Passion for fashion in the heart of Wynwood, Miami, and in the heart of a struggling fashion design student

Fashion and street-art collide…

Sundrenched Pen

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DSC_0874 Bomber Jacket from www.swankyragellc.weebly.com

Wandering through the streets of Wynwood in Miami, in the aftermath of Art Basel, you wouldn’t have to walk too long before sighting a couple of art-consumed figures holding court in their own fashion photo-shoot with the street art of the Miami Wynwood artists as a world-renowned backdrop. Into the thoroughfares of Miami street-art glides a heart of wonder-lust for a cadence that lends itself to fashion-mixed-with-art-mixed -with-color-mixed with passion-for-fashion.

DSC_0864 Street art in Wynwood, Miami, Florida

Miami native Miss Shari-Simone plots a highway through the town; down streets a-washed with streams of color that used to ride the D-train through the Bronx, NY, or the ancient brown stones of Brooklyn; street art of a style transplanted from the cold north of the Home of Hip-Hop (and Grandmixer D.ST would have agreed); gliding high over the Dirty South ATL (Hi, Luda-Ludacris) to the southern-most reaches of Miami…

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How to Manage Scenes in a Novel—Structure Part 8

Extremely important considerations in novel writing.

Kristen Lamb's Blog

And….ACTION! And….ACTION!

As a fiction author, you will often feel like an acrobat spinning plates while standing on your head and juggling fiery chainsaws. There are so many components to keep track of, lest you end up down the Bunny Trail of No Return. Organization is key when it comes to being a successful novelist.

Before we continue, if you want better odds of winning my 20 page critique at the end of the month, I am running a separately drawn contest over on my Dojo Diva blog where I am talking about why everyone (but especially females) needs at least some basic self-defense training. Comments count for one entry. Comments with a hyperlink count for two. And you get to learn about beating up bad people.

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Moving on…

We have spent the past few weeks studying the fundamentals of what makes up a novel, and today we are going to discuss…

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Scene from Fan Garvey Mystery

Fan Garvey is a woman who moves through South Florida like the ibis treading lightly through the Florida saw grass lining the edges of the watery pools in the Everglades.

M. McLeary-Graham, Novelist

Last night sweltered, hot and sticky.  A sweaty twilight slid into pulsating reggaeton, and spicy Latin food from the cooking pot of a feisty Borinqueno named Sergio who celebrated the grand opening of his small restaurant on Miami Beach and insisted that nobody leave until after midnight.  If it wasn’t for the laughter, the food, and Paco stealing a grope or two under the table littered with perspiring curvy glasses of amber beer and platters of half-eaten buffalo wings, Fan would have strutted her high-heeled butt out of there, supremely annoyed, and gone and sat in the car until her date Paco tore himself away from his cousin Sergio to take her to the place he had originally promised to take her: Las Olas in Fort Lauderdale.

They were supposed to have had dinner at Mangos–just the two of them.  Then take a stroll out toward the intra-coastal to people-watch but…

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Scene from Fan Garvey Mystery

Art Deco South Beach

Last night sweltered, hot and sticky.  A sweaty twilight slid into pulsating reggaeton, and spicy Latin food from the cooking pot of a feisty Borinqueno named Sergio who celebrated the grand opening of his small restaurant on Miami Beach and insisted that nobody leave until after midnight.  If it wasn’t for the laughter, the food, and Paco stealing a grope or two under the table littered with perspiring curvy glasses of amber beer and platters of half-eaten buffalo wings, Fan would have strutted her high-heeled butt out of there, supremely annoyed, and gone and sat in the car until her date Paco tore himself away from his cousin Sergio to take her to the place he had originally promised to take her: Las Olas in Fort Lauderdale.

They were supposed to have had dinner at Mangos–just the two of them.  Then take a stroll out toward the intra-coastal to people-watch but particularly to drink in the views of the luxurious marine vessels berthed in private docks.  Gleaming white sterns of luxury yachts rising up to overshadow the facades of the multi-million dollar water-front homes on the intra-coastal.

That was the vision she’d had of her evening out with Paco; a vision that faded fast in the haze of cigarette smoke, steam rising from platters, laughter competing with the lilting rolling pulse of the Latin reggae music.  Of course she was more familiar with Bob Marley’s kind of reggae, but having lived a while in South Florida after being transplanted from New York by sour circumstances, reggaeton made her hips pulse the same way Marley’s and Beres and Sean Paul’s reggae music made her hips pulse.

She finally excused herself, smiling all the while so that Sergio would not think her rude and unfriendly, but she cussed in Paco’s ear so that only he could hear.   He responded, “Lo siento, mi amor.  I am sorry.  We’ll leave real soon. Wait for me in the vehicle while I say my goodbyes.”  She ignored his look, his leer as he handed her the keys.  He obviously thought he was giving her a compliment.

She unlocked the vehicle in the reserved parking space and made herself comfortable in the front passenger seat. Her cell phone buzzed, its screen turning luminous in the half dark like a firefly. Annette, texting her for it seemed the millionth time that evening.  She sympathized with Annette’s current plight but she wished Annette would allow her at least one evening out alone with a man–undisturbed.  What the heck, Paco had already allowed his cousin’s impromptu grand opening to disturb what could have been a very satisfying evening for both her and Paco.  Fan’s slender index finger slowly swiped her cellphone screen and opened the text message, just as Paco extricated himself from some clinging female arms in the front door of the restaurant as he tried to leave, talking in rapid-fire Spanish to not one, not two but three  different females ranging in age from a pert dyed blond twenty something to a blue-rinsed abuela in a Hawaiian mou-mou.  Fan rolled her eyes, sighed and returned her attention to her cell phone.

“Fan, don’t forget about my problem.  I changed my mind.  I want you to take me to see your officer friend at the police department.  I need to do something. You said you would help me.”

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