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Didi Oviatt

Author of suspense novels Search For Maylee, Aggravated Momentum, The Stix, and New Age Lamians. As well as the short story collection Time Wasters and (co-author of) The Suspenseful Collection. Columnist for The Conscious Talk Magazine.

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Digital stroll down memory lane. WOW

A beautiful friend of mine just started her blog! She’s such an inspiration and I know her journey is going to help and inspire so many!! Check out and follow Kayleigh, she’s absolutely gorgeous inside and out!

onarundayone

Remember when I said in High School I looked like a beach ball with blonde hair? Well I found the proof today; but had to find the pictures on my mothers Face book. After my parents divorce in 2011 is when my weight dropped dramatically. I developed very unhealthy eating habits and found myself skinny for the first time in my life. I also felt alive for the first time in my life as well. But because I did it in such a unhealthy way it wasn’t long until I was over weight again and extremely overweight.

So my weight has been one hell of a roller coaster ride. Like one of those not fun ones that jerks you around.

On.A.Run.Day.one Starts NOW.. after laundry.. you know what screw it..  maybe before laundry. I will let you know …  HAHAHA..

okay so now that its dark out side and laundry…

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Meet Guest Author, K.D. Dowdall…

An excellent guest post on Chris the story reading ape blog. KD Dowdall is one of my favorite Indi authors! Check out this must read on her back story!

Chris The Story Reading Ape's Blog

The Journey

Hello, everyone. My name is Karen Anna DeMers Dowdall and as an author, K. D. Dowdall. I am delighted to have been asked to be a part of Chris Graham’s, Author Hall of Fame!

My journey to become a writer and author begins early in my life, in a roundabout way.

I was born in Hartford, Connecticut. I was disappointed though, because I always wanted to be born Chinese. So, I pretended I was Chinese until I was nine. I demanded to eat with Chinese chopsticks at every meal (Try eating oatmeal porridge with chopsticks).

At nine-years-old, my hero author was Pearl S. Buck, The Good Earth, although a close second was Hans Christian Andersen’s Classic Fairy Tales. My mother, always an avid reader, introduced us to books at an early age. I still envision her sitting in her English wingback upholstered chair, with a book, reading. She…

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#review ONE PEDAL AT A TIME, by CJ Golden 5 stars

My Review:

 

If there were ever a person with an undeniable blend of humble determination, illuminating love, and a never ending dedication to those who hold meaning in their life – CJ Golden would be her. One Pedal at a Time is, in my opinion, a must read for any and everyone who is, has been, or may in the future be facing any sort of medical trauma that requires ongoing care. Not only for the insight of do’s and don’ts while caring for a loved one, but also to soak up the tremendous example of positive attitude and personal interaction.

As weird as it is to label a book about Novice Caregiving as a lovely read, I’m going to do it. From cover to cover this book offers so much to learn from in terms of relationship and family values. And, yes lovely is the word I’m going with. Let me tell you why!

The beginning of One Pedal at a Time offers a run down about how CJ found herself married to Joe, as well as a little background of their lifestyles. Before courting, the two had known one another from group interactions while each were in their previous marriages. Once dating, they ultimately clicked, took their time in growing close, learned from one another, as well as respected the fact that their union was centered on more than just the two of them. Joe’s and CJ’s children, and grandchildren clearly hold the utmost importance in their lives.

One thing I love about this book is that CJ paints a clear picture of Joe before Leukemia and strokes took them for a loop. Joe is an accomplished, witty, up-beat, wholesome, and extremely supportive man. He’d helped CJ through medical difficulties of her own, and was a very prominent Cyclist. He even rode across the U.S. merely a year before strokes debilitated him.

A large portion of the book consists of emails that CJ had written to friends and family throughout Joe’s treatments and stays during the hardest year after diagnosis. This approach of writing helped to round the entire story. It allows us as the readers detailed insight on real time emotions as well as detailed treatments, good days vs. bad days, and more.

Together CJ and Joe face the world head on, in sickness and in health. Their relationship and their approach to life is general is, as I said before, absolutely lovely.

 

Description:

Watching her husband, Joe, regress from crossing the country on a bike to cheering him on as he navigated his wheelchair around the kitchen, CJ Golden had much to learn about caregiving. And she did – through her characteristic determination, quest for knowledge, boundless love and relentless optimism.

