September 2015

Anne Marvin Blog Posts

Phobias-R-Us

Phobias-R-Us

I just finished a delightful romp through the pages of Robyn Peterman’s Switching Hour, book one in her “Magic and Mayhem” series. My biggest complaint is that she provided a fairly sizable excerpt from book two, but it’s not even available for pre-order on Amazon. That’s what I call a tease. Not nice, Ms. Peterman! And despite the fact that I’ve berated other authors for writing shallow, frothy characters that long for the depth of Paris Hilton, Ms. Peterman makes it work. Anyone who can get me to laugh out loud is someone on my “must read” list. Belly laughs are to life what silly tiny coats are to toy poodles; an absurd yet perfect fit. Anyway, this isn’t a review, although my expression of gratitude to Robyn Peterman for lightening my day and mind with such an enjoyable diversion is sincere. Today, I am going to focus on is… READ MORE

I’m Stuck on a Feeling

I’m Stuck on a Feeling

I’m still powering through the Audible edition of The Black Dagger Brotherhood series by one of my favorite writer crushes, JR Ward. Currently, Lover Mine is serenading me. This is John Matthew’s story, and it’s a good one. I’m sure I’ll have a lot more to say about John as I continue to listen blissfully to the next 23 hours of heaven. Today’s rumination is about love—of the unrequited variety. John Matthew has a bad case. And it’s making him a basket case.  I’ve often wondered about the affliction known as unreturned feelings.  How is it possible to feel strongly for someone who doesn’t return the emotion?  In most of my experience, I’ve been able to overcome my affection –although perhaps not lust—for men who didn’t reciprocate my feelings for them. This does not count, of course, my visceral, excruciatingly painful crush on David Cassidy of Partridge Family fame during… READ MORE

Out of Control

Out of Control

As I mentioned in my bio (I trust you’ve memorized it by now, naturally), I suffered from disordered eating for many years, starting when I was sixteen. My teenaged years were not kind to me, and I responded to the vagaries of fate and the cruelty of my mother by controlling the only thing I could, my body. My mother monitored every morsel that crossed my lips, so of course I wanted to eat the world. But I didn’t want to get fat. My friend showed me how to stick my fingers down my throat. Voila! Problem solved; I could have my cake and eat it too – all while wearing skinny jeans. I could get away with something. I could have something that was mine, mine, all mine – secrets. I could maintain control. All of us do it. Whether it’s a daily ritual – performing morning ablutions in… READ MORE

Still Waters Run Deep

Still Waters Run Deep

I went to the saddest funeral I’ve ever attended yesterday. While the widow (a second wife, married 15 years) seemed sad (she was crying), she was alone in her grief; hers was the only damp eye in the house. The pastor’s eulogy was formulaic. When the dead man’s eldest daughter spoke about her deceased father, the most personal detail she shared was how many blue jeans he owned, because it was all he wore. I didn’t know this man well, but I found myself thinking I didn’t miss much. Could that be true?  Could it be that there was no there there? Contemplating the superficiality of some lives got me to thinking about  Kimberly Raye’s Dead End Dating series. The protagonist, Lil, about whom I’ve written before, is certainly likable, but she’s not particularly deep. I wonder what her eulogy would sound like–she was sweet and she loved Prada?  Because,… READ MORE

Why I Write What I Write

Why I Write What I Write

This post first appeared on the Write Bitches website back in May 2015. I appreciate their asking me to think about this topic.  I’m reprinting it here because I need a bit of a reminder about why I’m doing this.  I used to be a writer. When I was a child, and probably until around my early teenage years, I was “known” for my writing abilities (you know, by my elementary school). I won childhood awards for my fiction, and I went to sleep at night thinking of stories about imaginary people whose lives consumed me. I still have the novel I wrote when I was 12, an episodic adventure about three people stranded on a desert island, complete with a love triangle and contemplations of mortality and integrity (I was a precocious tween). I drafted over a hundred hand-written pages, and I remember the intense pride I felt at… READ MORE

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