Pamela S. Thibodeaux's Blog, page 47
October 13, 2018
#SaturdaySpotlight is on Rick McQuiston & When Only the Nightmare Remains!
Good Morning!
It's been quite sometime since Rick visited us. He was in our spotlight last year with another of his books so please welcome him back with his latest, When Only the Nightmare Remains .
When Only the Nightmare Remains
Ghosts, demons, monsters, and of course, everyone's favorite: zombies. I decided to let them all run amok in my novel, When Only the Nightmare remains, a book that was spawned from the title itself (which I like very much, thank you).
Blurb: A town sheriff and three young boys manage to overcome an evil entity threatening their town.
Excerpt:
Emily nudged closer and closer to the spider-webbed pane of glass. The window offered little in the way of a view—being octagonal and no larger than a dinner plate— but what it did reveal was adequate to say the least. It allowed anyone gazing through it to see the lush rolling landscape surrounding the house…and all it contained.
Feeling her already weak heart pound heavily in her chest, Emily scanned the grounds intently, watching for any signs of movement, for any hint of life. For any signs of William. She held the Book tightly in her small hands, refusing to relinquish it to anything or anyone. She had only scratched the surface of its contents, but that was still enough to impart its importance to her.
Her eyes moistened with tears as she thought of earlier, happier times in her life and her marriage to William. She should have been thinking about raising a family and planting flowers around the front porch of her home. She should have been thinking about what to cook for dinner when her husband returned home from a hard day’s work. All these simple notions, ones so many young people took for granted, were well beyond her grasp. In their place were terrifying visions of a dim future. Or worse—no future at all.
Movement caught her eye, sending a fresh batch of fear down her already frail spine. She rubbed her eyes to clear them and stared at the spot where she thought she had seen something. It took only a few seconds before her fears were confirmed. Something had moved. She was sure of it, but it was not easily noticeable. Whatever was lurking in the dense foliage was crafty and using stealth to its advantage.
Despite expecting it, Emily found herself cringing from the implications. She knew what it was, slithering around the fields, worming its way closer and closer with each passing minute. She also knew that eventually, inevitably, it would reach her house. Her house. It was her house and hers alone since her beloved husband died earlier that year. Nearly eight cold, empty months had passed since that fateful day when a bullet found its way into his forehead, killing him instantly. Some said that it was a suicide. Perhaps it was, but Emily was not so sure. William had no reason to kill himself.
The pain of that day pushed its way into Emily’s heart, so slowly at first as to be almost unnoticeable, but gradually increasing in its intensity. William had been a good man and a good husband, at least he was before he had changed into a cold, cruel person wholly incapable of compassion or love.
Emily stepped back from the window and slumped into a small, worn leather-back chair. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and the alluring thought of sleep entered her mind more than once. She ignored it. She had too many problems, too many things to think about to be able to enjoy a good rest. Not that she didn’t deserve it.
Outside the house, nestled snugly within the green vegetation of the fields, something waited for its chance to move, to advance toward the house and reach a solitary figure huddled in the attic of the building, and end her life.
Oh my goodness...sounds like a perfect Halloween read - if you dare! Think I'll pass though, Rick but I do wish you the best of luck and God's blessings with your books.
Rick McQuiston is a forty-six year old father of two who loves anything horror related. By day, he works for a family-owned construction and management company. By night, he churns out horror fiction.
Rick has well over 300 publications so far. He’s written seven anthologies, one book of novellas, and edited an anthology of Michigan authors. He’s also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School, and is currently working on his fifth novel, a Cthulhu-based anthology. Rick currently has two novels with Class Act Books: Fear the Sky and When Only the Nightmare Remains, which was voted #2 in Horror for 2015 by the Paranormal Romance GuIld’s Reviewer’s Choice.
Find out more about Rick at:
Publisher's website: www.classactbooks.com
Author's website: www.many-midnights.com
Buy links for When Only the Nightmare Remains:
Publisher's website: www.classactbooks.com
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/When-Only-Nightmare-Remains-McQuiston-ebook/dp/B00NKX4TAG
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/when-only-the-nightmare-remains-rick-mcquiston/1120364310?ean=2940046171884
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/476484
Hope you enjoyed today's spotlight and that you'll check back each week for another one as well as Tuesday Treasures and Thursday Thoughts (when they're available).
Until next time take care and God bless.
PamT
It's been quite sometime since Rick visited us. He was in our spotlight last year with another of his books so please welcome him back with his latest, When Only the Nightmare Remains .
When Only the Nightmare RemainsGhosts, demons, monsters, and of course, everyone's favorite: zombies. I decided to let them all run amok in my novel, When Only the Nightmare remains, a book that was spawned from the title itself (which I like very much, thank you).
Blurb: A town sheriff and three young boys manage to overcome an evil entity threatening their town.
Excerpt:
Emily nudged closer and closer to the spider-webbed pane of glass. The window offered little in the way of a view—being octagonal and no larger than a dinner plate— but what it did reveal was adequate to say the least. It allowed anyone gazing through it to see the lush rolling landscape surrounding the house…and all it contained.
Feeling her already weak heart pound heavily in her chest, Emily scanned the grounds intently, watching for any signs of movement, for any hint of life. For any signs of William. She held the Book tightly in her small hands, refusing to relinquish it to anything or anyone. She had only scratched the surface of its contents, but that was still enough to impart its importance to her.
Her eyes moistened with tears as she thought of earlier, happier times in her life and her marriage to William. She should have been thinking about raising a family and planting flowers around the front porch of her home. She should have been thinking about what to cook for dinner when her husband returned home from a hard day’s work. All these simple notions, ones so many young people took for granted, were well beyond her grasp. In their place were terrifying visions of a dim future. Or worse—no future at all.
Movement caught her eye, sending a fresh batch of fear down her already frail spine. She rubbed her eyes to clear them and stared at the spot where she thought she had seen something. It took only a few seconds before her fears were confirmed. Something had moved. She was sure of it, but it was not easily noticeable. Whatever was lurking in the dense foliage was crafty and using stealth to its advantage.
Despite expecting it, Emily found herself cringing from the implications. She knew what it was, slithering around the fields, worming its way closer and closer with each passing minute. She also knew that eventually, inevitably, it would reach her house. Her house. It was her house and hers alone since her beloved husband died earlier that year. Nearly eight cold, empty months had passed since that fateful day when a bullet found its way into his forehead, killing him instantly. Some said that it was a suicide. Perhaps it was, but Emily was not so sure. William had no reason to kill himself.
The pain of that day pushed its way into Emily’s heart, so slowly at first as to be almost unnoticeable, but gradually increasing in its intensity. William had been a good man and a good husband, at least he was before he had changed into a cold, cruel person wholly incapable of compassion or love.
Emily stepped back from the window and slumped into a small, worn leather-back chair. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and the alluring thought of sleep entered her mind more than once. She ignored it. She had too many problems, too many things to think about to be able to enjoy a good rest. Not that she didn’t deserve it.
Outside the house, nestled snugly within the green vegetation of the fields, something waited for its chance to move, to advance toward the house and reach a solitary figure huddled in the attic of the building, and end her life.
Oh my goodness...sounds like a perfect Halloween read - if you dare! Think I'll pass though, Rick but I do wish you the best of luck and God's blessings with your books.
Rick McQuiston is a forty-six year old father of two who loves anything horror related. By day, he works for a family-owned construction and management company. By night, he churns out horror fiction.Rick has well over 300 publications so far. He’s written seven anthologies, one book of novellas, and edited an anthology of Michigan authors. He’s also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School, and is currently working on his fifth novel, a Cthulhu-based anthology. Rick currently has two novels with Class Act Books: Fear the Sky and When Only the Nightmare Remains, which was voted #2 in Horror for 2015 by the Paranormal Romance GuIld’s Reviewer’s Choice.
Find out more about Rick at:
Publisher's website: www.classactbooks.com
Author's website: www.many-midnights.com
Buy links for When Only the Nightmare Remains:
Publisher's website: www.classactbooks.com
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/When-Only-Nightmare-Remains-McQuiston-ebook/dp/B00NKX4TAG
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/when-only-the-nightmare-remains-rick-mcquiston/1120364310?ean=2940046171884
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/476484
Hope you enjoyed today's spotlight and that you'll check back each week for another one as well as Tuesday Treasures and Thursday Thoughts (when they're available).
Until next time take care and God bless.
PamT
October 9, 2018
#TuesdayTreasures with DiAnn Mills!
Good Morning Friends,
Today's guest is no stranger to our blog but a dear friend and fellow writer who has shared treasures, thoughts and the spotlight on more than one occasion so please welcome DiAnn Mills back to our blog.....
The High Concept Novel
Are you a novelist striving for a high concept story? Have you heard the term and not fully understood what it means? Worse yet, has an agent or editor challenged you to create a high concept novel, and now you have brain freeze? Let me help you unpack what agents, editors, and readers are desperately seeking.
A high concept story is one that has potential to spread like wildfire, either within a genre or across a large audience. Think of Lord of the Rings, Narnia, Hunger Games, Divergent, Forrest Gump, Gone with the Wind, To Kill a Mockingbird, Les Misérables, and the list continues.
