Why I Became a Writer

Please welcome Kristen Elise.  She has an unusual story to tell about how she became a writer.  I'm happy she did because the outcome was a most exciting book.  Read on.

Author Kristen Elise

 

 

An Accident, a Dare, and a Massive Layoff

My “Why I Became a Writer” Story

 

Kristen Elise, Ph.D. is a drug discovery biologist and the author of The Vesuvius Isotope. She lives in San Diego, California, with her husband, stepson, and three canine children. Please visit her websites at www.kristenelisephd.com and www.murderlab.com. The Vesuvius Isotope is available in both print (www.kristenelisephd.com and www.amazon.com) and e-book formats (www.amazon.com for Kindle, www.barnesandnoble.com for Nook, www.kobo.com for Kobo reader.)

A few months ago, Lesley Diehl participated in an experiment. She and several other professional writers each wrote the same blog post: Why I Became a Writer. As I neither knew Lesley at that time nor was a professional writer, I missed the chance to join in. Today, Lesley has graciously given me a guest slot on her blog to let me catch up.

 

In short, I stumbled into writing bass-ackward. Three factors converged to spark my now full-time writing career: an accident, a dare, and a massive layoff. Three factors that turned out to be three unlikely strokes of luck.

 

My contribution to the “Why I Became a Writer” experiment begins with an experiment of an entirely different kind—the kind that takes place in a laboratory. A scientist since birth, I was working on anthrax at the time. My goal was to identify inhibitors of an anthrax protein. What I found instead was an activator—a molecule that made anthrax infection more efficient. It took very little creativity on my part to envision a scenario in which this discovery could be bad.

 

Around the same time, a friend of mine dared me to write a story. Having never previously written a story that wasn’t required by a teacher for a grade, I felt like a total imposter. But I wrote my anthrax activator story and brought it to my friend’s budding writers’ group. The group quickly went the way of the dodo, but the idea began to snowball.

 

The story grew into my first full-length manuscript, The Death Row Complex. The thing that amazed me the most during that time was how addicted to writing I would quickly become. I absolutely couldn’t put the manuscript down, and I also began looking ahead to the next one. I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the lines, writing became a permanent fixture in my life. But it still hadn’t occurred to me that it would ever be more than a hobby.

 

While I was still working on The Death Row Complex, the idea for my next novel struck. I was in Italy on vacation and paid a visit to the Naples Archeological Museum. The more I learned of the lost city of Herculaneum, the more the idea began to develop. I came to realize that my Death Row protagonist belonged in both novels, and that the second story needed to be released first. So I finished the first draft of Death Row and then shelved it to write the manuscript that would become The Vesuvius Isotope.

 

I finished this manuscript in December. In January, I handed it to a professional editor. And in February, the pharmaceutical company I worked for cut my entire site, laying off every one if its more than 100 employees.

 

I had just become a professional novelist.

 

Mind you, I had become a professional novelist without an actual novel to speak of, let alone a dime ever earned from said non-existent novel. But what the hell. Truth be told, the pharmaceutical industry is a great place to be laid off from, and I say that with all sincerity. The severance package I received was enough. Not “lap of luxury” enough, but enough to take a hiatus and publish my book.

 

I had no idea how long my Extended Spring Break, as I like to call it, would turn out to be. I still don’t. But even then, I knew it would be finite. So it was clear that query letters followed by months of waiting were not going to be the best path for me. I buckled down and learned how to self-publish.

 

That was the day I realized that I had just become my own marketing department. So while the editing was ongoing and my sole prop was being established, I was also turbo-charging my platform. Publishers noticed me, and I was quickly offered a couple of contracts, unsolicited. I turned them down in order to get the book out faster, knowing that my Extended Spring Break, and with it the time I had for promoting the book, would eventually come to an end.

 

And so I became a full-time novelist without a publishing contract and before ever completing a novel. Now that The Vesuvius Isotope is a reality, I am returning to Death Row. And when my severance pay runs out, if the Pulitzer Committee still hasn’t come knocking, I’ll head back into the laboratory. I can only dare hope for another inspirational accident before the next massive lay-off.

