The Voice of Violence

The first time I heard the sound of a gunfire I was about sixteen.
I’m not sure exactly of the day or where it happened, but I know it was during the uprising of the year 2000. Every time I heard it, I’d stop, alarmed, and listened to it until it stopped.
Tac, tac, tac, or the tatatatatata of submachines became a daily sound – the background noise that took up the beautiful sound of the birds singing.
It went as far as the fact that after a while, I was able to identify the sound of m16, m18, live bullets or dummies, and the fact that a bullet hit something or empty air.
By the time I was a senior in highschool, the conflicts had upgraded to closed roads, blockades, checkpoints, and the famous dividing wall.
Sometimes the roads were closed, and I had to walk to school, run from tanks, or detour through the mountains to reach school. Some of my friends who lived farther from me and had to cross through more checkpoints or blockades sometimes couldn’t reach school, and if they could, they couldn’t get back home.
However, despite all these difficulties, life went on. People got married, people had children; people went to work, to college, had parties and so on, even with the background sound of bombs and report of gunfire, the awful breaking news.
My brother and I would stop in alarm to listen, identify bombs, gas bombs, bullets, tanks, air attacks, sometimes even pinpoint from where it came from and where it hit (sometimes we were right, sometimes we were wrong).
Then one day things quited down, though it didn’t stop completely. The checkpoints and the wall stayed, but some of the blockades were removed, and we were able to come and go with more ease – though not everywhere.
A few years later I got married, and I left the country to start a life somewhere else.
It was then that I realized that I was missing my peace of mind – because I found it again.
I was already blind when I returned, because most of my family lived here and I missed them and needed someone to help me figure out how to move on with a disability.
I had a baby then, but things were mostly quiet. No bombs, no report of gunfire – except for the occasional ones, which were far from where I lived, so I didn’t have to listen to it.

But in these past few years, things began escalating again. Conflicts would break out, the report of gunfire could be heard more frequently from my home, and sometimes the occasional bomb would go off.
I have three kids now, and I don’t like the violence they are growing up with. I hadn’t really realized how this ‘bursts’ of conflicts were affecting them until a few days ago when that horrible sound of gunfire happened near my home. My daughter and my youngest were playing outside (five and three) and the tac, tac, tac, tac, tac came. I stopped doing the dishes to see if I could hear my eldest son, playing farther away with the neighboring kids, to assure myself that he was safe.
and I heard my daughter telling my youngest, “hear that? It’s the sound of gunfire.” And they continued playing as if that was the most natural sound to be heard.
That fact alarmed me more than the gunfire, because it dawned on me that my kids don’t understand that the sound of violence is not a natural thing. It’s something to be alarmed, shocked and even afraid.
And it’s not even like the conflict is a real conflict. No, it’s between fresh soldiers aged 17 – twenty some practicing with live bullets and kids between eleven and twenty some throwing rocks.
All the major players are sitting behind a desk enjoying a cup of coffee and their safety, doing nothing.
Sometimes I want nothing more than to pick up my kids and leve, but that option is not available to me at the moment for so many reasons.
But I don’t want my kids to grow up thinking this is something normal, a fun activity to do in their bored time once they are ‘old enough’.
And so, although I wish the conflicts here will go quiet again, I don’t think that’s the case, and so I’m considering a life away, a new home and a new beginning,, even if I know the chances that I’ll actually be able to do it are very slim.

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Introducing my book, Heir of Ashes

Today is an important day for me.
Today is the day when I post about my book.
Most of you already know that I wrote a book and that it was under editing for a while, and most of you know that my book is an urban fantasy.
Today I’m going to talk about it and post a blurb and an excerpt.
So, without any further ado, let me tell you!

My book is about a young woman called Roxanne Fosch, a twenty-two fee hybrid who escaped a government research facility after spending nine years as a captive. As Roxanne is dodging mercenaries left and right, she discovers that her own clan had offered her to the human scientists as a scapegoat to keep the government away from them – because she’s a mixed breed, the offspring of a dhiultadh and a human.

Book blurb:

Wanted neither by the Seelie or unseelie, the Dhiultadh are originally a mixed breed, part Seelie, part unseelie. They took refuge on earth where they thrived with their anonymity centuries ago, but those who knew them or knew about them considered the Dhiultadh one of the highest predators in the world.
Roxanne Whitmore Fosch had a perfectly normal life at the age of twelve. Cool, popular, pretty, smart. She had the perfect dreams of a successful and prosperous future. At the age of twenty two she was a commodity. A fugitive. She was being hunted.
As Roxanne embarks in the dangerous quest to search for half-truths about her past, she discovers she’s not just an abnormal human but a rarity even among her fee peers, and that scientists aren’t the only ones hunting her, but far more dangerous beings with other obscure plans for her.