Rachelle Gardner writes, “High concept means the PREMISE of your book will get attention, before anyone sees even one word of your writing.”
Are you still scratching your head? What is this thing called a premise?
• Do you know why you must write this story?
• What is the burning passion to spend hours perfecting your craft?
• What is the moral truth to be explored, revisited, and turned upside down?
• What sears your heart with a what-if?
• What keeps you up at night and preoccupied during the day?
Sometimes the premise can blow away an agent or editor in one sentence; sometimes it takes three. But it must be unique to the writer and to the story’s concept, something the writer has never written before.
Another element is how the premise affects you, and why you are the only one to write the story.
When you are brainstorming your novel’s potential high concept, ask yourself the following questions.
1. What is your distinctively different premise?
2. How is your story original?
3. Why are you the only writer who can pen this story?
4. How are your characters intriguing?
5. Is your story idea fresh and exciting?
6. Are the plot twists super-unpredictable and yet believable?
7. Will your story touch the hearts of cross-genre readers or a wide-niche market?
8. Does your story entertain?
9. Are strong emotions a part of the high stakes?
10. Can your readers step into the closet of your character and emerge satisfied that they have lived a true adventure?
Now write your high-concept idea in one sentence. Make every word count. Don’t settle for the first draft. Refine what you’ve written. Let your passion swell. Give yourself time to ponder over ideas, and consider if this type of novel writing is for you. Come back to it. How has it changed?
Perhaps your story idea falls within the high-concept criteria. I hope so! If you believe in your premise, then get started with the groundwork of making your novel idea the next bestseller.
What is the premise burning in your mind?
DiAnn Mills is a bestselling author who believes her readers should expect an adventure. She is a storyteller and creates action-packed, suspense-filled novels to thrill readers. Her titles have appeared on the CBA and ECPA bestseller lists; won two Christy Awards; and been finalists for the RITA, Daphne Du Maurier, Inspirational Readers’ Choice, and Carol award contests.
DiAnn is a founding board member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, a member of Advanced Writers and Speakers Association, Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and International Thriller Writers. She is co-director of The Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers Conference and The Mountainside Marketing Conference with social media specialist Edie Melson where she continues her passion of helping other writers be successful. She speaks to various groups and teaches writing workshops around the country.
Connect with DiAnn here: www.diannmills.com
DiAnn's latest book, Burden of Proof can be purchased HERE.
Oh wow, DiAnn, these tips are definitely something every writer can treasure. Thanks for sharing!
Hope you enjoyed DiAnn's post as much as I do and that you'll check back regularly for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time take care and God bless.
PamT
Today's guest is no stranger to our blog but a dear friend and fellow writer who has shared treasures, thoughts and the spotlight on more than one occasion so please welcome DiAnn Mills back to our blog.....
The High Concept Novel
Are you a novelist striving for a high concept story? Have you heard the term and not fully understood what it means? Worse yet, has an agent or editor challenged you to create a high concept novel, and now you have brain freeze? Let me help you unpack what agents, editors, and readers are desperately seeking.
A high concept story is one that has potential to spread like wildfire, either within a genre or across a large audience. Think of Lord of the Rings, Narnia, Hunger Games, Divergent, Forrest Gump, Gone with the Wind, To Kill a Mockingbird, Les Misérables, and the list continues.
Rachelle Gardner writes, “High concept means the PREMISE of your book will get attention, before anyone sees even one word of your writing.”
Are you still scratching your head? What is this thing called a premise?
• Do you know why you must write this story?
• What is the burning passion to spend hours perfecting your craft?
• What is the moral truth to be explored, revisited, and turned upside down?
• What sears your heart with a what-if?
• What keeps you up at night and preoccupied during the day?
Sometimes the premise can blow away an agent or editor in one sentence; sometimes it takes three. But it must be unique to the writer and to the story’s concept, something the writer has never written before.
Another element is how the premise affects you, and why you are the only one to write the story.
When you are brainstorming your novel’s potential high concept, ask yourself the following questions.
1. What is your distinctively different premise?
2. How is your story original?
3. Why are you the only writer who can pen this story?
4. How are your characters intriguing?
5. Is your story idea fresh and exciting?
6. Are the plot twists super-unpredictable and yet believable?
7. Will your story touch the hearts of cross-genre readers or a wide-niche market?
8. Does your story entertain?
9. Are strong emotions a part of the high stakes?
10. Can your readers step into the closet of your character and emerge satisfied that they have lived a true adventure?
Now write your high-concept idea in one sentence. Make every word count. Don’t settle for the first draft. Refine what you’ve written. Let your passion swell. Give yourself time to ponder over ideas, and consider if this type of novel writing is for you. Come back to it. How has it changed?
Perhaps your story idea falls within the high-concept criteria. I hope so! If you believe in your premise, then get started with the groundwork of making your novel idea the next bestseller.
What is the premise burning in your mind?
DiAnn Mills is a bestselling author who believes her readers should expect an adventure. She is a storyteller and creates action-packed, suspense-filled novels to thrill readers. Her titles have appeared on the CBA and ECPA bestseller lists; won two Christy Awards; and been finalists for the RITA, Daphne Du Maurier, Inspirational Readers’ Choice, and Carol award contests.
DiAnn is a founding board member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, a member of Advanced Writers and Speakers Association, Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and International Thriller Writers. She is co-director of The Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers Conference and The Mountainside Marketing Conference with social media specialist Edie Melson where she continues her passion of helping other writers be successful. She speaks to various groups and teaches writing workshops around the country.Connect with DiAnn here: www.diannmills.com
DiAnn's latest book, Burden of Proof can be purchased HERE.
Oh wow, DiAnn, these tips are definitely something every writer can treasure. Thanks for sharing!
Hope you enjoyed DiAnn's post as much as I do and that you'll check back regularly for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time take care and God bless.
PamT
October 6, 2018
#SaturdaySpotlight is on David Arp (aka Boo Riley) and Jake!
Good Morning!
Back in August I introduced you to David Arp (aka Boo Riley) when he shared some thoughts with us. Today David gives us a sneak peek into his book, Me and Jake.
Ty told his twin brother, Cameron, that he felt like something was going to happen to change their lives. Little did he know how prophetic that statement would be, or how soon it would come to pass. What seems like a series of coincidences are anything but, and what’s more amazing, Ty’s coon dog, Jake, might not be a dog at all.
Excerpt: The pond wasn’t big. About fifty paces across. Cameron and I had visited the little water hole many times for a drink when we could escape the hayfield without Dad catching us. Sometimes the water was clear, most times not. The smell of mud, rotten plants, and frogs and such made me wonder how I’d put my lips in it for a long drink so many times before.
The woods opened up and the pond came into view. Jake swam around in the middle, like he couldn’t make up his mind which way to go. A big coon scurried out of the water and disappeared into the bushes on the opposite bank. To Jake’s left, another critter thrashed in the water. A red and white…what? Coon? I stopped and stared, stuck in the mud like a dead tree stump. Moron.
Cameron wore a red ball cap and a white shirt, but he couldn’t swim.
My scream propelled me into the water.
Oh my, I'm intrigued already, David!
David Arp (AKA Boo Riley) was born in Arizona, raised in Texas, and lives in Colorado. He’s 60, but has only spent half of the past 40 years at home. The other half he traveled and worked the oilfields of the world, from the deserts of the Middle East to the vast oceans offshore. When he’s not busy on a drilling rig, he spends his time writing, floating a river in his raft fly fishing, horseback, or hunting. Find out more about David by visiting his Website and connecting with him on Facebook. David's book,
Me and Jake
is available now at Pelican Book Group and Amazon in Ebook and Print!
I'm not sure about the rest of you but the moment I saw the title of David's book, I remembered the song Feed Jake recorded by The Pirates of the Mississippi back in the early 90's, anyway, hope you enjoyed today's spotlight and that you'll check back regularly for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time, take care and God bless.
PamT
Back in August I introduced you to David Arp (aka Boo Riley) when he shared some thoughts with us. Today David gives us a sneak peek into his book, Me and Jake.
Ty told his twin brother, Cameron, that he felt like something was going to happen to change their lives. Little did he know how prophetic that statement would be, or how soon it would come to pass. What seems like a series of coincidences are anything but, and what’s more amazing, Ty’s coon dog, Jake, might not be a dog at all.Excerpt: The pond wasn’t big. About fifty paces across. Cameron and I had visited the little water hole many times for a drink when we could escape the hayfield without Dad catching us. Sometimes the water was clear, most times not. The smell of mud, rotten plants, and frogs and such made me wonder how I’d put my lips in it for a long drink so many times before.
The woods opened up and the pond came into view. Jake swam around in the middle, like he couldn’t make up his mind which way to go. A big coon scurried out of the water and disappeared into the bushes on the opposite bank. To Jake’s left, another critter thrashed in the water. A red and white…what? Coon? I stopped and stared, stuck in the mud like a dead tree stump. Moron.
Cameron wore a red ball cap and a white shirt, but he couldn’t swim.
My scream propelled me into the water.
Oh my, I'm intrigued already, David!