Within these pages the reader finds a balanced mix of somber reflections and light moments that highlight a very real passage in the lives of a husband and wife who love each other unequivocally. Golden shares the lessons she learned, the emotional and physical strain upon her heavily burdened shoulders, and the realization that, through it all, their connection and love have grown stronger.

Joe’s motto for getting through life’s most trying times has always been, “one pedal at a time” – referring to his days traversing the country, for months at a time, on the two wheels of his road bike. Thus, the title of this book and, hopefully, a philosophy that will help carry others through their own caregiving struggles.

One Pedal at a Time speaks to caregivers who need a place to turn to for information, inspiration and hope. And who enjoy a good love story.

Two Liner……..

Crisp is the week, and so am I.

Each day starts fresh, it’s time to fly!

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How Can Exercise Benefit Your Mental Health?

When Women Inspire

The benefits of exercise are very well known. It can help you get fitter and have a healthier body, but what effect can it have on your mind and mental health? There is a very important relationship between the two, and anyone wanting to improve their mental health should consider fitness. You should also consider exercise and fitness whatever your current state of mind, as there are so many benefits. So, how can exercise benefit you? And what kind of effects can you expect to see? Read on to see how you can change your life by making a few healthy choices each week, and when you put in the effort you can receive great rewards.

Building New Relationships

There are many individual exercises and activities you can do, whether it be a relaxing swim in the pool or spending some time alone with your thoughts. But exercise…

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Feel Me Fall, by James Morris #Blitz #excerpt

Genre: YA/ Thriller/ Survival

Publication Date: May 2017

Blurb:

Secrets and survival in the Amazon

Emily Duran is the sole survivor of a plane crash that left her and her teenage friends stranded and alone in the jungles of the Amazon. Lost and losing hope, they struggle against the elements, and each other. With their familiar pecking order no longer in place, a new order emerges, filled with power struggles, betrayals, secrets and lies. Emily must explain why she’s the last left alive.

But can she carry the burden of the past?

Discover the gripping new adventure novel that explores who we are when no one is watching, and how far we’ll go in order to survive.

Feel Me Fall Cover 2D

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Excerpt

I have tried so hard to forget, but memory is a stubborn thing. Memories linger no matter what I do. They’re there all the time—and worse. Even my dreams aren’t safe. I have vicious nightmares, and they’re real—too real—and suddenly I’m back there. I can’t will them away, I can’t squeeze them away, and the more I try, the more they burrow in my head. I want to cut open my skull and dig my fingers into my brain and just pull them out.

I press the Call Nurse button.

This place, this room; it’s no better than a white coffin. Sometimes I feel like the walls are closing in on me and I have to remind myself nothing’s moving. Nothing at all.

Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe.

A nurse enters. She’s got skin the color of rich walnut. She says, “It’s late, you should be asleep.”

“I can’t.” She tilts her head, knowing it’s a lie. The truth is I don’t want to. “Can I have some coffee?”

“You’ve got to sleep sometime, honey.” She walks over and gently grasps my bandaged hand. “Do you want me to stay with you a while?”

Usually my mom is with me, but she must’ve had to run home. Reduced to a little girl, I nod.

I close my eyes, but my mind runs and runs. Tubes and fluids enter my body, but there’s nothing to stop the anxiety. My heart pounds and sometimes I fear I’m on the cusp of crossing into whatever lies on the other side of sane. Being in the hospital makes it harder. The white walls and sick people only remind me that I am so far from normal. My mom’s apartment in Los Angeles is less than five miles away, but it might as well be a million.

The nurse, staff, doctors, everyone; they all know me for one thing. The thing that will define me for the rest of my life. I am a survivor. The only survivor of Air Brazil, the plane that crashed in the Amazon jungle carrying 134 passengers; 37 of them students, teachers, and chaperones from Riverdale Academy High. I used to hear about plane crashes and wondered how the victims felt in the seconds before impact, wondered what it was like to know you were about to die.

Now I know. And I’d give anything not to.

I knew those people from school. Every. Single. One.

They aren’t faceless names. They are people and they are dead.

The counselor didn’t help, either. She told me not to feel guilty. Survivor’s guilt, she called it. She warned I could expect to be angry and sad. I could expect to be confused. I wanted to tell her I was angry and sad and confused long before I got onto that plane.

