I’m often asked, if someone wrote a song about you what would the title be?

My answer is that someone actually did, a few years ago.

“The Outsiders” by Eric Church.

Now, anyone who knows me knows how much I love the guy’s music. He uses words in a way that maximize the emotional impact of a song. His music, even the rowdiest, is always simple in lyrics, and honest. He never names a feeling, but wow, how those exact feelings are shown and wielded like a blade. Okay, my books ride along 60,000 words while a song has between one hundred and three hundred, but I wish I had his talent to show them.

His latest record, Desperate Man, is on repeat on my record player. I put it there when I bought the vinyl, and it still has to leave.

That being said, his song “The Outsiders” is for me. Only for me.

Mostly because I understand. Mr. Church is tad angrier than me, but it still works perfectly (I do am prone to anger, anyway).

I’ve always been an outsider, and I’m saying this with no rebellious attitude. Even less, looking for understanding or whatever else. It’s just what it is. Who I am, and I always lived the definition comfortably.

One way or another I’ve lived a loved life since day 1, I’m a happy, ‘solved’ person. My own person–which makes me an outsider.

I would go horse riding after school, and to pay for my horse’s full livery I shoveled a whole lot of horses’ manure. Okay, I loved doing it, and I would have done it even if I was rich enough to pay for that. I did so deliberately and not to spite the established cool kids’ gang, those going clubbing during the weekend and throwing parties. The cool kids were actually nice and always invited me–and I politely declined. It was simply what I wanted to go riding and shoveling, and didn’t care about what the others did. Nobody ever bugged me, by the way.

I went into law school because I love the idea, the nature, and the spirit of the law (that’s why I always say I’m no lawyer, I’m a scholar of law). And there, I found myself in a less-than-10%-female environment. Remember, we’re talking Italy 20 years ago. Even now, we’re not up there with Sweden and Iceland when it comes to women’s equality. Our centenarian professors, the holder of the dignity and rightness of a man-handled law world (can you hear the mockery here? Good), didn’t treat us girls with flowers and poetry. There were tiers of students, and we weren’t the top one. I didn’t care for that, too. I studied hard, had excellent grades, so much so I managed the entire time with full scholarships.

I have MS, don’t care about it either. The bitch tries to slap me down, I let it believe it’s winning. All the while, I work around it to my target. Yes, it takes me longer. Yes, it’s harder. But at the end of the day (or the week, or the month), I’ll have my way.

I married my high school sweetheart, not out of habit, to settle down, or even out of love only. I did it because he’s the only one who earned 100% of my trust. And he’s a badass.

I was a Country Music fan in the UK. Almost unheard of back then.

I’m an Italian in Florida. Even more, I’m an Italian mom in the States. Yes, it’s different.

Every step of the way, everything and everywhere I’ve ever gone, I’ve always been an outsider, looking at what the majority of people did and shrug it off if I didn’t like it. I never cared about anything anyone ever did, and that always made me different. A winner, sometimes. A loser, others. Eh, life, right?

The only pack I’ve ever lived with is the one made of my husband and son.

As Mr. Church says, I do my talking, walk my walk.

Which gets me in any number of troubles, really.

But then again, who cares? I’m sure I’ll come out of it, somehow.

Crescent Creek Collection
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From the cold Canadian border, the US1 runs along the east coast with patience. Southbound, always south, until it reaches the Sunshine State.

Not the fastest way, sure, but if you have time to drive it all the way down, you might find yourself lost in one of the coastal towns that dot the US1 like little jewels.
Maybe that town’s name is Crescent Creek.

These are the stories of its people.

All Those Miles I Walked ~ Crescent Creek 1

At eighteen, DJ made a choice–her heart or her dreams. Neither was wrong, yet either would break her heart. She chose the world. Over a decade later, she returns to Crescent Creek and to the one regret she’s ever had–Scott.

Scott’s always been steady as a rocky reef. He’d loved once and when she’d left, his strong heart had crumbled like a sandcastle. Now DJ is back, and Scott wants nothing to do with her. If only Eva, his and DJ’s old friend, didn’t need their help. Because of her, he’s stuck with DJ and he’d be damned, she still gets under his skin.

DJ is a free spirit who needs the road under her feet. Scott is a family man who wants to groom his roots. With danger on their doorstep and a baby to keep safe, how much are they willing to compromise for love?

Painted Love ~ Crescent Creek 2

Thou shalt not steal.

Oh, but Florence had, and would do so one last time. Ten pieces her grandfather painted for her because he loved her. Ten pieces her mother lost, along with anything else, for loving the wrong man. She couldn’t get back everything he’d wasted away, but she’d be damned if she’d give up those paintings.

Easy and genuine, Rhett loves his life–his family, his market, his town. Until he meets a British woman with grey eyes and a cute little smile. The woman he’s been waiting for. The thing is, to love her is easy, but can he trust her?

When Rhett pushes to uncover her agenda, Flo knows she will lose something–the man she loves or what she’d been fighting for years. Which road will she choose?

His Midnight Sun ~ Crescent Creek 3

Tormented, fierce, and broken, sculptor Aidan Murphy has judged himself guilty. He yearns for love but pushes everyone away. He longs for acceptance but has lost the key to open his heart. Until he meets Summer Williams. Beautiful and smart, Dr. Williams promises haven for a man who believes he deserves none. All he has to do is let her in and risk his heart and soul.

Summer’s managed to keep her inner light alive, even through tragedy. She’s created a new life for herself and her daughter in Crescent Creek with loving, caring and fun friends–well, except brooding, breathtaking Aidan. She’s used to keeping away from his type, though. All she has to do is ignore the pull of a man who’s turning up to be much more than snarls and storms. Will her compassion and medical instincts let her?
Love can heal a broken soul and shake up a timid heart. Or it can unleash devastation and revenge.

Will Aidan and Summer survive the hurricane?

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THE AUTHOR

Beach bum and country music addicted, Viviana lives in a small Floridian town with her husband and her son, her die-hard fans and personal cheer squad. She spends her days between typing on her beloved keyboard, playing in the pool with her boy, and eating whatever her husband puts on her plate (the guy is that good, and she really loves eating). Besides beaching, she enjoys long walks, horse-riding, hiking, and pretty much whatever she can do outside with her family.

Find me:
On my website http://www.viviana-mackade.blog/
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Amazon Author page