Dedications: The Gifts Authors Give…

Have you ever been gifted with a book dedication? You know what I mean. The small blurb at the beginning of every book that the author has decided to dedicate their entire book to? Trust me, it’s no small feat to choose the reader, friend or family member to immortalize on the pages of an author’s novel. In fact, it’s tough. Don’t mention you-know-who and his or hers nose gets out of joint. The hackles go up and it is fodder for every family holiday or get-together around the dinner table. Ugh. It takes a lot of thought and soul searching to pick the right person (or people—hey even pets) to share the author’s ink. Where am I going with this? Keep reading…

Imagine my surprise—no my shock—when my publisher dropped by to deliver her latest book, Uncommon at my doorstep. Back story: I adore Justine Alley Dowsett and Murandy Damodred’s Ismera fantasy romance series, and when the third installment of their series hit the shelves this fall, I told them to snag me a signed copy. So they did. When I opened the book, my jaw dropped, and I blinked over and over again, as I read…

‘For Sharon, Because you love this world almost as much as we do, even when we are sometimes cruel to your favourite character’.

I promptly closed my mouth, and stared at Justine. “Really?” I asked her point blank. “This is the best gift!” She blushed of course, as authors do, then smiled and nodded. I rushed in for the huge hug. Doing something as thoughtful as dedicating your book to someone special raises your vibration so high, it’s hard to get grounded. I finally did fall back to earth, and thanked Justine profusely. When she left to go do other publishing duties, I checked the acknowledgements, and for the second time that day, my jaw dropped. I was also mentioned in the book’s acknowledgement section too. Wow. Just wow. Up went my vibration again, as I tingled all over. My day had been made all that sweeter.

I know many of you may find this article lackluster, but it’s anything but dull. A book dedication is a BIG deal to a reader. So authors, in the future when you’re ready to figure out who to dedicate your book to or write up the acknowledgements, give it some serious thought. You may bring a wallop of sunshine into someone’s life in an unexpected way. And that’s not nothing.

Speaking of unexpected, I’ve been diligently working on the third installment of Mysterious Tales from Fairy Falls. I’m not sure if I’m going to have it ready for publication in 2023 or 2024, but I thought I’d whet your appetite and share an excerpt with you. Hope it piques your interest!

Excerpt from Sticks and Stones:

“This isn’t fair! Life sucks!”

“If you think life sucks now, wait until you start shaving.”

Thane Berg knitted his fair brows and looked up at his so-called father; a man who had been a stranger to him for so long it was hard to tell whether they were from the same gene pool. Thane’s eyes were light blue. His father’s were dark brown. His skin was fair and freckled. His father’s was tan and rough. His hair was strawberry and straight. His father’s was curly and brown. Thane sighed. Nope. No resemblance, no mirror, no match. In Thane’s mind, this man was not his father.

Even Philip Berg’s attire couldn’t be more opposite. His plumber’s overalls—stained with the day’s work—clung to Phil like used toilet paper. Thane cringed and tugged at his red and white striped polo-style shirt, hoping Phil had at least washed his hands before preparing tonight’s supper. His nose wrinkled. He looked down at his bowl of mystery meat stew, and mashed what looked like potatoes and peas with his spoon, hoping to bring out some flavor.

“I started shaving last year,” Thane mumbled.

“Last year?” Phil laughed. “Didn’t you just turn fourteen in June?”

Thane banged the table with the palm of his hand. “Well maybe if you’d stayed straight instead of turning gay like you decided to five years ago, you’d know a hell of a lot more about what was going on in my life!”

Phil Berg winced as if he’d been stung by a swarm of wasps. He dropped his coffee cup, and it shattered across the hardwood flooring, sending ceramic bits rolling every-which-way.

A dog howled from outside the kitchen door. Thane jerked.

Phil rubbed his stubbly face and raked his curly hair. He slowly moved toward the side door, skirting around the bits of broken cup, and opened it. Even from his seat at the table, Thane could see the dog’s tail whipping wildly back and forth, back and forth, as if he had downed four tall energy drinks. The husky mix had been recently adopted from the Fairy Falls Animal Shelter as a present for him. Thane snorted. That was another thing his father didn’t know about him. He hated dogs. All dogs, but especially big dogs.

“Come here, Nobel, good boy.” Phil reached out to unlatch the dog’s rope from his collar, then stroked his big head.

Nobel whined, yipped, and ran straight to his food bowl. He wolfed it down as if it were his last meal.

“I want to go home, Phil,” Thane demanded, mashing his stew.

“You are home. And I’m Dad to you, not Phil.”

His voice was hard, unmoving, like he meant it.

Thane slouched. “Fairy Falls isn’t my home, it’s yours! Windsor is where I belong! If…if mom didn’t go on that stupid trip—”

“Your mother deserves that job promotion,” Phil cut in. “Writing is her passion, and when this opportunity from the newspaper came up for her, I advised her to take it. I told her it would give you and I some much needed time together.”

“Time together? I’m stuck here for a freaking year because of you! Did you even think of asking me?”

“Since I am your father, and I am still responsible for you, I didn’t see the point.”

