Thursday, January 2, 2014

Not a BWL Pub, But by One of Our Authors....

I decided to post an endorsement for a book not published by BWL but by one of our authors.  Sometimes, books published elsewhere lead reader's here because they are so impressed with the writing, they want to read more.  This is what I experienced when I read this book..  Killarney is an awesome author and I'm happy to share a recommendation that I don't give lightly:

Through Gypsy Eyes by Killarney Sheffield

All-in-all, this was a story I will long remember and I'm so glad I read it. If you're looking for a romance that contains a whole lot more, you'll appreciate the fact Ms. Sheffield has left most of the sexual exploits to your own fantasies, and she's written in twists and turns you'll not see coming. I consider this worthy of my "I Dug It" award.

If you're interested, it's economically priced by Crimson Romance and available for your Kindle on Amazon.

Monday, December 30, 2013

Making Resolutions

Like many other authors, I'm resolving to spend more time writing and turning out good books, but how long will the momentum last? For years, I've spent time making resolutions only to discover that I spent more time listing the things I wanted to change than actually making any changes.  Let's face it...diet's keep getting postponed to 'next Monday,' along with those exercise program we plan to start.  I know...I'm still waiting for the Monday to come that is just right to cut back on chocolate. I don't expect to see it anytime soon.

Life often gets in the way of our best intentions, so I don't have much faith in resolutions.  In fact, I've stopped making them because of continued disappointment in my lack to exhibit the tenaciousness needed to make changes.  Someone once said, "You can't teach an old dog new tricks," and I'm rather feeling like that old cur these days.  If you couple that saying with "Old habits die hard," you have two really significant reasons why resolving to change doesn't work.

Oh, I'm not totally resistant to change, I'm just being realistic.  I an say I'm going to sit in front of my computer more often and complete those works-in-progress, but chances are I'm kidding myself.  Once I surpassed the age when I truly expected to be dead, I resolved to enjoy life more.  Now, I not only have to contend with reality TV programs, Facebook has hooked me with Pet Rescue and Candy Crush. Last night, when I went to my desk to actually do some work, I discovered Royal Dice.  So, even though I resolve to avoid resolutions, I am going to try harder to be a more productive author...or at least win more dice games.

Happy New Year, ya'll.

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Make a Joyful Noise by Ginger Simpson



Anne Collins curled up in her over-stuffed easy chair and glanced at the daily newspaper. The glass of wine on the end table reflected the crackling fire beyond the hearth. Her workday had prompted her to fill a much larger goblet than normal. If one more person mentioned having a ‘Merry Christmas’, she thought for certain she’d lose control. This year, the yuletide held no reason to celebrate. Her husband, Daniel, lay in the hospital, hanging by a thread. Being festive rated last on her ‘to do’ list.

Warmth spread throughout the room as the logs on the grate crackled and popped, chasing away the chill brought on by frigid temperatures and two feet of snow outside. Anne grew comfortable and tossed the paper aside. She picked up her white zinfandel and sipped it while reflecting on past holidays.

She always considered her life was full and blessed…until the diagnosis. Daniel never smoked a day in his life. How did he end up with throat cancer? Surely there were plenty of murderers or child molesters God could punish. Why her husband? He was the epitome of everything good.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she took a tissue from a nearby box and blotted her face. Hell couldn’t be any worse than watching Daniel waste away, suffering with every breath. The radiation and chemotherapy burned his throat and made it impossible for him to speak.  Seemed an eternity had passed since he flashed that smile she loved so much.

This was the first time in their married life she’d picked out and put up a Christmas tree without him. The anger festering inside made her want to rip it down, burn the gifts, and rant at the Lord for the unfairness, but…

A blast of cold air blew into the room as the door opened. “Hey, Mom, sorry, I’m late, but I stayed after school to finish up a science project.”

A smaller version of her mother, fourteen-year-old Casey slugged inside, stamping her feet on the rug in the foyer to clear the flakes from her boots. Peeling off her coat, she tackled the layer of sweaters beneath. “Boy, it is freezing out there.”
She opened the hall closet and hung everything inside, then turned to her mother with an arched brow. “Do you realize it’s the second week of December and we’re the only house on the block without outside decorations?”