About The Vesuvius Isotope

When her Nobel laureate husband is murdered, biologist Katrina Stone can no longer ignore the secrecy that increasingly pervaded his behavior in recent weeks. Her search for answers leads to a two-thousand-year-old medical mystery and the esoteric life of one of history’s most enigmatic women. Following the trail forged by her late husband, Katrina must separate truth from legend as she chases medicine from ancient Italy and Egypt to a clandestine modern-day war. Her quest will reveal a legacy of greed and murder and resurrect an ancient plague, introducing it into the twenty-first century.

 

 

 

 



 

Summer Editing

Finally.  What I’ve been waiting for since we returned from the South—warm weather.  The rains that filled the stream out back and brought back the fears of to two years ago and the flood are simply a memory.  They may return, but for now the skies are filled with big puffy clouds that may develop into a storm later today, but I’m happy to be sitting on my back deck overlooking the creek and enjoying an occasional breeze.

 

I did the same yesterday, my computer on the table in front of me working on what I hope will be the final edit for my book A Secondhand Murder scheduled for release September 15.  The manuscript is in Adobe so you can imagine how frustrating that is, but it’s made far easier by what I see when I lift my gaze from the computer to the scene in front of me.  Yesterday the Canada geese we’d noticed in the region brought their kids down to the stream to have play time.  It looked very much like taking the gamily to the beach on the weekend.  They were joined by several crows who usually claim the beach for their own, hence our name for it, “Crow Beach”.  They didn’t seem to mind the company.  In addition to the Canadas was a white goose, bigger than all the rest.  I couldn’t see if it was an albino (I don’t even know if birds some in albino form) or simply a regular goose who had adopted the Canada family as its own.  It seemed to be well accepted as it swam among the children and adults,  Maybe it was the nanny or a baby sitter hired for the day.

 

This morning our resident woodchuck occupied our backyard at the creek’s edge bringing with her a smaller “chuck”.  We were going to trap her, but now Glenn is afraid to separate the two and is obsessing about how he can capture them together.  The young one is well able to find for itself, but Glenn doesn’t like to break up the family.  I’m sympathetic, but pointed out he can move them both to the same spot.  They’ll find one another again.  He’s putting this off.  I can’t blame him, but it’s not going to settle itself.  We already moved a chipmunk to the cemetery across the stream.  No, no.  Not dead.  We trapped the little bugger and moved him live.  The cemetery is a beautiful place for a chipper critter and would make a great home for our chucks too.  We like seeing them until they begin to eat our garden then it’s time for the moving truck.

 

Sharing Summer

 

The stream is back down from high water several weeks ago.  It flows gently toward our property, then rushes over the rocks to drop several feet and continue its flow past our house.  I can hear it babble and see the white ripples sparkle as the sunlight hits them.

It’s clear now, revealing large rocks on the bottom.  People come down to the bank on the other side of the stream to swim and wade often bringing their dogs who seem to enjoy a brief dip also.  It’s become the community pool in these hot days.   Last weekend while the water was still high and the days still cool, several adolescents came by on inner tubes enjoying the excitement of being twirled and dunked by the whirlpool at the base of the downed willow trees just in front of our yard.

 

Well, you get the idea.  It’s so tranquil here, a feast for the soul.  What’s that I hear?  The blackbirds, crows, a cardinal and two squirrels are chorusing a message for me, saying, “Get busy editing,” so I must go, but I hope you enjoyed this little reprieve from work as much as I did.  Do you take soul satisfying breaks?  What are they like?

Using Fear to Write

But first some news:  Coming soon from Camel Press, my first Eve Appel Mystery, A Secondhand Murder.  At Eve's Florida consignment shop the bargains are to die for.  This is thrift with a twist.

My Fears: Can I make them work for me as a writer?

I watched the rain continue to come down last week and watched our little trout stream turn into a raging river.  Oh no, I thought.  Not again.  Two years ago the stream spilled over its banks leaving our basement filled with three to four feet of water.  The worst part wasn’t the basement.  It was the fear the night before that the river would sweep the entire house away.

 

I’ve always had a fear of drowning.   My parents did not have the money to buy swimming lessons in the summers when all the other kids were learning to paddle their way the length of the community pool.  It was not until I was in my teens that I learned to swim, but I never passed my beginners’ test because I was too terrified to jump into the deep end of the pool, a requirement to pass.  I swam with my head out of the water, never able to put it under water and learn to hold my breath.  I still swim that way although I’m more comfortable being in the water.  I can do almost every stoke as long as I don’t have to put my face in the water.

