Outline or no outline?

Here is the age old question, and you will seriously find strong opinions on both sides of this spectrum.

You have to outline or your book reads like you don’t. You go off on wild tangents. Or you have to let it free flow or it reads like an instruction manual. I think I’ve about read every article that lists pros and cons to both.

I’ve tried to be an outliner. Planning my story down, and I find shortly into it I give up. I’m finished with the book before I’ve even gotten started. My brain whirls, and I hate the whole process. I’ve thrown more books away by trying to plan them out, than I can imagine.

I also have friends that plan down to the tiniest details before they’re ready to go. Which works amazing for them. They are able to kick out books at their own rate once they know everything.

After all of this I’ve come to the conclusion like everything else that comes with following your creative flow this too is one of them. It’s no different than what time of day you’re the most creative, and can work. There are no set rules for any bit of it. There have been great successes and failures on both sides of the spectrum. I say lets all work the way we do, and what works for you might not work for your friends.

I’m not a horribly organized person, but I tend to jot down a overview plot line. That’s great enough for me. My friend details out every tiny bit until they are sure they know every nuance of their story, and that works great for them.

This all feeds back to the saying, ‘There are rules to writing, only nobody knows them’. Like all creative lifestyles it’s a matter of what works for you. Invent your own personal rules, and follow them, but don’t forget. Your rules work for you, not necessarily your friends. So in light of it all just remember everyone has opinions, and to quote my father, ‘Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one, and some stink’.

Follow your own methods to writing that novel, and remember…..

L.O.L. (Live It, Own It, and Love it!)

Until next time.


Do this, not that. Write this, not that.

It has been a long time since I’ve been here on my blog. In actuality it has been a long time since I allowed myself to reconnect with my creative half period. I have allowed myself to sit idle far too long. Admittedly so, I’d packed up my writing things. I’d moved on from wanting to write.

Why? Simple. I spent so long getting caught up in how everyone else wrote. They’re more productive than I am so their methods must work better. I need to learn them, practice them. Oh, they have so many published books out what are their writing rules. I must fall those.

As you can imagine my head was left spinning, and I felt like a complete and utter failure in the highest regard. It took me a long time to come to grips with everything. Thing is, there is no right way nor wrong way to write a novel. There is only your way, and that way is the only way you need to focus on. If you spend far too much time getting bogged down in all these ‘rules’ of writing you’ll forget why you even started down the road to begin with.

When you first get that little glimpse of an idea, follow what you want with it. If you want to gather up tons of those little glimmers before you sit down to write, do so. If you want to sit down and write the glimmer, and see how deep the rabbit hole goes, do it. It doesn’t matter how you go about writing, but merely that you do so.

Chris Baty, founder of National Novel Writing Month said it best in one of his speeches to Google employees. He used one of Isaac Newton’s laws of motion. ‘Objects in motion tend to stay in motion. Objects at rest tend to stay at rest.’ This he applied to writers meaning, if you can harness the power of momentum with your writing you will be far more productive. Let’s face it, we all can find excuses and reasons to be at rest. It’s that momentum that will keep us moving forward.

I’ve spent so much time focusing on the what to do’s, and what not to do’s that I let myself remain at rest. I came up with thousands of excuses on why I can’t write, and I let all the rules, and methods alter my own process. None of them worked, and my own creative process died during it all.

Lesson learned: I wasn’t doing anything wrong in the beginning. Yeah, what I wrote wasn’t the gold I originally thought it was, but that it can all be fixed and improved upon. The more I write the better I will get at it, but bogging myself down in everyone else’s methods and rules made it so I didn’t write at all. You can’t improve upon a blank page. Again, Chris Baty said, ‘A rough draft can always improve with a revision, but a blank page will still remain blank with a revision.’ Okay, so that probably isn’t an exact quote, but close enough to get the point across.

Anything I write can be fixed during revisions, but I have to write it first. No more of everyone else’s rules and methods. I have to do things my way, and you should do things your way. We are all fighting the same battle of getting the story out, we just have different means of getting there.

L.O.L. (Live it, own it, love it) my friends.

The Plot Thickens

This helped me so much. I hope it helps all of you.


Plot is a literary term defined as the events that make up a story, particularly as they relate to one another in a pattern, in a sequence, through cause and effect, how the reader views the story, or simply by coincidence.


