Today’s letter is T, and in my writing, T stands for teaser. The dictionary defines teaser as a person who teases, like Mother Nature and this year’s weather. First warm, then cold again–like this morning’s 28 degrees F or -2 C. The birds aren’t happy, and neither am I. But in writing, a teaser is the first step in interesting a reader in a book. It’s a short blurb, sometimes found on the front of a cover that’s purpose is to intrigue the reader and make them curious to know what the story is all about.
Teasers are sometimes used in memes, like this one from The Captain’s Promise.
At other times, they are statements found on the front covers. IN Secrets and Lies, book five in the Vengeance is Mine series, the teaser reads: Graduating from school is easy; getting out alive may be a whole lot harder.” In His Christmas Family, the teaser is: “Lee is getting more than he expected from Santa this year.” In Hello Again, the teaser is a question: “Can she lift the curse and find love?”
At other times, teasers are used to promote a story in ads. Losing the ability to dance almost destroyed Brandi. Now, she trusts no one and nothing. Jarrett has loved Brandi for as long as he can remember. Can he break through the walls she’s built around her and offer his love to ease her pain? Forever and Always, an All for Love book.
Here’s the blurb:
The dance is everything, or is it? Brandi Alexandra Jameson’s entire life has been dedicated to ballet. When an accident she believes was caused by a crazed stalker fan leaves her close friend and dance partner dead and herself barely able to walk, she’s lost, adrift without a future. Jarrett Sullivan has spent most of his life in love with the petite red-headed brunette he met when he was in first grade, acting as her protector throughout school, but just as he was ready to make his move, she left Victoria for the National Ballet in Toronto. He’s followed her career, and now that she’s back home, he jumps at the chance to get to know her the way he always wanted to. Brandi remembers Jarrett, the boy she idolized, and when the man wants to have a relationship with her, she’s thrilled. But that joy turns to horror when she learns the truth about a poster and believes he’s just another fan and that it’s Alexandra, the dancer, he wants, not Brandi, the broken woman. Fleeing her family and Victoria, she runs to the only friend she has hoping to heal her broken heart. Discovering Brandi may have misunderstood the situation, Jarrett is frantic to find her and straighten out the mess, but will she be willing to listen and give him a second chance?
How I long for weather that is settled and makes sense. Today, it started out sunny, but cold. Then it warmed up a little, but the wind got vicious. I’m hoping to go out walking later. By then, we’ll probably be having a blizzard.
Today’s letter is S. In my writing, S stands for sensible. I believe that the dialogue and the interactions between my characters needs to not only make sense and be realistic, but it also needs to be sensible. Sensible means practical and reasonable. In other words, I try to make sure that even in a crisis at least one of the main characters remains level-headed and calm, and you make wise decisions.
In Echoes of the Past, events unfold that make the hero question his sanity.
Romance suspense
He lies on his side on the animal hide, his head propped up on his elbow, watching her sleep. How long does she think her excuse of gathering roots and snaring rabbits will last, especially when she has so little to show for it each time she’s been away?
The naked woman beside him stretches in her sleep. Her copper skin glows even in the dimmest light. Her ebony hair spreads fan-like around her head. Her features are fine, her lips lush, begging to be kissed. When open, her almond-shaped brown eyes, flecked with gold, add to her exotic beauty. She’s unlike any woman he’s ever known, and he’s known many despite his mixed blood. It’s craziness to stay here like this, but he can’t leave without her. The odds of getting caught increase with every visit she pays to his secret grotto, but he loves her more than he ever thought possible.
He reaches for her, runs his calloused hand down the side of her warm, silky torso. Her nipples pucker at his touch. Her eyes open, and she smiles. She raises her arms and pulls him down on top of her. His lips meet hers with an insatiable hunger. His tongue delves into her warm, willing mouth, feasting on her sweetness, and he hardens painfully.
Without any warning, the dreamscape shifts, and he runs through the brush, fleeing for his life. Twigs and branches tear at his buckskin garments. A thorn bush rakes his face. If he’s caught, it’ll mean torture and death, but he isn’t worried about himself. He worries about her. Did she get back safely? He slows his pace. Through the trees, he looks over at the far side of the lake and sees her tall, lithe figure standing on the beach.
Her beauty, grace, and majesty set her apart from the other squaws. Those harridans point and scream, but she stands still, wrapped in the woven, quilted blanket she showed him not two hours ago.
