Sheritta Bitikofer's Blog, page 4

Something About Sheritta #33

[image error]Q: Who designed your book covers?

A: An absolutely talented and fantastic woman named Angela Rivera. She’d been my go-to gal for covers for quite a while and thought there are some covers she hasn’t done, I rely on her heavily for many of my graphic endeavors. She’s made banners and bookmarks for me for events and has proven herself to be immensely talented, reliable, and I just can’t say enough good things about her, honestly.

If you are looking for a cover designer, I highly recommend her.

http://www.dream-designz.com/

Something About Sheritta #32

[image error]Q: What are you passionate about these days?

A: History and writing. If you took a look at all the book orders that have been coming in over the last few months, you’d wonder if I was trying to start my own Civil War reference library. Of course, I’m getting my collection prepped for when I’m ready to start the historical fiction series, too. And the other half are books about how to write. Creative writing is an ongoing learning experience. You’re never really “done” learning. There’s always other authors to learn from and stories to write. It’s like being a doctor who practices medicine. They’re still “practicing” even up to the point when they retire. Same for writers. Never stop learning.

Thanks for the Memories…

That new car smell, the one that sticks for a good few months and then fades as you dirty up the car and get your own signature scents all over the place. But there are some days when that new car smell returns. And it takes me back to a year and a half ago when we first bought the car. It was our first road trip with it, driving through the night to go to Louisiana for family pictures.

A Monster energy drink was in the cup holder. Burger King wrappers on the floorboards. Jared sleeping in the passenger seat. Headlights glare in my rearview mirror. My only company is my narrator for Silver Screen as I proof the last of the files before approving. Stopping at Waffle House for a bathroom break. Arriving at my dad’s at eight in the morning, just in time for breakfast. The day that followed was exhausting, but unforgettable.

It’s a few simple notes. Hummed or sang without words. Played on loop, but never old or monotonous. Dramatic music follows, and I watch my husband play his videogame. As much as I love the storyline of Assassin’s Creed, it’s dangerous if I play. So, I’ll watch him parkour and assassinate historical figures for the betterment of The Creed, preserving the Apple of Eden and the fate of humanity. Those few notes put me back on the couch, watching Ezio or Connor run through the crowded streets of medieval Italy or colonial America. It never gets old and it probably never will.

When I hear “Good Morning, Heartache” by Ella Fitzgerald, I’m back in Sharpsburg Maryland on September 17th, 2018. It wasn’t the first time I had heard this song and it wasn’t the last. But each time it plays, I remember the way the rain speckled my windshield. Hurricane Florence had passed through that weekend, but I was determined to go to Antietam for the release of my Civil War novel. I was on my way back from Burnside Bridge, driving back to the visitor’s center for one more look through the museum.

I was hungry because it was close to dinner time, but I didn’t know where to eat. The street was lined with parallel parked cars. Pedestrians on the sidewalks. I had a long drive through the Shenandoah mountains ahead of me that evening, but I knew I had to make one last stop. If I didn’t, I’d regret it. I didn’t know when I’d ever pass by these plaques again, or when I’d see that field of soybeans where tall stalks of corn used to grow. I sang to the song, letting myself feel the lyrics and it imprinted somehow, knowing that my trip was near its end.

Touch of the Wolf by Susan Krinard. The cover alone takes me back. Age twelve. Too young to be reading a romance like that. My first. Curled up in my Granny’s chair. The microfiber rubbed my elbows raw when I shifted to turn the page. It was late, everyone else in the house was asleep. The television was off, the house dark except for the touch-sensitive lamp on the end table beside me. The smell of bacon grease from that morning’s breakfast hung in the air, mixed with the smell of her crocheted blanket over the back of the chair. Her old perfume clung to the fibers.

Just a whiff of Salem cigarette smoke puts my dad in the driver’s seat. We’re on our way to Houston to see Phantom of the Opera. My hair’s been highlighted for the first time. My first straightener is in the back seat with the dress my mom and I bought at Dillard’s for the occasion. The wind from the open window in my face. Southern gospel on the radio. My dad’s bass singing voice makes me smile. I feel of the tan leather seat. The interstate is packed, but I’m with my dad and it’s one of the things we will always share.