 

I have recurring dreams about driving down a road and the road leads into a lake which I drive right into.  I usually wake up.  So no, I’m not water nymph. 

 

Seeing that water rise again this past week brought back all the terrors of the flood two years ago.  I was alone then because Glenn was on a cross country motorcycle grip promoting his book.  He’s here this year, so I felt comforted by his presence, yet still frightened by the prospect of another flood.  The last time they declared a state of emergency which means no one is to be on the road, a real catch twenty-two.  How as I to get out of the way of the waters if I couldn’t drive off?  The best I could hope for was someone pulling up to my back deck in a boat while I handed them my two cats and abandoned the house.  That’s if they found me and not the house floating down the river with me and the cats in the attic.

 

To my great relief the rain let up and the waters subsided the next morning, giving me the emotional space to think about fear and to realize that my fears have colored my writing.

 

I don’t think I have many fears, but fear of drowning in a flood found its way into several of my books as well as the feat of wild fires.  I’m big on finding natural disasters particularly terrifying for my protagonists. 

 

But there are the little other fears that are more personal.  I do use these to provide exciting moments for my sassy country gals.   I have a fear of heights that has developed over the past five years.  It is related to a medical condition, vertigo.  My protagonist in Angel Sleuth finds she can deal with being hung over a chasm and handle the challenge of getting to safety.  Good for her.  She should be better than I, don’t you think?  I hate snakes.  Now isn’t that a kick when I live in Florida where we can grow ‘em big and scary?  For some reason I’ve been reluctant to use this fear in my writing until just recently as I was working on the second book in my Eve Appel Murder Mystery series.  I don’t want to ruin it for you, but I used snakes not simply to scare, but to work for my protagonist. 

 

When I was a kid I used to be scared of vampires and werewolves.  Not now, so you won’t read about my protagonist turning into a vampire any time soon.

 

What are your fears?  Do you use them in your writing?  Do you like protagonists who share these fears and overcome them?

Finding and Hiding Dead Bodies

 

Body in Beer Cooler Truck

Body in Dumpster behind Bar

 

 

 

I like to locate my dead bodies in interesting or odd places.  I think all mystery writers do this when they can, so I was thinking as I was trying to take a nap that it might be fun to come up with a list of places where a writer might locate a body.  I’ve tried to divide my list into categories.

 

All Around the House

 

            In bathtubs, large sinks, washing machines, dryers, stoves, dishwashers.  In closets, in the old coal bin in the basement or an antique trunk in the attic.  Tucked into the eaves, bricked up behind a wall, stuffed under the couch, hidden in the dog crate, shoved behind the draperies if in a hurry (to be moved later).  Under the front or back steps, behind the stack of newspapers that were to be moved last week.  In the hamper with the dirty clothes, then moved to the clothesbasket with the freshly laundered ones.

            Tied to the chimney, for who looks up there anyway?

 

For Outdoorsy folks

 

            Floating or weighted down in a stream, lake, river, or pond.  In a gravel quarry under a pile of crushed rock, or crushed by a rock under a pile of gravel.  In the woods, buried or propped up by a tree, as if enjoying the day.  In a swamp, but before the alligators find it. In a cave covered by bat doodoo.

            In the compost pile, under the mulch pile, buried in the garden or used for a scarecrow.  Lodged behind the bushes along the fence line, jammed into the wood chuck’s hole.  Under the grill cover which is never used anyway.  Tossed into a ditch along the road with the rest of the litter or tossed in the trash can at the interstate rest area.

 

Going on a Trip

 

            In the truck of the car or in the car carrier on the top (see outdoorsy locations for final resting place).  Left behind in a motel room under the bed, in the shower or in the spa or pool.  With the carryon luggage or, if willing to pay extra, checked with the other bags.  In the airplane lavatory or train lavatory.  Or in the bus station’s bathroom to be discovered when it is cleaned next month (year).  Dumped in a foreign country without a passport.

            Discarded in any of the outdoorsy locations suggested above in any country, e.g., On Top of Old Smoky, at the Great Wall or in the Kremlin.

            Sent into outer space (unmanned probe).