He doesn’t dare stop for a better look. His heart thunders in his ears, his side aches, but he increases his speed, pushing his painful muscles beyond their limit. The enemy approaches, but she’s safe, and that’s all that matters. He doesn’t see the log across the path. He stumbles and falls…
Tony Steele awoke with a start. His heart pounded and sweat covered his body. His ragged breathing dragged air into his oxygen deprived lungs. His muscles screamed and cramped the way they did after a particularly grueling cross-country race. Not again. For weeks now, these strange dreams had haunted him…Dreams? Hell. These memories lingered as if he had actually done these things.
He shuddered despite the heat emanating from his body. He rose, went to the window, and opened it slightly. He breathed deeply, hoping to calm himself, knowing it wouldn’t happen any time soon. He glanced into the parking lot. Through the curtain of rain, he noticed Aaron’s car parked once more in the lot, but not in its regular spot.
Somewhat cooler, he shut the window. He raised his hand to his stinging cheek, surprised to feel wetness there. He padded into the bathroom, turned on the light, and stared in the mirror. Blood seeped from the ugly red scratch on his face.
Damn! That’s a hell of a scratch. I need to cut my nails.
Using a tissue, he sopped up the blood and touched a septic pencil to his cheek to stop the bleeding. He cursed at its sting, tossed the tissue in the garbage can, and left the bathroom. The stairs creaked under his heavy footsteps. He entered the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a bottle of water. Half of it disappeared in one gulp, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
These dreams disoriented him and had taken on a life of their own. Like a voyeur peeking through a window, he watched the carnal scene unfold night after night. He recognized himself as the man in the dreams, despite the longer hair, the scars, and the tattoos marring his body.
Tony wandered out onto the screened-in porch and looked out at the lake. The strong night winds whipped it into a frenzy as if the water boiled with anger. He checked his watch. Two in the morning again. He needed to break this habit. These unusually vivid dreams had started the first night he’d arrived at the resort. Most of them, exquisite, erotic fantasies, left him dissatisfied, but tonight’s dream had transitioned into a flight for his life.
From personal research, he knew a dream’s meaning rarely had anything to do with its contents. This research project into the source of the water in the lake meant everything to him personally and professionally. He was afraid something would happen to ruin it. That explained being chased, but it didn’t explain the sexual fantasies. Those he understood easily enough.
He recognized the woman in his dreams as the shawl-wrapped stranger who walked along the beach every now and then. Beautiful and exotic, something about her called to his soul. He preferred women who didn’t look like carbon copies of others, and this one intrigued him. He thought about her now.
He had noticed her the night he arrived. He never slept well in a new bed. Unable to settle, he’d stepped out onto the porch and noticed someone else apparently suffering from insomnia. A woman, a blanket wrapped around herself, her hair in a long braid down her back, strolled along the edge of the sandy beach. She had moved southeast toward the edge of the lookout. He stepped outside to get a better look at her, but she’d vanished.
The next night, his imagination and libido had taken over, and in his dreams, she’d entered his leafy grotto, and they’d had mind-blowing sex. The things they had done to one another. Thank God, he awakened before his body had finished responding to his fantasy.
He’d gotten up, frustrated as all hell, and had gone downstairs. Standing in the screened-in porch, he’d looked out at the lake. Unlike tonight, the water had resembled a mirror reflecting the stars on its surface, and he’d been suspended between the water and the sky—everything brighter, crisper, and clearer than he’d expected. Animals had scurried in the brush nearby. Bats had swooped overhead. An owl had hooted, and he’d shivered. Hadn’t some of the Native American tribes believed death followed the cries of an owl?
Tony had just turned to go back inside when he’d glimpsed his mystery woman coming along the beach from the marshy area to the north. He’d called out to her. She’d turned at the sound of his voice and had stopped. In the moonlight, he’d seen the sparkle of silver tears on her cheeks. Naked, he’d hurried into the kitchen, had grabbed his damp swimsuit off the drying rack, and had rushed out, but she’d disappeared.
He blinked, and the memory passed.
Looking out now, he cringed. He’d never seen a storm as vicious as tonight’s. The rain came down in sheets. Thank God the kids had made it back safely. He turned to go inside when a flash of lightning, the first he’d noticed tonight, illuminated the beach.
What the hell?