David Arp (AKA Boo Riley) was born in Arizona, raised in Texas, and lives in Colorado. He’s 60, but has only spent half of the past 40 years at home. The other half he traveled and worked the oilfields of the world, from the deserts of the Middle East to the vast oceans offshore. When he’s not busy on a drilling rig, he spends his time writing, floating a river in his raft fly fishing, horseback, or hunting. Find out more about David by visiting his Website and connecting with him on Facebook. David's book,
Me and Jake
is available now at Pelican Book Group and Amazon in Ebook and Print!I'm not sure about the rest of you but the moment I saw the title of David's book, I remembered the song Feed Jake recorded by The Pirates of the Mississippi back in the early 90's, anyway, hope you enjoyed today's spotlight and that you'll check back regularly for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time, take care and God bless.
PamT
October 4, 2018
#ThursdayThoughts with Janice Cantore
Good Morning!
Please welcome today's guest, Janice Cantore as she returns to share some thoughts with us about Happy Places.....
I have a friend who is in her happy place when she’s cleaning. Yes, this strange life-form loves vacuuming, dusting, and straightening things up. That is not me. I can think of a hundred happier places to be than cleaning house. Recently I visited the Big Island of Hawaii. Now that, for me, is a happy place.
There’s a beach there called Hāpuna Beach, and it is one of the most beautiful places on earth. The feel of the sand on that beach is like walking on a feathery cloud, and the water temperature is always perfect, inviting a person to stay a while and float while cares and tension dissipate. Sitting on that beach, the trade winds gently caressing the sand, I can close my eyes and imagine that I’m in heaven.
I’m often amazed that I feel like this because I haven’t always liked the beach. I grew up in Southern California and frankly always saw the beach as a hassle: crowded, the sand too gritty, the water too kelp-choked. And sitting in the sun was tedious. But I’ve aged. I can now appreciate just sitting and soaking up the rays. Now, the beach, just about any beach on the Big Island, is my happy place. I just wish my happy place was a lot closer.
Janice Cantore is a police officer turned writer. She retired from the Long Beach (California) Police Department after twenty-two years—sixteen in uniform, six as a noncareer employee.
She is currently writing romantic suspense for Tyndale House, and her upcoming release, Lethal Target, second in the Line of Duty series following Crisis Shot, is set in a small town in Oregon.
Lethal Target and Crisis Sho t as well as Janice's other bookscan be purchased from Amazon in various formats!
Wow, Janice I know a few people for whom cleaning also puts them in their happy place! Great post. Thanks for sharing!
Hope you enjoyed today's post, friends and that you'll check back for more Thursday Thoughts, Tuesday Treasures and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time, take care and God Bless. PamT
Please welcome today's guest, Janice Cantore as she returns to share some thoughts with us about Happy Places.....
I have a friend who is in her happy place when she’s cleaning. Yes, this strange life-form loves vacuuming, dusting, and straightening things up. That is not me. I can think of a hundred happier places to be than cleaning house. Recently I visited the Big Island of Hawaii. Now that, for me, is a happy place.There’s a beach there called Hāpuna Beach, and it is one of the most beautiful places on earth. The feel of the sand on that beach is like walking on a feathery cloud, and the water temperature is always perfect, inviting a person to stay a while and float while cares and tension dissipate. Sitting on that beach, the trade winds gently caressing the sand, I can close my eyes and imagine that I’m in heaven.
I’m often amazed that I feel like this because I haven’t always liked the beach. I grew up in Southern California and frankly always saw the beach as a hassle: crowded, the sand too gritty, the water too kelp-choked. And sitting in the sun was tedious. But I’ve aged. I can now appreciate just sitting and soaking up the rays. Now, the beach, just about any beach on the Big Island, is my happy place. I just wish my happy place was a lot closer.
Janice Cantore is a police officer turned writer. She retired from the Long Beach (California) Police Department after twenty-two years—sixteen in uniform, six as a noncareer employee.She is currently writing romantic suspense for Tyndale House, and her upcoming release, Lethal Target, second in the Line of Duty series following Crisis Shot, is set in a small town in Oregon.
Lethal Target and Crisis Sho t as well as Janice's other bookscan be purchased from Amazon in various formats!
Wow, Janice I know a few people for whom cleaning also puts them in their happy place! Great post. Thanks for sharing!
Hope you enjoyed today's post, friends and that you'll check back for more Thursday Thoughts, Tuesday Treasures and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time, take care and God Bless. PamT
October 2, 2018
#TuesdayTreasures Guest post by Melisa Marzett
Good Morning and Welcome to the first Tuesday Treasures post of October 2018!
Today's guest reached out to me as a freelance writer hoping to get a little exposure and share something she treasures with us. Since helping writers is one of the reasons I blog, of course I welcomed her.
Hope you will too.....
About the author: Melisa Marzett is a freelance writer from Arizona who shares her great articles with many users on various web platforms. She has over 8 years of experience in blogging and now works for Royal Editing: Paper Editing Services – Best Essay Editor! editing services.
“Men are motivated when they feel needed while women are motivated when they feel cherished.” (John Gray, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus)
I would like to share my thoughts with people who truly value strong and healthy relationships as one of the most important treasures in our lives.
It is an essential part of our nature to have a person, who will spend a lifetime with you. Nothing compares to the most beautiful feeling two persons can possess. To LOVE someone genuinely without demanding anything in return is a great wonder. Building romantic relationships are not just about the initial bonding, when you see your partner’s personal and business growth, it is so encouraging… you want to grow with him or her, spend more time together, be the best motivation, achieve more goals and reach together new heights. That is the key, which might open a treasure chest, where happy relationships will last for many years.
Have you ever fallen deeply in love? Have you already found your hidden treasure? Leave a comment down below. I would be glad to see your answers and let me know if you have book recommendations in the psychological field on how to create devoted and faithful relationships with your partner.
You're so right, Melisa! Relationships are wonderful treasures in our lives. Thanks for sharing. Here's wishing you the best of luck and God's blessings on your writing career.
Thanks for stopping by and supporting Melisa friends. I hope you'll drop by often for more Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlights!
Until next time take care and God Bless.
PamT
Today's guest reached out to me as a freelance writer hoping to get a little exposure and share something she treasures with us. Since helping writers is one of the reasons I blog, of course I welcomed her.
Hope you will too.....
About the author: Melisa Marzett is a freelance writer from Arizona who shares her great articles with many users on various web platforms. She has over 8 years of experience in blogging and now works for Royal Editing: Paper Editing Services – Best Essay Editor! editing services.
“Men are motivated when they feel needed while women are motivated when they feel cherished.” (John Gray, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus)
I would like to share my thoughts with people who truly value strong and healthy relationships as one of the most important treasures in our lives.
It is an essential part of our nature to have a person, who will spend a lifetime with you. Nothing compares to the most beautiful feeling two persons can possess. To LOVE someone genuinely without demanding anything in return is a great wonder. Building romantic relationships are not just about the initial bonding, when you see your partner’s personal and business growth, it is so encouraging… you want to grow with him or her, spend more time together, be the best motivation, achieve more goals and reach together new heights. That is the key, which might open a treasure chest, where happy relationships will last for many years.
Have you ever fallen deeply in love? Have you already found your hidden treasure? Leave a comment down below. I would be glad to see your answers and let me know if you have book recommendations in the psychological field on how to create devoted and faithful relationships with your partner.
You're so right, Melisa! Relationships are wonderful treasures in our lives. Thanks for sharing. Here's wishing you the best of luck and God's blessings on your writing career.
Thanks for stopping by and supporting Melisa friends. I hope you'll drop by often for more Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlights!
Until next time take care and God Bless.
PamT
September 29, 2018
#SaturdaySpotlight is on Willis Abshire and his trilogy The Curse, the Diary and the Cross!
Good Morning and Welcome!
Today's guest was in our spotlight back in 2013 with book 1 in his trilogy. Earlier this year, he shared some thoughts with us. Today Willis Abshire returns with a sneak peek into books 2 & 3!
The infant Franklin Joseph Burns, great grandson of the evil Count Wilhelm von Brunstoke, has been spared from the efforts by Andrea Polans to present him as a blood sacrifice to her god Nachash. But his freedom cost. His father Joe murdered at the hands of Andrea and his mother Teresa succumb to Tuberculosis has left Frank an orphan. He is adopted by his caretakers Isaac and Mildred Walker.
Frank grows up with the belief that a loving, merciful God does not exist or if there is one, then he has singled Frank out and is using him for cruel malicious target practice.
Driven by a lust for women and life, Frank exploits his good looks to experience sin and its pleasures. But deep within, the tormented young man searches for the reasons of his existence in the shadows of his past.
Shomer, guardian angel to the recipients of righteousness and Leb, agent of the Almighty, guides Frank to see himself for what he is. Blinded by pride and self reliance Frank battles against his own reasonings. Everywhere he turns, everyone he interacts with, smacks him up against the thing he hates most vehemently—the Cross of Jesus Christ.
EXCERPT
Spring 1921
Brunstoke, Germany
FOR THREE DAYS the torrential deluge pounded the community of Brunstoke—but today the rains ceased. He hovered above the river’s edge looking out at the savage current. The raging waters exhilarated him. It wouldn’t be long before the banks would over flow. He gloated as he watched the uncontrolled current devour everything around it.