Book excerpt:

When I was young I believed one couldn’t ask anything better from life. I had everything. I was pretty, smart, I ran with the popular crowd, I had a crush on the cutest boy in class and had the nicest best friend ever. In other words, I was the total show off. Then came the Paranormal Scientists Society (PSS) like the big bad wolf with a big metal baseball bat and shattered my world. That was about ten years ago. Now all I want is to be left alone to live my life peacefully, be the girl next door.
Things happen, and they have happened to me. You never believe them, or you believe things will only happen to the next person while you watch, maybe even sympathize; though you continue living your life to the fullest. But like I said, they happened to me. My life shattered and many pieces were just lost. I was no longer a show off. I was still pretty and smart, though they were no longer mere traits, but necessary tools for my survival. I had no friends, no home, no one I could talk to, no life. Things that centered my world while I was younger were so far now on the list of important things that I can scarcely see myself in that girl again. If a guy looks twice at me now-a-days, all I care about is the possibility that he might or might not be a danger to me. I know how sad that is and I’m willing to change a little, if I had enough time without having to run and hide and no fear for my life were included in the equation.
If I were younger, I’d pray for a miracle. Today, I just hope for the best.
–Roxanne Whitmore Fosch

Chapter one

I had just finished chopping onions for Paul when the sky broke.
It wasn’t really a ca-boom, but more like giant rocks tumbling down a hill. Like a giant avalanche.
On its heel followed the torrential downpour I’d been hearing about for the past few days. A sense of foreboding kept nagging at me, a feeling that I was missing something that I should know. Or see.
“Do you need anything else before I go?” I asked Paul as I hung my apron on a peg and tried to shake the sensation away. I could hear some of the crowd outside dispensing, going home to celebrate another weekend with family, friends or just be alone after a fulfilling meal; and the booming laughter of those who lingered for a drink and latest gossip in the diner.
“That’ll be all,” he said, sending me a distracted smile over his shoulder. Paul had prematurely thinning blonde hair with an already bald spot in the middle. His wife, Maggie, and her sister Michelle had been the first people to welcome me into town three months ago.
I went inside Paul’s office and grabbed my purse, a huge monstrosity Michelle had desperately tried to burn, but inside were things I couldn’t leave behind if I had to make a hasty exit. Dr. Maxwell’s journal was also inside. It had helped me sort a lot of things since I escaped, even if it wasn’t the one I wanted, and I never went anywhere without it.
I slung the purse on my left shoulder and let it dangle on my right side – the easier to run if I needed to – and let myself out from the back door of the diner. The downpour was like a water sheet in front of me, blocking anything farther than a few feet from view.
I bumped into Bridget, my replacement for the night shift and she glared me a greeting. I never found out the reason for the animosity, but hey, I never lost any sleep over her. I smiled cheerfully at her and let go of the door, the heavy wood almost smacking her on the face when it swung shut. I heard her mutter “bitch” under her breath loud enough to be heard above the pounding rain, but I didn’t mind it.
Already water was gathering on the street, herding the brown leaves that had gathered at the edges toward the drainage system.
It was unbelievably cold for October, but I’d only been here for three months so I wasn’t sure if this was the norm for early autumn.
I shivered involuntarily and tucked my gloveless hands inside my pockets. I loved autumn, when trees turned into that burnish gold color and animals scurried to gather supplies for the winter, but it seemed like here, in this small town winter had already arrived.
Another flash of light appeared, just a few yards to my left, followed immediately by a loud ca-boom! And the bucket of giant rocks down the mountain.
That sense of foreboding returned, and I glanced around, found nothing that felt out of place.
Paul’s diner was only two blocks away from Marian’s bed and breakfast, and on a clear day, the lack of tall buildings in between would have given me a clear view of both. I hurried to the small B & B where I rented a small room on the second floor, wondering if Rudolph – aka Rudy – the local trouble maker would be waiting for me by the door like he did most days despite of the downpour. I kept refusing his offers for a date, and it galled him that I was the only woman around he deemed worth taking to bed that he hadn’t yet marked his score with. I believe the only reason his bullying didn’t extend to outright harassment was because I refused all other offers from other men. That, and the fact that most of the town’s folk had become a little over protective of me, believing I was hiding from an abusive husband. Since I never denied or confirmed, I’d been the focus of a lot of pitying looks, especially from the older women, and it had prompted Michelle to dye my black hair red as a disguise.
As my long legs ate the small distance between the diner and the old brick house, I thought about calling Michelle and asking her over so we could do something fun. I had missed the excitement of going out with my friends during my teen years, locked up in a bedroom in the PSS headquarters in Washington. I had permission to watch the world from a TV and read about it from books whenever I wasn’t down in a lab. Sometimes I was sent to the small library where I received a rudimentary education, but it was nothing near what I’d have learned had I gone to school. No long conversations on the phone, no movies, no first dates. I didn’t really have a life prior to my twenty-first year.
I didn’t see Marian behind her desk in the foyer, but when I passed her office door I heard the low sound of a talk show and saw reflective lights coming from the TV. I’d stop by in the morning and pay my rent then; I knew how much she hated being interrupted from her talk shows. Plus, I was soaked to the bone and my appearance would only prompt her to pour one of those awful teas down my throat. So I took the back stairs on the corner and headed up to my room, the last one in the corridor, telling myself I’d grab some dry clothes than backtrack and dry off the water trail I left behind.
I stopped in front of my bedroom door, unzipped my purse and began to rummage inside for my key. I promised myself tomorrow I’d put the damned key in my bra if my pants lacked any pockets or my jeans were too dirty to wear.
The moment I unlocked the door and reached for the switch on the wall to my right, I knew.

