16. An Apple for Amy

Lisa, Christine and Lana were having a fairly wicked conversation at the River City Tavern and Grill. They were dressed down and in a confessional mode. They had also had quite a bit to drink.
“Well, girls, that’s about as frank as we’ve ever gotten,” said Lana.
“You think? I seem to remember worse. Didn’t we tackle birth control strategies that one time?” Christine remembers these things. She might be the group’s super ego. She keeps some sort of track.
“Oh, yeah. I remember that one too,” said Lisa. Lana here was freaking out about a failure of coitus interruptus. We advised her to stock up on condoms, get some sponges, get on the pill. Anything but that.”
“Noted. I did it. I’m always packing something. But as we were just, um, beating around the bushes, as I say, Scottie’s gone again and I’m on my ownsome.”
“Say, Lana…”
“Yes, Lisa?”
“I ran into a woman named Jill McCray who has been reading your blog. She asked me to ask you if you wanted to do some guest blogging. She thought you might like to branch out a bit.”
“What’s her blog called?”
“Oh, it’s sort of a syndicated thing. It’s called “Connections.” It’s all about local issues and such. It’d be a good place to share recipes, talk about those line drawings. Perhaps not the ‘demons,’ but the others. You know. Family stuff.
“Family stuff.”
Amy is unenthused.
“Well, let me email you her number in the event you get a notion. She’s a great gal, and since Scott’s away, you might have the time to write a few hundred words. Or recycle something. It might be a way of generating more traffic for “Amy.”

It was just a splinter in a riotous evening of talk, but it lodged in Lana’s mind. She was a bit surprised at the traffic ‘Amy’ seemed to have. She wondered about that. Was it a good thing? Scott was still oblivious. The idea of having a more open and less secretive, guarded outlet, one that would put her out in the community as a wit (or whatever) might be a good thing. So, after a morning at the law firm, and an afternoon break at the coffeeshop, she called.
“Hello, is this Jill McCray?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Lana Andersen, the author of “Amy Tells All. My friend Lisa Roiter mentioned that you had been reading it…”
“Oh, yes! I love it! It’s so great that you called! I mentioned to Lisa that you might consider writing somethings for our community blog, ‘Connections.'”
“Yes, that’s what she said. I considered it, and thought I’d give it a try.”
“I think that’s fabulous.”
“Well, what do I need to do?”
“Well, write up a little bio, and include a link to ‘Amy,’ since we’d be very pleased to push that, and also send me your copy. We’ll do the rest. Oh, and also send a photo. ‘Amy’ is just darling. If that’s you, I’m jealous.”
“Does it matter what I write about? Is there a word count limit?”
“No, but keep it off of sex. It’s a family outlet. You know. You could write about any crafty, arty thing that interests you. Words… should be between five hundred and seven hundred fifty words.”
“OK. Let me see what I can come up with.”
“I’m so pleased to talk with you at last, and you know, to find out who you are. Some of us down here thought you might actually be a guy!”
“That’s understandable. I have a serious airplane jones.”
“You could write about that!”
“Nah. I think I’ll write about shopping downtown.”
“Fabulous!”
“Well…I’d better get to it.”
“I’ll let you! Again, thanks for calling.
“My pleasure. Thanks for the opportunity.”

Lana went home and yanked out her trusty laptop. She penned the following little blurb for herself:
“Lana M. Andersen is an ordinary Parkersburger with an eye for a good buy. She loves to draw, she loves to hike, she loves to hit the town with friends and she thinks life is to be taken by the horns. You might see her out and about, and if you do, give her a wink. You might also enjoy her blog, ‘Amy Tells All.’ Be forewarned about Amy, though. It’s not for the kids.”

Next, she wrote a shopping piece. She posted it in Amy, and sent the text, the photo and that blurb to the email adress of Jill McCray. Not bad work for a lonely afternoon at the homestead.