He smiled, his dark glistening ominous wings spreading over a twelve-foot span—his breathing going in rhythm to his fluttering wings. The muscles of his body showing through his black shroud rippled, moved up and down in shimmering splendor.
His eyes glowed red like the blood he feasted on—the coppery taste of the human sacrifices still tantalizing his taste buds. He smiled, baring his yellow teeth as he softly voiced the thought that sent ecstasy through his whole being: “Lives will be lost.”
Vengeful anger is a deadly emotion. If unchecked, it will fester and fill one’s passions overflowing its cancerous wrath to the heart.
Count Wilhelm von Brunstoke upon discovering that his father is the murderer of his mother has vowed revenge.
Now, seven generations later, Jordan Burns descendant of the self-absorbed Count has been handed a diary revealing the life of the evil Count.
Jordan must now go back to the land of his ancestors and confront this insidious curse that has ruined the lives of his generations past.
Within the pages of this diary a riddle is presented. There is only one requirement to be met to break the curse’s power. A male ancestor of the Brunstoke line must take his own life. Blood has been shed to feed the curse now blood must be shed to break it.
Which will it be? Die so others may live or allow the curse to continue to flourish in a macabre world of narcissism.
Leb continues his tale in this finale of the Master’s great Love.
Excerpt
RAH STOOD IMMOVABLE, HIS DREADLOCKS blasted by
the gusting winds beating against his body. Sweat trickled down to his face—his sulfur stained eyes lurched in rapid succession—waiting. Arms crossed, he stared into the howling squall—listening.
Finally, the winds lessened and a twisted grin erased the scowl etched on his face A whisper perched on his shoulder, spoke softly into his ears, “You have failed.”
Rah knew the order. Would he meet Ganav in his imprisonment in the abyss?
He snapped, “I won’t give in. The fool eager for my position must be my executioner—rules of the game...” Rah gasped, then a smile revealed yellow, razor fangs. “Perhaps I’ll rate the great one himself.”
Respected among his peers, yet feared and hated, Rah, the magnificent, found himself at an impasse. Expert in religious deception, his inability to produce a Burns male sacrifice for Nachash shouted an indictment against him.
Rah lashed out, “Complete obedience, one-hundred-percent success, it’s what he expects. Lucifer’s been unable to accomplish it, yet he demands it of us. I’ve destroyed William Burns and Angelica Poltrane. What more does he want? My master’s a hypocrite. He’s always been.” The words fell, pulled down by his weak reasoning.
He stood, unmoving, listening—there, a rustling behind the line of tall pines or was he imagining things? His end was coming.
So, he waited, recalling the days of his innocence, when he walked in the Eternal Light, basking in the Creator’s glory, and the freedom he experienced in serving the Almighty. Now, he is nothing more than a rebel consumed by the fire of his allegiance to the Father of Lies.
Willis R. Abshire is a retired Residential and Commercial Painting Contractor from a small rural community in south central Louisiana. A former Pastor he enjoys his writings and spending time with his wife Vickie along with their seven children, fourteen grandchildren and three great grandchildren with one on the way expected in November 2018.
Find out more about Willis by connecting with him on Twitter and Facebook.
His trilogy can be purchased through Amazon.
Hope you enjoyed today's post and that you'll check back frequently for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time take care and God Bless. PamT
Today's guest was in our spotlight back in 2013 with book 1 in his trilogy. Earlier this year, he shared some thoughts with us. Today Willis Abshire returns with a sneak peek into books 2 & 3!
The infant Franklin Joseph Burns, great grandson of the evil Count Wilhelm von Brunstoke, has been spared from the efforts by Andrea Polans to present him as a blood sacrifice to her god Nachash. But his freedom cost. His father Joe murdered at the hands of Andrea and his mother Teresa succumb to Tuberculosis has left Frank an orphan. He is adopted by his caretakers Isaac and Mildred Walker.Frank grows up with the belief that a loving, merciful God does not exist or if there is one, then he has singled Frank out and is using him for cruel malicious target practice.
Driven by a lust for women and life, Frank exploits his good looks to experience sin and its pleasures. But deep within, the tormented young man searches for the reasons of his existence in the shadows of his past.
Shomer, guardian angel to the recipients of righteousness and Leb, agent of the Almighty, guides Frank to see himself for what he is. Blinded by pride and self reliance Frank battles against his own reasonings. Everywhere he turns, everyone he interacts with, smacks him up against the thing he hates most vehemently—the Cross of Jesus Christ.
EXCERPT
Spring 1921
Brunstoke, Germany
FOR THREE DAYS the torrential deluge pounded the community of Brunstoke—but today the rains ceased. He hovered above the river’s edge looking out at the savage current. The raging waters exhilarated him. It wouldn’t be long before the banks would over flow. He gloated as he watched the uncontrolled current devour everything around it.
He smiled, his dark glistening ominous wings spreading over a twelve-foot span—his breathing going in rhythm to his fluttering wings. The muscles of his body showing through his black shroud rippled, moved up and down in shimmering splendor.
His eyes glowed red like the blood he feasted on—the coppery taste of the human sacrifices still tantalizing his taste buds. He smiled, baring his yellow teeth as he softly voiced the thought that sent ecstasy through his whole being: “Lives will be lost.”
Vengeful anger is a deadly emotion. If unchecked, it will fester and fill one’s passions overflowing its cancerous wrath to the heart.Count Wilhelm von Brunstoke upon discovering that his father is the murderer of his mother has vowed revenge.
Now, seven generations later, Jordan Burns descendant of the self-absorbed Count has been handed a diary revealing the life of the evil Count.
Jordan must now go back to the land of his ancestors and confront this insidious curse that has ruined the lives of his generations past.
Within the pages of this diary a riddle is presented. There is only one requirement to be met to break the curse’s power. A male ancestor of the Brunstoke line must take his own life. Blood has been shed to feed the curse now blood must be shed to break it.
Which will it be? Die so others may live or allow the curse to continue to flourish in a macabre world of narcissism.
Leb continues his tale in this finale of the Master’s great Love.
Excerpt
RAH STOOD IMMOVABLE, HIS DREADLOCKS blasted by
the gusting winds beating against his body. Sweat trickled down to his face—his sulfur stained eyes lurched in rapid succession—waiting. Arms crossed, he stared into the howling squall—listening.
Finally, the winds lessened and a twisted grin erased the scowl etched on his face A whisper perched on his shoulder, spoke softly into his ears, “You have failed.”
Rah knew the order. Would he meet Ganav in his imprisonment in the abyss?
He snapped, “I won’t give in. The fool eager for my position must be my executioner—rules of the game...” Rah gasped, then a smile revealed yellow, razor fangs. “Perhaps I’ll rate the great one himself.”
Respected among his peers, yet feared and hated, Rah, the magnificent, found himself at an impasse. Expert in religious deception, his inability to produce a Burns male sacrifice for Nachash shouted an indictment against him.
Rah lashed out, “Complete obedience, one-hundred-percent success, it’s what he expects. Lucifer’s been unable to accomplish it, yet he demands it of us. I’ve destroyed William Burns and Angelica Poltrane. What more does he want? My master’s a hypocrite. He’s always been.” The words fell, pulled down by his weak reasoning.
He stood, unmoving, listening—there, a rustling behind the line of tall pines or was he imagining things? His end was coming.
So, he waited, recalling the days of his innocence, when he walked in the Eternal Light, basking in the Creator’s glory, and the freedom he experienced in serving the Almighty. Now, he is nothing more than a rebel consumed by the fire of his allegiance to the Father of Lies.
Willis R. Abshire is a retired Residential and Commercial Painting Contractor from a small rural community in south central Louisiana. A former Pastor he enjoys his writings and spending time with his wife Vickie along with their seven children, fourteen grandchildren and three great grandchildren with one on the way expected in November 2018.Find out more about Willis by connecting with him on Twitter and Facebook.
His trilogy can be purchased through Amazon.
Hope you enjoyed today's post and that you'll check back frequently for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time take care and God Bless. PamT
September 25, 2018
#TuesdayTreasures Guest post by Dale Vernor
Good Morning Friends,
When today's guest contacted me I was unsure about how his message would resonate with YOU, my audience. After all, you're used to hearing what authors treasure and learning about their books.
But I think his message is uplifting and definitely something to treasure so please welcome Dale Vernor....