The woman, wrapped in her blanket, walked along the beach as if all hell wasn’t breaking loose around her.
He ran to the door and raced across the short expanse of grass. He stopped at the edge of the water. Where had she gone? As she’d done every time he’d tried to catch her, she’d vanished. Wet through, he hurried to get back inside. He noticed the light go out in Jackson’s room.
Tony entered the cabin, stripped off his wet clothes, and tossed them into the kitchen sink. Naked and shivering, he climbed the stairs and went into the bathroom. He took a hot shower and then dried his shoulder-length hair. He needed to get it cut. Grabbing a clean t-shirt and a pair of boxers out of the drawer, he dressed and then fell exhausted onto bed, hoping for sleep.
You can read more by downloading Echoes of the Past, which is free to read in KU. Check my website for links to all of my books. https://mhsusannematthews.ca/
Hello again. Well, Mother Nature continues to be poopy. It’s still cool, and the rain is expected to start again at any time. On a positive note, the grass is greening and some of the trees are getting ready to grow leaves which means the pollen count is high. Hello runny nose and itchy eyes.
Today’s letter is the letter R. I my books, the letter R stands for repetition. Most of the time, repeating the same word or starting several sentences the same way is a no-no, especially when in close proximity to one another. Struggling to avoid the use of the he or she sentence is the same paragraph can be difficult, but it’s up to the writer to make are there are a good variety of sentences, not simply repeating the same thing each time.
Occasionally, repetition is used for effect. How many times were you told to “never, ever, ever” do something again? Never would’ve been enough, but Mom or Dad didn’t agree and doubled up on it.
Sometimes, stories are based on characters repeating an action. For example, in Desert Deception, the heroine returns to her hometown, even though she’s convinced nothing good will come of it. But, in life as in fiction, confronting your demons is necessary. Have a look at the opening scene.
Romance suspense
Casey Stevens turned off the Apache Trail, also known as Highway 88, onto the Skansen Mine Road and headed into Fortune, slowing her hot pink and black Harley-Davidson motorcycle, careful to stay under the speed limit. Back in the day, there’d always been a deputy, hiding just up ahead behind the billboard or one of the abandoned buildings, waiting to nail some unsuspecting tourist who’d failed to slow down to the town’s ridiculously low speed limit. This might be her new toy’s first major road trip, but that didn’t mean she wanted a ticket as a souvenir.
The joys of the open road had stopped her from dwelling on her cases, but nothing could ease the disquiet she felt about returning to the town and the memories she’d avoided for fifteen years, and the closer she got to home, the more unsettled she became. Coming back to the scene of the crime, as it were, was a mistake, and she knew it. Nothing good would come of this, but Mom had insisted, and here she was.
The Bluetooth attached to her helmet buzzed startling her out of her reverie, providing further proof that leaving Santa Fe now had been a colossal error. Ken, the second chair on her current case, had called four times since she’d left her apartment this morning. Considering it was only a seven-hour-drive, that was three times too many.
Knowing she needed to answer the call, not wanting to ride while she was distracted, especially if they argued as they had two hours ago, Casey cautiously steered the bike onto the unpaved shoulder and stopped less than ten feet from the sign in front of her. Welcome to Fortune. Population: 26,847
“What are they counting, jackalopes?” she mumbled aloud. When she’d left, there hadn’t been fifteen thousand people in town. That had to be one hell of a population explosion.
The Bluetooth sounded again. Dismounting, she pulled off her helmet, shaking her head, sending her ponytail swaying back and forth. Pulling the smartphone out of the zippered pocket of her leather jacket, she answered the call. “Don’t worry about anything. I’m heading back. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Hello to you, too, Red,” a man said and chuckled. “Someone rattling your chain?”
Closing her eyes, she smothered a groan. “Hi, Ryan,” she said, recognizing the voice. “Sorry about that. I thought you were his highness calling again.”
Ryan chuckled. “Baby Boss giving you a hard time?”
“You could say that. He can’t seem to find anything. I swear he would lose his head if it wasn’t attached.” Pulling a bottle out of the insulated pouch on her tank bag, she squirted cold water into her mouth.
“Probably, but someone’s always picking up after him, so he’s never had to stand on his own two feet before. Now, where is it you’re headed back to on this lovely Friday afternoon?”