Some resources claim there are SEVEN basic plot structures with numerous variations on each of them.  There are only so many story arcs and all of our stories fit into a certain category.  You can still create something that is uniquely your own and original because the writer can tweak all of the elements in their world.  But the basic ideas lead us to the point  that there is nothing new under the sun.  These recognizable forms work and used over and over again.

1. Overcoming the Monster

The protagonist sets out to defeat an antagonistic force which threatens the protagonist and/or protagonist’s homeland. Many of the mythology stories are in…

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The world is falling apart, the dead are rising up, and the Twinkies are all gone. Please welcome, V.L. Locey.

As always, it is truly a pleasure to have her as a guest on my blog. Please welcome, V.L. Locey, and her new release!

Before I start chatting about zombies I`d like to thank Misty for having me back again, she must be getting tired of seeing me here. I`m like a bad penny, or that creepy third cousin that shows up at family affairs, or a zombie virus outbreak. Nice segue huh?

I know that many people just cannot think about romance and zombies being in the same book. I mean that is just squicky, and nasty, right? Well, not necessarily. If you stop and think about it, when would love ever be more important? The world is falling apart, the dead are rising up, and the Twinkies are all gone. Having someone to love and cuddle during such a horrendous time would certainly make survival that much easier. Just think of Daryl and Carol. Go on. I’ll give you a minute. *Takes moment to enjoy recollections of Norman Reedus looking all sexy and whatnot*

Yeah, recalling their reunion made me tear up too. See, love and romance and spicy things are needed when one is facing an apocalypse. With that in mind, may I present my newest novella in the Two Guys zom-rom-com series?




Paul and Gordon aren’t your typical zombie hunters. They’re a loving couple of educators who might be infected by the virus that is turning the world’s population into mindless, undead eating machines. So why haven`t they turned?  Well, Gordon has a theory about that. He suspects that those who march under the rainbow flag just might be carrying the cure for the plague in their bloodstream. Zendra, the massive pharmaceutical company where the mutated virus was made, certainly seems to be in a hurry to round up all the gay survivors they can grab.

To avoid the clutches of Zendra, Paul, his partner Gordon, and a ragtag band of survivors head into the Great White North – the land of maple syrup, hockey, lumberjacks, and thick bacon. Here they plan to spend the winter, hopefully safe from roaming bands of undead, militaristic companies with far too much power, seedy groups of other survivors, and the always dreaded moose. Can two guys in love lead a motley crew to safety?

Two Guys Walk Into An Apocalypse 3: He`s a Lumberjack and He’s Undead is available at the Torquere Press Store, as well as all major eBook retailers.

Torque Press: http://www.torquerebooks.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=78_85&products_id=4288

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Two-Guys-Walk-Into-Apocalypse-ebook/dp/B00P00RC0G/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1414616464&sr=8-5&keywords=v.l.+locey



My sigh and a steady but thin stream of urine pattering on the pine needles and last fall’s dead leaves were the only noises until something stepped on a branch directly behind me. The dead bough cracked like a pistol. My urine stopped flowing as my heart dropped into my gut. A hot breath blew over the back of my neck causing every fine hair to stand up on end. The exhalation stank of rotten teeth and pond scum. With one hand, I tucked the shriveled beast back into its BVD cage. If a phobie was going to rip me into strips I was not dying with my *#*#  out. That’s just a thing I have. Death can claim me but my genitals will be covered if I can manage it.

With a very unhurried demeanor and a sudden weakness in my legs and knees, I simultaneously reached behind my back for the gun while I swiveled my head around. The largest brown eyes I have ever seen gazed down at me. The creature shook its massive head and blew snot from its nostrils. My fingertips skimmed the gun as a scream of sheer horror escaped me. The moose promptly freaked out. It bulled forward (I know, it’s funny isn’t it? Bull plus moose. Ha. Ha. God, I hate moose) as if someone had rammed a hot poker up its bunghole.

I pulled the gun free and fired. The moose got over being scared and got royally pissed off, which was rather a bit of irony since I now was fearful of losing control of my bladder. Where I hit the monstrous beast from hell I do not know but I think we can rest assured that it was not a killing shot. Bullwinkle threw his head to the left and right. I turned to run, was hit in the shoulder by a moose brow and was thrown to the side like some insignificant gay Raggedy Andy. My face met a tree, my gun flew from my hand, and Sir Moose attacked the nearest bush thinking — in its brilliant moose way — that the bush was the man who had screamed in its face and then shot beside its ear. I watched all this from the ground where I was balled up in a fetal position, whimpering about the sap on my lower lip.