Then, as Phil knelt down to pick up the fragments of his white mug, a sudden rage ambushed Thane. An electric jolt pierced through his body, and as he stared at this wanna-be dad, this out-of-the-closet, out-of-his-life misfit of a man, a stab of anger overrode his senses and infected his mind. Startled from this alien feeling, Thane inhaled fiercely, and as he did, a piece of porcelain flew up and punctured Phil’s right thumb.

“Oww! Son-of-a—” Phil started to curse, then stopped. Wincing, he dug the shard out and tossed it into the trash bin underneath the sink.

Shaken, Thane reached over and grabbed his can of orange pop. He guzzled it down in one gulp. Did what just happen, actually happen? Did I do that to Phil? Did I make that piece of cup move? Thane let out a loud, laborious belch. Hot gas bubbles burst in his nostrils and he cringed at the sensation.

His father scowled at him. “Don’t you have something to say?”

Thane pursed his lips. “I don’t see the point.”

Phil’s dark eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

Thane belched again. This one was slightly longer. “There. Excuse me.”

Phil shook his head. “I guess me and you are related after all.”

Thane’s face fell. “Huh?”

Phil grinned, turned around, and let thunder rip out of his back end. He waved his hand in the air. “Whew! That’s one that’ll make your eyes water!”

Thane smirked. “Don’t you have something to say?”

“How about, ‘I’ve missed you?’” a man blurted from behind Thane.

Thane jumped. He twisted in his seat to find a tall man leaning against the pine door frame. He was bulkier than his father, but just as tanned. His head was clean shaven, and his eyes were a shade of leafy green. He wore a uniform of a sort—a sky blue shirt with a company name stitched on it, and a pair of dark jeans. Thane squinted to read what was embroidered on his shirt. Cormack’s Crappers and Sanitation Service, he read. Thane rolled his eyes. Nice. Classy. Fairy Falls is looking better and better.

“Carter!” Phil opened his arms. “Of course I’ve missed you!”

Carter grinned and strode toward Thane’s father. Nobel barked, then growled. His ears went back, his hackles rose, his tail dropped. He looked like he was ready for a fight.

Carter backed off. “Whoa, where’d you get the mutt?”

“Nobel’s from the Animal Shelter. Meagan, a girl who works there, says he’s loyal and loves kids, so I figured he’d be a good match for Thane.”

“Nobel, eh? With a name like that you’d think he’d be pure bred. What is he? Husky? Doberman? Shepherd?”

Phil laughed. “All of the above I suppose, and maybe more. Whatever he is, he seems okay with it.”

Thane stared at Nobel for a few moments. His mix of brown, grey, and black fur had relaxed somewhat and his ears moved forward. He sniffed, whined, then looked directly at him. The dog’s light blue gaze struck Thane, penetrated him as if he were sitting on the chair completely naked. He shuddered as Nobel let out a yip and sauntered slowly over to him. His wet, cool nose poked Thane under the arm. He licked his elbow. Thane shuddered again. Maybe if I ignore the dog he’ll go lay down.

“Well, at least the dog seems to like Thane,” Carter said. He held out his hand and walked toward the kitchen table. “Hey, Thane, I’m Carter Cormack, your father’s—”

“Whatever,” Thane cut in, attempting to suppress his feelings, his voice, his emotions. “Don’t care. Don’t want to know the details.”

Nobel growled again. Carter withdrew his hand and backed off.

“Thane, that’s rude!” Phil shouted, wagging his finger.

Thane shrugged. “At least I didn’t growl at him.”

Nobel wagged his tail. He nudged Thane again, but he pushed the dog away.

“It’s okay, it’s no big deal, Phil. Thane just needs to get used to the idea of us, that’s all,” Carter said, winking at Thane’s father.

Intense heat flushed through Thane’s body. “Fine. Get used to this!” He hurled his bowl of stew at Cormack.

Splat! The stew hit the front of Carter’s uniform and rolled down the length of his pants to land on a pair of polished cowboy boots. The bowl, however, hit his prominent chin and rolled into the next room. Nobel barked. He bolted for the stew casualties strewn across the length of the floor.

“Thane!” Phil’s face reddened. “How dare you!”

Carter held up a hand. “Don’t, Phil! I’m fine. Your son needs time. It’s a big adjustment for him. I’ll let myself out. Call me later.”

Thane frowned, as Carter Cormack wiped any remnants of stew stuck to his shirt before he slowly backed out of the kitchen, with one eye on Nobel, and the other on Thane. He heard his father mutter something obscene before he went off after the man who—in Thane’s mind— was public enemy number one.

Thane strangled the spoon still in his hand. Thoughts of his father and Cormack embracing out of his sight, making up like couples do, entered his mind. His mother was supposed to be in his father’s arms, not this other man, this stranger, this home-wrecker. But no. The fantasy was gone. This was Thane’s reality. A broken reality.

Suddenly, that odd sensation returned inside him. Engulfing him, enraging him. Sweat blistered through his skin and ran down his face. What only could be described as an electric shot flowed through him again, making his hand shake and teeth rattle. Nobel whined and Thane glanced down at his hand. The spoon he was still holding bent backward in front of his eyes, almost melting in his grasp. Freaked, he threw it down on the table and pushed away. He stood, wiped his face roughly with the cloth napkin, and then dropped it on the floor. He knew he hadn’t imagined it. He couldn’t have. The evidence was laying on the table—bent, distorted, out of shape.