Treasuring My Sobriety After Alchol RehabI look at my daughter now and I know I would do absolutely anything to protect her, to ensure her happiness. But there was a time not too long ago when I couldn’t say that — even in my most drunken moments.Yes. I’m an alcoholic.I am one of those fortunate ones who had help, who was forced to get help. And just in the nick of time, alcohol rehab changed my life. Today I treasure my family and in order to be the best for them I have to also treasure my sobriety, if it were not for finding it, I would have no family to love so dearly. It Wasn’t Bad… In the Beginning
I used to tell myself that alcohol wasn’t all bad because I met my wife in a bar. She was celebrating a cousin’s engagement and she noticed me sitting alone in the bar. She approached me then and there. I should’ve been mortified. But I already had a couple of glasses in me and I readily answered all her questions. I think she really believed I liked her, too. I think it was only later that she realized that I was so flirty with her because I was already drunk. She always said she didn’t mind that I drank more than she did. She said I was a sweet and quiet when I was drunk. And then she got pregnant and there wasn’t really time for us to think. After the baby was born, my drinking got worse. It’s scary being in charge of a whole person. You need liquid courage; at least that’s what I told myself. I felt I enjoyed my time with the baby more when I had a few sips. I was more relaxed. My Wife Knew I Had a ProblemOnce, my stash of vodka in the laundry room disappeared. I think, like me, she was trying to deny it. Until she came home early one day and saw me lying face down, naked a few feet from my robe and the crib. The baby’s face was already red from crying and her bottom was irritated from a very soggy diaper. It could’ve been worse, but it was enough for her. The next day, my daughter spent the day at a childcare center while my wife brought me to an alcohol rehab facility. That was more than three years ago. What I LearnedOne of the most important things I learned in rehab was that I had to forgive myself for what I had done in the past, while the alcohol still had its grip on me. It’s not easy. I look at my little girl and wonder what damage I had caused. But I strive to do it, and not as a punishment, but as a way to endure. My story could have gone in a different direction. My wife and I didn’t really know each other all that well when we got married. I am grateful that she stayed with me throughout and didn’t take the baby and leave. I’m also very thankful that she enrolled me inalcohol rehab. I cannot describe the wonder of looking at my daughter with eyes not blurred by alcohol. I am amazed at how interesting and funny her three-year-old stories can be. I cannot bear to imagine being drunk and not being able to enjoy them. And when I go out with my wife, orange juice or ginger ale gives me a buzz when coupled with her boisterous laugh. Every Day is WonderfulI can smell the flowers that we planted together. I can taste the different dishes I prepare for them.And in five months, we will welcome a new member to our family and I’m so excited. Not that I’m void of any apprehension. But I’m in a good place right now—full of gratitude and love for my family and for myself. I have faced obstacles in the past and can confidently say that I can squarely face the challenges ahead.
Thank you so much, Dale for sharing your story! We wish you the BEST of luck and God's blessings as you continue to walk out your journey.
PamT
When today's guest contacted me I was unsure about how his message would resonate with YOU, my audience. After all, you're used to hearing what authors treasure and learning about their books.
But I think his message is uplifting and definitely something to treasure so please welcome Dale Vernor....
Treasuring My Sobriety After Alchol RehabI look at my daughter now and I know I would do absolutely anything to protect her, to ensure her happiness. But there was a time not too long ago when I couldn’t say that — even in my most drunken moments.Yes. I’m an alcoholic.I am one of those fortunate ones who had help, who was forced to get help. And just in the nick of time, alcohol rehab changed my life. Today I treasure my family and in order to be the best for them I have to also treasure my sobriety, if it were not for finding it, I would have no family to love so dearly. It Wasn’t Bad… In the Beginning
I used to tell myself that alcohol wasn’t all bad because I met my wife in a bar. She was celebrating a cousin’s engagement and she noticed me sitting alone in the bar. She approached me then and there. I should’ve been mortified. But I already had a couple of glasses in me and I readily answered all her questions. I think she really believed I liked her, too. I think it was only later that she realized that I was so flirty with her because I was already drunk. She always said she didn’t mind that I drank more than she did. She said I was a sweet and quiet when I was drunk. And then she got pregnant and there wasn’t really time for us to think. After the baby was born, my drinking got worse. It’s scary being in charge of a whole person. You need liquid courage; at least that’s what I told myself. I felt I enjoyed my time with the baby more when I had a few sips. I was more relaxed. My Wife Knew I Had a ProblemOnce, my stash of vodka in the laundry room disappeared. I think, like me, she was trying to deny it. Until she came home early one day and saw me lying face down, naked a few feet from my robe and the crib. The baby’s face was already red from crying and her bottom was irritated from a very soggy diaper. It could’ve been worse, but it was enough for her. The next day, my daughter spent the day at a childcare center while my wife brought me to an alcohol rehab facility. That was more than three years ago. What I LearnedOne of the most important things I learned in rehab was that I had to forgive myself for what I had done in the past, while the alcohol still had its grip on me. It’s not easy. I look at my little girl and wonder what damage I had caused. But I strive to do it, and not as a punishment, but as a way to endure. My story could have gone in a different direction. My wife and I didn’t really know each other all that well when we got married. I am grateful that she stayed with me throughout and didn’t take the baby and leave. I’m also very thankful that she enrolled me inalcohol rehab. I cannot describe the wonder of looking at my daughter with eyes not blurred by alcohol. I am amazed at how interesting and funny her three-year-old stories can be. I cannot bear to imagine being drunk and not being able to enjoy them. And when I go out with my wife, orange juice or ginger ale gives me a buzz when coupled with her boisterous laugh. Every Day is WonderfulI can smell the flowers that we planted together. I can taste the different dishes I prepare for them.And in five months, we will welcome a new member to our family and I’m so excited. Not that I’m void of any apprehension. But I’m in a good place right now—full of gratitude and love for my family and for myself. I have faced obstacles in the past and can confidently say that I can squarely face the challenges ahead.
Thank you so much, Dale for sharing your story! We wish you the BEST of luck and God's blessings as you continue to walk out your journey.
PamT
September 22, 2018
#SaturdaySpotlight is on Paul McDermott!
Good Morning Friends!
Paul McDermott returns with another peek into his novel.
Born in the Year of the Tiger, Paul’s natural curiosity combined with the deep-seated feline need to roam has meant that over the years he’s never been able to call any one place home. His wanderlust has led him from one town to another, and even from one country to another.
“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t write - my father claims to possess a story I wrote when I was six, which filled 4 standard school exercise books! What I do remember from that time was being told off for doing the Liverpool Echo crossword before he got home from work!”
While Paul was living in Denmark, he allowed himself to be persuaded to write for a purpose instead of purely for his own amusement. Perhaps it was the catalyst of breathing the same air as Hans Christian Andersen.
Paul’s IT guru (aka his talented daughter) has recently constructed a website for him:
www.paulmcdermottbooks.webs.com
Paul frequently lurks at: www.thewriterschatroom.com (Sundays & Wednesdays)
So very nice to meet you, Paul....now let's here more about your novel, Spear of Destiny......
In 1945, U-boat Kapitän Herbert Nollau must deliver a weapon which will turn the war in Germany’s favour. His orders are delivered verbally. There will be no written records... and no witnesses.
Alone, far from home, hunted by the Danish Resistance and the might of the Allied Forces, he must obey either his final Orders…or the inner voice of his conscience.
Excerpt:
Überlojtnant Herbert Nollau stood with his Zeiss nightglasses glued to his eyes, impervious to the rain whipped across his cheeks by half a gale. This howled almost exactly at ninety degrees to the tide, which had just reached the full but had not yet begun its retreat. His command craft, U-534, sat uneasily at anchor, dipping at bow and stern in the current, yawing appreciably as frequent Force Ten gusts buffeted her broad flanks. Low, heavy rainclouds hunkered closer, seeming to settle on the upper branches of the natural pine forest which spread untamed, unculled, across the low hills of Schleswig-Holstein.
An identical pair of black Opel staff cars bracketed a canvas bodied Mercedes half-track transport wagon, all three vehicles picking their way carefully along an unmarked country road. The headlights were taped down to the size and shape of a feral cat's vertical slits, acknowledging the strict rules governing all traffic during the hours of darkness. The road to the harbour just outside Lübeck was neither tarmac’ed nor enhanced with any form of lighting. The drivers were obliged to steer cautiously around every twist, using the gears and brakes more frequently than the accelerator.
"Amateurs!" he thought to himself, as the three sets of headlights crawled slowly closer.
He blanked the thought as soon as it intruded on his consciousness, forcing himself back into State-approved Wehrmacht thinking, based on purely practical matters directly related to carrying out current instructions, with maximum efficiency, without question. He pulled the collar of his oilskins closer around his throat in a futile attempt to prevent the rain from seeping through, soaking his uniform. Raising his night glasses once more, he cursed the weather, the Wehrmacht and the world in general, feeling more exposed and vulnerable with every minute that passed as he waited for the convoy of lights to crawl closer, carrying the equipment which he had been ordered to collect. It bothered him that he was expected to set sail immediately, and await orders concerning his destination by radio once he had cleared the bay and entered Store Bælt: technically, that section of the North Sea was neutral Danish waters, and if he were to remain on the surface for any length of time in order to receive orders …
As the lights snaked around another pair of curves and began their final descent to the shoreline and the jetty where U534 was waiting, Herbert Nollau realized that he had on board a much more powerful sender/receiver than any other U-boat: in fact, not just one but two radios equipped with the Enigma cryptographic programme had been installed, ostensibly for testing. With a sudden jolt, the deceptively young-looking Überlojtnant realized that this technology was far more sophisticated than that which had previously been regarded as the best in the world: apart from being guaranteed unbreakable as a code, it could also send and receive radio signals without his craft needing to surface.
