want to know if I truly have skills don’t ya? Okay, okay. Calm down. Here’s a little piece of my copyrighted work to whet your palate:
Watering Shrinking Violets – An Excerpt
At three years old, I was Über observant. Too much so, I’m sure. I noted that my mother’s happiness was directly attached to a man. Sweetness, protection, and love produced ice cream cones, later bed times, and perchance, hugs. The absence of phone calls, visits, and whole selves meant that the love I received would be diluted. There, but limited. At six years old, I wondered if men understood their power. Having been molested one, two, and three years later, I knew that they understood that there existed new rules only for them. Rules that could be birthed, broken, and left behind before morning dew. I yearned for women to have more pellucid expectations, visions, and that they could gather their strength faster. Don’t let your hurt show, honey!
At ten years old, I learned to hide my female weaknesses so that men could not smell my inferiority, but my body betrayed me. I sprouted curves that added women to my list of enemies. My brain became my shield. Sapiosexuality became my kryptonite. Many were entertained. A few stilled me. Only one, filled me, felt me. I’d never overflowed before. The totality of him moved me without ever feeling his touch.
It took thirty years to figure out that my strength, my mother’s, and every other woman’s is not a tangible thing to be avoided or examined. We aren’t weaklings offering ourselves as prey. Our hearts stretch wider than our mouths – our pussies – the river Jordan. I think that the problem with women, hell with people, is that we believe that permanence and true love are equals.