My shot must have roused the camp, for within a moment (although between you and me it felt much more like several hours) the sound of people crashing through the woods broke through the snorting, thrashing, and pawing the long-headed cousin of Bambi was doing. A brilliant light swept the area. I screamed. The moose spun from his bush battle. Rider and Gordon skidded into the scene, the beams from their flashlights hitting the moose right in his ugly, flubbery face. Gordon raised a shotgun into the air but never got the chance to shoot. The moose plunged between the men, sending both diving to opposite sides. Bouncing shafts of light accompanied the departure of the moose as he crashed away into the land of nightmares.

“Sweet Jeezus,” I heard Rider pant somewhere in the darkness. “Damned shame I didn’t have my deer rifle, we could have eaten on that bitch for a month.”

“Paul, are you okay?” my partner called as he struggled to get to his feet and locate his flashlight.

A mousey sound tumbled from me. I coughed and tried several times to find my voice. When I located it down by my spleen, I had a question for my saviors. “Did– Did he mean ‘bitch’ like that animal was a female, or like some sort of rural Southern expression like ‘Damn son, we could have eaten on that bitch for a week!’ when in actuality the beast was a male?”


I twirled my rabbit bone for ten minutes. I stared at the stars and the moon and my love’s strong back. My head fell forward. I rose slowly, my feet getting stuck in the sudden appearance of a guilt puddle. That shit is sticky. Tugging free from the black ooze of self-recrimination, I made my way to the fire. Tallahassee was prowling at the exterior of the dying firelight, her green eyes glowing eerily when she would look at us from the weeds. Not knowing what to do now that I was beside him I threw my bone into the fire. It smoked terribly but the clouds curling off it were sweetly tinted with meat and marrow.

“You know what I miss?” I said, my hands now deep in my back pockets. I heard Gordon suck in a fast breath. This was a new game we had taken to playing since the world had turned into a place that neither of us recognized anymore. We would curl up, one snuggled against the other’s back, and whisper about what we missed in the normal world until we fell asleep. With so many travelling companions, making love to the man was virtually impossible. He made a sound in his throat that I knew to mean “Go on” so I did. Rocking to my toes then falling to my heels I finished my confession. “I miss Simon and Kyle from Beautiful People.”

Gordon choked on a swig of the drink of water he was taking. “And here I thought you were going to say something profound about missing the man who holds you every night until you fall asleep. But no, you miss a British comedy about a young window dresser.”
I glanced down at him seated on a stump.

“Well, I can’t say I miss you since you’re right here. And you can’t deny you adored Kyle and Simon as much as I did,” I replied, watching the bone I had thrown into the pit char and blacken. “Someday, when we’re situated with our happy little family of misfits here we’ll have a talent show and I’ll sing ‘Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves’ in honor of Kyle.”

His fingers moved around my wrist. I pulled him up then slid around to face him. “That, I wouldn’t mind seeing,” Gordon said, his thumb now stroking the pulse point in my wrist. “Paul, I am not trying to make you be something you’re not. That you would even say that to me was like a knife in the chest. I love you for what and who you are, you know that, don’t you?” he asked, his head falling to the left a few inches to try to capture my eyes. I nodded, my sight fixed on his mouth.

“I understand what you’re trying to do, Gordon, I do. I know I swore I would try to be more helpful since everyone seems to look to you and me for leadership for some crazy-ass reason.” I had to touch him, so I cupped his face, the thick, dark whiskers tickling my palm. “I haven’t been much help and I apologize. I vow from here on out I will try not to be such a doily knitter, but he has to try as well.”

“I’ll talk to him, and thank you, babe,” Gordon whispered, then drew me to him for a kiss. My fingers moved across his jaw into his hair. It was coarse and dirty, yet felt like satin to me. His teeth nipped at my lower lip, his tongue slid over my bottom teeth. I pulled his head towards me, making the kiss rougher than ordinary. I hoped it conveyed how damned hot I was for him. Gordon thrust his tongue deeply into my mouth, sweeping every corner he could find. His hands latched onto my hips, one thick thigh pushing between mine. The instant his erection moved sinuously against mine whatever residual irritation I may have had blew away with the smoke of burnt offerings. Without warning he broke the kiss but kept his lips hovering a millimeter from mine. “Do you really think I want you to be any less gay, you silly man?”