His stomach churned. What’s happening to me?

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Carter!” Thane heard his dad yell from outside.

Panicking, Thane lunged for the spoon and stared at it. As heavy footsteps entered the kitchen, Thane twirled around and hid the twisted spoon behind his back. His breathing steadied as his dad leaned into the door frame much as Cormack had earlier. He crossed his muscled arms over his big chest and stared at Thane. His face was stone, his jaw set. It was the perfect poker face if they’d been playing cards. But this was far from a card game, and Thane badly needed an ace up his sleeve.

Phil raised a dark brow. “What are you hiding behind your back?”

“Nothing,” Thane lied.

“If it’s nothing then show me.”

Thane twisted his lips. “No. I’m good.”

Phil sighed. “Well, I’m not. Look, Thane, at some point this year, you’re going to have to learn to trust me. I’m your father, and I love you despite what your opinion of my lifestyle is, which by the way is not a choice. I am who I am. I stand in my truth. My only hope is that someday you’ll come to understand this, and stand in your own truth.”

Thane bit down on his bottom lip. His father didn’t sound as mad as Thane thought he would be. In fact, he appeared quite calm despite what had occurred. A sudden jolt ran through him. The feeling wasn’t as intense as the last two times. It seemed different. Peaceful. Serene. True.

“Well?”

Roused from his thoughts, Thane stared at his father. “Well what?”

“What are you hiding behind your back?”

Thane shrugged. If he wasn’t going to get into trouble throwing stew at Cormack, then it was a sure bet he wouldn’t get into trouble for a bent spoon. He would just have to come up with a good fib on how he bent it.

Ideas rolled around in his head. Maybe I can somehow blame Nobel?

“Thane?”

Jolted, Thane jumped, and swung his hand around to reveal the spoon.

“You were hiding...a spoon?”

Thane stared at the spoon too, his eyes wide.

It was straight. Back to normal. Perfect.

If you’ve never read my teen psychic mystery series, below are the books and links that are available for purchase so far:

Mysterious Tales from Fairy Falls Teen Psychic Mystery Series:

Lost and Found, Book One Buy Links:

MIRROR WORLD PUBLISHING ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀

Blackflies and Blueberries, Book Two Buy Links:

MIRROR WORLD PUBLISHING ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀

Thanks for stopping by to celebrate the first post of 2023! Authors, do you give a lot of thought when choosing who to dedicate your book to? Readers, have you ever had an author dedicate one of their books to you? If so, how did you respond? Would love to read your comments. Cheers and thanks for taking the time to read my blog. I appreciate you!

Ring in the New Year Russian Style with Author Stella May...

This is a traditional New Year’s dish for any person who was born or grew up in former USSR. To this day, not a single celebration goes without it.

The name of this salad in Russia is Сajiat ОЛИВЬЕ. For all the former republics that once upon a time were part of the USSR, this salad became a synonym for a New Year. It brings many of us a lot of bitter-sweet memories. 

There are many variations to Olivier Salad. The recipe below is how my family made it, and how I still make it every year on December 31^st. 

OLIVIER SALAD
5 large eggs
2 large Russet potatoes
2 carrots1 can green peas

2-3 pickled cucumbers, traditional Vlasic is best
1 English cucumber
½ cup fresh dill, chopped fine

½ cup green onion, chopped or 1 small sweet onion

½ cup mayo, maybe a little less

½ cup sour cream, maybe a little less

1 cup cubed chicken breast or boiled meat, optional

2 pinches salt

Pepper to taste

Boil eggs, potatoes, and carrots in the same pan. Drain and then set aside pan to cool. 

Cube all ingredients, combine them in the large bowl, mix gently. Add combination of mayo and sour cream. Some people use only mayo, others only sour cream. You decide which works best for you. You may want to use more or less mayo/sour cream mixture, depending on your taste. 

Stir in salt and pepper and fresh dill. Cover with plastic wrap and then chill until you’re ready to serve. 

Happy New Year! 

Stella

Here is a peek at Stella’s time travel romance for your reading pleasure. It also makes a wonderful holiday gift.

One key unlocks the love of a lifetime…but could also break her heart. 

Nika Morris’s sixth sense has helped build a successful business, lovingly restoring and reselling historic homes on Florida’s Amelia Island. But there’s one forlorn, neglected relic that’s pulled at her from the moment she saw it. The century-old Coleman house.  

Quite unexpectedly, the house is handed to her on a silver platter—along with a mysterious letter, postmarked 1909, yet addressed personally to Nika. Its cryptic message: Find the key. You know where it is. Hurry, for goodness sake! 

The message triggers an irresistible drive to find that key. When she does, one twist in an old grandfather clock throws her back in time, straight into the arms of deliciously, devilishly handsome Elijah Coleman. 

