Christmas is coming and the Authors’ Billboard have a brand new collection of Christmas novellas for you. Dear Santa, A Christmas Wish features 18 wonderful stories sure to make your heart happy. Since the book is available from many distributors, we hope you’ll find your favorite and download it for only 99 cents! https://books2read.com/DearSanta
To whet your appetite, Book Bites 13 offers you the first chapter of each novella in the set.
This link will take you to your favorite online store where in some cases, the sampler is free. Enjoy.
Welcome to this month’s IWSG blog post. This month’s question: When you think of the term working writer, what does that look like to you? What do you think it is supposed to look like? Do you see yourself as a working writer or aspiring or hobbyist, and if latter two, what does that look like?
As a former high school teacher, retired from that occupation more than ten years now, I can say that I am definitely a working writer. In the last seven years, I have published 28 novels and 3 short stories. I also edit for other writers–a select few because I need my time for writing since I have six projects to finish by March 1st, 2021 and will be adding more as the year passes. The only thing that may interfere with my plans would be if I came down with COVID 19. At my age, I wouldn’t have an easy time of it.
I tend to work Monday to Friday as I did teaching. I get up each day, usually between six and seven a.m. and work on either writing, editing, blogging, or promotion until noon. After an hour break for lunch. I’m right back at it until 4:00 p.m. sometimes longer if I have a deadline.
A screwup with WordPress cost me my blogsite and hours of frustration a few weeks ago, and I spent a lot of time trying to fix it. One thing I learned from the experience was to write down my passwords. Things you think easy to remember tend to vanish from your mind in time. Because I used a free site, I didn’t have anything to prove it was mine. Who keeps emails from eight years ago? But it won’t happen again. This old dog learned a new, if painful trick. Now, the hard part is building up my followers list once more. So if you care to follow me, please do.
So what does being a working writer look like physically? I have a dedicated office, a desktop computer as well as a laptop, and shelves full of my favorite books as well as my own. You’ll usually find me in my nightgown or pajamas until my noon break, although I do take min breaks to make the bed, get coffee, etc. Sadly, as much as I love to read, I find it hard to find the time now. Reading was something I used to do on vacations, but since the virus all vacations and holidays have been put on hold. That just gives more time to work.
To me, if something is a job, then it has to be taken seriously with time invested in it. How about you? Where do you fit in the scheme of things?
Check out other writer’s responses by clicking on a mane on the list!
Today has finally arrived! So many things have been cancelled and changed by 2020, it’s good to see something happen on time. This collection is going to knock your socks off.
It features eight unique and unusual love stories that tackle the tough issues we face every day – racial acceptance or intolerance, whether black, brown, red or yellow, differing religious views, sexuality, family and social values, and so much more.
Let’s look a little closer at Same Time Next Year, my book in the box set.
Same Time Next Year is a novel within a novel.
For three short weeks, Twyla Lancaster was the fairy tale princess who’d found her prince, but just like that, reality ripped them apart. Now, fifty years later, she needs to know why the only man she ever loved broke his promises. As she writes her memoir and learns more about that summer, she realizes things were not what they seemed.
Hormones raced, promises were made, but Twyla left Michael Morrison high and dry, and within weeks, married someone else. Grieving the loss of his parents and her betrayal, he turned his back on love, focusing on his military career. Now, goaded by his sister, he agrees to attend a wedding and reunion, knowing Twyla will be there. It’s time to find out why she lied to him all those years ago.
The moment the star-crossed lovers see one another, love blooms between them, but when Michael discovers Twyla’s secret, he’s devastated. Is love enough to erase fifty years of pain and betrayal?
In this book, I take you back to 1967. It may be a walk down Memory Lane, but many of the things that were part of my reality and Twyla’s were not the best. In 1967, the society was far more closed-minded than it is today, and women’s rights were in their infancy. There was no acceptance of sexual diversity, religious intolerance ran rampant and the disparity between the rich and the poor wasn’t a boundary many could cross.
Twyla, the teenage daughter of rich American protestants, people who can trace their history to the Mayflower pilgrims, falls in love with a poor Irish Catholic Canadian. While Mom’s busy with cards and booze, unsupervised, Twyla enjoys and unprecedented freedom, one that leads to a whole new world of discovery.
But the magic she finds in Michael’s arms is short-lived, when her father’s company goes broke and the family is forced to leave unexpectedly. When Twyla discovers she’s pregnant, she tries to reach Michael, but he never returns her message. To avoid scandal, she turns to her brother’s lover who agrees to marry her.