“Santa Fe,” she said huffing out the word. “This was a mistake. I don’t know what made me think that incompetent ass could manage anything as complicated as filing papers on his own.”
Ryan’s laughter filled her ears. “I can believe that, but you aren’t coming back here until your vacation is over.”
“I have to. I’ve worked too hard to see it all go down the toilet.” She wanted to stomp her foot, but what good would it do? Pacing up and down the soft shoulder, she fought to contain her annoyance.
“Listen, Cassandra,” Ryan said, using her full name, knowing it would irritate her.
“Bite me.”
“Love to, babe, but it didn’t work when we tried it before, and Sally would have my nuts for breakfast. Call Wanda. Wonder Woman can babysit Baby Boss for a few days. If you don’t want to stay the two weeks you’d planned, fine, but the woman I know is no coward.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he interrupted. “If I find you back in Santa Fe before Labor Day, I’ll personally drag you and your cute, little ass back to your mother’s house. And you know you can’t hide from me. I’m the best gumshoe in the business.”
“Damn you. Fine, but if I lose my job because of this, you’ll be supporting me.”
He chuckled. “I could start my own harem. Listen, before we get completely off-track, I called to tell you I found the guy who filled the order for the building supplies.”
“Get out of here! So is he going to help us or not?”
“Help, big time.”
“Where was he?
“Someone paid him to take an overseas vacation, but his mother and the fear of God convinced him to tell the truth.”
“And you didn’t help persuade him?” she asked, knowing he had probably scared the dickens out of the young man in question.
“Let’s just say I showed him the error of his ways, and before you ask, I didn’t lay a finger on him.” He laughed. “I didn’t have to. My bark is worse than my bite.”
“When you put it that way, this should be all we need to get the case thrown out. How can I ever thank you?”
“By enjoying your time with your family. Hell, go hiking in those spooky mountains of yours … who knows you might stumble on that missing gold mine.”
Casey laughed. “Like that’s ever going to happen. If no one’s found the Lost Dutchman by now, it doesn’t exist.”
“Well, the legend says the man had gold under his bed when he died.”
“Right, and the Apache claim the doorway to hell is there, too, but so far, no one’s found that either.”
“You know what they say: where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Call me if things live down to your lowest expectations, and you need a laugh. Otherwise, I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”
“I will, and thanks, Ryan. You always come through, don’t you?”
Yesterday’s cold miserable weather has gotten slightly better. It’s sunny and warmer but the wind gusts are blowing everything around. Still, I’ll take it over rain and snow.
Today’s letter is Q. Not an easy one, but in my writing, Q stands for questions of the rhetorical kind. A rhetorical question is one that won’t be answered, one that can’t be answered, and one posed for dramatic effect.
In my books, I often have my characters using questions about their motives or another character’s motives.
In my paranormal detective novella, The Tigress, the first book in The Punishers series, I use questions in the prologue.
Paranormal/fantasy
My name is Ellie Taggart, at least it is now. Over the last thousand or so years, I’ve had many names—too many to count, too many to remember—but this will be the last one I’ll need. Times have changed. Evil doesn’t hide in dark corners. It lives in the light. This world we live in is filled with more monsters than humans realize, more than one being can deal with in a lifetime, even if that lifetime does span centuries.
I’m tired. I would like to fall in love, have children, grow old, and spend the last of my days quietly sipping tea on a porch swing, surrounded by purring cats, not battling the forces of evil. But that’s not going to happen. It can’t. I’m the last of my line—maybe even the last of my kind—and that’s how it has to be.
If you saw me on the street, you might not notice me, but if you did, you would see a thirty-something woman with the golden skin and deep brown hair of her Asian ancestors. If you really looked at me, you might note my pert nose, wide mouth, pouty lips, and unusual almond-shaped eyes. What you wouldn’t see is who I am—what I am.
I was born deep in the jungles of the Indian Subcontinent, at the base of the Himalayan Mountains, during a time when few kept track of dates the way they do today. My father was a Royal Bengal tiger, the largest and most majestic of his kind, while my mother was a rare and unusual rakshasa. Don’t recognize the word? Not too surprising. So many people have forsaken the religion of their ancestors to swear allegiance to greed and corruption, the very thing that gives evil its power.
Even those who know what a rakshasa is don’t believe we exist anymore, and other than me, they’re correct. We are the shapeshifters found in Hindu, Buddhist, and countless other mythologies. We’re also known as “Maneaters”—not that I’ve ever indulged. Give me chicken or fish any day.