Swept up in a journey of a lifetime, Nika finds herself falling in love with Eli—and with the family and friends that inhabit a time not even her vivid imagination could have conjured. But in one desperate moment of homesickness, she makes a decision that will not only alter the course of more than one life, but break her heart. 

’Til Time Do Us Part is available in Kindle and Paperback at AMAZON. 

Talented author Stella May is the penname for Marina Sardarova who has a fascinating history you should read on her website. 

Stella writes fantasy romance as well as time travel romance. She is the author of 'Till Time Do Us Part, Book 1 in her Upon a Time series, and the stand-alone book Rhapsody in Dreams. Love and family are two cornerstones of her stories and life. Stella’s books are available in e-book and paperback through all major vendors.

When not writing, Stella enjoys classical music, reading, and long walks along the ocean. She lives in Jacksonville, Florida with her husband Leo of 35 years and their son George. They are her two best friends and are all partners in their family business.

Follow Stella on her website and blog Stay connected on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest.

Have a Dickens of a Holiday by Author C.D. Hersh...

We found a free, fun, fanciful and fantastic book Holiday Romance by Charles Dickens. 

While surfing the Kindle bookstore for romance book freebies we came across a book by Charles Dickens entitled, Holiday Romance, which has been recently put into e-book format. Romance by Dickens? The title had our attention and we downloaded it.

We haven’t read much Dickens since high school where the obligatory Tale of Two Cities and David Copperfield with its flowery language was enough to stifle any desire to read more. Oh, we enjoy A Christmas Carol and the many rewrites and adaptations, but, as a general rule, we have no burning desire to drown ourselves in Dickens’ classic works. That all changed with the reading of the opening line in the second paragraph of the book.

“Nettie Ashford is my bride. We were married in the right-hand closet in the corner of the dancing-school, where first we met, with a ring (a green one) from Wilkingwater’s toy shop. I owed for it out of my pocket money.”

He had us with that line. We wanted to know more about the closet romance between this couple. The subsequent quick reading of book did not disappoint, not because it’s a romance in the fashion of the genre today.

The book is written from the viewpoint of four children, ages six and a half to nine and has four parts. The first part, The Trial of William Tinkley, is an adventure in which the children marry one another. The Magic Fishbone is a fairy tale where a Victorian era Cinderella gets her prince and the promise of thirty-five children, seventeen boys and eighteen girls. In Boldheart and the Latin Grammar Master the young seafaring pirate captain obtains permission to marry his love after proving his worth on the high seas. The fourth part, Mrs. Orange, is a domestic romance with role reversals of adults and children showcasing a frazzled child-mother who decides to place her brood of adult-children, whom she dotes on but for whom her husband doesn’t care much about, in boarding school.

While there is a romantic element in the childish love stories, the book is a romance mostly in the literary sense of romanticism—a literary style that revolts against the aristocratic social and political norms of the day. In spite of (or maybe because of the social commentary in the book) and the easy flow of the language, we found this to be a delightfully funny children’s book that made us laugh out loud.

Holiday Romance is unique for several reasons.

Originally written as a four-part series for Our Young Folks, An Illustrated Magazine for Boys and Girls, the book is Dickens’ only fictional work for children.

He is writing for children using their language and perspective.

Published in 1868, near the end of his life, it has also rarely been reprinted as a whole.

The use of fairy tales (which he opposed as a vehicle for promoting moral causes) is a primary literary vehicle for parts of the book.

So you ask, “What does Holiday Romance have to do with writing today?” It’s Dickens combination of realism and fantasy that strikes a chord with me. Dickens knew he was writing something off the wall when he penned Holiday Romance. In fact, he wrote to James Field in 1867 commenting about the implausibility of his work saying, “I hope the Americans will see the joke of Holiday Romance. The writing seems to me so like children’s that dull folks (on any side of any water) might rate it accordingly.” {http://users.unimi.it/dickens/essays/Craft/bacile.pdf}

For us, the humor and appeal of Holiday Romance lies in the fantastical element. We know children don’t get married in coat closets. Nor do they sail off on pirate ships, have fairy godmothers, or put their parents in boarding school. But those situations are fun, fanciful, and fantastic and that’s what makes this book work.

Likewise a paranormal story without the extraordinary elements of the supernatural would just be another story. Vampires, shape shifters, ghosts, things that go bump in the night are core to the genre. We all know these things don’t exist, but we are willing to suspend belief and enter into the writer’s world and let them take us for a ride. When a writer skillfully sets these elements in a realism that makes the reader want to look over her shoulder in a dark alley, load her conceal and carry gun with silver bullets, triple check the deadbolts, and keep the lights on after midnight, the author has turned those improbable essentials into something as close to reality as they will ever get. That thrill of finding the unexpected and abnormal is what lures most readers to paranormal. It’s also what makes most of us write it too.

Dickens may have had a social agenda when he wrote Holiday Romance, but we don’t care about that. We just thought it was a funny read. And how often can you say that about Dickens?

You can you can get your copy of this e-book on Amazon.

Here is a little about our paranormal series, The Turning Stone Chronicles.We hope you enjoy it.