Now, fifty years later, Twyla wants to know the truth and goes back to the scene of the crime looking for answers. What she finds isn’t what she expected.
Pick up your copy of Invincible Diversity today. Only 99 cents or free to read in Kindle Unlimited.
The Blue Dragon is a modern historical romance, set in 2006.
True love never dies.
Gravely wounded in Afghanistan, Samantha Collins returns to Canada to discover a previously unknown relative has died and made her heir to the family estate. The bequest consists of a century-old farmhouse and an orange tabby. Alone, having given up on love, marriage, and children, facing a grim future, Sam opts to move into the house until she decides what to do with it. When she opens the door, she gets more than she bargained for. Nobody mentioned Great-aunt Esther was a hoarder.
Following his divorce, Phil Austin returns to South Creek. An architect who prefers restoring old buildings to designing new ones, he’s intrigued to learn one of the area’s century-old houses may be sold. Picturing the house converted to an inn, when Phil knocks on the door, he gets more than he expected. The new owner is the woman he loved and lost fifteen years ago.
Stunned to find the only man she ever loved on her doorstep, Sam is carried away by his ideas for the house. Torn between hope and despair, she agrees to his business proposal. As they renew their friendship and they sift through the trash and treasures Esther Cohen left behind, can they find the courage to open their hearts to one another again?
Here’s a taste of what’s inside!
The hot water cascading over her shoulders and sluicing down her back eased Sam’s pain as had the two extra-strength analgesics and the muscle relaxant she’d taken. Occasionally, her sleep was interrupted by dreams recalling the mortar attack that had claimed Keisha, Grady, and Russell, leaving his fiancée and baby girl to plan a funeral rather than a wedding. Spasms of pain, like she’d experienced last week after her flight from Paris, brought back the memories, too—and then there were loud noises.
Corporal Newman had lived. They’d even shared the physio room at the US Regional Medical Center in Landstuhl, Germany. Fortune had certainly made a mess of things. Newman now walked on artificial legs, she’d gotten a medal, more pain than she could ever have imagined, and an iffy future, while three others who’d had so much to live for had died.
The doctors in Germany had prescribed antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and had recommended something stronger for pain, but she’d seen too many soldiers hooked on those drugs. As soon as the pain was tolerable, she’d refused them and had gone with something non-addictive. It had taken months of rehab before she’d been able to walk again, her hips and femurs more metal than bone. If she had problems down the line, she would consider more surgery, but for now, she’d make do with things as they were. Sometimes the analgesics helped, sometimes they didn’t, but at least she was in control—and when the pain got too bad … well, that’s what wine was for.
Turning off the tap, she stepped out of the shower stall, dried off, making sure not to look at the angry scars crisscrossing her abdomen, back, and legs. The doctors claimed they would fade in time, but from what she could see that might be decades. She grabbed a second towel, rubbed her short hair dry, and pulled on the hotel’s terry robe. Going into the room, she opened the bottle of merlot she’d picked up on the way home, poured herself a glass, and sat on the leather chair.
When she’d checked in, still in full dress uniform, new medal pinned to her chest, she’d requested an easy chair for her room, explaining about her injuries. Within an hour, a leather recliner with all the bells and whistles had been delivered with a “Thanks for your service” note.
Too bad her service hadn’t been enough to save the others, but she’d done her duty to her patient. Wasn’t that all that really mattered?
The heavily French-accented words her grandmother had said to her more than twenty-five years ago echoed inside her head as loudly as if she were standing next to her.
“Ma pauvre petite. You are always so hard on yourself. You are one little girl. You can’t save the world. That’s for the Bon Dieu.”
Why had she never considered how hard life must’ve been for her? Marie-Hélène Leclerc Cowan, a Creole with café au lait colored skin slightly darker than her own, would’ve suffered from racism, too.
“Talk about being between a rock and a hard place.”
Sighing, Sam reached for Aunt Esther’s letter, ripped open one end of the envelope, and slipped out the sheet of thin blue paper. No, she couldn’t save the world, but maybe she could do something for a lonely, old lady who’d died heartbroken and alone.
The onion skin paper was brittle. People had stopped using this stuff when she’d still been a kid. The ink was light, hard to read as if the writer had barely had the strength to pen the letter, the script spidery, but by turning on the lamp closest to her, Sam was able to decipher it.
Dear Samantha,
Not a Jewish name, nor a French one, but one considered the feminine version of Samuel which is. I do not suppose that mattered to your mother or grandfather, although Elizabeth was our mother’s name. Today, it does not matter to anyone. How the times have changed, but the hatred is still there, as you well know. I fear nothing will ever change that. Too many have died in the name of God or greed, humanity’s new God of choice. Perhaps someday, things will change, but not I fear in my lifetime.
Imagine my surprise at discovering I not only had a grandniece, but one who chose to follow in my beloved Ezekiel’s footsteps, although he was in the navy not the army, but service is service. When I saw you on that television program, I recognized you instantly. You resemble my mother—not completely since your complexion is darker—but enough for me to see the family connection. The private investigator confirmed my suspicions. Like myself, your life has not been an easy one, losing those you loved at a young age.
If you are reading this, it is because I never got up the nerve to contact you before my death. You see, I did not know what you might know about me or whether you would somehow blame me for your grandfather’s alienation from the family. I will admit I was angry with him for choosing an outsider over his heritage, but when I met Ezekiel, I finally understood what he meant when he said, “The heart wants what it wants, kleyne shvester.” No one, not even Charles who was a good, loyal friend, could ever replace Zeke. I have mourned him most of my life. I was thirty when his ship sank, all hands aboard lost, the bodies never recovered.
I am returning to you what should have been Ezra’s in the first place, although I have sold most of the land. I kept our special places—the woods where Zeke and I loved to walk, with the pond and the stream running through it where we used to wade after our picnics. That is where he first kissed me, where he asked me to wait for him and marry him when he came home from the war. He carved our initials in the oak tree. I visited the tree every day, until my heart started acting up. Then, I went as often as these old bones would allow until I had to stop.
Charles will have given you my ashes. I broke with tradition by requesting cremation. You would have received a lovely urn, but I have no desire to stay in a flower vase. I want you to take my ashes and return them to the earth by scattering them under a small stone cairn I built next to the tree with our initials on it. Knock down the stones, mix my ashes with the earth where I buried the lock of hair we exchanged the day he left, and let us be together at last. Do it on September third, the day he proposed. That’s all I ask of you. In exchange, I have left you all of my greatest treasures. Treat them kindly, especially the blue dragon. It’s the last thing he ever gave me.
Esther Cohen
Sam dropped the paper onto the table and swiped at her eyes. Why the hell was she crying this time? Weeping served no purpose. It didn’t fix anything—never had, never would—and yet there was no way she could prevent herself from giving in to despair. She’d done too damn much of it this past year, and now she was all blubbery over an old lady’s letter.
“Face it. You get weepy over a damn television commercial,” she muttered. “A living example of Thalia and Melpomene, the Greek muses of comedy and tragedy, laughing one minute, crying the next. Just like that damn mask you’ve dragged all over the bloody world because he gave it to you!”
Standing, she limped over to the floor to ceiling window overlooking the town square, unable once again to stop the tears dribbling down her cheeks. Fifteen years of suppressed emotions let loose at last. What did she expect? Sooner or later, you had to pay for your mistakes.
She wrapped her arms around herself. How long had it been since there had been a special someone in her life? How long since she’d had a shoulder to cry on? Arms to comfort her? Someone to sit by the bed and care whether she lived or died? The flowers she’d received on her birthday—Christmas Day, a holiday she’d stopped celebrating long ago—had come as a surprise, but there’d been nothing since then, not even a good luck message when she’d finally been released from the rehab center. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Ryerson’s letter sent in March that had reached her last month, she would’ve had no place to go. Now, she had a house, but how long would she be able to live there before Fate exacted her final revenge?
Shoving aside the sheer curtain, she looked down at the main street of the strange town, a place she’d heard of once before but never expected to visit. South Creek, population twenty-one thousand, was a bedroom community for Ottawa, the nation’s capital. At one time, it had been a dairy farming area, but one by one the family farms had given way to progress. What would it have been like eighty-five years ago when her grandfather had left?
Grab your copy today. Only 99 cents for a limited time! Free to read in Kindle Unlimited.
Don’t have a kindle? You can download the free app from Amazon and read on your phone, laptop, computer, or tablet!
Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. We have another word prompt this week. There aren’t too many different ways to use the word BROWN. It can be a surname, it can describe the way one sears meat,but most often it’s used as a color, which is how I used it.
I’m continuing with The White Dahlia, Book Four of the Harvester Files.