My counselor told me to write my story down. By writing I could make sense of all that happened. I keep thinking if I remember everything the way I need to that the memories will fade away. That I can accept what happened. I can accept that I survived and everyone else died.

The laptop on my nightstand is waiting for me. I’m scared to touch it.

###

I was dead to the world and when I came to I was drowning. Water gushed into my mouth and I was tumbling, flailing, not knowing what end was up or down. I heard the sounds of screaming and the roaring of water and then nothingness. Coming up for air, I held something, something rectangular. The seat cushion I was holding kept me afloat. I was in a river and I didn’t know why. I kicked and kicked and it made no difference. I never believed in God, an all-powerful being that allowed so many horrible things to happen, but as I saw the rocks up ahead, I prayed.

The current sped faster, churning like boiling water and I thought I was going to die.

I was 17 and I was going to die.

All the time wasted. All the things I never got to do.

I had one thought over and over: I don’t want to die. Someone else, but not me.

I held onto that seat cushion for dear life and plunged into the rapids. I was a human rag doll. The torrent sucked me into a watery hell and I couldn’t breathe; my eyes shut, mouth shut, face tight against the murk, willing everything to stop. I couldn’t breathe. I started to panic.

Someone else, but not me.

I needed air, my body screamed for it and I opened my mouth about to take in water when I bubbled up to the surface and gasped. As quickly as I was brought above, I was taken under again. I slammed against the rocks and buried my face deeper into the cushion. I saw nothing, heard nothing, and imagined I was in a womb. I could only wait for the terror to pass. There was no outlet; my fear was so deep and tangible I couldn’t scream. It felt like an actual substance that enveloped my body, my brain, my very being. I receded further and further within myself, a dark hole, my entire body a taut muscle.

Suddenly, I took a shot to the head and saw stars. A high-pitched squeal rang in my ears. I fought the growing sensation of darkness that threatened to overcome me, but I knew to give in meant death. I was tempted. So, so tempted. I forced my eyes open and saw the water, the dark water and wondered in that emptiness if I hadn’t died already.

My prayer must’ve been heard.

The water calmed and I was spit out near a bend. I realized I had to give up the cushion, my lifeline—it was holding me back. I let go, cursing myself as it floated away and I swam, giving everything I had. My body had nothing left but I commanded it, willed it, to swim. As I approached the shore, my shoes finally touched bottom and I heaved myself onto land.

I don’t know how long I lay there catching my breath. But there is no greater feeling of security than the sensation of the earth beneath your stomach, hands grabbing dirt. The scent of decay and wet leaves smelled like a bouquet. All this time I’d taken the ground beneath me for granted. Now I was thankful for this place to rest.

I was soaked. My jeans pressed against me, my hair drenched, my socks squished against my feet. I didn’t understand. I had left on a flight from Los Angeles with a layover in Panama City and then on to Asuncion, Paraguay for a year-end class trip. We were traveling as an inter-disciplinary trip for history, international relations, foreign language and biology. We were going to have the trip of a lifetime.

Then it hit me, a delayed reaction: I almost drowned. I almost died. My body seized and I was overwhelmed. I cried; I didn’t even know why or for what, but I sobbed on that little stretch of dirt. I heaved, gasping for breath. Every inhale was a wheeze, and I caught myself hitting the ground, my hands balled into tight fists, pounding and pounding.

Moments passed and I cried myself empty. I told myself: get up. You have to get up.

I placed my hands in the dirt to help me stand and looked around thinking: What is this place? There was green everywhere, too much green, and a river the width of three football fields in front of me. The air was heavy, a physical pressure against my skin. I was in the jungle, a tangled web of trees and totally foreign. Any other time, I might’ve been amazed by its majesty, only now I felt small. Trees towered behind me, the river flowed in front, and I was trapped.

It was then I felt the weight of my cross-body bag. I’d been wearing it the whole time. Not very heavy, I managed to unhook it and was about to open the zipper when I heard screams.

Floating down the river were more people. I wasn’t alone! A ripple of joy overtook me until I saw their faces reflecting what I sensed my own might look like—bruised, bleeding, and utterly thrashed.

Exhausted, I shouted my voice hoarse, “Over here!” I waved my hands over my head. “You can do it,” I encouraged. “Almost there!”