A short snort of amusement rolled from me. I tugged his mouth back over mine with one hand then found his pulsating shaft with my palm. He inhaled sharply, drawing air over his teeth and mine. A snap of a branch not far away had us leaping apart and pulling our weapons from our pants. (No not those weapons, you randy scamps!) Rodney stepped into the dying firelight, his bow and quiver over his shoulder, his round face painted shades of green and brown to match the trees and leaves. We both lowered our guns.

“Jeezus, you two are worse than a couple of horny hogs,” he grumbled.

I shoved my handgun into the back of my jeans. “No, this is not a gun in my pocket since mine is in my hand, so I must be extremely glad to see you,” I flung out. Rider spit on the ground, scowled and stalked off.

“What?” I asked to my partner’s exasperated look. “I said I missed him. I was being nice. I could have said I hoped he had fallen out of a tree but I didn’t.”


Author Bio:


V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, belly laughs, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a steer named after a famous N.H.L. goalie, and a flock of assorted domestic fowl.

When not writing lusty tales, she can be found enjoying her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania, fresh cup of java in hand.

I love to meet new friends and fans! You can find me at-

Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/pages/VL-Locey/124405447678452

Twitter- https://twitter.com/vllocey


Goodreads- http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5807700.V_L_Locey

My blog- http://thoughtsfromayodelinggoatherder.blogspot.com/

More V.L. Locey Torquere Press books:


Two Guys Walk Into An Apocalypse (Part of the He Loves Me For My Brainssss anthology), Two Guys Walk Into An Apocalypse 2:It Came From Birmingham, Love of the Hunter, Goaltender`s Penalty, All I Want for Christmas, Every Sunday at One (Part of the 2013 Charity Sip Anthology), Night of the Jackal, An Erie Halloween


Coming soon exclusively from Torquere Press . . . An Erie Operetta and Early To Rise – A Toms & Tabbies Tale.

I’m Calling You Out!!!

Hello, my amazing readers. Here we are sitting on Oct. 23rd all ready. This month has flown by for me, and considering all I need to get done….well, that isn’t such a good thing.

We are less than 10 days away from one of the biggest writing projects to strike the internet. What is that you say? Why it is NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month. It is where all of us writers, aspiring writers, and those that just want to give it a try spend the entire month of November writing 50 thousand words on a novel. That is 30 days to write the bare bones of your novel arc down.

50,000 words in 30 days, you might say?! That is insane! It really could be, but it is fun, and you will never find a bigger community of authors supporting other authors through the journey.

Now, lets break it down. We are talking about 1,667 words a day to hit that 50,000 by November 30th. Most people can accomplish this in about two hours of work. I realize some type slower, but still….2 hours a day of typing like mad on that novel you’ve had rolling around in your cranium. Seriously, that isn’t much time to sacrifice to accomplish something artistic.

Not to mention it is absolutely free to sign up, so if worst case you don’t make it, you are out NOTHING! You can sign up here at Nanowrimo.org. If you are anything like me, you like to be challenged. That is when your determination and gumption shines through.

After all of this you still are unsure if you should do it? You’re too busy? You have too many commitments? Come on, there will always be a reason to push it off until next year or sometime. Now is the time to join in the fun, the chaos, and the community.

So, all my grand readers. If you are an aspiring writer in any format I’m calling you out. Don’t push this opportunity off until next year. Jump in with both feet, and take the journey with thousands of us. You never know, you could just be sitting at the end of November going ‘Wow, I just wrote my first novel.’ or ‘Wow, I didn’t think I could do it, but I did.’

Time to get back to the NaNoWriMo preparation. And remember –

L.O.L. (Live it – Own it – Love it!) It’s your journey make the most of it.

New Release: Reality Check by V.L. Locey


The team owner/head coach relationship can be a tenuous one at times. Isabelle Lancourt can testify to just how stressful it can be. Ever since her husband passed away, leaving her his beloved Wildcats, she and Philip Moore have been at loggerheads. When the opportunity to sign a Russian hotshot presents itself, Isabelle leaps at the chance to prove herself as more than just a pretty face. Dealing with hot flashes, salary caps, and trade deadlines she can handle with ease. The aftermath of an ill-advised, but erotically superb, rendezvous in Siberia with the handsomely annoying Coach Moore? That was not in any Wildcats playbook. Can Isabelle and Philip handle the changes life is about to throw at them? Or will combining their personal and professional lives prove to be a misconduct penalty that the league simply cannot overlook?


