Why Are You Here Anyway?

Welcome to the Wench's World--the A2 Beer Wench to be exact. I once owned a brewery. Also once learned a lesson from that! If you've stumbled upon me, cool. What follows may or may not be directly related to real estate, the publishing biz, craft beer, Ann Arbor, or sports, but it sure will be fun and many times profane as the circumstances warrant! Enjoy (or not) at your own risk!

Friday, May 27, 2016

The Thought Demon--OR True Free Agency

And here we are again, Liz fans and all the rest of you! Circled back to Ground Zero. Memorial Day Weekend 2016!

I've got a fair bit going on between getting the Soccer (and final) Wenchling matriculated, complete with soccer "Senior Night," end of year/era parties for the soccer club team, various and sundry grad parties to attend plus one to plan. Plus I'm selling houses!

And I'm writing books. Yes. That too. No, I did not magically add seven hours to each day. I just know how to use my time--most weeks. Some weeks I stare at Facebook and eat ice cream and cry because I'm not as awesome as everybody else on the entire planet. You know how that goes.


Today I have something funny to share. My take on the extreme dichotomy (yeah, yeah, I know that's redundant, you Grammar Nazi you) of "agency" in my life. So allow me a bit of poetic license if you will as I exorcise this thought demon via a bit of creativity. The "Thought Demon" is akin to the "Plot Bunny" but has more in common with the "Ear Worm," for those of you who wish to know.

I give you, The Real Estate Agent Query, an imaginary slush pile of desperate home sellers, represented by this random sample of the hundreds of emails I would receive every day, were the real estate agency process similar to the literary one:

Dear Ms. Crowe,

My name is Desperanza HouseSeller and I'd like to present to you my project: 4321 YetAnotherHouse Street, Collegetown, MIDWEST STATE, USA. I've been working on this project for almost ten years now and I think it's finally ready for the rest of the world to appreciate how amazing it is, with your expert help of course.

Imagine with me, if you will, a charming, slightly overbuilt but amazing 4-bedroom, 2 and a half bath bungalow-style home. This domicile has been lovingly maintained by the Houseseller family for over a decade, with top-of-the-line updates including granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, Italian-tile bathroom remakes, and a full basement overhaul that includes a teenager-friendly media room and spare, non-conforming bedroom where I caught my soon-to-be-ex-husband with one of his grad students last week, but I digress into the personal. Forgive me.

Come along with me and stroll the back yard, complete with thousands of dollars worth of stone patio decking, professionally maintained landscaping complete with koi pond and a brand new hot tub. Join me on the large, breezy front porch as we swing the Midwest spring afternoons away, chatting with our super friendly neighbors over iced tea or beer, where Mr. Houseseller used to flirt with our neighbors. Relax in the fully, expensively, building-code-adherent, eat-in kitchen with a glass of wine on a Friday evening, as the whole-house sound system fills your ears with the Pandora 5-cent royalty per song streaming station of your choice. Plan a romantic evening with your Significant Other in the spa-worthy master bath--I'll throw in the rose petals and Yankee Candles for free! I know I won't be needing them for a while.

My lovely home would appeal to a wide cross-section of buyers, including those new to Our College Town, or others looking to buy into our College Professor Intensive Neighborhood with the best (or at least the most sought-after) elementary school within a four block walk from my front door. I think that, with the proper advice from you about staging and pricing we would have a real winner on our hands--a winner for us both!

I so hope you will consider my plea for your expert representation in this wilderness of real estate. I realize how very busy you are already which is why I came directly to you with what I hope is an appealing, interesting and creative query letter. I want to be represented by nothing but the very best real estate agent in town. Thank you so much in advance for your valuable time. I look forward to hearing from you, hopefully to schedule a full house walk through and complete marketing evaluation that your website says you will also provide (For a small fee).

I can be reached at:
734-123-4567 (call/text)
At work my number is 313-123-4567 (just ask them to page me)
My soon to be ex-husband's number is 248-123-4567 and his email is Imajerk@Houseseller.net
You can also send a fax, make a land line call or send a smoke signal. The moment we hear from you we will drop everything, rush home and meet you at your next best selling house! I have a website and blog already set up for the house so you can see some pictures without having to move from your computer at www.housesellerlane.net

Thank you so very very much for your time.
I hope you have a lovely holiday weekend!
Sincerely yours,
Desperanza Houseseller
4321 YetAnotherHouse
(734-123-4567 in case you missed it above!)

*********Funny, right?******* I mean....seriously. 

Whew, ok I'm glad that demon has been purged out of my head!

For your holiday weekend reading pleasure, I cordially invite you to sample from 3 FREE full-length novels on wattpad

Lady Balls



I am also tap-tapping away on some fun Kindle World Projects including an imminent one for Susan Stoker's Special Forces. Here's a quick taste of MARKING MARIAH, coming July 21, 2016!


Terry “Trigger” O’Leary wants nothing more than to leave his Delta Force days far behind him. He yearns for his younger self, when he had nothing to worry about but soccer, chicks, and more soccer. But years spent in the top secret service left him with not only a concussion severe enough for a discharge, but also a head full of memories he cannot elude.

After six months spent drunk and in more strange beds than he wants to cop to, he wanders back home to Lucasville, Kentucky, honestly believing that his new jobs as high school soccer coach and brewery assistant will allow him to heal. But a chance encounter turns into a smoking hot hook-up with a woman whose deep mocha skin an hypnotic singing voice turn him inside out--and all bets are off. A woman he meets again the next day at school—Mariah Bailey, newly hired head of the music department.

When terrifying, inexplicable violence rips the sleepy community apart, “Trigger” is forced back into action, where he must face his feelings about Mariah, and acknowledge that he can’t always save the day.

Sneak peek excerpt:
The smoke filled his lungs like a noxious fog. Panic lit the edges of his consciousness. But he fixated on the voice.
You’re okay, Terry. This is what you trained for. Don’t yell. Drop below it and crawl on your belly. Get behind the desk. Your fellow Operators are all around you.
But something had gone wrong.
Horribly wrong.
“Trigger,” the voice called again in a loud whisper.
He blinked, but otherwise sat as still as a statue, allowing his mind to clear from the explosion and take in the pertinent details. It had been something like two in the morning. He’d been in the middle of encrypting cell phone conversations, preparing to transfer them via a secure backdoor connection to the satellite before they got bounced back to a target computer. Easy stuff. His specialty, actually. That and sharp-shooting and hostage negotiation.
Putting a hand over his mouth to stifle the extreme urge to cough, to clear his lungs before they were consumed by the acrid smoke, he squeezed his eyes shut and counted to twenty until the urge passed. The room remained eerily silent. Or maybe he’d been deafened by the explosion.
“Trigger! God damn it, get over here.”
He opened his eyes and flopped over onto his belly again, using his arm muscles to tug the rest of him as quietly as possible toward his commanding officer’s voice. A hand closed around one of his biceps and hauled him forward as if he were not a six-foot-five-inch, one-hundred-ninety-five-pound slab of pure muscle. But if anyone could yank him around like a two-year-old, it would be Keane Bryson, “Ghost” to his Delta Force subordinates and friends.
“Fuck me runnin’,” Ghost muttered under his breath as the two men sat with their backs to the huge metal desk. “What happened?”
“I…I’m not sure,” Trigger said, digging his fingertips into his ears in a desperate attempt to clear them. Ghost’s voice seemed to come from far away, as if from the bottom of a deep well. “I was encrypting and about to shut it down for the night.”
Ghost pinned him with an evil glare. Their makeshift tent city was in the middle of the dessert where they’d been dropped, tasked with a simple listen and learn mission near Cairo. They’d been stuck here for going on four days, under strict orders to stay dark—literally—while monitoring the chatter from a recently activated terrorist cell in the middle of the nearby, teeming city.
Boring as hell, as far as he was concerned, but vital, as always.
Boring—until tonight when apparently someone had targeted them directly. That in and of itself was alarming as his Delta Force squadron had never been discovered by any of the whack-ass terrorists they were tasked to surveil or, at times, take down, typically during a hostage situation.
It’d been almost a year since they’d been called on to do anything that dramatic. Their collective, pent up, testosterone-fueled tedium had built to a breaking point, resulting in a bit of loud, steam-blowing fights and other BS that Ghost had been forced to break up, as recently as mid-day yesterday. But Terry would take the tedium at this point—since he still couldn’t take a breath and his damn ears were ringing so loud it felt like someone had his head between their marching band cymbals.
“Shit,” he muttered, when the clatter of fire from a semi-automatic weapon broke the strange, hazy silence in the tent. It also served to open his battered eardrums all the way up again, making the dull clanging ramp up and hook into his brain nice and deep. He groaned but at the same time experienced an odd sensation of relief—finally, somebody to fucking shoot at.
He rolled to his side and snagged his weapon—a Beretta M9 that he adored more than his own mother—from the holster he’d slung on the back of his temporary camp chair. Ignoring the increasing pain and rising nausea, he got himself into a crouch, aiming at the tent flap that was now riddled with bullet holes.
A quick glance to his right netted him a reassuring sight—Ghost, with his Benelli, an Italian-made automatic shotgun raised to his shoulder. When his superior officer gave him the “stay low” signal, then the “cover me” one, Terry sighed but did as he was told, keeping his weapon trained on the tattered fabric, now waving in the hot night breeze. A fresh barrage of auto fire came from their left, making them turn before they re-focused on the tent entry.
Terry’s face burned hot, but his pulse stayed calm. One of the reasons he’d breezed through the physical portion of the Delta training had been thanks to his superior physical shape. In spite of what they’d throw at him, day or night, Terry O’Leary could knock it out of the park. He loved the pure release it offered him and was never more at peace than when he was being pushed to his absolute limit—mainly so he could shove that bastard even further out.

And coming in October, November and December in that order, Liz-style Kindle additions to the worlds created by Paige Tyler (Dallas Fire & Rescue), Desiree Holt (Omega Team), and Cat Johnson (SEALs).

Make it a super-duper holiday, won't you?