About

misty olive

Writer of Adult Historical/Adventure fiction. Would love to- one of these days- be able to get inside the head of YA me, and complete a YA Fantasy novel. One can dream…*sighs*

Until recently, I sorta viewed my life as a dull tourist might when visiting a strange and unfamiliar country- floating by, taking a few digital snapshots with little hope of printing, sampling a few tasty pleasures- only to return to an uneventful, vacant, comfortable pit.  A routine of taking care of kids, cleaning the house, folding laundry, baking cookies-blah, blah, blah…

That is, until I found my place in writing. My HAPPY place. Now, I feel like THAT tourist.  You know, the one who eagerly plucks an unripened olive from one of the many fruitful trees littering Athens, taking a bite, attempting to fool my friend into thinking it’s the most delicious morsel ever- only to not fool her into joining me, having to spit the bitterness out for a good thirty minutes while climbing the many, many, steps up to the Acropolis. Yeah,that tourist. The one who takes what I can reach.  The one who goes out of my way to make any sleepy town into an adventure- willing to swallow my pride, dignity, and apparently bitter olives, for a laugh and testimony of the lengths I’ll go to get what I want. And it feels fabulous!

A Dab of Past for Flavor: 

I was raised in the warm embrace of the proud south by the sour tongue and firm hands of Yankee parents. That’s right, I’m a Damn Yankee.  My dad, an Irish drummer from Philly, threatened to “cold-cock” someone/anyone on the hour.  Whether it be our neighbor’s dog for barking at all hours, or the local news guy for not delivering up to his standards.  My mom, the Jersey doe-eyed pushover, put herself through nursing school, held a few jobs while doing so, and occasionally found the time to remember she had four kids.

Needless to say, I didn’t have the cushy family life many of my friends had. But it wasn’t all terrible.  I did live five minutes, walking distance, from the beautiful Florida coast!  I can recall as early as nine coming home from school, tossing my backpack on the gritty linoleum, pulling on my swim suit, not bothering with lotion, before heading to the beach. I would sit on the cushiony, white carpet Panama City Beach had to offer for hours. The seagulls, crabs, and rising tide were my go to for idle chatter. When I needed relief from the residual noise of bus gossip and ALL of the school nonsense- teasing, judging, pretending, coma inducing algebra, etc…- I would find myself imagining different. A different life. A different family. Different friends. Different memories.

Now, in my thirties, I’m the proud mother of two beautiful children.  I look into their inherited doe eyes and there’s no way I would allow them to do half the things I could/did.  ”But, we lived in a different time,” my mom would say whenever my sisters or I would bring up all the craziness- which was our childhood.  Today, I wouldn’t change my past for anything. It molded me into who I am today.

I love my mom and dad, they certainly made my childhood interesting. And who knows, I may not be the woman, wife, or helicopter mom I am today if it weren’t for their *eccentric* parenting.

382205_10200348965622896_871738441_nA little something extra:

This ginger beast in the photo to the right is my red/white border collie, Stella.  She’s neurotic.  She’s a pain in the arse.  She thinks diving nose first into a hard floor to stir up dust is brilliant (according to her wagging tail). But, she’s also the one who forces me out of the house for much-needed walks, otherwise I’d go mad stewing in my chair as my derriere continued to spread.

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