Anne took a sip of wine to hide a grimace. “I know, dear. I just haven’t been in the mood this year.” She looked at her daughter and sighed. Casey was the only reason Anne hadn’t cracked under the stress.

Casey crossed the room and perched on the chair’s arm. “I can help put up the lights, Mom. All we need is a ladder. Dad left the little hooks up from last year.”

Anne shook her head. “We’ll do just fine without lights, Casey. Besides…” She stared into her lap, her eyes blurred with unbidden tears.

“Dad’s going to get better and come home, so why are you acting like he’s gone?” Casey stood and pulled her lips into pout. “You know how much he enjoys the holidays.” Her chocolate eyes glistened in the firelight, her tone demanded an answer.

Anne rose, walked to the mantle and picked up a filigreed picture frame. Looking upon Daniel’s smiling face sent pain stabbing at her heart. The photograph had been taken the year they went to Maui. Now thin and gaunt, he barely resembled the man she saw. It’d been weeks since he’d even acknowledged her presence in the hospital room.

She put the photo back and turned to her daughter. “Casey, I just can’t muster up any Christmas spirit. Your dad isn’t doing very well and I don’t feel very festive.” She returned to her chair and downed the rest of her wine, hoping it would numb her worried mind.

Casey peered down at her. “I know if Dad was standing here, he’d be disappointed that you’ve lost faith. Why have we gone to church all these years if you can’t trust God to take care of things?” She spun and stomped out of the room.

Anne pondered the question. Why couldn’t she trust God? The answer was easy. He’d allowed Dan to get sick in the first place. She stood and wandered into the kitchen, her wine glass in hand. After pouring a re-fill, she gazed out the window over the sink at the drifts of snow in the backyard. The old tire swing Casey used to love still hung from a giant branch now devoid of leaves. The setting sun was lost behind a gray wintry haze, and everything looked frozen. While her mind questioned God’s motives, Anne watched until the last trace of daylight disappeared and darkness fell.

She picked up her goblet and started to turn from the window, but a flash of light caught her eye. Too bright at first, it soon softened, and Anne blinked in disbelief.

The shimmering outline of an angel, dressed all in white, appeared just outside the glass. A glowing halo shone brightly above her head, and the assuring smile on her face sent a peaceful feeling coursing through Anne’s body.

The entity raised her arms, and as if by magic, an orb of light floated from her hands and rose into the heavens. Anne’s gaze followed the star’s trail as it climbed higher, illuminating the yard, the trees, the swing, and the old storage shed in the corner where Dan kept the gardening tools. Anne thought to call her daughter to witness the scene, but couldn’t find the voice to do it. She stood rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on the wonder outside.

The heavenly creature floated a few feet above the ground and gestured toward the sky. The gray haze was gone and a canopy of stars twinkled above. One stood out above the rest, sending a blaze of light flashing to the ground. In the snowdrift just beyond the trees, Anne beheld another wonder. Unveiled one letter at a time, an invisible hand seemed to etch the glowing word ‘believe’ into the blanket of white. Anne gasped, trying to call out for Casey, but the image, along with the angel, vanished as quickly as they’d appeared. The stars still twinkled brightly overhead, but the yard turned dark again.  Her mouth agape, Anne marveled at lightness in her heart.
***


Casey sat at the desk in her room. Christmas music played softly on her radio, and she struggled to concentrate on her homework. How could she possibly focus on school when things at home were so depressing? She couldn’t bear to think of life without her dad, and it hurt that her mother had all but given up on his getting better.

With a sigh, Casey stood and walked to the bookshelf across the room. She searched the shelves until she found her Bible. She thumbed through the index, looking for verses pertaining to hope and found Proverbs 3:3-4. Turning to the passage, she read:

Let love and faithfulness never leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart. Then you will win favor and a good name in the sight of God and man.She’d barely finished when she heard a strange noise coming from downstairs—a heavy thumping sound. Her put her Bible back in its place and tilted her ear to listen. She heard it again. Casey opened her door and the sound became louder. “Mom, what is that,” she called out.

