The Chicken and the Superstar

It might have been the moon. Or maybe it was something I ate. Or could it have had something to do with the Cosmo I knocked back a little too quickly on my terrace with a friend? All I know is that at some point last week, in an élan of exuberance coupled with a temporary lapse of judgment, I signed up for a dressage competition.

Eek!

You see, I’m not the competitive type. The mere thought of riding a program in public generates sleepless nights, unpleasant digestive issues, nausea, palpitations, zit attacks and ludicrous amounts of sweating. And then there’s the fact that I absolutely loathe those adrenaline rushes you get prior to entering the arena. So why the heck did I fill out the online application and press “enter”?

I guess it had something to do with feeling mega comfortable at my new stables, with Kwintus going so well, with feeling encouraged by my friend Stephanie, the owner of the stables, with knowing that my fabulous trainer, Marie-Valentine Gygax (who used to teach in America!), will be there to coach me. There’s also the niggling sentiment that Kwint isn’t getting any younger. He’s eighteen now, and although I know he’s not Methuselah, he’s no spring chicken, either. If I’m going to try to
make a little hay, now’s the time.

The thing is, I’m proud of my horse. I’m proud of how great he looks for his age, of how well he uses his back, of how he swings in trot, of how he brings his hind legs so far underneath him in canter. I love how he almost always corrects himself when halting at X if not completely square. I love how he’s always eager to please, how he always does his best to understand what I’m after. I love his laid back, positive attitude towards life and his sense of humour. Sure, he needs a little motivation to do more than the bare necessities once in a while, but who doesn’t? Call me nuts, but despite my fear of public performance, I want to show the world what a wonderful horse I have.

As for Kwintus, he loves going to shows. All you have to do is plait his mane for him to start preening like a Grand Prix superstar. Last year, at the annual show at my old stables, a friend of mine rode him in one of the more advanced classes (I have yet to sign up to pass what, here in Switzerland, is called a “licence”. I guess I should…but it’s…, well, you know, a test. It has the same effect on my inner-life as a competition). She’d only ridden him a couple of times beforehand, and had no idea he was going to go into show-off mode the moment the bell rang. Imagine her surprise when he decided he knew exactly what he was doing, and that of course the three tempi changes on the diagonal were followed by the two tempi changes on the next diagonal (there were no two tempis at all in that program, but he just loves doing them!)!

No, they didn’t do very well… But the overall effect was ever so cute! And you should have seen the enthusiasm he put into his pirouettes!

Kwintus and I won’t have to do tempi changes for the test on July 10th, which is a pity, really, as they’re definitely his party trick. There’ll be no fancy footwork, no pirouettes, no appuyés, nor even any backing up, come to think of it. The main difficulty will be the series of canter-walk-canter movements performed on a serpentine on the middle line, so we’re practicing those, trying to keep the fluidity in the walk after the transition. I’ve noticed that if I make a conscious effort to breathe into the downward transitions, Kwint executes them far more smoothly. Problem is, as I’m already forgetting to breathe during our practices, chances are I’ll be apoplectic on the day!

But then again, maybe I’ll be fine. Maybe, this time, I’ll be as laid back as my horse. Maybe I’ll sleep like a baby the night before, and wake up to face the day with a head filled with resolve instead of a stomach filled with dread. Maybe I’ll be preening like a Grand Prix diva. Maybe.

I’m hoping that, having given myself plenty of time to prepare the test, I’ll feel far more confident than I’ve felt in the past. I’m hoping I’ll enjoy the moment as much as I know Kwintus will. More than anything, I’m hoping I’ll do him proud, maybe even come home with a ribbon and some decent scores and nice comments on my test sheet.

I’ll keep you posted on our progress, as well as on further developments relating to the state of my nerves. And I’ll definitely let you know how the competition goes...

Meanwhile, I’d love to know how you feel about competing in shows. Do you get nervous? And if you do, why do you still sign up? Any words of wisdom you’d like to share?

Lots of love,

Francesca

Guest Blogger: Francesca Prescott--When I Grow Up...

I went to a dressage show today to watch and totally forgot to post Francesca's second contribution to our blog. So please welcome back my very good friend, Francesca Prescott.

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“When I grow up, I’m going to have a horse stabled there.”