People have always been afraid of what they don’t understand, and shapeshifters of any kind certainly fall into that category. In truth, in human form, my mother was petite, delicate, and so very beautiful, with black hair, bronze skin, and almond-shaped amber eyes—my eyes now, orbs I hide behind tinted lenses.
Sadly, like witches with warts and hooked noses, rakshasa were depicted as huge, ugly creatures with fangs and long, sharp, claw-like fingernails. They were considered cruel, growling beasts with insatiable appetites for human flesh. I’ve seen them portrayed with flaming red eyes and hair, drinking blood with their palms or from a human skull, a lot like the less than fair representations of vampires. Most of those I know these days aren’t a bit like that. They sip wine in crystal goblets and get their blood online from specialty stores.
Can I fly? No, but my mother could. She could assume the shape of any creature, even the fearsome yeti, but for lack of a better term, I’m a half-breed, with sorely limited skills. While I have superhuman strength, I can’t vanish, but I’ve learned to be an expert at camouflage. I have some telepathic ability, which makes it easy to make people forget what they saw, or imagine they witnessed something else. Afterall, who really believes in the creatures of the night? It’s the stuff of television programs, movies, and books. But the legends are real—too real.
Am I immortal? No, I’m not a god or a demi-god, but my lifespan is impressive, and like my mother who died at Draug’s hand, killing me takes a lot of work.
I lived deep in the jungle until my father passed on, and then mother moved us up the mountain to a safer place. There she taught be to survive and guided me through my first changes. Unlike the shapeshifters controlled by the moon’s power, I can shift whenever I need to, and while in that form, heal and recover from whatever damages have been inflicted on me.
When I reached my maturity, many years older than I appear, she told me that if anything were to happen to her, I needed to seek the Chou-Lan Monastery in the hidden valley. There the monks would tutor me and teach me how to use my powers.
Life was pleasant, uneventful, until that fateful day when Draug and his revenant found us. Unlearned in the art of battle, unable to defend myself, I did as Mother requested, I shifted into my tigress form, ran, and hid.
The sounds of clashing swords and tearing flesh were horrific. Four against one. In the heat of the battle, no one thinks clearly, but in the end, it was my mother’s headless body that lay upon the field. Draug’s angry cries at the loss of his prize, killed by his own hand, split the silence. That night, I vowed to avenge her, but it was centuries before I understood the real reason for his agonized screams, and that while she’d died, she’d won the battle.
When the monsters had gone, I crept from my hiding place. There was nothing left for me there. Mourning, the pain so deep it made it hard for me to retain any shape, I searched for Mother’s head, but it was gone. Claimed as a trophy? Proof that he’d killed her? To this day, I don’t know. With grief ripping me apart, I built a pyre and cremated what was left of her the way she had my father. The mountains no longer held any appeal for me.
Leaving our sanctuary, I made my way into the hidden valley and searched until I found the monks she’d spoken of. Shifting into human form, I told my story. Decade after decade, century after century, I lived hidden among the holy men where I studied, practiced the arts I would need to survive, and learned of the responsibilities I carried as one of the punishers, beings born of the light whose sacred duty is to fight the forces of darkness and defend those unable to protect themselves. When the time came, I said farewell to the last of those who’d become family to me and headed into the world to fulfil my destiny as the scourge of evil.
Since then, I’ve roamed the earth and watched century after century as the powers of darkness have grown, turning the innocent into monsters almost as evil and corrupt as they are. Not all of the non-humans and undead dwelling amongst humanity are evil, just as not every human is good, but in the last century, those who foster hate and greed, jealousy and envy, and the rest of the deadly sins, have grown more powerful, more daring.
When my enemies crossed the line, I found them and dealt with them. I’ve wiped the minds of witches, wizards, and warlocks who dared practice the dark art and turned their empty shells over to their authorities. I’ve dealt with the undead and shapeshifters myself, battling those who posed a danger to humanity, consigning their unholy remains to oblivion. With each battle, I’ve learned and grown stronger, for power comes from knowledge. But I still have much to learn before I can face Draug.
I serve the light, going where darkness dwells, watching it insinuate itself more completely into modern society each year. It needs to be stopped—but I’m just one.