Not much has changed about the stoplight at the end of Valley Road. There’s still a gas station to the right and ahead, and the plaza with the Mexican restaurant on the left. It’s still a long light, and when I stop, I remember my mom. I remember how we drove all the way down Valley from my childhood home and laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe. I don’t remember what we were laughing about. But we laughed and laughed all the way to that stoplight. We paused, and then looked to one another, only to start laughing again. We ate at Red Lobster that evening and I don’t remember what we ate, but I can’t remember another time when we laughed so hard and so long.

There’s a spot at the end of a building at the high school. I can still feel the harsh, rough texture of the red brick against my back, snagging on my clothes. Fifth period, freshman year in May. I’m a teacher’s aide, able to come and go as I please for the most part. Mr. Keith at least wanted me to tell him when I left. That day, I did. To meet my boyfriend under the catwalk of that building. The highway ahead was busy with cars. The spring sunshine was warm, but not too warm. Prom was the month before, when I thought he’d kiss me. I hinted at it, but it never came. He had asked me once before if he could, but the time wasn’t right or it wasn’t romantic enough. I couldn’t remember the reason, but I remembered when it happened.

His hand slipped behind my neck and tilted my lips to meet his. At the time, I didn’t know how to breathe during a kiss. So I held it. But to this day, I can remember how he smelled, how he tasted. Nothing’s changed. A million kisses and eleven years later, we’re married. I went back to that spot and wrote in permanent marker on the catwalk post “My first kiss was here”. We took our engagement photos in that same spot, recreating the kiss that started it all.

Sharp, short, scratchy whiskers make me miss my Pawpaw. He could never get a close enough shave, or he always let it be that short on purpose. I’ll never know. The dark gray stubble would rub at my cheeks when we hugged or kissed goodbye. An embrace I dreaded at the time, but miss dearly now. I wouldn’t want to hug him at the end or start of any visit because of something so trivial. Just one of the many regrets I have with that man who once told me he’d do anything for me and my mom. And he did all he could. I wasn’t grateful enough at the time, but better late than never.

The vanilla essence of IBC root beer pairs perfect with instant mac-n-cheese. I will fight you on this one. They’re even better with cartoons at my dad’s house. The walls are painted all different colors. Posters on the walls. Dolls in the closet. A creaky canopy bed to my back that bangs against the wall if I bounced on it. Wearing nothing but a big t-shirt that I still have in my drawers at home. My legs crossed under the little coffee table set up in the middle of the room. Coloring books scattered across the surface. I had to make room when dad brought in the hot bowl and brown bottle. Sometimes he’d sit with me and watch the show and we’d talk while I waited for my lunch to cool down. I might have only been eight or nine, and I don’t remember what we said, but I remember he was there. I don’t like any other brand of root beer.

It doesn’t matter if I’m at work or a supermarket. At home or far away. If I hear your keys jangling on your belt, I will turn my head and look for my husband. For years, he’s worn his keychain on his belt and had far too many keys than any one man should have in his possession without being a janitor. Around the house, at the store, in a quiet coffee shop, it didn’t matter. He’d always have them and when those keys are hung up for the last time, I’ll still turn and look for him until I’m old and can’t hear a thing anymore. Maybe I’ll still hear them.

There’s a perfume that isn’t available anymore. Believe me, I’ve looked. My mom would save it for a special occasion, conservative to the last drop. When she sprayed that, I knew we were going somewhere. I’d sit on her bed and watch her get ready in the bathroom, applying mascara and lipstick. Then spraying it on her wrists. If they ever brought back that fragrance, I’d buy a dozen bottles.

The phases of the moon have been on a constant rotation since the beginning of time. New, crescent, waning, half, waxing, and full. The moon will forever capture my imagination. If it’s all gold and full, I will stop in the middle of my sentence and scream “LOOK AT THE MOON!!!” It’s just who I am. But there is one phase I won’t scream about. The half-moon. Like a grinning face, it looked down on my one September night. The air was clean and crisp, the aroma of the mountains all around. Crickets sang in the background as I walked to my car. I looked up to the sky, but I wasn’t smiling back. I couldn’t. I was leaving when I didn’t want to. My feet would never touch this soil again. By midnight, I’d be in another state, far away and unlikely to come back. I didn’t do all I wanted, but that wouldn’t be my only regret. So I took one last look to the half moon and its mocking grin against the starry sky. Then I climbed into my car and drove away.