When I was a horse-obsessed teenager, this is what I’d say to myself every time we drove past a beautiful old farmhouse set high up on a gently sloping hillside close to our sleepy French village. Behind the farmhouse, dozens of aristocratic looking horses grazed in a series of rectangular paddocks stretching all the way up to the forest and the Jura mountain range beyond. I’d crane my neck as we zipped by in the car, wishing my eyes could zoom in and get a better look. I was twelve or thirteen years old, and as far as I was concerned, that place was paradise.

Unfortunately, paradise was private property and young trespassers would most certainly be, if not prosecuted, at least seriously told off. Although my friend Denise and I often borrowed a couple of ponies from a kind-hearted farmer and sometimes go exercise them in the small indoor arena within the property, we never were quite brave enough to sneak further down the track to get a better visual of the house itself. Looking back, I still don’t know whether we were officially allowed to go and ride in that indoor arena, but Denise seemed to think we were, and since she was slightly older than me I believed her. I suppose she was right because nobody ever came to kick us out!

Years passed. I outgrew ponies, graduated from school, left home, went to university, got a job, fell in love and got married. My incredibly generous father-in-law made my biggest childhood dream come true when he bought me a horse as a wedding present. I’ve since been lucky enough to own a couple of horses, all of them having been stabled in a succession of very nice places. Yet whenever I drove over to visit my parents I’d continue to glance up at the beautiful old farmhouse on the hillside and think how wonderful it would be to have a horse there. I’d recall all the fun I had riding around the countryside during my childhood, rolling my eyes at those crazy gallops through open fields with Denise. I’d get a little nostalgic, musing over how idyllic this part of the world is for horse-lovers of any age.

And then one day, a year and a half ago, I received an email from an old school friend, Caroline, who now lives in Belgium. It was one of those jokey emails that zoom across the internet, the kind people forward to dozens of friends. I chuckled, and was about to forward it to my own set of friends when I noticed Caroline had also sent it to someone I’d lost track of close to fifteen years ago: Stephanie. Back then, Caroline, Stephanie and I all had horses, which we kept at one of the local riding schools. But whereas Stephanie and Caroline were both really keen on jumping, I was far more interested in dressage, so when the dressage trainer I worked with at the time bought her own riding centre, my horse and I followed her there. Soon afterwards, Caroline met a nice man and left Switzerland for Belgium, and seeing as we no longer rode at the same stables, Stephanie and I gradually lost touch. I knew she’d moved, but didn’t know how to contact her, so I was thrilled when I stumbled across her address and immediately fired off an email.

Stephanie soon wrote back. She’d moved on from show-jumping, was now professionally involved in the adrenaline-drenched world of eventing, and had recently bought a large equestrian property close to the French village where I lived as a teenager. The photos she attached left no doubt in my mind: she’d bought the beautiful old farmhouse of my dreams!

She and I emailed each other a couple of times, but life and busy schedules intervened and we lost touch again until early this year when, eager for a change in riding scenery, I phoned her one morning, wondering whether there might be room at her equestrian inn for my dressage horse, Kwintus.

“To be perfectly honest, I had no intention of taking in other people’s horses,” she replied, with a smile in her voice. I could hear her puffing on a cigarette at the other end of the line. “But you’re an old friend, and I do have an extra stable, so I’d be happy to have your horse here. Why don’t you come and take a look around? Not that there’s much to see at the moment because of all the damn snow… But I’d love to see you and tell you all about my big plans. ”

I was there like a shot. Sure enough, as far as the riding facilities were concerned, there wasn’t much to see – the outdoor arena was knee-deep in snow. The sky was a low, murky grey, the paddocks (all impeccably re-fenced) inaccessible, her three horses and tiny Shetland pony snug and snoozing in their stables. But there was a special feel to the place, a soft, relaxing atmosphere that told me my horse and I would be happy here.

Stephanie and I had a cup of tea, some chocolate biscuits and a nice long natter during which she told me about her hugely ambitious project: the construction of a state-of-the-art wellness centre for horses. The old, now tumbledown, small indoor arena where Denise and I used to ride the farmer’s ponies would be torn down sometime in April and replaced with one three times the size. There would be a new, modern stable-block for six to eight horses, complete with horse-sauna and solarium, an aqua-pacer (an aquatic treadmill for horses), an automatic walker, a lunging arena, a race-track…and goodness knows what else! She’d already built a massive outdoor school with a computer controlled floor, ensuring perfect footing in all weather…except snow. This arena was surrounded by a huge field upon which she planned to build a cross-country course. Oh, and she’d also recently had the walk-through, ice-cold splash pool below the courtyard completely refurbished with a slip-proof lining. The cold water did wonders for the horses’ legs!