He shook his head to clear the worst of the pools which had formed in the upturned brim of his sou’wester and made his way down the ladder bolted to the side of the conning tower, aiming to be waiting on the quay before the three vehicles wheezed to a halt. His mechanic’s ear analysed and diagnosed a list of faults he could clearly identify from the laboured chugging of each engine. Furious at this indication of inefficiency, a corner of his mind decided that he would have had the senior officer responsible for each vehicle court-martialled, if the decision had been up to him. In spite of the horrors he had witnessed in three years of naval warfare, he shuddered. His orders, distasteful though they might be, were crystal clear …
Two gaunt, silent shadows slid with simultaneous choreography from the rear seat of each of the Opels: their sleek black trenchcoats almost touched the planks of the jetty, glistening in the starlight as if the officers wearing them had been marching for hours in the rain rather than just stepping out of a warm, dry car. Nollau fired off his most formal salute: the four SS-officers responded with a world-weary, bent-elbow half-salute and pointedly refrained from returning Nollau’s “Heil, Hitler!” One detached himself for a moment and gave a hand-signal to the driver of the canvas-sided truck. The driver immediately hammered his fist twice on the bulkhead behind his seat. Four soldiers appeared over the tailgate of the wagon and began to manoeuvre something long and heavy out of the cargo space.
Turning to face his command meant that Herbert Nollau had to turn his back on the four staff officers. Somehow he managed to do this with an insolence which stated quite clearly that, as far as he was concerned, they were barely worthy of his contempt.
He placed a small, shrill whistle to his lips and blew, one long (but not overloud) blast. Within ten seconds, the deck was populated by about twenty matelots, standing at ease, who somehow contrived to arrive from nowhere and in total silence. Close to the bows, and just for’ard of ’midships , cables were deployed from two small jib cranes. Within seconds, the submariner crew were on the jetty, taking the unidentified cargo from the shoulders of the four soldiers and hoisting it with ease onto the foredeck, thence by some lightningfast legerdemain out of sight below decks. The crew had followed, leaving Überlojtnant Nollau as the only member of the Senior Service still on the jetty. At a silent gesture from one of the anonymous black trenchcoats the four soldiers climbed back over the tailgate, into the truck. After about four attempts, the driver managed to coax the engine into life and began to back and fill, facing back the way he had come.
As he completed the manoeuvre and gunned the engine to set off up the hill, the four SS officers opened their trenchcoats to reveal the muzzles of rapid fire MP40 machine pistols. With one accord they raised their weapons and sent round after deadly round of ammunition into both the cab and the rear of the vehicle, holding the triggers steady. Before the hail of bullets ceased, the fuel tanks of the wagon exploded, sending flames soaring high into the night sky, setting small fires in the tree tops as they lost their intensity and curled back towards the ground.
Suddenly, Herbert Nollau’s orders seemed fractionally less dishonourable.
Having emptied their weapons, the four executioners appeared to have rediscovered some of their habitual swagger and pride. Crashing the butts of the now-empty weapons against the rough wooden planking of the jetty they raised their right arms to the fullest, and screamed: “Heil, Hitler!” as their heels crashed together in perfect unison.
Sick to his stomach at the pleasure his countrymen took from the callous murder of fellow Germans, it was all Herbert Nollau could do to raise his arm, bent-elbowed, in the less formal salute he would never under normal circumstances have accepted from others nor used himself.
Spear of Destiny is available from the publisher’s website, www.classactbooks.com, as well as on amazon.com.
Hope you enjoyed today's guest and that you'll check back often for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time, take care and God Bless.
PamT
Paul McDermott returns with another peek into his novel.
Born in the Year of the Tiger, Paul’s natural curiosity combined with the deep-seated feline need to roam has meant that over the years he’s never been able to call any one place home. His wanderlust has led him from one town to another, and even from one country to another.“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t write - my father claims to possess a story I wrote when I was six, which filled 4 standard school exercise books! What I do remember from that time was being told off for doing the Liverpool Echo crossword before he got home from work!”
While Paul was living in Denmark, he allowed himself to be persuaded to write for a purpose instead of purely for his own amusement. Perhaps it was the catalyst of breathing the same air as Hans Christian Andersen.
Paul’s IT guru (aka his talented daughter) has recently constructed a website for him:
www.paulmcdermottbooks.webs.com
Paul frequently lurks at: www.thewriterschatroom.com (Sundays & Wednesdays)
So very nice to meet you, Paul....now let's here more about your novel, Spear of Destiny......
In 1945, U-boat Kapitän Herbert Nollau must deliver a weapon which will turn the war in Germany’s favour. His orders are delivered verbally. There will be no written records... and no witnesses.Alone, far from home, hunted by the Danish Resistance and the might of the Allied Forces, he must obey either his final Orders…or the inner voice of his conscience.
Excerpt:
Überlojtnant Herbert Nollau stood with his Zeiss nightglasses glued to his eyes, impervious to the rain whipped across his cheeks by half a gale. This howled almost exactly at ninety degrees to the tide, which had just reached the full but had not yet begun its retreat. His command craft, U-534, sat uneasily at anchor, dipping at bow and stern in the current, yawing appreciably as frequent Force Ten gusts buffeted her broad flanks. Low, heavy rainclouds hunkered closer, seeming to settle on the upper branches of the natural pine forest which spread untamed, unculled, across the low hills of Schleswig-Holstein.
An identical pair of black Opel staff cars bracketed a canvas bodied Mercedes half-track transport wagon, all three vehicles picking their way carefully along an unmarked country road. The headlights were taped down to the size and shape of a feral cat's vertical slits, acknowledging the strict rules governing all traffic during the hours of darkness. The road to the harbour just outside Lübeck was neither tarmac’ed nor enhanced with any form of lighting. The drivers were obliged to steer cautiously around every twist, using the gears and brakes more frequently than the accelerator.
"Amateurs!" he thought to himself, as the three sets of headlights crawled slowly closer.
He blanked the thought as soon as it intruded on his consciousness, forcing himself back into State-approved Wehrmacht thinking, based on purely practical matters directly related to carrying out current instructions, with maximum efficiency, without question. He pulled the collar of his oilskins closer around his throat in a futile attempt to prevent the rain from seeping through, soaking his uniform. Raising his night glasses once more, he cursed the weather, the Wehrmacht and the world in general, feeling more exposed and vulnerable with every minute that passed as he waited for the convoy of lights to crawl closer, carrying the equipment which he had been ordered to collect. It bothered him that he was expected to set sail immediately, and await orders concerning his destination by radio once he had cleared the bay and entered Store Bælt: technically, that section of the North Sea was neutral Danish waters, and if he were to remain on the surface for any length of time in order to receive orders …
As the lights snaked around another pair of curves and began their final descent to the shoreline and the jetty where U534 was waiting, Herbert Nollau realized that he had on board a much more powerful sender/receiver than any other U-boat: in fact, not just one but two radios equipped with the Enigma cryptographic programme had been installed, ostensibly for testing. With a sudden jolt, the deceptively young-looking Überlojtnant realized that this technology was far more sophisticated than that which had previously been regarded as the best in the world: apart from being guaranteed unbreakable as a code, it could also send and receive radio signals without his craft needing to surface.
He shook his head to clear the worst of the pools which had formed in the upturned brim of his sou’wester and made his way down the ladder bolted to the side of the conning tower, aiming to be waiting on the quay before the three vehicles wheezed to a halt. His mechanic’s ear analysed and diagnosed a list of faults he could clearly identify from the laboured chugging of each engine. Furious at this indication of inefficiency, a corner of his mind decided that he would have had the senior officer responsible for each vehicle court-martialled, if the decision had been up to him. In spite of the horrors he had witnessed in three years of naval warfare, he shuddered. His orders, distasteful though they might be, were crystal clear …
Two gaunt, silent shadows slid with simultaneous choreography from the rear seat of each of the Opels: their sleek black trenchcoats almost touched the planks of the jetty, glistening in the starlight as if the officers wearing them had been marching for hours in the rain rather than just stepping out of a warm, dry car. Nollau fired off his most formal salute: the four SS-officers responded with a world-weary, bent-elbow half-salute and pointedly refrained from returning Nollau’s “Heil, Hitler!” One detached himself for a moment and gave a hand-signal to the driver of the canvas-sided truck. The driver immediately hammered his fist twice on the bulkhead behind his seat. Four soldiers appeared over the tailgate of the wagon and began to manoeuvre something long and heavy out of the cargo space.
Turning to face his command meant that Herbert Nollau had to turn his back on the four staff officers. Somehow he managed to do this with an insolence which stated quite clearly that, as far as he was concerned, they were barely worthy of his contempt.
He placed a small, shrill whistle to his lips and blew, one long (but not overloud) blast. Within ten seconds, the deck was populated by about twenty matelots, standing at ease, who somehow contrived to arrive from nowhere and in total silence. Close to the bows, and just for’ard of ’midships , cables were deployed from two small jib cranes. Within seconds, the submariner crew were on the jetty, taking the unidentified cargo from the shoulders of the four soldiers and hoisting it with ease onto the foredeck, thence by some lightningfast legerdemain out of sight below decks. The crew had followed, leaving Überlojtnant Nollau as the only member of the Senior Service still on the jetty. At a silent gesture from one of the anonymous black trenchcoats the four soldiers climbed back over the tailgate, into the truck. After about four attempts, the driver managed to coax the engine into life and began to back and fill, facing back the way he had come.