The crunch of freshly fallen snow brings with it the chill of winter in the northwest. Walking up and down hills, along the sidewalks and across the icy blacktop. I never slipped, never slowed down. A whole three miles, almost every day, by myself. The walk from school to home wasn’t easy for those few years in Portland, but for a Florida girl, they were amazing. Bundled up in my coat, hands shoved in my pockets, the scarf around my face to fight back the wind, my fur-trimmed hood flipped up. My phone is clutched in one fist, waiting for it to vibrate and tell me that my boyfriend was calling. In the other was my mp3 player, the earbud cord trailing up through my coat to my ears. The hem of my jeans was soaked. Melted snow seeped through my boots and my toes were numb. At the time, it was grueling. But I could walk that path in my sleep, and I’d walk it again if given the chance.

I’ll sing every line to Stronger by Sara Evans. I could sing it in my sleep. It’s the anthem of every lost loved one, every broken heart, every lost friendship in my life. It’ll forever empower me and remind me that no matter how difficult it seems, things always get better. With each passing day, it’ll get easier. I can breathe again, I’ll be able to remember without sorrow or embarrassment. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.

Something About Sheritta #31

[image error]Q: Pen or type writer or computer?

A: First off, I mean no disrespect to those who do write with a pen over a computer or a typewriter… But I honestly don’t know how you can do it and be efficient. I type everything. The only stuff I ever hand-write are notes. Everything else needs to be put on the computer, otherwise I’d be lost and confused. I understand the process is different for other people and more power to you, but I can’t wrap my head around it. A typewriter is a neat tool, but we live in the 21st century and if you want to be published and that publisher only accepts digital files, you’re up a creek without a paddle and just created more work for yourself because you have to copy all of that into a new word document. Just doesn’t make sense.

A Day in the Life…

So, I know I haven’t posted anything terribly new and creative yet, so I decided to write a little about what a typical day looks like for me. It’s not all that exciting, but for those who are curious.

“Good morning! Good morning!”

I blindly reach for my phone on the nightstand. I don’t even need to see the snooze button to swipe it and end the song from Singing in the Rain. I know it’s only a few minutes before my next alarm goes off, but I want that time. God knows I need it. There was some article saying that women needed more rest than men to avoid heart attacks. I can’t remember how accurate that was, but was a good excuse.

Jared’s arm tightens around me and I felt his nose nuzzle against the nape of my neck. I squirmed because his breath tickled my skin, but he only worked harder to pester me. Cracking open my one eye that wasn’t not buried in the pillow, I saw it was just about at daybreak. The bluish gray light filtered through our bedroom windows. The dark brown curtains were too sheer to be of much use.

Then, I heard the tinkling of dog tags. I closed my eye and held very still, hoping that neither of the girls noticed that I was awake. Sure enough, Evie started making her gruff, half-growl, half-bark noises to get my attention.

I let out a long breath and gave up the fight. One tug of the blanket exposed my bare shoulder and I quickly yanked it back up to my chin. Too cold. Much too cold.

Bagpipes blared from my phone speakers and I once more hit the snooze. Just a few more minutes. I need it for my heart, you know.

Jared’s hand tapped on my thigh. “You need to get up.”

I grumbled. Too early for words, for cold, for bagpipes, dogs, and husbands.

More dog tags jingled, and Evie let out a full bark, followed by her paws patting against the door of her kennel.

“No!” I groaned.

Now it was Jared’s turn to pull the covers off of me. I whined and wrestled them back into my possession so I could wrap myself up like a cocoon. Anymore stress this early in the morning and I’ll have a headache before I can get to work.

“Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP!”

The munchkin voice on my next alarm didn’t help. I grabbed for my phone and brought it under the covers with me, the black cord sticking out as I turned off the alarm. Two more, I think.

Jared craned over, his face just inches from where mine would be if the blanket didn’t conceal me. I hissed like a cornered cat and snuggled deeper into my little shelter.

“Time to get up.”

“I know,” I mumbled.

Now I could feel his nose pressing against the other side of the blankets. I uncovered quickly to kiss his lips with the though that would make him go away. It didn’t. I do it again, and I can feel his smile. Still, he didn’t move. One more time, but I licked his nose instead.

That earned me a better reaction. He made some silly noses and rubbed his face into the space where my ribs were. I wiggled and tossed again to push him away as we both giggle.

Evie barked again and Jared slid off the bed to let them both out. One black blur and one white blur darted out of our bedroom and through the doggy door in the living room. They’d be back in a few minutes wanting their breakfast.