Buy Links:

Secret Cravings Store






“I hate to be termed over-reactionary or whiny bitch,” I opened with. The man crammed into a seat two sizes too small for him mumbled something unintelligible across the thin aisle. “And far be it for me to complain, but I think the left wing is about to fall off.”

Within a heartbeat Moore was out of his seat and leaning across me. My nose was burrowed into his shirt pocket. That brisk seafaring scent he wore wrapped its arms around my olfactory to hug my sense of smell tightly. I drew in a deep breath, held it, tasted the tang of cologne and man, then exhaled through my mouth. Philip shifted a bit.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his bulk sliding downward a bit, so that his stomach rested on the rickety arm of my mouse-chewed seat. “I think it’s just the bounce of the plane over the turbulence,” he announced after a long, and not unpleasant, moment of his abdomen brushing my breasts. When I made a weak sound of hope in reply, he glanced from the window to me, a small twist of a smile playing on his lips. The impact of our positions hit me like a cinderblock to the head. His mouth was mere inches from mine now. I could see him swallow roughly. His jaw and neck were dark with new whiskers. I wanted to feel the rasp of his stubble on my neck, breasts, and inside my thighs. I wanted. Oh, hell yes, I wanted.

The blue of his irises darkened as I studied my reflection in his eyes. Was it desire I saw, or something else profound and powerful? Love and hate share lots of secrets, being such close friends as they are. The plane hit a ball of violent air. My head coach nearly went to his knees in front of me. My fingers dug even deeper into the arms of my seat. Philip gathered himself quickly, wiggling from the space between my knees and the crummy seat in front of me.

“Sorry,” he coughed, hurrying back to his own seat. I nodded, neck tight, spine stiff, heart hammering, and thighs twitching. “You remind me of Christine,” he said out of the blue. I managed to make my head creak around to look at him. The man was in control once again. Wish I could be so quick to move from one frightening thing to another. Shit, I was still freaking out about the way my body responded to his. “She didn’t mind flying until we hit turbulence,” he explained, wistfully.

“Every time we would run into a rough patch, her eyes would grow bigger.” He paused to find me looking at him. “She had these wide eyes anyway, so she always looked surprised,” he clarified. I nodded, knowing how important talking about our lost ones is. “Anyway, when she would feel the slightest jounce up she would go, eyes as big as basketballs, and into the ladies’ room she would dash. Once, on a flight down to Florida to see our youngest son Drew when he was in college, Christine spent the entire flight in the bathroom.” He chuckled in amusement. The sound was incredibly pleasing. My anxiety lessened a bit. “I used to tease her about the well-known safety features of a ladies’ powder room during a plane crash. Sometimes our fears get the best of us, though. She knew she was just as screwed as everyone else on that plane, but something about that cramped little girls’ room made her feel less vulnerable, I suppose.”

“Colton used to say ‘There ain’t no point in fretting about dying. If the good Lord says it’s your time, then it’s your time, darling!” I tossed out in my best Texan accent. Philip laughed uneasily.

“That sounds like Colton,” he said, running his palms over his thighs briskly. I wanted to ask him how he had dealt with his wife’s death. I knew she had passed a few years back from cancer, leaving him and their two grown sons to carry on. “He was a good man. He’s sorely missed.”



“I knocked several times. When you didn’t answer I got worried,” Philip said. There was some difficulty with my thought synapses. They felt listless. I threw my legs off the bed. Philip stepped back. Leaning forward to rest my face in my hands, my forehead brushed the smooth material of his pant leg. The man hissed lightly. I gasped at the explosion of need that erupted deep inside my core. I stood up, just now realizing I had slept in my muddy flats and muted purple suit. My mind was sluggish.

We stood within a foot of each other. I slid out of my shoes. I observed him as he watched my feet emerge from my flats. It was funny, actually. I mean, I have taken my shoes off in a thousand different places over my lifetime, but never once has it been that erotic. If I lived to be as old as my mother I will never be able to explain what overtook us. Without warning, preamble, or a word spoken I was in his arms, my fingers moving through his neatly combed hair, his mouth slanted over mine.

