One of the products Leather Leaf Publishing sells is American Made Hardcover Memoir by Prissy Elrod. A more complete list of their products is provided by Made in America Secrets, to review their list click here.
For more information about Leather Leaf Publishing and its Made in the USA products see the following:
Thank you for visiting my website and for your interest in my latest book. You can purchase in either print or electronic formats. Electronic versions are available for the Kindle, Nook and Apple products. It is also available in paperback and hardback. If you would like a personalized copy, I'll be happy to sign a hardback version and mail it to you. For more information, see below.
I was born and raised in Lake City . . .
a charming little town nestled in northern Florida. It is known as the gateway to the South, an important piece of trivia everyone should know.
I learned this when I was only seventeen years old, and it was not from Google or Wikipedia. Nope. I was a beauty pageant finalist, standing on a brightly lit stage in Jacksonville, Florida, where I wobbled in high heels and wore a fire-red bathing suit. I was a whole foot shorter than the two contestants on either side of me, despite my spiky beehive arduously teased and crowned high atop my head.
Now, Miss Prissy Landrum, here is your question, said the squirmy little man with bad breath. Can you tell us why Lake City, Florida, is called the gateway to the South? I could hear the Jeopardy! music playing in my head as I concealed panic. Um----I think, um----is it because we have the Lake City Junior College and Forest Ranger School? I stuttered.
He burst out laughing, along with everyone else in the auditorium. I didn't win. I came in third, last, since there were only three contestants left standing. But, I will say, I never forgot where I came from or what Lake City was known for. It is the gateway to the South because two major interstates meet there: I-10 and I-75. Who knew? More important, who cared?
I am a free spirit, an artsy person. I have a small studio in my home, divided between two things: painting and writing. The painting came first. My canvases are filled with children, landscapes, Florida, water, barns, and pets. I had never painted or had a lesson until I moved to Indianapolis in the year 2000. The painting came to me by chance, or maybe, by choice. No, actually, it was the parking. I'll explain.
Dale, my handsome hubby, worked a sixty-hour week. I was newly married and friendless in a big city. I couldn't get a real job because I flew back and forth between Tallahassee and Indianapolis every two weeks. I decided to make friends taking either art or writing classes: Indiana University had creative writing but horrible parking. The Indiana Art Institute had great parking. No brainer. I enrolled at the Indiana Art Institute for my first art class because of the parking. Crazy.
Watercolor, acrylic, and oil-I've done them all. Turns out, I had a tiny bit of talent. I started calling myself an artist, even dressed like one.
Writing came after painting. I awoke one morning with this yearning, a feeling surfaced from deep within. I had a story to tell. There is simply no other way to describe it. The date was April 20, my birthday. My writing journey began that very day. I never thought of myself as a writer, most certainly never an author. Like many things in life, writing evolved during the process of living.
I knew enough to know I didn't know anything about writing. Dangling modifiers were as scary to me as standing on a stage in my bathing suit at another beauty pageant. My major in college was speech pathology and audiology from Florida State University. I knew it was too science oriented to help when it came to writing. Heck, it didn't even help when my two daughters talked to each other in tongue. I had to pay a speech therapist.
So, if I wanted to be a writer, or call myself one, I knew I'd better learn the craft. I registered in the school of self-taught learning. It would take four years before I finished my first book, after reading over forty-eight books on the craft of writing.
It has been an extraordinary journey. I may never know where my urge to write came from, or really why. I am simply grateful it did.
For more information about Leather Leaf Publishing and its Made in the USA products see the following:
Thank you for visiting my website and for your interest in my latest book. You can purchase in either print or electronic formats. Electronic versions are available for the Kindle, Nook and Apple products. It is also available in paperback and hardback. If you would like a personalized copy, I'll be happy to sign a hardback version and mail it to you. For more information, see below.
I was born and raised in Lake City . . .
a charming little town nestled in northern Florida. It is known as the gateway to the South, an important piece of trivia everyone should know.
I learned this when I was only seventeen years old, and it was not from Google or Wikipedia. Nope. I was a beauty pageant finalist, standing on a brightly lit stage in Jacksonville, Florida, where I wobbled in high heels and wore a fire-red bathing suit. I was a whole foot shorter than the two contestants on either side of me, despite my spiky beehive arduously teased and crowned high atop my head.
Now, Miss Prissy Landrum, here is your question, said the squirmy little man with bad breath. Can you tell us why Lake City, Florida, is called the gateway to the South? I could hear the Jeopardy! music playing in my head as I concealed panic. Um----I think, um----is it because we have the Lake City Junior College and Forest Ranger School? I stuttered.
He burst out laughing, along with everyone else in the auditorium. I didn't win. I came in third, last, since there were only three contestants left standing. But, I will say, I never forgot where I came from or what Lake City was known for. It is the gateway to the South because two major interstates meet there: I-10 and I-75. Who knew? More important, who cared?
I am a free spirit, an artsy person. I have a small studio in my home, divided between two things: painting and writing. The painting came first. My canvases are filled with children, landscapes, Florida, water, barns, and pets. I had never painted or had a lesson until I moved to Indianapolis in the year 2000. The painting came to me by chance, or maybe, by choice. No, actually, it was the parking. I'll explain.
Dale, my handsome hubby, worked a sixty-hour week. I was newly married and friendless in a big city. I couldn't get a real job because I flew back and forth between Tallahassee and Indianapolis every two weeks. I decided to make friends taking either art or writing classes: Indiana University had creative writing but horrible parking. The Indiana Art Institute had great parking. No brainer. I enrolled at the Indiana Art Institute for my first art class because of the parking. Crazy.
Watercolor, acrylic, and oil-I've done them all. Turns out, I had a tiny bit of talent. I started calling myself an artist, even dressed like one.
Writing came after painting. I awoke one morning with this yearning, a feeling surfaced from deep within. I had a story to tell. There is simply no other way to describe it. The date was April 20, my birthday. My writing journey began that very day. I never thought of myself as a writer, most certainly never an author. Like many things in life, writing evolved during the process of living.
I knew enough to know I didn't know anything about writing. Dangling modifiers were as scary to me as standing on a stage in my bathing suit at another beauty pageant. My major in college was speech pathology and audiology from Florida State University. I knew it was too science oriented to help when it came to writing. Heck, it didn't even help when my two daughters talked to each other in tongue. I had to pay a speech therapist.
So, if I wanted to be a writer, or call myself one, I knew I'd better learn the craft. I registered in the school of self-taught learning. It would take four years before I finished my first book, after reading over forty-eight books on the craft of writing.
It has been an extraordinary journey. I may never know where my urge to write came from, or really why. I am simply grateful it did.