I listened to Jared get ready for work. Pulling on his work pants with his car keys still attached, making that familiar jingling noise just like the dog tags. I tracked him through the house as he fixed his coffee, packed his lunchbox, and everything else he would need for the day. By now, the dogs have returned.

Both Evie and Sharla rushed to my side of the bed and propped their front paws on the edge of the mattress. Their cold noses searched for my under the blankets while their claws batted at the sheets. I slipped out one hand to pet them, which would pacify them for a little bit.

Beneath the covers, my phone lit up and now came Captain Jack Sparrow screaming. I quickly shut it off and braving the blinding glare of the scream, I checked the time. Seven o’clock. I could snooze for another thirty minutes unbothered. No more alarms, Jared would be out the door soon, and hopefully he would feed the dogs.

My husband returned to the bedroom and leaned over my still cocooned body. “Time to get up.”

“I know,” I mumbled again. This time, I poked my head out of the blankets to look up at him. Handsome as always, and smiling down at me like I’m his world. I smiled back, sleepy and still unwilling to budge.

Of course, that didn’t keep him from pestering me. He grabbed for my feet to pull them free of the blankets, tried to wriggle his cold hands to touch my bare skin, in vain attempted to wrench the covers from me. He should have known by now that I was too stubborn.

“Where are you working today?” I asked.

“Baker.” He then proceeded to tell me all they had to do on the jobsite, but a lot of it goes over my head. That was at least half an hour away, so I knew he wouldn’t be home for dinner. That was fine, though.

“Okay. Be safe.”

We say our goodbyes. Or, lack there of. We agreed when we first started dating that we would never say “bye” or “goodbye” when leaving one another. It’s always “See you later” or “See you soon”. Goodbye felt permanent. Final. I hated the word, so we stopped using it. That was twelve years ago.

I listened for the front door locking and let out a long sigh as drowsiness consumed me again. I had managed to get ready for work in less than an hour before, but I only intended to sleep for another fifteen or so minutes. The dogs laid by the bed, somewhat patient. Evie, the puppy of the pack, still occasionally reached up to bat at my arm and remind me that they had not been fed.

When I looked at my phone next, it was seven-fifty. I pursed my lips in irritation with myself. Every single time. I tell myself just a few minutes, and it turns into nearly an hour.

I checked my dozens of notifications. Facebook, email, book sales for audio and ebook, and swiped at the rest that I didn’t care about. Updates, weather, twitter. Then, I opened my Amazon Music player and continued my playlist from the day before. I’d been listening to my nerdiest songs since last Thursday or Friday. Balfa Brothers, The High Kings, Gaelic Storm, Civil War ballads, Frank Sinatra, Disney songs, and Broadway tunes. Le Danse de Mardi Gras belted out and my foot kept time with the Cajun melody under the covers.

I slid out of bed, mentally cursing the cold and the unfairness of having to work. The dogs began their usual tussling around the bedroom, their claws snagging on the carpet as they chased and pounced on one another. Play growls joined the song from my phone, all backed by that jingling of the dog tags.

I put my makeup on – the longest part of my morning ritual – and then turned to the mirror. The dark brown, wavy tresses were a tangled mess. Fly aways caught the light of the window behind me, one side grossly uneven with the rest. I picked up my straightener, and after about five minutes, like magic, my hair was three inches longer and straighter. I combed my fingers through the faded blue undertones beneath the brown. No longer the fungus green, it had aged into a subtle pale gray shade that I wasn’t so disgusted with anymore. I did the blue for my birthday at the end of November, a little over two months ago. Before that it was blonde, and I wondered if the blonde would come back after a while. Goodness knows I needed to touch it up. There was at least four or five inches of new growth that anyone could see if I put my hair up.

Deodorant, perfume, clothes, and shoes. But as I slipped on my socks, the playlist stopped. Looking to the screen, the application had closed. I frowned and realized that I had come to the end of my five hundred some-odd long playlist. Last night I had decided I’d listen to my Love and Hate playlist next. Another long series of rock, country, pop, and all assortment of other genres. I felt like I could handle the songs this week.

The dogs still clamored around my feet, dashing in and around my path as I made my way to the kitchen to feed them. I teased them and scratched at their rumps to distract them or make them trip. While they eat, I fix my coffee, all to the sometimes bubbly and sometimes depressing songs about love, longing, betrayal, and heartache. All of it will be fuel for my books. All evoke feels I did and didn’t want to feel.