Frankly, as far as I was concerned, there wasn’t much to think about. My only worry at that time was the absence of an indoor school, the snow-logged outdoor arena, and our endless, abysmal winter. So I decided to be patient, leave Kwintus where he was for a couple of months, and move him in to Stephanie’s in early spring.

Just over a week ago, Kwintus moved into his stable in the beautiful old farmhouse high on the hillside. He’s settled in wonderfully; so wonderfully in fact that he seems to have dropped ten years in seven days; he’s prancing and dancing and snorting and basically being a complete show-off. Kwint is a friendly, people-loving horse, and definitely appreciates his view onto the courtyard because he can keep an eye on everything that’s going on. We’ve already been for long, slow rides up the mountain, strolled over to the nearby village, and worked in Stephanie’s gigantic outdoor arena. Wearing thigh-high fisherman boots, I’ve coaxed him into the walk-through, ice-cold splash pool and, in a couple of months, might even consider going in bare-legged myself!

Basically, I’m having loads of fun! It’s so nice to be riding in such a peaceful atmosphere and such stunning surroundings; great to be hanging out with Stephanie again, lovely to be getting to know her fabulous English groom, Leanne. My dogs are having a great time too, racing around with their new buddies Fonzo and Chelsea. As for Kwintus, he’s super-bright-eyed and almost alarmingly bushy-tailed! But what amazes me most is the fact that, so many years later, my childhood dream of having a horse in that big, beautiful old farmhouse on the hillside has come true.

Keep on dreaming!

Lots of love,

Francesca
http://www.francescaprescott.com/

Guest Blogger: Francesca Prescott--PULLING POWER: Look who’s Taking out the Rubbish!

I'd like to welcome back my dear cyber friend, Francesca Prescott. Francesca and I met on a fanfic site many years ago. Over the years, we've critiqued each other's work, met in San Francisco, and corresponded on all sorts of things, especially horses. Francesca lives in Europe, rides dressage, and writes  wonderful, entertaining stories. Be sure to check out her website and her book.

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The new rubbish collectors just clip-clopped past my house. Yes, clip-clopped! Our village has recently set-up an eco-friendly rubbish collection system using good-old horse power. Every Wednesday morning, Maée and Quito, two sturdy Comptois horses, are harnessed to a specifically-made carriage to spend a couple of hours combing the country roads surrounding my village, collecting things people no longer want.

I think it’s a wonderful idea, not just because I’m a hard-core horse fanatic, thrilled to have horses grazing in the fields across from my house, nor because it revalorizes various breeds of heavier working horses long-appreciated for their pulling-power, nor simply because recent comparative studies in France and Germany (where horses have also been reinstated in certain cities on a much larger scale) have proved that horse-power beats motorized power hands down when it comes to carbon emission (who’d have thunk it?!).

The way I see it, having a horse-drawn carriage clip-clopping down country roads is also beneficial on a social level. It’s a charming event that draws people out of their houses, incites interaction between total strangers, makes people smile. It also slows down traffic, forcing all the speedy Gonzalezes to ease their feet from their accelerators far more efficiently than the hundreds of sleeping policemen and mini-roundabouts installed at great expense in this area over the past few years.

On another level, this initiative is also yielding great results among young people having experienced social difficulties, and who in working with these horses have found equilibrium, self-respect, a place in their community, and developed new marketable skills.

The person behind this great idea is Marco Mora, a gentle-natured social worker with a longstanding passion for horses. One of his horses, a formidable bay Percheron called Popeye (check out the size of his feet!), has been involved in cleaning up after Nyon’s Paleo Music Festival for a number of years, and has become quite a local celebrity! Marco hopes that the urban use of horse-power will catch on, leading to other villages jumping on the heavy-horse bandwagon.

Considering the wonderful impression it’s making around here, how could it not?

Lots of love,

Francesca Prescott
http://www.francescaprescott.com/index.asp

May 2010

A Horse with a Heart

I'm very happy to welcome back guest blogger Francesca Prescott.