It was as if my stepping out of my little purple flats had been some symbolic gesture. What kind of gesture? Who knows? Certainly not me, because all I knew was that I needed Philip Moore inside of me more than I had never needed anything else in my life. To hell with the ramifications of this ill-advised tryst! I felt sexy again, for the first time in years a man was hot, hard, and ready to screw me. Yes, screw, not make love. The word suited the insane, hot, wet kiss we were sharing just as it would suit the act itself. Right now, I wanted to be screwed, and by someone who knew how. I needed to be thrown to the bed by a man lost to his overwhelming desire to have me.

I never saw the bed, which is just as well considering how many other people had used it for the same lusty act. Philip danced me backward until my shoulder blades and ass hit the wall. I could feel the music pulsating through the plasterboard and timbers at my back. The kiss never broke as we tangoed across the bedroom, not even when I hit the wall, and then exhaled in surprise sharply. Philip just inhaled my breath.

His hands were on my breasts, then they were on my hips, then they were in my hair. His tongue roamed inside my mouth, over my lips, along my jaw, and down my throat. I gyrated against him. His prick jumped behind the material holding it caged. If I said things, and I rather assume I did, I don’t know what I said. He didn’t speak much, either. He was too busy pushing my blazer, blouse, and bra up to talk. When he had them bared, he did take a scant second to murmur how sexy my nipples were.

“Lovely and dark,” he purred before capturing one of the mahogany tips between his teeth. Some wild force broke free as I watched his white teeth toying with my stiff nipple. I gouged at his scalp with my nails as I pushed my weeping cleft against his erection. He moaned around my nipple. His hand danced down between us, seeking, then finding, my satin panties. The man certainly knew his way around a woman’s body. He released my left nipple, blew over the turgid tip, then took half my right breast into his mouth as his fingers located my stiff clitoris through my underwear.

It had been so long…



Author Bio:

V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, belly laughs,  reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers,  comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a steer named after a famous N.H.L. goalie,  a pig named after a famous President, and a flock of assorted domestic fowl.

When not writing spicy romances, she can be found enjoying her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand. She can also be found online on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and GoodReads.

I love to meet new friends and fans! You can find me at-

Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/pages/VL-Locey/124405447678452

Twitter- https://twitter.com/vllocey


Goodreads- http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5807700.V_L_Locey

My blog- http://thoughtsfromayodelinggoatherder.blogspot.com/

Secret Cravings Backlist Books:

Pink Pucks & Power Plays (Book One of the To Love a Wildcat Series)

A Most Unlikely Countess (Book Two of the To Love a Wildcat Series)

O Captain! My Captain!(Book Three of the To Love a Wildcat Series)


Hello my valiant readers. I’m going to deviate from the norm again today.

Not many of you know that the hubby man and myself have been on a ketogenic lifestyle for the last five months. What does that mean? No starches, sugar, bread or anything of the such.

I’ll admit I struggled with this healthy eating for awhile in the beginning. Starches and sugar was my life. No I wasn’t a chocolate fiend or anything, but I loved sugar in my coffee. The change from regular sugar to splenda was a hard one for me to adjust to. As for starches and bread. I love potatoes and rolls. Again, that was a hard hit for me. I figured it was a small price to pay when meat was so highly recommended. I am a carnivore. So, I jumped in with both feet.

Wow did it suck to begin with. I wanted to beat up anyone for looking at me cross eyed. My energy depletion found me napping most days in that first two weeks.

However, my body has finally learned to adjust to these changes. It’s been a steady weight loss for us both. The changes within our bodies both clothes fitting, and inches lost is massive.

Anyway, the purpose of this post is after a month on this healthy eating you discover that you repeat foods. It gets…mundane and lack luster fast. So, the hubby man changed up the way we ate spaghetti squash leftovers.

Often times we have the leftovers due to the fact that we can only eat so much, and our kids….well they aren’t particularly fond of the vegetable. This time the hubby man decided to create hashbrowns out of the leftover.

Spaghetti Squash Hashbrowns

He melted a pad of real butter in the pan, mixed in seasonings, patted the squash into patties and tossed it into the butter until it browned on one side, flipped it over and did the same.

Oh my goodness, let me tell you it’s really good. I’m addicted to these things. As a special treat he makes breakfast out of it by placing a patty of squashbrowns on the bottom, a layer of eggs on top, and then a burger on that. It’s a high protein meal and often times you will have leftovers from that as well for breakfast the next morning due to it being so filling.

As for now, back to work for me.

L.O.L. (Live it – Own it – Love it)