Draug doesn’t know I exist, but I know him. I remember the sight and smell of him, and one day, we’ll meet on the field of battle. It’ll be a fight to the death, one I’ll fight in my true form—my father’s form. But until then, protecting humanity from those who would use and abuse them for evil purposes is my mission. Who am I, you ask? I’m the Tigress.
If you’d like to read more. The Tigress is included in the Heroes Fighting for a Cause boxset.
All proceeds from this anthology will go to Ukrainian refugee relief.
Read romance stories about heroes fighting for a cause and to protect others by 12 Award Winning, New York Times and USA Today bestselling authors, PLUS 2 Bonus Stories. Available for a Limited Time. What’s a hero? Are people destined to be courageous, ready to step up to danger, protect others or their pets or property? At what age does it begin? Or does it ever show up? Small acts of kindness are the beginning. One author came to her fellows with the idea of a box set filled with heroic romances. We could put this together and offer all the proceeds to Ukrainian Refugee Relief. The response was fantastic. The turn-around time was quick but manageable. Depending on how much this set earns, we have at least three different vetted organizations that will receive 100% of the earnings. Buy it now.
The Stories Stephanie Queen – The Beachcombers: Ex-special ops legend Dane Blaise never wanted a partner, but he owed the governor. Working alongside gorgeous Scotland Yard detective Shana George to find a missing heiress would either drive him crazy – or get someone killed…. And now the human traffickers have their sights on Shana. Desiree Holt – Rogue’s Return: Transitioning from being a SEAL to civilian life was tough enough without romance bumping in. Zoe Dawson – Ruckus: Seal Team Alpha: Gratitude for saving her takes a back seat to falling for the alpha male who’d risk everything to see her safe Stacy Eaton – Mission: Believe: The wounded warrior and the idealistic doctor join forces to overcome physical and emotional odds to build a better environment for returning soldiers. Suzanne Jenkins – A Greektown Wedding: What does a lawyer using a cop as a beard, a beautiful detective in love with a member of the SWAT Team, and a guy with a broken heart have in common? A Wedding! Tamara Ferguson – That Incredible Kiss: After Ten Years Apart, will unveiling their families’ dark family secrets Heal Two Wounded Hearts? Dani Haviland – One Arctic Summer: Sparks and sutures fly as the Inupiat medico and brash college student work together in the America’s most northern city. Patricia Rosemoor – Rescuing the Virgin: Will the young American woman’s special skills help him bring down the human trafficking ring he’s been after so long? Susanne Matthews – The Tigress: There’s a new villain in New Orleans and Detective Ellie Taggart wants to take him down alone. Multi-talented Steve Cassidy insists he can help. Will their feuding – and desires – get in the way? Christina Tetreault – Born to Protect: Sixteen years ago, he disappeared from her life. Now, he’s the only one who can protect her. Bonus Stories: Mimi Barbour – Special Agent Francesca: This special agent flies her own plane, drives like a maniac & jumps at the chance at real undercover work. Nothing scares her except for one thing… MEN. Suzanne Eglington – High Priority: Gun toting Tiffany was born wealthy, but her hero self has no time for materialism and is convinced she’s always right. A stop for cat food changes everything.
Snow! Can you believe it? They’re calling for rain and snow today. UGH! I wish Mother Nature would get the message. I love snow–on Christmas Eve! It’s April. Enough is enough! It’s just after seven, and the roofs and grass are covered. This sucks!
Today letter is P. For me, in my writing the letter P stands for personality. Personality can be defined as the individual differences in the way a person thinks, feels, behaves, and reacts in different settings. Depending on which guru you ask, there are any number of personality types. The Myers Briggs tests classify people into 16 different categories.
Another way to look at this might be to examine various personality traits and see which fit and which don’t.
When I create a character, the most important thing for me is that the character be believable. Often times, I start by identifying them with someone I personally know, and then I build on that. Words that I might use in their description include:
According to the Myers-Briggs test, I’m INFJ
This comes close to describing me. In my first career, I was a teacher for more than 35 years, then I spent almost 20 years as an Elder with my church. Now, I’m an author. How does your personality define you?
Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. I’m continuing my new novel, Trouble with Eden. My cover artist has graciously provided a cover. I find it easier to draft the story when I can see my characters face to face.