Some didn’t move at all. They floated, faces down, rolling through the current, lost in the rapids, disappearing for far too long. Those were the ones who didn’t thrash. Others were swept in the rapids, their screams barely heard over the rushing water only to be silenced on the other end. I was watching people die. The bodies were like a slow leak, trickling down the river a few at a time, and yet almost none of them emerged alive on the other side of the rocks. I couldn’t save them. They were too far away.

Someone else, but not me.

I didn’t mean like this.

Then I saw Viv and my heart nearly stopped.

She struggled in the water, past the rapids, a bobber about to go under. She was never athletic even though she was stick thin. Water gurgled from her mouth and she barely moved. I couldn’t bear to lose her. I wouldn’t allow it. I was terrified of my own exhaustion, but I jumped into the water and found a strength I never knew. I swam out to her. Her head dipped under the water and I would not let that be the last time I saw my best friend alive. I grasped her flotation cushion and then headed back to shore.

She looked at me, dazed. “Emily, it’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me.” I could barely contain my relief.

The sun shone over my head, reflecting in the ripples. “You look like an angel.”

I knew Vivian was out of it. “Stop talking now. Just swim. We’re going to be okay.”

I reached the shore for a second time and pulled her up with me. Once on land, she pulled me into a hug and nothing had ever felt better. Always shorter than me, her face burrowed into my chest and I felt I was protecting an abandoned baby bird. Her inky dark hair, usually so pretty was now plastered to her head, her make-up had washed away, and she was just this tiny thing. Her whole body shivered. “Tell me it’s a dream, tell me it’s a dream….”

“I wish it was, Viv.” I would’ve stayed hugging her if not for the other people in need of help.

Nico, Viv’s immature boyfriend, splashed ashore, his glasses gone, his nose bloody, red streaks smeared across his face. He was panting and heaved over, and I thought he might throw up. We had a history, but there was no time for irritation. Any familiar face was cause for celebration. He seemed surprised to see me. “You made it.”

He then eased Viv from my arms and into his.

Further down the river there was movement. It was Derek, all limbs and urgency, his face pockmarked with acne and not a hint of stubble. He splashed onto shore, his fingers digging into sand and he kissed the earth.

Twenty yards away, Ryan Wray followed. One of his prosthetic legs was missing—he’d lost his legs below the knee after contracting a rare case of meningitis a few years earlier—and he crab-walked onto land, his one pant leg empty, wet, and flat. He wasn’t alone. He helped guide Mean Molly with him. She was far from mean then, almost drowned, flustered and frantic. Once she got out of the water, she toppled in the mud, curling into a fetal position.

I stayed where I was as Ryan, Molly and Derek staggered along the shore, finally meeting up with us.

There was no time to rest or reflect. The river scattered more survivors along the shore. I pulled in a man and stopped in alarm when I saw that one of his arms had snapped off. I gently laid him down and he didn’t even notice until he turned his head. He said with an eerie calm, “That looks painful.” I recognized him from the plane. He’d sat a few aisles in front of me and slammed back drinks whenever we hit a patch of turbulence. On land, he didn’t even scream. His face was pale and blood spurted in rhythmic pulses from below his shoulder.

“What do we do?” Nico said.

I had no clue. I only knew we needed to do something. “Derek, your belt!”

Derek looked from his perch on the mud and shook his head. I couldn’t believe it.

“Derek, give me your belt! He’s losing too much blood.”

Derek, in shock or otherwise, didn’t move.

I searched for anything that would act as a tourniquet, but my efforts were in vain. The man’s blood had dwindled to a dribble, leaving a red puddle in the mud.

Another woman emerged from the water like a swamp creature, stumbling. We sat her down and she gazed at the water. She had a head injury like mine. Blood ran from her scalp and there was a small spot where her hair had been chafed away. It wasn’t a wound. It was a hole. Looking closer, I could see something I didn’t want to—her skull and what lay within. Her eyelids fluttered and she swayed, falling unconscious. I tried to grab her, but gravity took her to the ground. I nudged her once, twice; she didn’t respond. “Wake up,” I pleaded. “Please wake up.” She never moved again.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run from this place.

It seemed like a Halloween parade. They had to be in costume or using special effects; the injuries and deaths couldn’t be real.