As he completed the manoeuvre and gunned the engine to set off up the hill, the four SS officers opened their trenchcoats to reveal the muzzles of rapid fire MP40 machine pistols. With one accord they raised their weapons and sent round after deadly round of ammunition into both the cab and the rear of the vehicle, holding the triggers steady. Before the hail of bullets ceased, the fuel tanks of the wagon exploded, sending flames soaring high into the night sky, setting small fires in the tree tops as they lost their intensity and curled back towards the ground.
Suddenly, Herbert Nollau’s orders seemed fractionally less dishonourable.
Having emptied their weapons, the four executioners appeared to have rediscovered some of their habitual swagger and pride. Crashing the butts of the now-empty weapons against the rough wooden planking of the jetty they raised their right arms to the fullest, and screamed: “Heil, Hitler!” as their heels crashed together in perfect unison.
Sick to his stomach at the pleasure his countrymen took from the callous murder of fellow Germans, it was all Herbert Nollau could do to raise his arm, bent-elbowed, in the less formal salute he would never under normal circumstances have accepted from others nor used himself.
Spear of Destiny is available from the publisher’s website, www.classactbooks.com, as well as on amazon.com.
Hope you enjoyed today's guest and that you'll check back often for Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time, take care and God Bless.
PamT
September 20, 2018
#ThursdayThoughts with Zoe McCarthy!
Good Morning Friends,
It's been quite a while since my guest today has visited us. Back in 2015 Zoe was in our spotlight with her book, Calculated Risk . Today she is sharing some thoughts with us and a peek into how her newest book, The Putting Green Whisperer came about so please give her a great big WELCOME!
Thank you, Pam, for hosting me on your blog.
Why Would Anyone Who’s Indifferent to Sports Write a Sport Romance?
Ten years ago, I knew I would write romance stories. But I’d have laughed if anyone had asked if I’d write a romance with a golf backdrop.
As a child living in Haiti, I dreamed only of being a cowboy. Living in the tropics, I was a good swimmer, so in middle school, my mom forced me to swim on Miami, FL summer swim teams. As a teen, I lived on the Guantanamo Bay, Cuba Naval Base and in Westfield, NJ. In both places, romance filled my mind more than sports. At the University of South Florida, I was crazy about a guy on the golf team, so I took a golf class. I made a C in the course and my crush fizzled.
Then when my boys were in pre-school in Lynchburg, VA, my friends played tennis. I latched on to the sport for social reasons. I became a good player. So, if I was to write a sports romance it should have had a tennis backdrop.
I preferred most anything over watching sports. The only time I showed interest in football was when I joined an office pool. I’d pick teams by whether I’d lived in their state or had another connection. For example, I’d choose the Seattle Sea Hawks, because I’d sat through one of their games when I lived in Topeka, KS. I won the pool twice on this strategy. Basketball? I shuddered at the sneaker squeaks when my husband watched Wake Forest basketball on TV.
So, why did I write a golf romance?
Part of the answer comes from the writer’s advice, write what you know. My husband loves golf. My sister-in-law is a director of children’s golf programs. My father-in-law still plays golf in his eighties. My sister and my brother-in-law play lots of golf. Every spring, we join them at what is now the Wells Fargo Championship golf tournament. Golf is the one sport quiet enough that I’ll watch it on TV with my husband. I own clubs and have played the sport. I’ve learned a lot about the sport and the pros, and I admit I’ve grown to enjoy watching the sport—while I crochet or knit.
But here it the real reason I wrote The Putting Green Whisperer.
John and I joined my sister and my brother-in-law at a PGA seniors golf tournament in Conover, NC. My sister and I watched the over-age-fifty golfers putt on the fifteenth green. In one group, a male and a female caddy stood side by side on the edge of the green with their backs to us. The two tanned caddies talked quietly while their players prepared to putt. He was tall, and she was petite with her blond ponytail protruding from her pink ball cap. My heart experienced a sappy moment, and romantic what-ifs cluttered my mind. I turned to my sister, pointed at the caddies, and said, “My next book will be about those two caddies.”
Wow....it's always amazing how stories come about isn't it! Thanks for sharing Zoe.
About Zoe:A full-time writer and speaker, Zoe M. McCarthy writes contemporary Christian romances involving tenderness and humor. She is the author of The Invisible Woman in a Red Dress, Gift of the Magpie, and Calculated Risk. Believing opposites distract, Zoe creates heroes and heroines who learn to embrace their differences. Zoe and her husband live in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Find out more and connect with Zoe by visiting her website.
The Putting Green Whisperer
can be found at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
Hope you enjoyed today's post and that you'll check back often for more Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time take care and God bless. PamT
It's been quite a while since my guest today has visited us. Back in 2015 Zoe was in our spotlight with her book, Calculated Risk . Today she is sharing some thoughts with us and a peek into how her newest book, The Putting Green Whisperer came about so please give her a great big WELCOME!
Thank you, Pam, for hosting me on your blog.
Why Would Anyone Who’s Indifferent to Sports Write a Sport Romance?
Ten years ago, I knew I would write romance stories. But I’d have laughed if anyone had asked if I’d write a romance with a golf backdrop.
As a child living in Haiti, I dreamed only of being a cowboy. Living in the tropics, I was a good swimmer, so in middle school, my mom forced me to swim on Miami, FL summer swim teams. As a teen, I lived on the Guantanamo Bay, Cuba Naval Base and in Westfield, NJ. In both places, romance filled my mind more than sports. At the University of South Florida, I was crazy about a guy on the golf team, so I took a golf class. I made a C in the course and my crush fizzled.
Then when my boys were in pre-school in Lynchburg, VA, my friends played tennis. I latched on to the sport for social reasons. I became a good player. So, if I was to write a sports romance it should have had a tennis backdrop.
I preferred most anything over watching sports. The only time I showed interest in football was when I joined an office pool. I’d pick teams by whether I’d lived in their state or had another connection. For example, I’d choose the Seattle Sea Hawks, because I’d sat through one of their games when I lived in Topeka, KS. I won the pool twice on this strategy. Basketball? I shuddered at the sneaker squeaks when my husband watched Wake Forest basketball on TV.
So, why did I write a golf romance?
Part of the answer comes from the writer’s advice, write what you know. My husband loves golf. My sister-in-law is a director of children’s golf programs. My father-in-law still plays golf in his eighties. My sister and my brother-in-law play lots of golf. Every spring, we join them at what is now the Wells Fargo Championship golf tournament. Golf is the one sport quiet enough that I’ll watch it on TV with my husband. I own clubs and have played the sport. I’ve learned a lot about the sport and the pros, and I admit I’ve grown to enjoy watching the sport—while I crochet or knit.
But here it the real reason I wrote The Putting Green Whisperer.
John and I joined my sister and my brother-in-law at a PGA seniors golf tournament in Conover, NC. My sister and I watched the over-age-fifty golfers putt on the fifteenth green. In one group, a male and a female caddy stood side by side on the edge of the green with their backs to us. The two tanned caddies talked quietly while their players prepared to putt. He was tall, and she was petite with her blond ponytail protruding from her pink ball cap. My heart experienced a sappy moment, and romantic what-ifs cluttered my mind. I turned to my sister, pointed at the caddies, and said, “My next book will be about those two caddies.”
Wow....it's always amazing how stories come about isn't it! Thanks for sharing Zoe.
About Zoe:A full-time writer and speaker, Zoe M. McCarthy writes contemporary Christian romances involving tenderness and humor. She is the author of The Invisible Woman in a Red Dress, Gift of the Magpie, and Calculated Risk. Believing opposites distract, Zoe creates heroes and heroines who learn to embrace their differences. Zoe and her husband live in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Find out more and connect with Zoe by visiting her website.
The Putting Green Whisperer
can be found at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.Hope you enjoyed today's post and that you'll check back often for more Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time take care and God bless. PamT
September 18, 2018
#TuesdayTreasures with Laura DeNooyer
Good Morning and Welcome!
Well this year is moving right along. Before you know it, 2019 will be here. I know this because there are Christmas decorations and items already appearing in stores everywhere and Hallmark Channels are already advertising their "Countdown to Christmas" and that's just weeks after their "Christmas in July."
We all love romantic stories set at Christmas but seriously folks.....I truly understand why my heroine in Keri's Christmas Wish had the "bah humbug" attitude LOL!
Enough about that already....as you know I LOVE to bring to you an brand-new-to-me author and today's guest is one of those so please welcome Laura DeNooyer as we find out what she treasures....
Years ago, when I was a college sophomore, a group of fellow education majors and I headed to Mars Hill College in western North Carolina for an interim class. We hailed from Calvin College in Michigan. What we expected was three weeks of teacher aiding in the mountain schools. What we didn’t expect was being mesmerized by college’s resident storyteller.
In the evenings, we sat around listening to his lively renditions of “Jack and the Northwest Wind” and “Sody Sallyraytus.” This bearded, white-haired man, Richard Chase, spun his yarns with bewitching blue eyes, dramatic tones, and perfect timing.
Years earlier, in the 1940s, author Richard Chase had gathered the southern Appalachian Jack Tales and Grandfather Tales into two books, finally putting the oral tradition into written form for all to enjoy.