When she received no answer, Casey went to investigate. The noise had stopped but she couldn’t find her mom. She walked through the entire house only to find it empty. A half-filled wine glass sat near the easy chair, but no sight of her mother.

The thumping began again—close and right outside. The porch light cast a strange-looking shadow on the front window. Casey grasped the knob and opened the door just a crack. She saw a ladder and a pair of legs from the knees down. She recognized the fur-lined boots.

“Mom, what are you doing up there?” Casey walked to the edge of the porch and peered up.

Bundled against the weather, her mother hammered at the wooden eave. “I’m putting up Christmas lights. Some of the hooks are loose and I’m tightening them. How about if you get a coat on and check the bulbs in the next strand while I finish hanging these.”

“But… I thought…” Forgetting the cold, Casey picked up a coiled cord and began unraveling it.

“I know, I know. I lost faith for a while,” her mother glanced down and nodded,” but for some strange reason, I’ve found it again. I have a strong feeling that Dad is coming home and we need to be ready.”

Casey smiled up at her mother. “Let me get my coat and I’ll be right back. Tomorrow we can put up the manger scene in the yard.”

“Good idea.” Anne went back to pounding.

Casey paused for a moment and looked to heaven. Her mind wandered to her last week's Sunday School lesson. Make A JoyfulNoise Unto the Lord - Psalm 100. "Who would've thought hammering could qualify?" she muttered, then smiled.  Humming “Silent Night,” she headed for the coat closet.  For the first time in weeks, she enjoyed feeling a sense of peace that magnified the joy of the holiday.  Faith would bind their family together; love would sustain them.

Friday, December 20, 2013

THE END! I finished Book 5 in the Curse of the Lost Isle series

Yep, I wrote THE END on the last page of the manuscript of CHATELAINE OF FOREZ, Book Five in the CURSE OF THE LOST ISLE series.

I'm going to polish it to a shine during the holidays, and send it to BWL as soon as they reopen in January. Publication date will depend upon how long it takes the editors (some of them in England), and BWL's talented cover artists, to put it together. I predict it will probably be in late February or early March.

Anyhoo... I'm very excited and celebrating right now. Although this is my... let me count... Twenty-third title (I had to go to Amazon to check how many I had already published), the thrill of finishing a book never gets old.

CHATELAINE OF FOREZ follows Melusine (after Lady of Luxembourg) on a new adventure (still based upon the authentic legends, this time in the independent province of Forez (France), where I had a great time researching the local archives a few years ago.

Here is the short blurb:

Still afflicted by the ondine curse, Melusine seeks the reincarnated soul of her lost beloved in the young Artaud of Forez, who reigns over the verdant hills south of Burgundy, on the road of pilgrims, troubadours and merchants. But this dark and brooding Pagan lord is not at all what she hoped. He knows nothing of their past love, her Fae nature, or her secret curse. Must Melusine seduce and betroth this cold stranger to satisfy the Goddess and redeem her curse?

The gold in the rivers instills greed in the powerful, and many envy the rich Lord of Forez, including his most trusted vassals... even the Archbishop of Lyon. When a mythological creature is sighted in the swamps, initiating a holy hunt, will Melusine find redemption from the curse, or will she and Artaud burn at the stake?

Find the first four novels of the CURSE OF THE LOST ISLE in kindle on Amazon HERE
There is also a box set including the first three novels (best deal)


Find out more at: http://www.vijayaschartz.com

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

The Great Apple Hunt



Every August, I wait and watch for the new crop of apples. I begin the process of filling my fridge with apples, and proceed to bake apple pies and apple bread. Then I fill my freezer with applesauce. The habit began early.