 

Three ancient Celtic families. A magical Bloodstone that enables the wearers to shape shift. A charge to use the stone’s power to benefit mankind, and a battle, that is going on even today, to control the world. Can the Secret Society of shape shifters called the Turning Stone Society heal itself and bring peace to our world? Find out in the series The Turning Stone Chronicles series.

C.D. Hersh–Two hearts creating everlasting love stories.

Putting words and stories on paper is second nature to co-authors C.D. Hersh. They’ve written separately since they were teenagers and discovered their unique, collaborative abilities in the mid-90s. As high school sweethearts and husband and wife, Catherine and Donald believe in true love and happily ever after. They look forward to many years of co-authoring and book sales, and a lifetime of happily-ever-after endings on the page and in real life.

Social Media Info:

Website 

Soul Mate Publishing

FacebookAmazon Author Page

Twitter

Put a Little Spice in your Holidays with this Temptingly Tasty Appetizer by Author Helen Carpenter...

Holiday potluck parties are lots of fun; a day to eat hearty and share good times. Bedeviled by what to bring? Try this easy spicy recipe for deviled eggs. (Do you know why they’re called deviled eggs? You get to eat two if you know the answer.*)

Deviled Eggs with Curry

Eggs (week-old or just-ready-to-expire eggs peel more easily)
1 tsp. salad dressing for each egg
Dash of curry powder
Dash of paprika

Hard-boil eggs using an egg cooker or a pot of cold water (cover eggs with water, bring to a boil, remove from heat, cover, and let stand 10-12 minutes). Drain; then place eggs in ice water until cool. Peel cooled eggs and cut in half lengthwise.

Slide egg yolks onto a plate and mash with a fork.

Stir in salad dressing until mixture is smooth and creamy.

Spoon yolk mixture back into egg whites, or use a disposable plastic baggie and an icing tip if you want ooh-la-la fancy deviled eggs.

Sprinkle with curry powder to taste. Dust with paprika for more color.

Arrange on a festive platter and serve warm or cold.

If you’re traveling to the potluck, carry this dish in an insulated cooler with ice.

*According to the Oxford Companion to Food, by Alan Davidson (1999), pp. 247-248, “devil” is a culinary term which first appeared as a noun in the 18th century, and then in the early 19th century as a verb meaning to cook something with fiery hot spices or condiments. The term was presumably adopted because of the connection between the devil and the excessive heat where the devil dwells.

Once upon a time there was a mother/daughter author duo named Helen and Lorri, who wrote as HL Carpenter. the Carpenters worked from their studios in Carpenter Country, a magical place that, like their stories was unreal but not untrue. Then one day Lorri left her studio to explore the land of What-If, and like others who have lost a loved one the magical place lost much of its magic. But thanks to family, plus an amazing group of wordsmiths named Authors Moving Forward (AMF), the magic is slowly returning.

Helen Carpenter loves liking and sharing blog posts from other authors. She lives in Florida with her husband of many years  and appreciates everyday, especially those without hurricanes.

Stay connected on her blog and Facebook.

Christmas Around the World by Author and Artist Linda Lee Greene...

How much easier it would be for me to fulfill a commission to write an article titled ‘Christmas Around the World,’ if I were actually free to travel, but I do not have that freedom for various reasons. Therefore, I call on my crafty Muse to settle on my shoulder and whisper in my ear an imaginary tale of travel, one in which I call on a number of women in faraway places, each of whom is immersed in high holiday celebrations unique to her culture. I am giddy over the prospect of beginning my make-believe trip with my Muse depositing me smack-dab in the presence of a Native American sister. 

Seven Sisters
acrylic painting by Linda Lee Greene

Paulette welcomes me into her kitchen and then very graciously explains that embracing the Christian tradition is a thorny issue for many of her people given the injustices that America’s indigenous people have faced under white domination, both in the past and the present. Even so, the good spirit of the season permeates her culture in admirable ways. “You showed up just in time to catch me before I leave for a meeting of the Partnership with Native Americans (PWNA),” Paulette informs me. Responding to the quizzical look on my face, she continues. “We spread holiday cheer in the way of blankets, nutrition and education services, medical screenings, and more to over 30,000 of our Elders, children, and families in approximately 110 reservation communities here in the Northern Plains and the Southwest. Winter is brutal in these reservations and rural communities, and we work hard to come together in the spirit of giving at this special time.” Upon making my exit into a frozen morning, I drop a couple of Andrew Jacksons into Paulette’s PWNA donation basket and cringe at the gruesome symbolism of that particular face being imprinted on those U. S. $20.00 bills. 

I suppose my Muse took pity on me and decided to thaw me out, because in the blink of an eye, I am stretched out on the blinding sand of a beach in Melbourne, Australia. I am clad in a bathing suit, and the unmistakable aroma of seafood sizzling on a grill within smelling distance floods my mouth with saliva. Jingle Bells, the jolly Christmas song, rings out from an electronic device. The incongruity is not lost on me as I push to my feet to the greeting of a scantily-clad blonde goddess waving a barbecue fork in her hand. “We thought you were dead to the world, myte,” she says to me. “Come on and git yerself a plyte. It’s prawns on the barbie, stryght from Dad’s boat this mornin’.” Kathryn is the name of this supernatural being, and she is only one of many just like her in her large circle of beach party buddies. Someone thrusts a frosty bottle of beer in my hand and I recoup my senses enough to inquire, “Jingle Bells?” “What else?” Kathryn replies. “It’s Christmas! Eat up! Drink up! The day is jist gittin’ started. You don’t want to miss Carols by Candlelight tonight.” “Carols by Candlelight?” “Yeh, you know! The big charity evint to help out the needy in the community.” To get in the spirit of things, I chug the cold beer and pretend the hot white sand squishing between my bare toes is bone-chilling snow. 