He was coming down the long side of the arena the first time I saw him. Big and bay and muscular, he had an elegant, easy walk and a confident, somewhat debonair allure. His broad forehead and kind, golden eyes were enhanced by a neatly plaited forelock. He wasn’t a particularly big horse, but he was round, compact and well-proportioned, and his thick, strong neck was shown to advantage by a set of perfect plaits. His tail was thick, long and glossy. But what struck me most about Kwintus the first time I saw him was the perfectly symmetrical heart-shaped white mark on his forehead. Okay; geometrically speaking, the white mark is actually more of a diamond shape. But to me it will always look like a heart, probably because I fell in love with this horse the moment I laid eyes on him. He had something special; a charisma, a presence, a gentle and endearing “cuteness” that made me feel happy. I glanced at Olivia, my fifteen-year-old daughter, hoping she felt the same way. I knew my eyes were sparkling, but were hers?

This magical moment took place two and a half years ago, when Olivia and I travelled to Germany accompanied by our trainer, Marie-Valentine Gygax (who, in my opinion, has to be the best, most patient and enthusiastic dressage trainer on the planet), to look for a dressage horse suitable for both of us. Our needs were pretty straightforward: we wanted a horse with three good gaits and a good character at a good price. Ideally, we’d imagined buying a horse aged between eight and ten, but we were open-minded, which is a good way to be when you want to buy a horse. As a case in point, during our first trip to Germany two months earlier, we’d fallen for a six-year old mare with a sweet character and a trot to die for. Unfortunately, a few weeks later, an intensive vet check revealed that the mare had a triple heart defect. She and we were not to be. It was a major disappointment, not to mention a financial setback for our limited budget. We’d already spent a substantial amount of money on plane fares and car rental, and during that initial horse-hunting weekend, had clocked up 800 exhausting and exhilerating kilometers dashing from one yard to another to try various potential mounts (Horse shopping? What a rush!). And while there was no end to the offer of dressage horses for sale in Deutschland, many of them were either beyond our means, or, for one reason or another, not suitable for a young rider and her middle-aged mother. Most of the good quality horses we could afford were young and inexperienced, and the idea of buying something so green made me nervous. I was an experienced rider, but had hardly ridden at all for seven years, having lost my nerve following a bad accident with my four-year-old Dutch warmblood. I was also concerned about putting my inexperienced daughter on something bound to unexpectedly explode, which at some point most young horses inevitably do. No, I wanted a horse with a little more mileage, one that was “safe” and uncomplicated. Basically, I was looking for a schoolmaster. But the problem was that nice, ten-year-old schoolmasters always come with stratospheric price tags. Without access to a stratospheric bank account, keeping an open-mind was definitely a must.

A few weeks after our veterinary tribulations with the cardiac-unfortunate mare, Marie-Valentine rang to tell me that Holger Münstermann, her contact in Germany, had found a few more horses that might be of interest to us, so I booked the flights and the three of us soon flew back to Germany. Unfortunately, when we arrived, one of the horses we were supposed to see had already been sold, another was lame, and yet another turned out to be a complete dud. We were shown a very nice ten-year-old mare, but I wasn’t completely convinced. Apart from not being a schoolmaster, she also had a weird habit of wobbling her lips while being ridden that got on my nerves. I was beginning to get worried; we’d flown all this way twice, and our equine budget was wasting away on travel expenses. Wasn’t there anything else we might see?

“Well, supposedly there is a very good horse at my friend Norbert’s yard, not too far from here,” said Holger, “The thing is that this horse is already fifteen-years-old. I wanted to show him to you the first time you came, but was told he’d just been sold to Japan. However, that sale fell through. I wasn’t going to mention him this time because I remember Marie-Valentine saying that fifteen might be a little too old. But I’ve been told that he’s an excellent horse, the ultimate schoolmaster and has competed up to Prix Saint-Georges.”

While my interest sparked and my ears pricked, my daughter looked disconsolate. “I don’t want to look at a fifteen-year-old horse,” she sighed. “I don’t see the point.”

“A fifteen-year-old horse who has done Prix Saint-Georges can teach you everything,” replied Holger, sitting back in his chair, stretching his legs and crossing his hands behind his head. “In fact, for a young rider like you, an experienced horse like this might really be ideal. It’s worth going to take a look at him, anyway.”