Heir of Ashes will be published around March 2018. For more information, contact me at jina.salameh1@gmail.com

The Passage #1 by Justin Cronin – book review

The passage book review

Author: Justin Cronin
Genre: Fantasy/Sci-fi
Published 2010 by Ballantine Books
Pages: 766
Goodreads synopses:

First, the unthinkable: a security breach at a secret U.S. government facility unleashes the monstrous product of a chilling military experiment. Then, the unspeakable: a night of chaos and carnage gives way to sunrise on a nation, and ultimately a world, forever altered. All that remains for the stunned survivors is the long fight ahead and a future ruled by fear—of darkness, of death, of a fate far worse.

As civilization swiftly crumbles into a primal landscape of predators and prey, two people flee in search of sanctuary. FBI agent Brad Wolgast is a good man haunted by what he’s done in the line of duty. Six-year-old orphan Amy Harper Bellafonte is a refugee from the doomed scientific project that has triggered apocalypse. He is determined to protect her from the horror set loose by her captors. But for Amy, escaping the bloody fallout is only the beginning of a much longer odyssey—spanning miles and decades—towards the time and place where she must finish what should never have begun.

With The Passage, award-winning author Justin Cronin has written both a relentlessly suspenseful adventure and an epic chronicle of human endurance in the face of unprecedented catastrophe and unimaginable danger. Its inventive storytelling, masterful prose, and depth of human insight mark it as a crucial and transcendent work of modern fiction.’ to ‘“It happened fast. Thirty-two minutes for one world to die, another to be born.”
— Book jacket

My rating: ****
My review:

Let me just start by sayin that this book made so much sense, it was kind of creepy.
I mean, I know vampires don’t exist, I know the world is not going to end by their hands – or fangs and claws. However, Justin cronin’s post apocalyptic story where twelve chosen criminals sentenced for death are infected with a vampiric virus is chillingly something I can’t help but wonder about.
With all these power hungry governments trying to gain the upper hand, what if there’s this super virus down in a subterraneous secret lab that can kill nine tenth of their prey and infect the one tenth left? Epidemics have broken before, and although no government ever assumed any responsibility for one, at least some of these viruses must have broken out of a lab.

Justin Cronin has a superb insight for storytelling. His world building is excellent, the conflicts nerve wrecking, the drama – well, as dramatic as it can be while still sounding possible and sensible.

Many times throughout this book I found myself biting my nails. Now, that’s a habit I’m desperately trying to quit. Although the plot and conflict building came from different point of views, the suspense kept thickening with every page turned.
Each voice was unique, each story intriguing in its own way. Their emotions just reached out and grabbed me by the throat, and I couldn’t help but feel with them. The fear, the excitement of the adventure, the injustice of it all.
And Amy? I just wanted to scoop her up and run away with her to some forgotten summer camp where I could protect her from all the bad guys trying to hurt her *sigh*

Yet, it was the multiple characters that lost me. Every time I bonded with one and began rooting for him/her, that character either died or disappeared.
But I can’t deny the fact that the story was highly unpredictable, something that appeals to me thoroughly.
And I highly recommend it. It’s a must, must, must read, if you haven’t already.