My parents had three acres in Skaneateles, NY which came with the remains of an orchard. There were seven trees in a row on the eastern side of the house, and I remember the shape and habit of each one well, blooming in spring or illuminated by sunrise. Nearest the road was a classic Golden Delicious tree with low, spreading limbs. It was my particular haunt, because it was easy to climb into. During hot summer afternoons, there were almost-comfortable notches you could get into with a book, but actually, the best thing was just to zone out and watch the ever-changing shadows of the leaves dancing across my skinny arms.   Besides this shapely tree there was also a Schuyler Plum, a Bartlett pear, and a single apple tree each of Rome and Cortland. We had one mystery tree which shed rock hard golden-with-pink-blush fruit very late in the season. To this last, my parents could not give a name until they consulted the local old-timers. This, we finally learned, was a Winter Banana. Although initially “hard enough to shoot through an oak plank”, we found that if you wiped these apples and stored them in a cool place inside a big cardboard box, by early January they would become tasty, juicy and delicious. These heritage apples kept so well, that we often made pies or sauce or even Waldorf salad as late as April. We rarely bought store apples.
Winter Banana

When my husband and I were first married, we lived in Massachusetts and so had plenty of excellent northern apples to eat, and so my craving—after dearth years in the West Indies--was satisfied. The newly developed, sweet and crispy Macoun, glowing in those picture-perfect Massachusetts orchards was a revelation. For work, though, we had to move south. The apples here came earlier, and what I found were of poor quality. At the farm stands, the Macs, Romes and Cortlands, and even the ordinarily good keepers such as Staymen, all too soon in the long southern autumns, became mush.  Friends who lived up north sent me fruit by post, but I was an apple exile--deprived.

Moving again, into Pennsylvania, I hoped to find better apples, but at first, I couldn’t locate them. People here liked Lodi, for they come early, but about all they are good for is a mild, soupy sauce. No, the early greens are not favorites—and don’t even mention the awful saw-dust-look-but-don't eat supermarket Red “Delicious”!  The antique varieties our grandparents knew had been destroyed by subdivisions and marketing. I’ve lived in PA for 30 years now, and that once world-famous Pennsylvania export, the York Imperial--of "Treasure Island" fame--has never crossed my seeker’s path.
  
Happily, we are returning to a time in which people crave good taste again, and at the renascent farmer’s markets I'm again finding the old favorites.  It’s catch as catch can, depending on weather, rain and whether I find them fresh off the tree. There are some new, tasty varieties—the Ginger Gold, the Braeburn, the Gala, and the magnificent, late season Goldrush.  Among the newbies, I confess to a weakness for Empires and Jonagolds. The older breeds, however, to my old taste buds, will always be tops. My heart leaps when I find a hard, tart Jonathan or a traditional Winesap, or even a Cortland or a Rome, fresh from a good tree. This year, during my  annual apple hunt, I encountered my Holy Grail of heritage apples—Northern Spy—and enjoyed a brief time of rejoicing in each crispy, crunchy, tangy bite.     


Heritage apples/Assorted
~~Juliet Waldron
Historical Novels @ http://www.julietwaldron.com

Monday, December 16, 2013

The Night Before Christmas ~ A Poem by Shirley Martin


 
'Twas the night before Christmas                               
And inside my house
I sat at the computer
Clicking the mouse
 
My writing was great
And I couldn't complain
So I thought I'd celebrate
With a glass of champagne
 
But it's time for a break
I thought with elation
But how much time should I take
When I take my vacation?
 
Oh, I'll see it all
I'll see Venice and Rome
But after the Taj Mahal
'Twould be time to come home
 
I headed for the kitchen
To get the champagne
While thinking I'm just itchin'
To see Paris again.
 
As I took a sip
I heard the door chimes
And a woman outside called,
"I'm from the New York Times."
 
I opened the door
And there before me
The woman said, "You're the very person
"I've wanted to see."
 
"You're on our bestseller list,"
She quickly explained.
"Why, you're all I thought of
Before I even deplaned."
 
I gasped and I stammered
I turned ten shades of red
I giggled and said, "This
All goes to my head." 
 
"And look what we have here,"
She said in shrill tones.
"A big brass band with
Seventy-six trombones."
 
I turned from the doorway
And there on the street
A band started playing
With an ear busting beat.
 
"Now don't complain about the noise," she said,
"And don't call the cops.
Just listen to these girls and boys
Why, they think you're tops." 
 