 

Body found in neighbor's brewery

Body found in protag's brewery

 

 

Scary or Ghoulish Places

 

            In a funeral home in its own coffin or sharing with another.  In a graveyard, buried alone (so overdone) or sharing (as above).  In a meat packing plant, incinerator in the county landfill or simply left out with the trash on Monday morning (see All Around the House above).

At a fun house in the tunnel of love.  Riding the Ferris wheel, merry go round or tilt a whirl.

            In a trick or treat bag on Halloween (big bag!).  Dressed as a corpse being pulled around in your kid’s red wagon on Halloween.

 

 

Old MacDonald’s Farm

 

            Since I grew up on a farm, I couldn’t resist this category.

In the milk cooler, under the manure pile, in the manure spreader (see the outdoorsy category for final resting places), in the hay mow, in the tack room, in the corn crib, in the chicken coop (that’s where I used to hide my teddy bear), in any piece of farm machinery—baler, corn picker, plow, hay wagon.  Down the well or up in the windmill (again, who looks up there?), in bossy or Dobbin’s stall.  Tucked in the middle of a herd of sheep, goats cows or horses, a tricky maneuver, but I’m certain any good writer could work around this one.  Feed troughs and water troughs are big enough to accommodate several bodies in case you’ve got a serial killer on your hands.

 

 

City Places

 

            On a bus, subway or in a subway tunnel.  In the 57^th precinct coffee room.  In the fountain for a big splash.  Dressed as a mannequin in the department store window.  In a dressing room.  On the treadmill, stepper, spin bicycle or any other piece of equipment in a fitness club because everyone will just think the person is resting between reps.  In the mayor’s chair, just resting.  On the floor of the House of Representatives, again simply resting.  In Central Park, the most clichéd location.  In a ghetto, again cliched.  In a Park Avenue apartment or in their laundry chute, also clichéd.  Seated in a car in a parking garage.  Seated in a car at an expired meter.  Located in a trunk in the aforementioned locations is also cliched.  In the alleyway in a commercial dumpster along with the other bodies there the cops haven’t yet discovered.

Body at foot of stairs while protag pedals by chased by a gaggle of geese

 

 

 

It’s Your Business

 

            In any business such as in a dressing room (in my newest book due out Sept 15), behind the Slurpee machine at a convenience store, hidden with the two by fours in a Do-It-Yourself store, feet first with the cherry tree in the garden shop or side by side with yesterday’s pastries in a bake shop.

 

If I kept at this I’ll bet I could come up with more.  I’ve used some of the more absurd ones in my mysteries.  You too must have some great ones.  Share.

 

I Love Yard Sales

I love yard sales, and I think it’s because I consider them the physical counterpart to writing mysteries.  Here’s how I see the two.  First, there must be an idea for a story.  That’s easy because the newspaper publishes the sales going on each weekend.  That’s the story—Mystery writer gets up earlier than usual and takes on the secondhand world.

 

Now we need a plot.  For our yard saling story, it’s better to be a plotter rather than a pantser.  This is what I do the evening before.  I sit with the newspaper listing of the sales and a county map.  I then work out the order my husband and I (of course we both go.  We’re both writers, aren’t we?)  will visit the sale locations.  Usually it’s the ones nearest where we live, then those on our side of town, ending with the ones on the other side of the community.  Like all good plots, it’s necessary to leave open the possibility that we’ll pass by other sales on the way to those already in the plan or plot.  There may even be some advertised by signs on telephone poles luring us to places far removed from our original plan.  It’s best to know neighborhoods and detour only for those you have a hunch will pay off, not those known to carry only junk.  You’ll know this because you may have been drawn here before only to discover it wasn’t worth the rewrite, er, detour.

 

The clues come next and this is the fun part.  The goodies purchased at the sales are the clues, because you never know what you’ll find that, together with your other purchases will complete this story to your satisfaction.  Always strive for the happy ending where you achieve some feeling of accomplishment. Some articles you jump to the minute you alight from the car only to discover they are not worthy of your consideration.  They’re rusted, ripped, dirty beyond saving, chipped, too expensive and can’t be bargained down to your price or you already have twenty tea cups just like those.  Others seem like a steal, but when you get them home, you decide you don’t like them and you delete that part of the story.  Don’t be swayed by what other s are considering or your story will sound stale.  Be creative.  I find the little things, like clues that don’t seem on the surface of it to be significant, are the most exciting.  The twenty-five cent basket that looks just right on your outdoor table, or a picture frame that fits with the décor of your home in Florida.  An aside here: my husband warns me against buying items that we have to transport from one home to the other.  He claims my purchases for the other house are why we’ve downsized to a small car, but he was the one who jammed the secondhand convection oven in the trunk of the car making me leave my big suitcase home…grumble, grumble.  Sometimes shopping with a partner is as bad as writing with one.