Eden James Walford, known to everyone in Easton Corners as E J, sat in the lawyer’s office listening to her stepfather’s last will and testament. Dwayne Walford hadn’t been the easiest man to live with, but he’d been a good father and had loved her mother, sticking with her, doing the best he could for her until the cancer finally took her. Once her mother had passed, Dwayne had continued to care for twelve-year-old Eden, treating her like his own daughter, giving her a home, a name, and an education—even if it were an unorthodox one—and he’d given her a job. She’d loved the man, the only father she remembered, her own having died when she was an infant. Losing him was much harder than she’d imagined—and now this.
Dwayne what were you thinking?
Never in the twenty-eight-years that she’d lived with him had he mentioned having a child of his own. Now, he’d left half of Paradise Towing to his son, her stepbrother, along with half of the house. At least the money from his insurance policy and what there was in the bank was hers.
“So let me get this straight, Mr. Pruitt. I’m living in a house that is no longer mine, working for a company that belongs to a stranger.”
“Yes and no,” the lawyer said, his voice with its lazy maritime drawl grating on her frazzled nerves. He sat behind his desk, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, a plexiglass shield separating him from her. “The house was never yours per se. It belonged to your stepfather, although I suppose you considered it yours having lived there most of your life. We all think of our parents’ homes that way.”
Great. He wanted to argue semantics while she might be out on her ear.
“You own half of the property which includes the house and three outbuildings. Similarly, you own half of Paradise Towing and all its assets, except your car which your father gave you free and clear last year. I’d hoped we could go through that part of the will but unfortunately, Mr. Rivers is indisposed and can’t meet with us today. He was involved in an accident a couple of days ago. He hit a moose on the 138.”
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales
Presenting The Authors’ Billboard’s fabulous Christmas Box Collection, DEAR SANTA: A CHRISTMAS WISH, filled with heartwarming stories about people of all ages who have special requests for the big guy. Fall in love SIXTEEN times over when you read each of these touching holiday stories, brimming with hope, Christmas cheer, and thrilling romance. Mimi Barbour – Alone at Christmas: Being alone is Tara’s worst nightmare, especially during the holidays. Her wish comes true when she finds Mr. Right injured and stranded, but will they survive the dangerous storm? Rebecca York – Christmas Miracle 1935: Can he trust her enough to help free her father from jail? Patricia Rosemoor – Marrying Molly: Dear Santa, Please let me meet a McKenna man who will help me end Sheelin O’Keefe’s horrible curse on both our families. Molly Kavanaugh Susanne Matthews – What Dottie Wants: All Ronnie wants is to give Dottie a great Christmas, but not being able to find the doll she wants may make that impossible. Traci Hall – Christmas Kiss: Can a teenage crush become forever love? Angela Stevens – Dear Sinterklaas: Dan had his heart stolen by a girl on summer vacation, now it’s Christmas time, and with a little bit of magic from Sinterklaas, he hopes to make his Christmas wish come true. Stacy Eaton – Finding Love with Dear Santa: All Faith wants is to get her life back on track. Stephanie Queen – He Has Santa: A second chance hockey romance. Josie Riviera – A Chocolate Box Christmas Wish: He’s been all over the world. She’s a home-town girl. Can a holiday wish bridge the gap? Mona Risk – Dalia’s Christmas Wish: Will the doctor make the right decision between an angry fiancée and a medical emergency? Rachelle Ayala – Toy Soldier Christmas: Can a toy soldier make her wish come true? Dani Haviland – A Plate of Christmas Cookies: Is it too much to ask for a second miracle? Taylor Lee – Please Christmas: Be Done: When his 7 year old son ran away looking for Santa… and all his teenage daughter wants for Christmas is for it to be done….the district attorney concedes not only did he lose his wife to cancer, but he was in danger of losing his children. Susan Jean Ricci – Cruising for Mr. Right: Can a widow discover second chance romance aboard a Christmas cruise and make the right choice between two adoring men? Alyssa Bailey – Christmas Wishes and You: Beth’s Christmas Wish of a Second Chance at Love could happen if only she would be willing to risk her heart… again. Nancy Radke – Zsuzsa’s Christmas Wish: She asks Santa for a strong man to help corral a mule that won’t stay home and is given a rancher who plans to corral her.
Get your copy. Only available at 99 cents until April 19th
It’s a sunny day! Not a tremendously warm one, but I’ll take it. There’s snow in the forecast for tomorrow. Hopefully, we’ll just get stuck with more rain. On the plus side, the grass is getting green. Allergies should be full blown within the week.