A strong scent reminiscent of home that I am powerless to resist lures me away from summertime Melbourne to a cozy dining room in Tokyo, Japan. A table laden with buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken is occupied on all sides by a young Japanese family comprised of a mother, father, and two children. Apparently, I am the only dinner guest at what Aimi, the lovely mother, explains to me is their “hidden Christmas”. While the stigma of what in Japan is mainly a secular event is dissipating thanks to ubiquitous Western influences wrought through television and social media, influences such as America’s KFC as the food of choice for Christmas Day in Japan, still many people whose leanings remain Shinto or Buddhism, observe the day on the quiet. “It ruffles fewer feathers that way,” an otherwise very Japanese Aimi tells me in ironical American terminology.         

Muse is anxious to send me further into my whirlwind tour, and next, and for a minute or two, I wonder if Muse has time-slipped me back to America’s Old West as the gentle steed on whose back I ride trots me beneath a wide, wood archway that spans an opening in split-rail fencing on both sides. The fencing wanders and then evaporates into what appears a boundless, misty landscape. A carved sign in wood at the crest of the archway proclaims, “LET’S GO GREEN!” And then I know I am in current time, the ominous Climate Change time that does not withdraw to a voiceless corner even on Christmas Day. Great plumes of crystalized breath billow from the nostrils of the horse, and my own frosty breath hazes the lenses of my spectacles. I am in cold, cold country—not quite to the Arctic plain, but close enough, I am pretty sure. No level treeless tundra is this, though, for there are evergreen trees, evergreen trees upon evergreen trees as far as the eye can see, planted in deliberate, neat and regimental rows, like line upon line of locked-arm chorus girls frocked in frilly green. Donned in blue-jeans and a fleece-layered black-and-red-plaid flannel shirt, a Paul Bunyan-like figure materializes out of nowhere suddenly. “Welcome to Saskatchewan’s Evergreen Tree Farm. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Anne,” this burly Canadian female greets me. “You look like you need a warm-up. Come on up to the house. There’s a rum and brandy hot toddy there with your name on it.”       

A profusion of Christmas decorations, evergreen garlands, and twinkling lights at every door, window, and eave forms an almost impenetrable obstacle course to the entrance of the place. In the wake of my hostess, I step across the threshold and enter a winter wonderland, a plethora of all things Christmas. A steaming mug of the hot toddy beckons me to the table upon which it rests, and on the stovetop, the valve on the lid of a pressure cooker dances up and down. The aroma emitting from it is heavenly. “Have you ever had frontier bison stew?” Anne asks me. My stomach drops to my toes and I shake my head. I feel my enthusiasm wilt to a point of no return. I am not so sure my belly is ready for frontier bison stew. “I thought bison was an endangered species,” I state, my mouth going desert-dry in my unease. “Our First Nation people have taken the herds in hand and are bringing the numbers back to almost double now,” Anne explains. “The grazing habits of the herds are also reestablishing the indigenous grasses that are much better carbon capturers than non-native plant-life that was introduced in colonial times. With their bison and my trees, the First Nation people and I are working hard to do right by Mother Nature.” 

Don’t get me wrong. My gratitude for all of Anne’s hospitality is as mammoth as the woman herself. This big-hearted female had a hot toddy waiting to warm my icy bones. And it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if she had grabbed that bison by its horns in her immense lumberjack hands and wrestled it to the ground all by herself, and then saw to all further machinations to get it into her pressure cooker just in time for my arrival at her tree farm this Christmas Day. And while I also appreciate all the laudable environmentalism, suffice to say that my main motivator at the moment is finding a gracious way of sidestepping Anne’s looming offer of a bowl of that bison stew. I send a private, silent message to my Muse that I am ready to move on to the next spot on my journey. Muse hears my plea and at mach-speed, I turn up in Jerusalem of all places, which I am to learn is planet Earth’s ‘City of Three Christmases’. 

While terrorists are wiping out Christians far and wide in the Middle East, the Jewish state of Israel is the one place in the area in which Christians can practice their religion freely. Their number is small: only about 2.5% of the total Israeli population, but Christmas celebrations are large. I meet up with Susan in a library on an outskirt of Jerusalem. She leads me to a table on which lays an enormous tome. She invites me to sit next to her, and she opens the book and I follow along as she spins an intriguing and complex story of Christmas in Jerusalem, the index finger of her right hand tracing the lines on the pages like a sightless person reading braille. Now and then, her head lowers to within mere inches of the book for a closer look at the ancient, fading text, and a crucifix suspended from a silver chain around her neck drops forward and drags across the pages. It seems a confirmation, of sorts. 