They were all too real.

One man drifted to shore, his face down in the water, his wispy gray hair splayed out on the water’s surface. We grabbed ahold of him and he was heavy, far too heavy for his slender body. We saw why. The flotation device had kept him afloat, but he’d drowned somewhere along the way.

The last man we helped suffered so many burns his face was charred and etched in pain—I had the horrible thought of grill marks on steak. Once on land he jumped back into the water. Maybe the water had soothed him. I tried to reach out and grab him. “Let me help you!” But he was hysterical, too fast, and we watched as he floated away. I tell myself that he would’ve probably died anyway.

It’s terrible that I only knew them as The Woman, The Old Man, The Man Without an Arm and The Burned Man. Somewhere people knew their names, their histories, secrets and loves. Many of them rested at our feet, their chests still, mouths open. We were among the dead, and I found that we all, consciously or not, distanced ourselves from the horror.

###

The six of us stood on the shore, a hodgepodge of strained relationships, but I hoped the past meant nothing now. Silence fell over us. My voice felt robotic. “What happened?”

They looked at me as if I was stupid and in that moment I knew.

You’ve been in a plane crash.

You’ve been in a plane crash and you survived.

Viv broke down crying. “Where’s everyone else?” I asked.

“Where do you think?” said Ryan.

There had been a whole planeload of people, 37 of them from our school including my English teacher, Mr. DeKoning. We couldn’t be the only ones left. Things like this didn’t happen. At least not to us. To me.

I struggled, trying to remember, and yet there was only me sitting in my cramped seat, my body wracked with discomfort after such a long flight, the recycled air making my skin feel plastic, and then this. “How did we end up in the water?”

Ryan looked at me, stunned. “You don’t remember?”

I shook my head.

“Maybe it’s better that way.”

Derek rose. “The plane crashed in the Amazon. At least that’s what the map on my seat showed. You don’t remember bracing yourself? The flight attendants freaking out?”

“She said no, Derek!” This from Viv.

Derek said, “The plane broke apart. Flooded. We were lucky to get out.”

I didn’t remember any of it. “How did I get out?”

“Same way we did,” Derek said. “We were all sitting near each other. Near the exit rows. Threw on our life jackets or grabbed seat cushions and jumped in the water. A lot of people….” He paused. “A lot of people didn’t.” Derek looked at the dead adults. “They did, though.” He spit near the dead bodies.

“What are you talking about?”

“You should’ve seen ‘em claw over everyone. Trampled over people. They scratched and pushed their way out. There were no heroes on that plane. Not them, at least. They deserved to die.”

Nico shot back, “No one deserved to die. No one.”

“I don’t know,” Derek said. “Bet if you checked under their fingernails, you’d find human skin.”

Ryan interrupted, “Anyone see Conlin?” We shook our heads. Pete Conlin was Ryan’s best friend. “He was sitting right next to me. He was right there.” Ryan peered out over the water, as if he could see Pete in the distance. “He was right next to me.”

I don’t remember what I did next. Maybe I cried. Maybe I fell on the ground. I receded back inside myself where nothing could hurt me. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Beyond the wreckage and bodies, we were in some kind of Garden of Eden, untouched by humans, as pristine as anything I’d ever seen, canopies of trees, and plants and flowers like colorful origami, a perfume of nature, and yet we’d fallen from the sky. I hunched over, shivering, saying to myself I am safe, I am safe, I am safe.

Our layers of clothes were so wet there was no point in wearing them. Derek was missing a shoe. Most of Nico’s pants were ripped from the waist down. Viv’s designer sweatpants clung to her body. Ryan fiddled with his remaining prosthetic leg, knocking sand loose from the joints and making sure it moved properly. Disjointed and detached from his body, it looked out of place, like the rest of this nightmare. With his jeans rolled up, I saw his stump covered in scar tissue.

Derek stood near the jungle’s entrance, a quizzical look on his face, almost scientific. He didn’t seem all that fazed, and even ran his hand over some of the trees, feeling their bark. I wondered what was wrong with him.

Molly sat on the shore, plopped down like a scoop of soft-serve ice cream, her head in her hands. She sat alone, and I felt bad for her, but she had earned the nickname Mean Molly for a reason. I got up anyway and approached her. Even as I asked it, I felt stupid. “Are you okay?”