What I thought of my editor

When I first began writing my book, I had never thought that I’d go as far as actively search a way to publish, really publish my book.

Sure, I thought I’d send it out to a few agents and if my book was good enough, they would do all the rest of the work while I sat and enjoyed my fame (I was so delusional about that).

After the first twenty some rejections piled in, I put the book aside. I know twenty some rejections is actually nothing compared, but at the time it was enough for me. I didn’t stop writing, but instead I moved on to something new.

Anyway, a few years later I went back to that rejected manuscript and started polishing it up. I did try for five more agents (I was already contemplating going indie, so five was enough for me) and when the rejections came back as the response, I went in search of beta readers.

While I was waiting for a few beta readers to get back to me, I read this offer by an editor who would be giving her services for free to a few limited manuscripts. I signed up right away, crossed my fingers and waited.
I didn’t have to wait long, and, I was not disappointed.

Some of you who have been following me for a while already know this, but I never really posted to you guys a review about this editor, how I felt about her work.

Have you ever read a review on an editor? I have never read one before, but I’m sure there are some out there – there’s one of everything somewhere, right?

Before I tell you what I thought of the editor, let me just tell you something first, and I know I’m repeating myself here, but bear with me: Before Elle, the editor, my manuscript was sent to a few beta readers, and I had gone over that manuscript so many times, the last couple times made my stomach ache.
I really believed Elle would only find minor details, stuff that either my assistive software missed (I had some capitalized words one of the beta readers asked about, which was probably the result of the caps being pressed without me noticing), and some other details that I couldn’t see because I’d read it too many times.

My review on Elle W. Silver:
When I found an e-mail from Elle in my inbox with two attachments I was so excited, I actually danced a jig. The first was my manuscript with the first round of editing , comments and suggestions; and the second attachment was an editorial review of the manuscript, which was an overview of what Elle found in the story (i.e. my excessive use of –ly words) and her general thoughts – like a beta reader, only a little more in depth.

Now, I’m amazed with all the great and brilliant suggestions she proposed to improve my manuscript.
They were really great ones and she explained them all to me, the reasons why she suggested them, why it would be better if I accepted them.
She made so much sense, I accepted most of them. And those I didn’t? It’s because it’ll be needed on the second book, the draft of which I’ve already written.

Elle was very thorough, skipping nothing on the manuscript: word choice, grammar, long sentences, plot, dialogue, description, character development, even a scene she suggested I alter.
(Now I made it sound like my book was a mess.)
Elle made sure I knew what she liked most, the things that were described perfectly (and it’s good to know for future writing) what she thought needed some work, what she thought I could improve, and so on.

And then, after I went through all her suggestions and made the adjustments and sent the manuscript back to her, Elle did the copy editing.

Whenever I had a question or needed help with something, she patiently guided me through. And believe me; I had a lot of questions.
In other words, Elle W. Silver is a thorough editor who does excellent developmental and copy editing work, and I’m more than satisfied with the outcome. She more than exceeded my expectations!

In a day or two I’ll start posting the blurb and an excerpt of my book . . . I’m so excited!

If you ever need an easily affordable editor who would do your manuscript justice, Elle is that person. And before either of you could commit, Elle will pick up the first chapter of your manuscript and edit it for free, to make sure both you and Elle can work with each other.

If you are interested, or curious, or know someone who is, check out her page and see for yourself.
http://ellewsilver.com/are-you-writing-a-bestseller/
And if you need tips on polishing your manuscript before sending to an editor, check this article Elle published and download a free guide that she has available in her page, for those of you thinking about going indie.
http://ellewsilver.com/are-you-writing-a-bestseller/
If you wish for more information, contact Elle at ellewsilver@gmail.com

The Writer in the Closet

Are you a writer in the closet?
https://conscioustalkmag.com/2017/11/the-writer-in-the-closet/
When I first began writing about five years ago, I let no one know. I’d sit in my room with my laptop, typing away the story that clogged my mind. I knew I wanted to write, I just had no idea how, or that I could.
Then one day, when the words became too loud inside my head, I decided to purge them into a word document. I had no intention to show it to anyone, so I had no expectations, absolutely no reason to meet or consider anyone’s approval.
Of course, the outcome was nothing I could brag about or even be proud of.