Beth Reynolds indicated the body and the woman beside it.
“This is Dr. Michele Smith, one of the city’s new coroners who’s been getting more business from this side of town than anyone likes. Show him what we have, Mitch.”
The coroner stood, shoved her brown hair off her face, and moved out of the way, giving him his first clear look at the body.
“Mother of God, what the hell happened to her?”
No wonder Reynolds and the rookie had lost it. He was just about ready to join them. He’d seen floaters pulled out of the Hudson in better shape and less pungent than this one.
Naked, the white girl, an anomaly in this primarily black neighborhood, lay on her back, her eye sockets empty. Beneath the blistering corpse was a pale blue sheet like those he’d seen used in hospitals. No doubt she’d been wrapped in it. Her long blond hair was matted with blood, but given the gaping hole where her internal organs should’ve been and the relatively small amount of blood present, he doubted she’d been killed here.
“She’s been gutted like a fish and then frozen. I can’t tell you for how long yet,” Mitch began. “Whoever did this meant to toss the poor thing into the dumpster now that he no longer needed her, but something stopped him from doing so. The accelerated decomposition is thanks to Mother Nature’s quick thaw method. We’re losing evidence by the second. The sooner I get her back to the morgue, the better.”
Shit!
Without evidence, they would never catch the bastard who’d done this. Al swallowed. Thank God he wasn’t the one looking for it. Why anyone would choose to be a coroner was beyond him. This wasn’t going to be an easy autopsy, not with her insides missing.
Al turned back to the sergeant. She’d resumed her earlier position against the wall. The sooner they both got this wrapped up, the better. Heat or no heat, people living around here wouldn’t be opening their windows for days. There wasn’t enough air freshener in the world to cover this up. Sweat slipped down his back, adding to his discomfort as his own funky odor mixed with the fetid air. He would need a dozen showers to feel clean again.
“What makes you think she’s one of mine?”
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.
2020 has been full of challenges and they aren’t over yet. In the Northern hemisphere, winter’s on its way with cold days, while in the Southern Hemisphere, you’re looking at hot summer days, hopefully a few at the beach. This is the perfect time to stock up on new books for your TBR list.
We can help!
Authors from New Zealand, Australia, Canada the United States and even Europe have provided books for this book fair, some free, others are priced priced between $0.99-$2.99 for the duration of the promotion. There’s bound to be something here for everyone!
Happy shopping from all of us ♥♥ (Please check prices before you do the “oneclick”)
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Well, 2020 has been full of surprises, most of them bad, but here’s one that is absolutely fantastic! I was lucky enough to have one of my books chosen to be part of this outstanding box set.
This is a premier collection of eight wonderful and exceptional stories. Each one is a unique and unusual love story that tackles the tough issues we face every day – racial acceptance or intolerance, whether black, brown, red or yellow, differing religious views, sexuality, family and social values, and so much more. But whatever struggle our heroes and heroines face, whether it’s alone or aided by friends and family, they’re each INVINCIBLE in their diversity, staying strong and pushing through.
Have a look at what’s offered!
BONUS STORY: MIXED: A SHORT STORY by Suzanne Jenkins, USA Today Bestselling Author: A chance encounter brings two people together in a quest for safety, freedom, and love.
This is a great opportunity to read something different. You can preorder your copy today and start reading on Tuesday!
Maggie Angel accepts a chance of a lifetime when her aunt offers her the family’s dilapidated Bayou Cottage in the swamp at Cypress Cove. It’s the perfect place to run away to after her heart was broken.
The first night while she’s down at the road to lock the gate, a hunky guy on horseback steps out of the woods, but Maggie doesn’t recognize him. Turns out they were childhood playmates long ago during winter visits to her grandparents’ cottage.
Justin Chastain, local vet and wild horse advocate, heard through the grapevine that Maggie had returned to Cypress Cove and wanted to see her for himself. But he didn’t know that she was hiding from a failed marriage, leaving her with a big chip on her shoulder. It remains to be seen if she can ever trust again.
The chemistry Maggie senses fluctuates between lukewarm and molten, but for Justin, it’s constant and he’s falling in love, hard.
Then he unintentionally commits a blunder that Maggie will struggle to forgive, and they have to start all over again.
USA Today Bestselling Author Suzanne Jenkins writes page-turning contemporary romance, mystery, and women’s fiction with passionately gripping characters that stay with readers long after they turn the last page. The Detroit Detective Stories, beginning with The Greeks of Beaubien Street are truly American with a touch of fantasy. Award winning Pam of Babylon books consistently rank in the Top 100 Best Sellers in American Drama with over 1 million downloads.