But Olivia wasn’t convinced. She thought she’d be taken to see something resembling the poor old burnt-out riding school horses she’s spent years coaxing around arenas back home. Having lost her heart to the prancy little six year old mare with the heart malfunction, she didn’t want to be coerced into settling for an ironing board with a cast-iron mouth. Nevertheless, between the three of us, we managed to convince her to give this old fellow a chance, and drove over to Norbert Van Laaks’ stunning stables.

Well, it didn’t take long to convince anyone. Because, as I mentioned earlier, this “old fellow” had nothing in common with an ironing board. We watched, our mouths curled up at the corners, as one of Nobert’s riders put Kwintus through his springy paces, our curly mouths widening into delighted grins when Marie-Valentine took over to personally test the horse prior to handing him over to Olivia. When my daughter swung into the saddle, she discovered equestrian sensations she’d only ever dreamed of. Within a few minutes she was over the moon and beyond, being given a private lesson by one of the most notorious trainers in the world (Norbert Van Laak coaches the Canadian team) who talked her through her first flying changes, appuyés and pirouettes. Kwintus’ ears flicked back and forth as he did his best to understand her somewhat muddled instructions. The elegant little horse was the perfect gentleman, even obliging her with a pirouette on the wrong leg when Olivia got her aids in a twist. As far as I was concerned, that was it. With that unbalanced, wonderfully wonky, extra-generous pirouette, I was terminally smitten.

Finally, it was my turn. I’d ridden maybe ten times in seven years, but as soon as I sat on Kwintus, I felt as though I was…well…coming home. Frustratingly, while my body remembered everything, my muscles had a terrible time coordinating the memories. I bounced and jiggled most mortifyingly, but Kwintus didn’t bat an eyelid. It was as if he was saying, “Don’t worry, I know my job. Just try to let me know more or less what you want me to do, and I’ll figure out the details. I’ve been here before, so no stress, honey.”

Kwintus is now seventeen years old and in better shape than ever. He lives the life of Riley fifteen minutes away from my home in Switzerland, and whinny-chuckles whenever we greet him with a “Hi, Kwint!”. He introduced my daughter to dressage competitions, winning her a first place during their first outing together with an impressive score of 69%. He’s given me back my confidence and taught me all the high level fancy stuff. Riding him is as riding should be: sheer pleasure. On top of this, he also has a great sense of humour, and is the most affectionate, sweet-tempered, generous horse I’ve ever known. The marking on his forehead may be - geometrically speaking - shaped like a diamond, but Olivia and I definitely see it as a heart.

Of course we do; we love him to bits!

With love,

Francesca Prescott
“Mucho Caliente! – Wish upon a Latino Superstar”
An effervescent romantic comedy
Available in print from Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble.com, as well as in Kindle and as an e-book
http://www.francescaprescott.com/

If you don't go to the party... Guest Blogger--Francesca Prescott

It gives me great pleasure to introduce a dear friend of mine, who is a fellow horsewoman and and debut writer, Francesa Prescott.

If you don’t go to the party, you don’t get a balloon!

My niece Flaminia once said, “If you don’t go to the party, you don’t get a balloon.” She was only about seven or eight at the time (she’s twelve now), and I doubt she realized how profound her words actually were. But her spontaneous words of wisdom reflect her personality. Flaminia is a clever, determined little girl who doesn’t just rise to challenges, she creates them. And when she goes to parties, she comes home with fistfuls of balloons.

I like balloons too. The trouble is: I’m a chicken crossed with a scaredy cat. Put me in a challenging, unfamiliar situation and I feel the fear. My half-Italian origins erupt in my armpits, my pulse risks a speed ticket, my bladder becomes super demanding. My instincts urge me to never say boo to a sparrow, let alone a goose. My list of favorite things read like that annoying song in The Sound of Music (which is now going to be stuck in my head all day… grrrr).

But life isn’t all whiskers on kittens and when the tough gets going, retail therapy doesn’t provide any answers. As my dressage teacher says (when Kwintus, my horse, has personal opinions that clash with mine), “Push him through it.” Five hundred kilos of equines opinions can be daunting, but when the argument ceases and harmony prevails, there’s no feeling like it.

“You should enter Kwintus in the competition this weekend,” said Pam, my dressage teacher’s daughter, shortly after having seen me enjoying a particularly harmonious equestrian moment. “He’s going really well. It would be a pity not to.”