I am a stubborn person, determined and a bit thorough with things I want done. I’m no perfectionist, but I am not easily satisfied with things.
Because of that stubborn streak I have, I decided to try again. And again. And again.
For three years I told no one.
I wrote, saved and archived. Then moved on to something else.
But I never told a soul.
I’m not sure if I was embarrassed, ashamed of my writing, or afraid of rejection – that my writing wasn’t good enough for someone else to be proud of me.

But I overcame my fears, mostly by connecting with virtual strangers who had that same insecurity as I did.
And yes, the problem wasn’t with my writing (I might be a little biased here – but every writer is) but it was insecurity, the lack of confidence that had kept me cooped for three years inside that closet.
And the reward of finally being out in the open is a rewarding, satisfying feeling that I get every time someone reads what I wrote. It was after that, after I began sharing my writing with others that I realized how much I wanted that.
Above is the link of the article I published on Conscious Talk Magazine about Writers in the Closet, and a few tips that can help them take that first, necessary step out of the closet.

Have you met Boredom and his twin, Time?

I miss you, Boredom, my love

Gone are the days when Boredom and I’d roamed around the house, searching for something to occupy Time.
Or sit and think about nothing and everything, life, friendship, love, hate, enemies, the sky.
For hours I’d sit and have nothing to do, wishing for something.
Boredom was a fixture, a permanent guest, an annoying presence.
I complained about Boredom a lot, talked behind Boredom’s back to a friend, a family, a passerby, even the parrot.
I guess Boredom finally got the point, because Boredom got up and left me, and took Time, his twin with him.
And now my life is a quick marathon, with me always on the losing side.
I catch glimpses of time every now and then, but all twenty four legs pass me and I can never catch it again. But of Boredom , there are no signs.
I wish I could see Boredom again, for a couple hours once or twice a week, to reminisce some times.
For old time’s sake.
**Once upon a time, I had a friend called Boredom. Boredom and his twin, time, kept me company – until one day when they packed up and left me.

Do you say exactly what you mean?

The double meaning underneath my words
Do you feel frustrated when you tell someone something straight and they try to decipher the meaning underneath your words?

Usually I tell people things the way I see them, or think they are, unless, of course, it’s something delicate, something that doesn’t concern me, or offensive or insulting – in those cases, I say nothing, or avoid the topic, or change the subject altogether.

So when I tell someone something, I find it extremely annoying when they ask me, what do you mean?
Well, I mean exactly what I said.
What’s more annoying is when my words do have a double meaning and no one seems to notice.
Or worse, when I meet someone new – have I ever mentioned I’m awkward around new people? Well, I tend to ramble (more like babble) to fill in the silence. And then this new person asks out of the blue, ‘what do you mean by that?’
Well, I mean exactly what I said
They seem to forget that I just met them and have nothing – absolutely no reason – to say something with a double meaning.
I don’t even do that anymore (or rarely do that). Now-a-days, I tell people things straight, no deviations, because I want them to understand what I’m saying. Otherwise I don’t say anything.
I know I’ve been called odd before (probably something worse too), and I know I’m a cynic. But I’m also realistic and optimistic, and you might say, hey, how can that be? But again, I know they are right to call me odd.
Now, once upon a time I was the naïve, idealistic girl who wore rose tinted glasses, but, I took those glasses off a very long time ago, and no longer believe that people don’t understand the double meaning, or believe they didn’t hear the words underneath my words.
I know they did, I know they understood. But to avoid the annoyance of having to explain ‘what I meant’, I picked up the habit of telling people exactly what I meant in clear, concise words.
And still they ask, ‘what do you mean?’
Frustrating, annoying.
And yet, lately, the cynic in me began to suspect that what they are really saying is ‘how audacious of you’, and I’m the one who don’t understand the meaning underneath their words.

Amalgamation

Earlier today my team mate Didi Oviatt posted a few articles about thanksgiving; eating disorder; thanksgiving for vegans; children and parents; along with what happens in other parts of the world during the month of November.

 

The reason I’m telling you this is because I tried to reblog it, but the ‘reblog’ button still won’t work for me. I usually share a post by pressing it, but that’s not how I wanted this post to look like, so I took a page from Didi’s book – or a post from her blog and rewrote it again.

