My San Diego: Author Maebeth Turner has a new book out!

Maebeth Turner
Novelist: Contract Paralegal
University Heights

My San Diego is diverse, dynamic, contemporary and spiritual.

I'm a meditative spiritual being actively engaged in conscious growth and transformation. I love discovering new things about myself and then expressing them in writing. I'm socially-aware and politically engaged. I love spending time with small groups of friends enjoying good food and drink and discussing world affairs and spiritual evolution. I also have a volunteer nature and actively seek ways to serve others and give back.

I'm a self published author, having just published my first novel A Violet Butterfly, an inspiring story about the depth and power of women's friendships. Much of my time now is spent finding new ways to promote my novel and introduce it to the reading public. You can find more information about A Violet Butterfly at http://www.stellasmiddlechild.com/. It is available worldwide from the publisher’s website (http://www.bbotw.com/), and through the major online booksellers of amazon.com, borders.com, and bn.com (Barnes and Noble), and will eventually be available in bookstores everywhere through major book distributors. I'm also in the process of writing my second novel, which will be a contemporary political thriller.

*An Excerpt from A Violet Butterfly*

I couldn’t wait to get away from them, all of them. It was too much. Tabitha’s dying, seeing everyone, the raw exposed feelings, the hugs and kisses and apologies – all of it!

I don’t care what they think of me for saying my good-byes and practically sprinting to my car. If I had stayed even one minute longer I would have suffocated, or said something stupid, or done any of a number of inappropriate and clumsy things to remind everyone that I’m not like them. I don’t want to be pitied and patronized like they do to me. Not today.

I’m able to breathe normally once outside the cemetery gates. But when I get home, I don’t want to be there either. Maybe I should go to Mother Wilkins’ house. Everyone who was close to Tabitha will be there remembering, mourning and finding solace in congregating to share their common loss. Everyone except me.

I have no other place to go.

My messy house is deathly quiet. Why do I prefer this self-imposed isolation, this solitude, over the acceptable, and more social and proper activity of spending time with my friends and sharing this awful time? This can’t be normal.

I don’t really want to be alone, but being with them is too nerve-wracking, too confusing, way too uncomfortable. At least here I’m safe from scrutiny, criticizing comments, and judgmental thoughts. Yes, I’m alone, but here I don’t have to feel anything if I don’t want to. Today I don’t want to.

I’m sure it’s normal for most women my age to be greeted with “Hi Mommy”, “Hello Honey”, a sloppy dog kiss or the soft caress of a warm cat body pressing against their legs when they arrive home. My normal: a blinking red message light beckoning me into yet another sordid affair of the type I tired of long ago.

“Leave me alone.”

Now I’m talking to machines.