My heart skipped the country and raced off along a German motorway (German motorways have no speed limits). My bladder threatened to pull the plug. What? Me? Compete? No! I suck! I don’t know the dressage program. And even if by some miracle I manage to learn it, I’ll get inside the arena and forget it. I’ll fall off. I’ll throw up in front of the judges. Besides, I’ve gained weight and my white jodhpurs won’t fit me. I need new ones (retail therapy!), but the shop closes in an hour and they probably won’t have my size anyway.

Pam raised an eyebrow and gave me one of her sly smiles. She’s not a chicken crossed with a scaredy cat. She’s one hundred percent lioness.

“Sure you can! Come on! Just learn the program and leave the rest up to Kwintus. He’s a pro. He’ll take care of you,” she said, striding off in her shiny boots.

My heartbeat stayed on the German autobahn. I was torn. Half of me wanted to rise to the challenge, to show the world what a fabulous horse I have. The other half wanted to hide in a soft cozy place until the horsey weekend was over and it was safe to practice my flying changes incognito again.

But Kwintus nuzzled me. I looked into his kind, brown eyes, stroked his soft, cozy nose and decided he deserved to show off the smooth moves he’d been so generously sharing with me. With my heartbeat still powering towards Hamburg and my body as floppy as a soft toy, I staggered off to find Pam and stammered something about being up for it. Then I hopped into my car and rushed off to the horse equipment shop to buy new jodhpurs.

They didn’t have my size.

Oh well! Never mind. That’s that, then! I cruised home, certain that I’d never get into my old ones. I’d just have to phone Pam and tell her I couldn’t ride the competition. Saved by excess blubber!

The old ones fit perfectly.

Panic set in again. I printed out a copy of the dressage program and started prancing around an imaginary arena in the garden while my husband looked on, shaking his head and laughing his pert little bottom off. I ignored him and continued to prance, stopping only when I was I’d been brainwashed to enter at A, halt at X, etc… I didn’t sleep well and was a basket case throughout Saturday. Heck, I couldn’t even breathe properly. All I could think about was how terrified I was about riding Kwint in front of the judges first thing Sunday morning.

But when I woke up Sunday morning, something inside me felt different. My heart had given up speeding and was gradually cruising home. I was ready to go to the party. And I really fancied a balloon…

“I can do this,” I repeated over and over to myself, driving towards the stables at the crack of dawn.

And I did. I held it together. I didn’t suck. I didn’t vomit. I didn’t fall off. And people actually cheered and clapped when I made my final salute. I dropped my reins and gave my horse a hug. I even gave him a kiss. He deserved it. And what do you know? We finished in third place, coming away with more than just a balloon.

I’m not going to wax lyrical on the moral of this story; it’s not exactly a psychological breakthrough. Nike said it all in their famous slogan: “Just do it!”

All I’m saying is that some challenges are worth getting hot and flustered for. Winning my husband’s heart and raising a family together are obvious examples. Getting my first book, Mucho Caliente!, published is another example that springs to mind. I may be a chicken crossed with a scaredy cat but, increasingly, I realize I have a quiet resilience that can get me through tough moments and frustrating situations. Not only do I dare to dream, I also dare to do. It’s exhilarating, though no less terrifying. My half Italian origins will always erupt in my armpits. So what? I’ll just buy extra strength deodorant! My bladder will continue to make unreasonable demands. Pff! I’ll engage my pelvic floor! Dealing with my speed buff heart will be more of a challenge, but I’m pretty sure that, sooner or later, the German government will impose speed restrictions on its motorways. And when it does, my pulse won’t have any more reason to skip the border, and will instead cruise calmly ever after along our radar infested Swiss motorways. I hope so, because it would certainly take the edge off bringing balloons home from parties.

Francesca Prescott

I live in Switzerland, in a small village just outside Geneva, with my husband, two teenage children, a giant Yorkshire Terrier, and a gluttonous Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Kwintus, my horse, lives about fifteen minutes away. I started writing about ten years ago when a friend of mine launched a magazine aimed at Geneva’s ex-pat community and asked me whether I’d like to contribute. I’d always enjoyed writing, so I wrote a couple of articles and sent them in. Not only were they accepted, but when they were published I began to receive fan mail. I must be the only author on the planet whose first paycheck for a published piece was a voucher for a pedicure from a fan!

"MUCHO CALIENTE! - Wish upon a Latino Superstar"
Available from BookStrand

http://www.francescaprescott.com/
Mucho Caliente! - BookStrand.com