Here’s the amalgamation of articles of articles Didi shared in her blog, and I’m now sharing:

 

Celebration: Tap Into Its Sacredness and Grow

By Julia Flynn

“We humans love a celebration! We celebrate traditional milestones like marriages, birthdays, and holidays or creative ones like Champagne Thursday and/or the first warm spring day. We enjoy our cake or special meal, clink glasses, chatter with guests, and ultimately have fun. We give little thought, if any, to the sacredness of celebrations…

 

Teaching Children about Gratitude & Thankfulness

By Kim Knight

“What does it mean to be grateful? According to the Cambridge Dictionary, the definition of this adjective is ‘showing or expressing thanks, especially to another person.’ As adults, we often do this without a second thought, most of the time. The question is…”

 

Self Reflecting As A Parent

By Didi Oviatt

“Self reflecting as a parent is extremely important. There are a few imperative questions that every parent should ask themselves. Questions that are often left unaddressed. They linger in the air between parents and children, sometimes…”

 

Thanksgiving: The Vegan Way

By E. Denise Billups

“The most daunting time of the year for many vegans is Thanksgiving dinner. When celebrating the holidays as someone else’s guest, vegans find themselves surrounded by turkey and dishes containing dairy and eggs and limited options of side dishes and salads to choose from. But look carefully, side dishes may also be drenched in creamy dressings or sprinkled with cheese and bacon bits. Scrutinizing every morsel isn’t fun and undoubtedly annoying when questioning the cook about every ingredient. And indeed, you don’t want to watch everyone enjoy the holiday while your stomach is growling…”

Surviving Thanksgiving: For Those With An Eating Disorder

By Savannah Esposito

“Thanksgiving for most is a time where families come together and enjoy each other’s company while surrounded by an abundance of food. Most people don’t think about what that holiday is like for those who struggle with eating disorders. For those who have an eating disorder, Thanksgiving can be a nightmare, filled with anxiety. There are ways to get through this holiday…:

 

The Harvest of Peace

By Jina S. Bazzar

“…Scientifically, olive trees are known worldwide to possess healing properties, as it contains strong anti oxidant and are rich in vitamin A, vitamin D, vitamin E and vitamin K. It also helps to maintain a healthy digestive track, both for children and adults alike…”

 

And the winner is . . .

Ladies and Gentlemen,

A few weeks ago when I posted my review of Watching Glass Shatter, the author, James J. Cudney IV promised a giveaway of a digital copy of his book.
Today, my friends, I’m here to announce the lucky winner of this incredible book:
Let’s all congratulate our lucky winner, Ann Marie Palladino.
I really hope you enjoy this book as much as I did.
What about the rest of you, friends?
Have you read Watching Glass Shatter yet? If yes, go ahead and leave a link to a review, or your comments and what you thought about it below. If you haven’t, well, what are you waiting for?
You’re missing out on it!
Check it out on Amazon, or Goodreads today!

Do you know how to make money from blogging – I don’t

What better way than to ask you, fellow bloggers?

 

Sometimes when I want to do something new, I sit and contemplate all the right ways I could do it, then try to visualize all the ways it could go wrong.

Because I’m aware that this way of thinking can be counterproductive (I’ve had some experience in this area) I Usually only do this when that step is a huge one, a life changing event, something that is really expensive, something that could impact my style of living, etc.

I try not to do this with the small things in my life. Or even with things that are necessary in a way or another, or things that wouldn’t make a difference one way or another.

I believe most people do the same – right?

But on this last idea I’ve been contemplating, well, I’m really stuck.

It’s not a big change, or expensive or anything that will impact my life on a big scale, but it’s still something that will require a lot of my time and I really want to do it right so that I can reap the most advantage from it.

Well, now that it sounds like I’m dancing around this topic, let me tell you: I’m contemplating upgrading my blog to a self hosting platform to help with the income.

I’ve read some instructions, some tips, asked around. Now, I don’t want to change my style of blogging, I like it the way it is – but I’m open to any improvement suggestions you can give.

But – what else?

Google ads, Amazon affiliates, and all these other firms.

All the instructions are there, but never how much it will be worth. I’ve read some tips about people living in Canada, the U.S and the UK who are making a living out of blogging.

Of course, I’ve read some tips about people living in Canada, the U.S and the UK who are making a living out of blogging.

I don’t want my page to look like the commercial site for an advertising company.

So today I’m here to ask you for your advice:

Consider that I don’t need to make a living out of blogging, and because of currency differences, around a $200 per month could go a long way – which means that I’m not looking to make a lot of money, so nothing big.

Now, do you have any idea how this works, any tips on how to get greater results?

I’d appreciate it if you let me know what you know.

You can either share it at the comments below or contact me through my e-mail: jina.salameh1@gmail.com