Christmas on Mithoff Street 
watercolor painting by Linda Lee Greene

“The Christmas story took place in Israel,” Susan reminds me. “But through the centuries, and for a variety of reasons, the different factions of Christians have not come to a meeting of minds on the actual date of the birth of Jesus. So you see, Christmas in Jerusalem is not a one-day affair. Roman Catholic and Protestant Christians celebrate the day on December 25^th. Orthodox Christians do so on January 6^th, and Armenian Christians on January 18^th.” Susan implores me to stick around and partake of an array of dazzling festivities commemorating the holiday, but by this time, I am more than ready for crisp air and fluffy snow and a bona-fide traditional Christmas as I recognize it to be—a Midwest America Christmas of time spent with family and friends, of sharing food and memories, of gift-giving and receiving amid the ambience of a gorgeously adorned Christmas tree and sparkly mantel and tabletops aglow in candlelight. As ever, my Muse reads me and transports me back to my home. 

My wise Muse arranges my return trip to be a bit slower than my arrivals had been, to give me time to reflect on all I had experienced. The impression most indelible in my memory is the evidence of Creator’s handiwork in those places, of the sights and sounds and aromas, and in the people and their talismans for good such as Paulette’s donation basket, Kathryn’s barbecue fork, Aimi’s KFC bucket, Anne’s trees, and Susan’s crucifix. And I wonder now, what’s in store for me on my next go around!      

Readers were introduced to American Nicholas Plato in multi-award-winning author Linda Lee Greene’s A Chace at the Moon, which was published in 2019 and is available for purchase at Amazon. 

Greene takes readers on yet another adventure of Nicholas’ whirlwind life in her Garden of the Spirits of the Pots, A Spiritual Odyssey. In this sequel, Nicholas shows up in Sydney, Australia. The principle plotline unfolds as on one Saturday of sightseeing he gets lost in Australia’s forbidding yet alluring outback, and there he happens upon a pintsized hut on a lonely plot littered with hundreds of clay pots of every size and description. Driven by a deathly thirst, he stops. A strange little brown man materializes out of nowhere and introduces himself merely as ‘Potter’ and welcomes Nicholas to his ‘Garden of the Spirits of the Pots.’ Although Nicholas has never laid eyes on Potter, the man seems to have expected Nicholas at his bizarre habitation and displays knowledge about him that nobody has any right to possess. Just who is this mysterious Aboriginal potter? 

Although they are as mismatched as two persons can be, a strangely inevitable friendship takes hold between them. It is a relationship that can only be directed by an unseen hand bent on setting Nicholas on a mystifying voyage of self-discovery and Potter on revelations of universal certainties. 

A blend of visionary and inspirational fiction with a touch of romance, this is a tale of Nicholas’ journey into parts unknown, both within his adopted home and himself, a quest that in the end leads him to his true purpose for living. 

Garden of the Spirits of the Pots is available in eBook and/or paperback on Amazon. 

Multi-award-winning author and artist Linda Lee Greene describes her life as a telescope that when trained on her past reveals how each piece of it, whether good or bad or in-between, was necessary in the unfoldment of her fine art and literary paths.
Greene moved from farm-girl to city-girl; dance instructor to wife, mother, and homemaker; divorcee to single-working-mom and adult-college-student; and interior designer to multi-award-winning artist and author, essayist, and blogger. It was decades of challenging life experiences and debilitating, chronic illness that gave birth to her dormant flair for art and writing. Greene was three days shy of her fifty-seventh birthday when her creative spirit took a hold of her.

She found her way to her lonely easel soon thereafter. Since then Greene has accepted commissions and displayed her artwork in shows and galleries in and around the USA. She is also a member of artist and writer associations.

Visit Linda on her blog and join her on Facebook. Linda loves to hear from readers so feel free to email her.

 

Let's Get Popping for the Holidays with Sweet Romance Author Catherine Castle...

 The holidays are coming and lots of people are planning parties. I thought it would be fun to share my recipe for popcorn balls. Most popcorn balls are made using corn syrup, but in our family we adjusted the recipe since we weren’t keen on how the corn syrup stuck to our dental fillings, especially after a corn-syrup-based popcorn ball pulled out a loose filling.

Additionally, this popcorn recipe brings back memories. The day our daughter was born I had made popcorn balls to take to a Christmas party. Instead of making the party, we ended up in the delivery room. Hubby missed most of the party, but he had the popcorn balls in the car. So, when after her birth, instead of passing out cigars (which he wouldn’t have done since he doesn’t smoke), he passed out popcorn balls to the hospital staff.

This is a simple and fast recipe and was a staple at our house for a long time at Christmas. It’s good other times, too, and will make a sweet treat for any time you need to reward yourself.

Catherine’s Popcorn Balls
¼ cup margarine
4 cups mini marshmallows
5 cups popped popcorn. Don’t use pre-bagged, pre-seasoned popcorn for this. Pop the whole kernel corn instead.

Pop the corn as directed on the package. Set aside each popped batch in a large bowl until you have 5 cups of cooled popped corn.

In a large saucepan, melt butter over low heat. Add marshmallows. Stir until melted.