 

There’s always a dark moment and sometimes, surprisingly, it comes too early in the day.  You’ve been stopping at sale after sale and you’ve found nothing.  Or you walk up to a sale and a yard flag you didn’t know you wanted, but now can’t live without grabs your attention.  Just before you hand your dollar to the seller another buyer steps in front of you and takes it.  Now you know who the villain is.  Sometimes you feel there is no way out of the dark moment.  This happens when it rains, a sale is cancelled or you find no sales advertised in the paper.  The best rescue for your story is to go to a consignment shop or Goodwill or Salvation Army and buy something there.  If you can’t do that, then another alternative, which I consider cheating although sometimes necessary, is to shop the internet and buy something or do it in a nearby mall.  I warn you this ending is a bit like reading the first manuscript you ever wrote that you’ve stashed in your bottom desk drawer.

 

I can’t remember doing yard sales without buying something.  I don’t purchase an item just to say I came away a winner, but I do admit one item makes the whole venture more of a short story than a novel.

 

Friends ask if I’ll ever find I don’t need anything at yard sales and stop going.  We don’t yard sale because we need thing.  We do it for the adventure, the fun, the quest.  Will I ever not go?  That’s like asking if I’ll ever stop write mysteries.

 

Yard sales yesterday?  Mostly rained out, but I did get that cute little fishy frame.  I’ll take it to Florida.  I’ll hide it in my suitcase with that sweater I bought last week.  And the tablecloth and napkins, placemats…  Don’t tell my husband.

 

 

Letting Go

 

We have been back in upstate New York for several weeks.  These few weeks seem to be all about letting go.  I can’t return to our cottage here and not think of what the stream bank was like before the flood destroyed it.  It is hard for me to let go of those graceful, but gnarly old willows that lined the stream and learn to love the large boulders that now hold the water back from our lovely cottage.

Saying Goodbye to My Trees

 

Some friends invited us to dinner last night along with others who were colleagues of mine when I taught at the college here.  We caught up with each other after our six months absence, and since five of the six us were retired, we talked about retirement and how we found the adventure.   I commented that it has been four years since I visited the campus and observed that I don’t return because that part of my life has been replaced by my work as a mystery writer.
 

At another university when I was an administrator, I met several faculty who still retained their offices on campus and still went to the office each day.  They were adamant the administration not take away these spaces because they needed a space in which to work.  Perhaps, but I also sensed something else.  They did not wish to let go of the life as professor they once had.  In fact, it seemed they could not let go of it.  I vowed I would not do that when I retired.

 

I enjoyed my years teaching college students, but now I’m quite happy to have others do it.  I think it’s like publishing a book.  Once you have put it out there in print, it is no longer yours.  It belongs to the readers.  Once you’ve left life as a college professor, it belongs to those who come after you. 

 

Sometimes it’s little things that you have to let go of.  Glenn and I used to go to this country bar and restaurant in Okeechobee every weekend and dance to the bands there.  Last year it changed ownership and now has become a bar that allows smoking, has installed pool tables where we used to dance and holds TV sports events.  No more dancing.  Here in upstate New York, there are no places to dance either.  I miss that part of our life.  And unfortunately it’s a part that seems to remind me I’m getting older.  Who me?

 

I’m aware that it is easy to assert that we should move on with our lives and for some not so easily accomplished.  I feel lucky because I have my writing.  I have friends who insist they cannot retire because they have no life other than their work.  So I feel very fortunate I found another part of myself I could develop.  As a developmental psychologist I know life is all about change, and change comes only when we are confronted by challenges and find we must adjust.  It can be fun, and it can be painful.  It can be both fun and painful.

What else have I had to let go of in these weeks?  Well, I thought we would begin renovating our downstairs bathroom.  Instead I had to let go of that idea until Glenn finishes building an extension onto our shed.  So I’m still carting laundry to the nearby laundromat.  The good news is that it’s right next to the ice cream shop.

 

What does letting go mean to you?

 

 

A Funny Gal

Let's welcome Melanie Campbell to the blog.  She's one of the funniest authors I've had the pleasure to read and, you know me, I love funny.  Today she provides us some insight into her penchant for the hilarious.



Melodie

Writing Comedy – and Loving It!

By Melodie Campbell

“I had the flu once.  It was terrible.  I couldn’t eat a thing for three hours.”

I hope you giggled at that line.  I think it’s one of my best.  And yes, I am a tad fond of eating.  In fact, you could list it as my major hobby.

My name is Melodie Campbell, and I write comedies.  (This is a self-help group, right?)  Sure I’d like to kick the habit and write a ‘real’ book with literary merit.

Okay, so that’s a lie.  Leave ROWENA AND THE DARK LORD behind?  Not write a sequel?  I’m starting to hyperventilate.  Actually, I love writing comedies.  It’s in my blood.

A GREEK MASK

Some people are born beautiful.  But most of us aren’t and we look for ways to survive the slings and arrows of life.  Sometimes we choose to hide behind a mask.  That Greek Comedy mask was the one I picked way back.

As a means of self-preservation in the cruel world of teenagers, I looked for the ‘funny.’  More often than not, I made fun of myself.  This was easy to do.  I knew the target well and there was a wealth of material.  And it didn’t hurt anyone else, so people liked it.

When I left school and had a ‘real’ job, I started writing stand-up on the side.  I rarely delivered it – usually I wrote for others. That led to a regular newspaper humour column, and more.

So when it came to writing fantasy novels, I fell back into ‘safe mode’.  Write it funny.

IT’S AN ADDICTION

Worse than chocolate and foreign Counts…  Comedy writers take a situation, and ask themselves ‘what’s the worst thing that could happen now?’  And then, what’s the funniest?

But why do it?  Why does an otherwise sane individual write zany and some might say silly comedy, and risk the inevitable hit from critics who say your book is without great literary merit? 

One reason, and one reason only: many readers love it.  Their comments and reviews are heart-lifting.  I’ve lightened their day with adventure and laughter, and in some cases given them a story they can escape into, over and over again. It’s all about readers.

 Excerpt from Rowena and the Dark Lord

I was beginning to get a very bad feeling.

“Did you volunteer for this job?”

“Yes.” Howard was now relieving himself off to my right.

“Why?” My voice was perhaps a little harsh.

“To get out of fighting, of course. Everyone says there’s going to be a big battle. It seemed like a good time to leave the castle.”

I rolled my eyes. So now I had a complete newbie horse dude who was also a coward to look after on this trip. Howard the Coward. Lucky me.

“Can we sit for a bit? I’m exhausted.” He plunked down on the grass. Then he sprang up again.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” He ran around in circles.

“What is it?” I watched in amazement.

“A bee! I sat on a bee.”

“Are you sure it’s a bee?” I said, crossing my arms. “Maybe it was a wasp.”

“Does it matter?” He was jumping up and down.

“Well, if it’s a wasp, you’re okay. If it’s a bee, the stinger will still be stuck in you. So when you sit down again…”

“Ahhh!! Take it out! Get it out!” He lifted his tunic and bent over.

Ick.

I turned away. “I am so not doing that.”

 

Melodie Campbell achieved a personal best this year when Library Journal compared her to Janet Evanovich.  She has over 200 publications, including 100 comedy credits, 40 short stories, and 4 novels. She has won 6 awards for fiction.  www.melodiecampbell.com      

Enter for a $50 Amazon gift certificate and 15 book Giveaway!  Free!  Deadline May 10 www.funnygirlmelodie.blogspot.ca

 

ROWENA AND THE DARK LORD, book 2 in the Land’s End series, is NOW AVAILABLE at the special introductory price of .99! (regular price $3.99, after May 1.) Buy Link:

http://www.amazon.com/Rowena-Dark-Lord-Lands-ebook/dp/B00CIZZS70/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1367004079&sr=8-3&keywords=rowena+and+the+dark+lord

And the one that started it all: ROWENA THROUGH THE WALL, book 1 in the Land’s End series

http://www.amazon.com/Rowena-Through-Wall-Expanded-ebook/dp/B007B4Q868/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1367012382&sr=1-3