"May I come visit a while,"
She asked with a smile.
"I've come all the way from New York
So let's pop the cork."
 
My success was assured
Or so it would seem
But then I woke up
It had all been a dream!
 
Still, 'twas a nice dream
When all's done and said,
So I set down my drink
And went on to bed.
 
Copyright (C) 2013 Shirley Martin
 
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Saturday, December 14, 2013

MY CHRISTMAS PAST--1949




I was born at the end of the baby bust, so when I was little, for a time, before all those glad-to-be-alive Dad’s arrived home from the war, just to be a kid was special. My cousin and I lived in a pleasant rural Ohio town, which had been home to both our families since before the Depression. Mike’s parents lived just four blocks from me. His parents had a Cadillac, a hand-me-down from his grandparents, who were sufficiently well-to-do to buy a new car every two years. These better fixed in-laws liked to “do things up right.”  At Christmas, this meant hiring a Santa Claus.

Now, I’ve heard more about this Santa since I’ve grown up, but when I was a kid, I actually suspected he just might be the real deal. For one thing, I was quite small the first time I saw him, no more than four.

The night before Christmas I was getting the whole “you better watch out, you better not cry,” bit from my parents. There were canned peas for dinner, and I remember forcing those rubbery pills down, and hoping not to gag.

In those days, children went to bed before their parents—long before. Right after dinner, there was a story, a wash-up, and then straight to bed. Tonight, however, right in the middle of the story, I heard sleigh bells.

My parents wondered aloud "Who can that be?" I wanted to go look out the window, but was told to sit still. Daddy would open the door.

When he did, in came the most perfect Miracle on 34th Street kind of Santa.  He was chubby and had a long white beard—a real one--a round face, a bright red suit, black patent leather belt and tall boots. He was even carrying a sack. My father was grinning in a way which clearly meant I was being snookered, so after I croaked out a “Hello, Santa,” I gamely asked about his reindeer.

“Well, Darlin', they’re up on the roof—and you don’t have a proper chimney, Judy Lee, so just I knocked on the door.” Well, this seemed reasonable, because I knew our chimney ended up inside the scary big coal furnace in the cellar--obviously not a good place for anyone to land. From somewhere outside, I could hear sleigh bells, just every once in a while, as if the reindeer were tossing their heads.

 Suspicion somewhat allayed, I watched him take the seat my mother offered.  Dad picked me up and put me down on Santa’s knee. Santa was authentically cold all over, his clothes, his face, his beard, and he had a good vibe, smelling pleasantly, as men often did in those days, of whiskey. He was a polite, low-key Santa. His “ho-ho-ho” sounded as if he was actually chuckling about some private joke.

He asked me what I wanted most for Christmas, so I told him about the “drink-wet” baby doll I wanted. Outside the door, sleigh bells softly jingled. It was pretty amazing, to be sitting on Santa's knee there beside our lighted Christmas tree, with shiny packages piled beneath.

 Then he said “Merry Christmas, Judy Lee,” and said he’d be back later with my presents. As he left, there was a blast of cold and the sound of bells again. I still wanted to peep out the window, but my Dad caught my hand and said, “Hey, JL! What did you think of that?”

 “Was that really Santa?”

He and my mother looked at each other and tried not to smile.  So, even though “Seeing is believing,” I was left with a strong feeling that they had been trying to fool me. In a good way, of course, the way grown-ups did, pretending because they thought we children expected it.
 Although my Santa had been nice, jolly and convincingly bearded, I hadn’t seen him fly away.  I'd very much wanted to see the reindeer perform this feat, but it was pretty clear that I wasn’t supposed to watch him go. My cousin was even younger than I, so about all I learned from him the next day was that he too had had a visit from “Santa.” I decided this visitor might have been The Real Santa--but probably not. In retrospect, I believe the whole performance pleased my elders as much as it pleased me.  


"God Bless us, Every One..." 



~~Juliet Waldron

Mozart's Wife
Roan Rose
Nightingale
Genesee
Angel's Flight
Hand-me-Down Bride
Red Magic

 

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