A Friend Writes!



Author: Jim Cangany Release Day: January 26, 2016 Genre: Sports Romance Publisher: Penner Publishing



FINAL_AMAZON-APPLE-EBOOK-300x464On The Rebound is a sweet, sports romance set on the campus of fictional Irving University. It’s a story about second chances and features a women’s college basketball team. Here’s a teaser for you. After he’s caught in a grade fixing scandal, men’s college basketball coach Greg Miller is thrown a lifeline when an old friend offers him a job with the small-school Irving University women’s team. Academic Advisor Ciara Monaghan knows first-hand the heartbreak and havoc a cheating man can wreak. She wants nothing more than to protect the University’s reputation by seeing to it that Greg’s stay at Irving is short. The last thing either of them wants is the attraction they can’t deny. Can a struggling member of the basketball team bring them together to see how wonderful a second chance at life, and love, can be?



JimPhotoJim Cangany was forty pages into his first manuscript when he realized it was a romance. He went with it and has great joy writing sweet, contemporary love stories. A lover of things that go fast, when Jim’s not writing, you can probably find him checking into the latest from IndyCar or pro bike racing. He lives in Indianapolis with his saint of a wife Nancy, his sons Seamus and Aidan, and the princess of the house, kitty cat Maria. Visit him: Website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads or Tumbler


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Alicia Waits: Patience is Virtue

During the past week, I sat on the floor and screwed on the legs of two counter stools I ordered on the internet. I ended up not being able to chew for two days because I had gritted my teeth so tight twisting that screwdriver, I had thrown my jaw out of whack. “New way to diet,” I moaned through teeth that didn’t meet anymore.

“Oh, oh,” Don said.

Then I decided it was time to paint the living room. At the neighborhood paint store I mulled over the chips until I was blind and couldn’t tell pilgrim gray from jailhouse drab, so I brought home twenty samples of grays to show the two painters I had scheduled to interview that afternoon. “One or two coats? The trim white or gray? Eggshell or semigloss? Oil or latex?” they asked. I answered evasively, vague. The second guy walked to the door shaking his head. “Eggshell? Sounds nice,” I remember saying as the door closed..

Today I began my day by refinishing my dining room tabletop. Hours later, the wood gleaming, me feeling really good, I opened a closet door and started throwing things out, building a volcano of old games and stuffed animals and plastic blocks, the hallway a dystrophic scene of destruction. “I can’t get to my desk,” my husband complained. “So live with it,” I screeched, wiping the sweat off my forehead. “I’m on a mission.” I wasn’t sure where the mission was taking me. but I was definitely on it.

New paint ideas led to the sofa. Don, now quite worried about me and my mission, whatever it was, chaperoned me to a couple of furniture stores and then to an upholsterer and we paged through books, umming and ahhing, disagreeing on everything we showed each other. “Maybe you should take a few books home,” the shop owner suggested, in an effort to avoid having to call for police intervention. We went home. We had a glass of wine. Or two. We compromised. I got my way.

“You’ve been a little strange, the past few days,” Don commented when by then we’d entered the center of the storm and could talk a little. “Obsessive, actually.”

“It’s Alicia’s fault,” I answered. “She won’t . . . Damn! She won’t BECOME!”

“Do I know her?” Don asked.

That’s the problem. No one knows her. I, her creator, I. who am trying write her story, don’t know her. She’s lying comatose, wanting me to wake her up. She’s breathing deeply, staying calm as she waits for me stop fussing around, for God’s sake, about eggshell or semigloss. She waits for me to relax and listen to the story she has to tell.


            It’s one of those days.  Started with a visual field test, involving dots dashing here and there, of which I saw only a few, not enough, and which sent me into “What if I’m going blind?
            This thought led me into an “I’d-better-get-all-of -my to-do’s-done-in case-I-can’t-read -my-list -a -few-weeks-from-now” flurry.  So I sat down, sent out press releases, edited the next few pages of my novel, decided its title will be, maybe, “Finding Our Husbands,” ordered three or four outfits from Lands End for our March trip to Florida, reminded my found husband that we needed a couple of hotel reservations for that trip, and cleaned the silver napkin rings for the charity dinner we’ll be having here soon. Then I dumped the filled wastebaskets and recycled the week’s newspaper.  My checked-off list of ToDo’s had only a couple items left on it, impossible items like “walk two miles today.”
            Then I set the list aside, had a glass of wine, and watched the PBS News Hour.  Life began to settle into a different perspective:  Syria, Iran, an exhausted President, deadly fires, and so on. Not being able to see the flicking dots on an electronic machine didn’t seem quite as important after seeing the hopeless look in the eyes of a starving child. At least a diagnostic machine had existed for me.  At least I saw a few of those dots. At least, after the dots’ flickering challenge, I could come home and attend to my list.
            And  think.
            Amazing what the threat of blindness and a reality check can do rearrange one’s outlook.  For the past two years, Graffiti Grandma what my life has been all about. I have sold maybe 200 copies, made a few hundred dollars, had a few people tell me they liked it. I’ve had great reviews, and made new friends, and felt the support of old friends. I’ve been asked to read and to speak about my novel and the process of publishing it. I’ve blogged and essayed and offered myself to radio interviewers in vain efforts to become known, both me and my book.
            The word “vain” lashes out at me.  I count the I’s in the last paragraph, the I’s in this blog.
            Writing teachers advise that characters in novels shouldn’t suddenly have epiphanies to clear up their troubled lives and the author’s plot.  Well, in real life, epiphanies do happen. I believe I’m having one right now.  It seems to me that I have stepped into a fog bank of self-centeredness that has shut me off from most everything that used to be important to me; compassion, friendship, love, joy. A self-centered view has closed off the broad view lying just beyond the fog.  I haven’t been seeing most of the dots for a long time.

            So, this is my last message to my readers who have remained faithful.  Graffiti Grandma is published.  Finished.  I am not.  I’ll still keep writing, but I’ll also step out of the fog, enter the life around me, write different ToDo lists that will allow me to reach out to others.  Don’t know what this actually means, but I’m thinking my dots will be visible.
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