Pour over the popcorn and stir well to mix.

Working quickly, with lightly greased hands and helpers if you can get them, form the popcorn and marshmallow mix into balls. Let balls cool completely.

Serve right away or store by wrapping each ball in a square of plastic wrap.

Serves: Who knows? It often depends on how much you, or your helpers, can resist eating as you
roll them into balls.

While you’re waiting for the popcorn balls to cool, check out Catherine’s romantic comedy with a touch of drama. There’s no popcorn in the book, but there are plenty of laughs.

Beverly Walters is dying, and before she goes, she has one wish—to find a groom for her daughter. To get the deed done, Mama enlists the dating service of Jack Somerset, Allison’s former boyfriend.

The last thing corporate-climbing Allison wants is a husband. Furious with Mama’s meddling, and a bit more interested in Jack than she wants to admit, Allison agrees to the scheme as long as Mama promises to search for a cure for her terminal illness.

A cross-country trip from Nevada to Ohio ensues, with a string of disastrous dates along the way, as the trio hunts for treatment and A Groom for Mama.

Available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble

Multi-award winning author Catherine Castle loves writing. Before beginning her career as a romance writer, she worked part-time as a freelance writer. She has over 600 articles and photographs to her credit, under her real name, in the Christian and secular market. She also lays claim to over 300 internet articles written on a variety of subjects and several hundred poems.

In addition to writing, she loves reading, traveling, singing, theatre, quilting, and gardening. She’s a passionate gardener whose garden won a “Best Hillside Garden” award from the local gardening club. She writes sweet and inspirational romances. You can find her award-winning Soul Mate books The Nun and the Narc and A Groom for Mama, on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Follow her on Twitter, FB, or her blog.

An Author’s Continuing Conundrum: Marketing and Promotion…

So what’s the solution to an author’s marketing and promotion problems these days? You know. The endless advertising and selling to get readers to buy your book. No need to overthink. It’s simple. In a word: consistency. Authors need to build trust with their readers through being consistent with their publishing content. Posting on social media, blogging, guest spots, podcasts, YouTube, e-newsletters, and writing a book are just some of the tasks required for being present as an author. Not showing up makes the author and brand forgettable. Show up for your readers. Then you show up for yourself too.

How do you do build trust with your readers? Author friend Colleen M. Story suggests to begin with two ways:

1.      Consistency in QUALITY

2.      Consistency in PUBLISHING

You can apply these two ways to anything you do related to your writing career. Start by scheduling your production of at least three major pieces of content mentioned below:

Social Media: Post several times a week. Watch what your target audience (or other authors in your same genre) is posting too, so you can start to be a part of the conversation. Listen and learn what your readers want, then create the content that will grab their attention.

Blog: Write and publish a blog post at least once a week. It should fit within your niche and serve your readers. Then post links to your blog posts on all your social media platforms.

Run Ads on Facebook or Amazon: Either use the strategy for an Amazon 3 day Free promotion or post a Facebook ad for ten days, rolling it over with a new ad to take its place when the campaign ends. With Amazon, the tactic is to build the promotion by lowering the ranking until it begins to drive the promotion. Facebook allows you to target your audience, so when you get readers visiting your website or Amazon Author page (the less clicks the better) they become familiar with you and your books. If you have a series, you can combine your book covers together and put them on one ad. This can get pricey, but I think it’s worth it in the long run. Make sure to post ads on all your social media platforms to reach your targeted readers.

Email Newsletter: Send it out to your subscribers either seasonally or monthly. Include information that’s helpful to them, along with links to your blog posts and any news you want to share. FYI—So far, I have resisted creating an email newsletter. My reason? In my opinion, I believe my target audience (Young Adult) would probably pass on signing up for a newsletter, and opt for feeding their need about their favorite author’s news via social media. What works for one author doesn’t work for another.

Large Piece: Publish a larger piece of content—a short story, novel, or nonfiction book—once a year, or once every 18 months. That’s a no-brainer for a writer!

This schedule won’t propel your readership overnight, but if you stick with it and don’t give up, you will see results. Pick at least three of these, and start showing up. Consistency of action in service to your readers is truly the key to building an audience for your work. It’s not easy, but that means if you do it, you’ll be one of the few authors who stand out in your readers’ minds.

Are you consistent with your content? Do you use any of the strategies mentioned above? If not, are you willing to give it a try? I’d love for you to share your comments. Cheers, and thanks so much for taking the time to read my blog. I appreciate you!

Here’s a glimpse of the premises of both my young adult series:

The Last Timekeepers Time Travel Adventures…

Chosen by an Atlantean Magus to be Timekeepers—legendary time travelers sworn to keep history safe from the evil Belial—five classmates are sent into the past to restore balance, and bring order back into the world, one mission at a time.

Mysterious Tales from Fairy Falls Teen Psychic Mysteries…

Imagine a teenager possessing a psychic ability and struggling to cope with its freakish power. There’s no hope for a normal life, and no one who understands. Now, imagine being uprooted and forced to live in a small tourist town where nothing much ever happens. It’s bores-ville from the get-go. Until mysterious things start to happen.

You can check out all my books on my AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE