GIVE THANKS

With Thanksgiving tomorrow, I'm trying to fill my glass half full instead of half empty. It helps to write down and remember what I am grateful for in my life, instead of complaining about what my life lacks. I think Sheryl Crow said it best, "It's not getting what you want, it's wanting what you got." Soak up some sun (or rain) this holiday and make a list of things you are thankful. Here's mine:

*my health
*my beautiful, healthy son
*my family's health
*my husband
*my job
*my house
*my friends
*thin crust, whole wheat pizza
*Chenin Blanc
*The punk channel on Sirius radio
*my green eyes
*my education
*Kensington Community Church
*Weeds, Ugly Betty, Californication, and The Office
*my cell phone
*books, magazines
*donating money to help end domestic violence
*the colors of autumn
*my Netflix account
*Target
*Starbucks
*food, heat, clothing
*love
*kisses and "squeezes" from Xander
*dreams that come true
*students who are respectful and listen
*readers of CONFESSIONS OF A CATHOLIC SCHOOLGIRL
*Borders Bookstores
*heated car seats/remote start
*the internet
*babysitters
*vacations
*freedom

Writer's Digest Magazine says...

this about Michelle Kane's new book CONFESSIONS OF A CATHOLIC SCHOOLGIRL..."great title...bright, clear voice..."


GOT LIT?

Author Interview: Michelle Kane

Very pleased and excited to be featured on www.bookreviewtime.com

If you haven't read my latest author interview---you can read it here:

http://www.bookreviewtime.com/fiction/drama/sample-drama.html

A Tale of Two Ultrasounds

It was another frigid Michigan afternoon in January 2005. I pulled my wool coat tighter over my bulging belly, as the wind slapped the drifting snow into my face. My husband squeezed my hand as he guided me into our untrasound appointment at the hospital. Warm, clear gel over my body, gentle hands touching me. Beautiful baby sucking thumb. I see the heart beating...I feel my own heart beating, melting into tiny butterflies. "Everything look greats," the tech whispers.
Oh happy, joyful day.

It was another frigid Michigan afternoon in November 2007. I pull my leather jacket tighter across my chest, as the wind whips the freezing rain into my face. I clench the lab order from my ob/gyn tighter in my fist, wanting to toss it into a puddle. "Mass--L breast," is written in black ink. First the mammogram. Strange hands touching, squeezing, pressing into cold, metallic machine. Then the gel again, once a warm friend, now a cold enemy. Fleshy, dark gray mass clouding the monitor. It laughs at me, as my heart pounds and belly screams.

"Your doctor will go over everything with you," the tech whispers.
Oh evil, dreadful day.