She ignored me. Then she spoke. “I never wanted to come on this trip.”

Molly didn’t once look at me. She just kept staring ahead. I left her alone.

Viv, Nico and I formed a triangle on the ground. Viv and Nico leaned into each other, and Viv’s crying went from a soft cry into heaves of despair. “I just want to go home. I just want to go home.”

We didn’t know it then, but the jungle was to become our home for far too long.

Feel Me Fall is Available on Amazon!

About the Author

James Morris

James Morris is a television writer who now works in digital media. He is the author of the young adult thriller What Lies Within, the dystopian love story Melophobia, the young adult suspense Feel Me Fall, and the young adult horror Screams You Hear. When not writing, you can find him scoping out the latest sushi spot, watching ‘House Hunters Renovation’, or trying new recipes in the kitchen. He lives with his wife and dog in Los Angeles. Catch him at jamesmorriswriter.com.

James Morris| Twitter| Facebook | Amazon

Giveaway Time!!!

James is giving away a print copy of “Feel Me Fall to one lucky winner, so don’t forget to enter the giveaway!

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Book Blitz Organized By:

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R&R Book Tours

 

Coming Together… An Update #growth

Sometimes the hard work put in pays of quickly, and sometimes it takes a bit longer. What counts in the long run, is the process and what we’ve learned along the way. How fast we achieve the exact goal we’re aiming for, doesn’t matter nearly as much as whether or not it IS in fact achieved. Character isn’t only developed in our writing projects, but in ourselves too. We learn as we grow, and we grow as we learn.

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Some of you may remember by nerves about speaking in public for the first time ever, and it was to be about myself and my books (I’m Totally Freaking Out Here!) WELL, that very event was last night and I NAILED IT!!

It’s kind of funny. I had this whole speech ready. I’d been studying it over, and debating on reading some here and there throughout my speech, or even memorizing a large portion of it if possible. Ultimately, I wound up throwing the entire thing out and just running with it from the heart. I introduced myself, explained what each of my books are about along with what inspired them, and then mulled over quickly a few experiences in my self publishing process.

There were two other authors who spoke before me, and they each cut their talks somewhat short. Because of that, I was actually able to elaborate and talk for as long as I wanted, so it was perfect. Turns out, when I run with it, I’m a bit of a rambler, haha who knew right?! I ended up talking the longest, and once I got going I wasn’t near as nervous as I though I’d be.

I signed/sold some books, answered a slew of questions from the audience and students alike, grew my email list, and posed happily for pictures to be put in my local news!

Win Win all around. I”d love to experience it again soon!

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It’s A Quotes For Writers Kinda’ Day!

Why Instagram Blows

We all know that a part of building an author platform includes having several outlets of social media. But is ALL platforms social  media necessary? I  mean, we all have our favorite places to express our creative genius, and to draw in followers/fans/virtual interaction of what ever sort we’re seeking.

I personally like Facebook the most, but I’m old… There I said it!

Some will argue on which ever outlet they like best, bringing about features and qualities, simplicity, statistics or what have you. The list goes on and on and on, as does the arguments that come with these said features and preferences. But, ultimately what it comes down to is what you actually use!

In my opinion, individuality in marketing, is just as important as individuality in writing!

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Personally, my least favorite is Instagram!  There, I said that too!! lol

I use it the least. My phone kicks me out of the app often. It freezes up constantly.  Sharing any links sucks, as does sharing other people’s work. How are you supposed to network for each other as a team when the platform you’re using to do so is less than ideal? Sure you can use hashtags like crazy, but woopdy-f*king-do.

Now, like I said… This is in fact just MY opinion. My point of this post isn’t so much to bash on IG either… It’s more of a confession and somewhat of an apology.

So here it is, my official, on the record… SORRY:

If you’re a fan of IG, and use it regularly, then I apologize for either not following you or for not ever liking your stuff.

If you follow me on IG then I’m sorry that I’m rarely there or posting anything new.

If you’ve personal messaged me on IG and I didn’t respond then likely my app kicked me out when I tried to read the message, or because I’m not there to check it. So I’m sorry for that!

Lastly, sorry if I haven’t responded to your comments on the rare posts that I do throw out there. Same reasoning as above.

Instagram blows… Have a nice day! 🙂

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