A retired operating room nurse, Jenkins lives in Southern California.
Well, September is slipping away one day at a time. It’s officially autumn. The leaves have started to turn, the flowers are dying off, and it’s time to prepare for whatever winter Mother Nature tosses at us this year.
Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales, the ongoing blog where a select group of authors share their works in progress with you. This week, our 400 word scenes are based on the word BATTERY. I continue to post from The White Dahlia, Book Four of the Harvester Files.
“Al Foster.” He held up his badge to the uniformed officer, the Asian-American woman’s pale complexion testifying to the fact that she’d most likely lost her late night snack. Bodies found near dumpsters were rarely easy on the eyes. “I’m looking for Sergeant Reynolds.”
“She’s over there with the coroner.” The aroma of vomit on the woman’s breath confirmed Al’s suspicions. Hell of a way to end a shift.
“Thanks.”
Bending under the crime tape, Al headed toward the alley, his nose crinkling at the more pungent but anticipated stench of body odor, urine, and plain, old-fashioned garbage.
As he approached, the unmistakable putrid stench of decomposing tissue wafted over to him. His stomach roiled. No wonder the woman had been sick. Yanking his handkerchief out of his pocket, he held it up to his nose, covering his mouth—not that it helped much.
Thirty feet away, a woman, arms crossed in front of her, dark hair pulled into one of those messy topknots Sylvia had often worn, leaned against the stone wall, while another knelt beside the body. Was that a dolly? This close, the odor was overwhelming. How long had the damn corpse been here?
“Sergeant Reynolds?” He held out his hand, wishing he’d kept his jacket on. “Al Foster. We spoke earlier. You said this was one of mine? What makes you think so?”
He gazed into her face, the freckles standing out against her pale cheeks, her golden brown, almond-shaped eyes, unlike any he’d ever seen, red-rimmed. Had she been crying? Stains on her pants indicated the officer out there hadn’t been the only one to upchuck. Not surprising. This close, the stench was enough to make anyone puke.
The woman peeled away from the wall, her spine straightening as she pulled the vestiges of her professionalism around herself like a cloak. She was young for a detective sergeant—or maybe she was just one of those women who hid their age well. Reaching for his outstretched hand, she shook it and released it.
Unexpected energy raced along his nerves at the slight touch. When had shaking a woman’s hand produced a sensation like that?
“I did.” She aimed a battery-powered mini-light at the corpse. “Sorry to drag you out near the end of your shift like this, but I’m pretty sure I’m right. I figured that, despite the shape of the body, you could still ID her for me.”
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.
Dark Fae Cursed by Heather Renee is the first book in a new Upper YA Urban Fantasy series called Broken Court and is now available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited!
Lucinda Morrow is not your typical leading lady. She has no filter. She has no cares left to give. She does what she wants, when she wants. Basically, Lucinda is a bit of anti-hero and enjoys every moment of it!
Well, that is until a sexy, brooding fae waltzes into her world and turns everything upside.
If you love stories with sass, action, and enemies-to-lovers, then this is a must-read for you!
The fae king once tried to break me, but now… I’m coming for him.
After being exiled from the only home I’d ever known, I swore to never return. Instead, opting to start a new life offering my services to supernaturals who’d rather not get their hands dirty.
When a distractingly handsome and alluring fae shows up asking for my help, my initial reaction is to refuse. There’s a darkness in him that beckons me, and in my experience, any type of connection is a weakness I can’t afford.
However, after I discover the identity of his enemy, I find myself pulled into his battle, hoping to slay a few of my own demons in the process.
As something sinister attempts to take control, I’ll have to decide whether to continue doing things my way… Or chance the risk and let others fight beside me.
The only thing I know for sure is that the fae king’s biggest mistake was thinking he broke me, and my biggest victory will be proving him wrong.
*** This is the first book in a new series featuring a crass anti-hero female lead and recommended for ages 16+ ***
Available exclusively on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited!
Author Bio:
Heather Renee is a USA Today Bestselling author who lives in Oregon. She writes Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance novels with a mixture of adventure, humor, and sass. Her love of reading eventually led to her passion of writing and giving the gift of escapism.
When Heather’s not writing, she is spending time with her loving husband and beautiful daughter, going on their own adventures.
Living the Dream 