In January, 1978, he brought these tales to life in the college lounge for us unsuspecting students held captive by his storytelling magic.
He didn’t merely make the stories come alive. He thrust us into a time when oral tradition was valued, when it was the only way stories were passed down through the generations.
Back in those days, stories weren’t just fanciful ones, such as when Jack uses magic words to produce a hearty meal. Folks also told family anecdotes about frugal Great-grandma, eccentric Uncle Billy, or flighty third cousin Ruby Mae. Both adults and youth were happy to sit for hours at the feet of elderly storytellers, soaking in their wit and wisdom. This suggests a time of family ties, conversation, joy in one’s work, and valuing one’s simple heritage. And contentment. A far cry from nowadays.
Visiting North Carolina was life-changing for me. Not only because of Richard Chase’s stories, but because of local people we interacted with, folks who epitomized these attitudes. We met Mr. Woody, a woodworker who so enjoyed making chairs that he couldn’t tell you how much time it took to make one chair. Or five. Or ten. Not interested in competing with assembly line furniture factories, he still made chairs the way his family had done it for generations.
We met the blacksmith, who took time to demonstrate his craft while sharing the ways that Christ is like iron, emphasizing the Bible’s claim that Christ will rule with a rod of iron. We learned mountain clogging, loitered at the general store, and hiked the Appalachian trail. Everywhere we turned, we met content and joyful people, a far cry from those who chase after the rags-to-riches American Dream, stumbling up the ladder of success.
Back at home, I read all the Jack Tales and Grandfather Tales from the library. Later, I purchased those two books as a memento of January, 1978. They remind me of lessons learned in North Carolina.
Also, as I reflected on my time there, I wondered, “What if there was a clash between big-city northern values and southern Appalachian culture?” This led me to write a short story inspired by people we met on our trip. It won first place in my college magazine.
Eventually, I developed it into a novel. Strategically placed in each section is a family story told by one of my characters, stories that embody and accentuate each part of the plot.
That’s my nod to Richard Chase. That’s my effort to recapture the stirring moments when he placed a group of college students under his spell.
“All of God’s earth to my brother Nick and me were the streams for fishing, the fields for planting and harvesting, a world snugly enclosed by the blue-misted Smokies. . . . Other than the seasons, nothing ever changed. . . .”
Until the summer of 1968. Ten-year-old Tina Hamilton’s life changes forever. Trouble erupts when a proposed theme park threatens her tiny Appalachian town. Some folks blame the trouble on “progress,” some blame the space race and men meddling with the moon’s cycles, and some blame Tina’s father. A past he has hidden catches up to him, his family, and the entire town. Suddenly, the clash of a father’s past and present becomes the microcosm of the clash between progressive ideas and small town values. Tina struggles with her shaken confidence in a father who, in hiding his past, has made a string of choices that shape her childhood. Gradually, Tina gains insight into her father through seemingly unrelated circumstances: her feud with a fellow ballplayer, her friendship with Old Joe who lives alone on the mountain, a gift left to her father by a neighbor fourteen years dead, and a broken promise. Meticulously researched, this moving and engaging coming-of-age tale is a delightful, richly-textured tapestry of family stories woven with the timeless wisdom of generations past, all of which guide Tina and create the fabric of a journey to forgiveness that will warm your heart. Tina is forced to answer a difficult question: are secrets worth the price they cost to keep? Pour yourself a cup of tea, settle in, and come along. Then you decide.
About Laura: Award-winning author Laura DeNooyer lives with her husband Tim near Milwaukee, Wisconsin. They have four adult children. On either end of child rearing, she taught middle school and high school English, creative writing, and/or art. She currently teaches writing to home schooled students, participates in writers conferences and critique groups, and hosts a blog that celebrates creativity: Journey to Imagination. Laura has a young adult fantasy series underway, as well as historical fiction for adults. Find out more and connect with Laura through her Blog, Facebook and Amazon.
Hope you enjoyed today's post and that you'll check back for more Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time, take care and God bless. PamT
Well this year is moving right along. Before you know it, 2019 will be here. I know this because there are Christmas decorations and items already appearing in stores everywhere and Hallmark Channels are already advertising their "Countdown to Christmas" and that's just weeks after their "Christmas in July."
We all love romantic stories set at Christmas but seriously folks.....I truly understand why my heroine in Keri's Christmas Wish had the "bah humbug" attitude LOL!
Enough about that already....as you know I LOVE to bring to you an brand-new-to-me author and today's guest is one of those so please welcome Laura DeNooyer as we find out what she treasures....
Years ago, when I was a college sophomore, a group of fellow education majors and I headed to Mars Hill College in western North Carolina for an interim class. We hailed from Calvin College in Michigan. What we expected was three weeks of teacher aiding in the mountain schools. What we didn’t expect was being mesmerized by college’s resident storyteller.
In the evenings, we sat around listening to his lively renditions of “Jack and the Northwest Wind” and “Sody Sallyraytus.” This bearded, white-haired man, Richard Chase, spun his yarns with bewitching blue eyes, dramatic tones, and perfect timing.
Years earlier, in the 1940s, author Richard Chase had gathered the southern Appalachian Jack Tales and Grandfather Tales into two books, finally putting the oral tradition into written form for all to enjoy.
In January, 1978, he brought these tales to life in the college lounge for us unsuspecting students held captive by his storytelling magic.
He didn’t merely make the stories come alive. He thrust us into a time when oral tradition was valued, when it was the only way stories were passed down through the generations.
Back in those days, stories weren’t just fanciful ones, such as when Jack uses magic words to produce a hearty meal. Folks also told family anecdotes about frugal Great-grandma, eccentric Uncle Billy, or flighty third cousin Ruby Mae. Both adults and youth were happy to sit for hours at the feet of elderly storytellers, soaking in their wit and wisdom. This suggests a time of family ties, conversation, joy in one’s work, and valuing one’s simple heritage. And contentment. A far cry from nowadays.
Visiting North Carolina was life-changing for me. Not only because of Richard Chase’s stories, but because of local people we interacted with, folks who epitomized these attitudes. We met Mr. Woody, a woodworker who so enjoyed making chairs that he couldn’t tell you how much time it took to make one chair. Or five. Or ten. Not interested in competing with assembly line furniture factories, he still made chairs the way his family had done it for generations.
We met the blacksmith, who took time to demonstrate his craft while sharing the ways that Christ is like iron, emphasizing the Bible’s claim that Christ will rule with a rod of iron. We learned mountain clogging, loitered at the general store, and hiked the Appalachian trail. Everywhere we turned, we met content and joyful people, a far cry from those who chase after the rags-to-riches American Dream, stumbling up the ladder of success.
Back at home, I read all the Jack Tales and Grandfather Tales from the library. Later, I purchased those two books as a memento of January, 1978. They remind me of lessons learned in North Carolina.
Also, as I reflected on my time there, I wondered, “What if there was a clash between big-city northern values and southern Appalachian culture?” This led me to write a short story inspired by people we met on our trip. It won first place in my college magazine.
Eventually, I developed it into a novel. Strategically placed in each section is a family story told by one of my characters, stories that embody and accentuate each part of the plot.
That’s my nod to Richard Chase. That’s my effort to recapture the stirring moments when he placed a group of college students under his spell.
“All of God’s earth to my brother Nick and me were the streams for fishing, the fields for planting and harvesting, a world snugly enclosed by the blue-misted Smokies. . . . Other than the seasons, nothing ever changed. . . .”Until the summer of 1968. Ten-year-old Tina Hamilton’s life changes forever. Trouble erupts when a proposed theme park threatens her tiny Appalachian town. Some folks blame the trouble on “progress,” some blame the space race and men meddling with the moon’s cycles, and some blame Tina’s father. A past he has hidden catches up to him, his family, and the entire town. Suddenly, the clash of a father’s past and present becomes the microcosm of the clash between progressive ideas and small town values. Tina struggles with her shaken confidence in a father who, in hiding his past, has made a string of choices that shape her childhood. Gradually, Tina gains insight into her father through seemingly unrelated circumstances: her feud with a fellow ballplayer, her friendship with Old Joe who lives alone on the mountain, a gift left to her father by a neighbor fourteen years dead, and a broken promise. Meticulously researched, this moving and engaging coming-of-age tale is a delightful, richly-textured tapestry of family stories woven with the timeless wisdom of generations past, all of which guide Tina and create the fabric of a journey to forgiveness that will warm your heart. Tina is forced to answer a difficult question: are secrets worth the price they cost to keep? Pour yourself a cup of tea, settle in, and come along. Then you decide.
About Laura: Award-winning author Laura DeNooyer lives with her husband Tim near Milwaukee, Wisconsin. They have four adult children. On either end of child rearing, she taught middle school and high school English, creative writing, and/or art. She currently teaches writing to home schooled students, participates in writers conferences and critique groups, and hosts a blog that celebrates creativity: Journey to Imagination. Laura has a young adult fantasy series underway, as well as historical fiction for adults. Find out more and connect with Laura through her Blog, Facebook and Amazon.
Hope you enjoyed today's post and that you'll check back for more Tuesday Treasures, Thursday Thoughts and Saturday Spotlight.
Until next time, take care and God bless. PamT