Today’s letter is the letter O. There are several words that come to mind for this in my writing: onomatopoeia, words that imitate sound, like bang, boom, crash, oxymoron, when two opposite words are used together like pretty ugly, and military intelligence, and omicron, as in the latest variant of the global pandemic. All three of these words have impacted my writing, some more than others.
Let’s consider omicron first. I made a conscious decision to include the pandemic and its impact on our lives in my writing. Depending on when the book was written, there are references to making, social distancing, closures, capacity limits, etc. I found it difficult to draft stories without including them because I don’t believe we’ll be going back to the old normal anytime soon. I still wear my mask when I go into stores. I’m uncomfortable and avoid crowded social situations and have yet to feel comfortable enough to resume in-person worship or travel outside the country. So, if you pick up a book authored by me during the last two years, chances are there will be refences to the pandemic in it. At the moment, Ontario, where I live, is in its sixth wave of the pandemic, thanks to the omicron variant.
The second o word I’ll discuss is onomatopoeia. Words that sound like the sound they make. I’ve used several in all my books. Anything from a sentence like, “Waves crashed against the shore.” or “The bell tinkled my arrival.” or even “I did the cha-ching dance when I looked at my bank balance. (Cha-ching being the sound made by a cash register.)
Finally, we’ll talk about oxymorons. These are contradictory terms used together for effect. Who hasn’t had a bittersweet moment? Have you ever ordered jumbo shrimp? What about discovering that something is your only option? Other examples include: awfully good, climb down, close distance, grow smaller, original copy, seriously funny, passive-aggressive, same difference, small crowd, and of course, virtual reality.
Well, I’m hoping for sunny skies, but I’ll settle for anything that isn’t wet. I haven’t put away my hat and gloves, so a little cold won’t hurt me, but I’m sick of snow and rain. I began a walking program mid-March when the weather got nice, and I’m trying valiantly to meet it each day, but the rain and snow haven’t helped.
Today’s letter is the letter N. To me, No stands for novella, novelette, and novel. For most people, when they think of any of those words, they immediately think fiction. Let’s start by looking at the shortest piece of fiction writing, the novelette.
A novelette is a piece of short prose fiction. Its closest relative is the short story. A standard short story can be anywhere from 1,000 to 7,500 words long. A novelette usually ranges from 7,500 and 17,499 words, inclusive. Not everyone enjoys reading something that short, but if you only have a limited amount of time and want to get from start to finish quickly, something with a little more meet to it than a short story, then the novelette might be for you. I do not currently have any novelettes.
What most readers want today isn’t a novel but a novella, also called a short novel. Its word range is from 17,500 to as high as 70,000 words, but most are between 40,000 and 60,000 words. My novellas include my Cocktails for You books, Prove It, a YA suspense novel, Twist of Fate, The Captain’s Promise,The Tigress and The Guardian, as well as my Winter Weddings books. Most of today’s contemporary romances fall into this category, but just to put things in perspective, Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange, John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, Herman Melville’s Billy Budd, George Orwell’s Animal Farm, Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine, Philip Roth’s Goodbye, Columbus, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, and Jack Kerouac’s The Subterraneans are all considered novellas, not novels!
So what is a novel? A novel is a long narrative in literary prose. It contains prose passages and dialogue. It can even contain poetry. The novel traces its historical roots to both medieval and early modern romance and to the novella. The word ‘novel’ comes from that 18th century word.
To be considered a novel, a book usually contains more than 70,000 words. I have authored several novels, some with more than 150,000 words, like Desert Deception. Many of the older classic novels were much longer than that–think War and Peace,Doctor Zhivago, Gone with the Wind, The Lord of the Rings, or The Handmaid’s Tale. But what makes a novel an enjoyable book, one people will read again and again–or turn into movies, is the way in which the author creates reality in the unreal. The plot, the characters, and the use of language are all essential factors in a novel’s artistic merits. Believe it or not, these elements date back to the 16th and 17th centuries. For a novel to succeed, it must engage the reader on every level. Physical, intellectual, and emotional. Not every reader will like every novel. Readers and writers have individual tastes that show up in what they write or read. How about you? Which to you prefer? Novelette, novella, or novel?
Living the Dream 