Sharla and Evie finished their bowls and, as always, Sharla picked up the spoon I leave in her bowl and took it into the living room to lick it clean. I shake my head at her as I pour the tiniest amount of creamer into my coffee, followed by two spoonfuls of sugar.

I check the clock and know I’m going to be late. It took me fifteen minutes at the most to get to work, if I caught all the red lights.

This morning was no exception. Carrying on my concert in the car, I sang and sipped on my coffee as I made my commute. I didn’t care if people looked over and saw me belting out to an Evanescence song or dancing in my seat to Ricky Martin.

Now at work, I tried to slip past the front counter where I knew my manager and the rest of our salespeople would be in the midst of a meeting. I was good at my job, and far too important to get in trouble for being a few minutes late, but it was nonetheless embarrassing. Plus, I didn’t want to be called out for it. Even in jest.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Tracy chimes.

“Mornin’ gorgeous!” Jeff exclaims.

“Hey there!” Chris calls.

Morning people. All of them. And my coffee wasn’t even half gone. “Mornin’!” I call out as I make a speedy retreat for my office toward the very back of the store. Dropping my purse in the corner, I take out my ginger ale can to put in the fridge in the breakroom. Gathering all the tickets, customer service invoices, and logs from the day before, I hunker down to get to work.

For the most part, it was the same tasks every day with some variance. Listening to music made it more bearable and entertaining when I was alone. My coworkers kept it lively the rest of the time. Pages came into my office every hour asking for advice on procedures and issues. I answered some phone calls when everyone else was busy, and helped out when they asked. I felt important, useful, and though it wasn’t my ideal career, I was good at it. At the end of the day, if I could clear my desk and avoid a meltdown due to an irate customer or frustrating coworker, then it was an excellent day. And even when it wasn’t, I was never tempted to quit. I loved this place and the people too much to ever leave.

The rest of the time, my door was shut and my usual tabs open on my computer. Facebook and email. While notifications poured in, distracting me from some things, I constantly checked my Yahoo and Gmail for something… anything. Then I have to remind myself that there won’t be anything but junk mail. I’m not currently working with anyone for a project, and all other due dates for book things are way out for months.

Lunch might have been the hardest decision of my day. Do I go for something I can eat with my hands and watch an episode of Grey’s Anatomy, or do I get something I can eat with a fork so I can write and not get the keyboard dirty? And most importantly, do I ask if anyone else wants anything. Somedays, I hit the jackpot and I can get food wherever I want. Other times, I’ve got six credit cards with sticky notes in my back pocket while I go to get lunch for the whole store. I’ve become a master at balancing drinks and takeout bags, getting them in and out of my car, and opening doors even when my hands are full.

The rest of the days is sprinkled with moments of scrambling chaos and complete boredom. Surfing social media, checking those emails again, maybe writing a little bit if I can get my head in the right space. I’d rather be doing something than have my mind idle. It’ll wander to dark and dangerous places if I don’t give it something to focus on.

The end of my workday comes around and I can go home. I walked through the door, and the dogs are on me in an instant. They jumped and pawed, begging for pets and love that I willingly give. This is why we adopted them. They needed the love just as much as I needed their company to keep me sane and to fight off the loneliness being in that house by myself.

The minute they’ve gone back to wrestling with each other, I scurry to change into more comfortable clothes. With my music still playing from my phone, I slid across the floor and danced because I knew no one was watching.

Those few hours between the time I got home to the time Jared is home, are so crucial to my own sanity. Not that I didn’t want him home, because at the end of the day, I do, but I’ve learned to be comfortable in this time set apart just for me. I can do what I want, not have to worry about conversation or obligations – too much – and I can get things done without someone interrupting me every few minutes to tell me something new. I needed that time for me and me alone.

I’d write, work on book promotions, organize my office if I need to, listen to audiobooks, clean, and cook as required. That night, I needed to make dinner. Without Jared home, it’d be so much easier to navigate my kitchen. He was always in the way.

When the time came to start dinner, I turned off the Love and Hate playlist, purposefully losing my progress for another day. Then I put my Dance playlist on random. Latin, pop, and reggaeton. For once, I was in a good enough mood to actually want to dance. It had been a good day, free of meltdowns, panic attacks, or frustrating situations. On top of that, I was able to get caught up on my book tasks. Teasers for my upcoming release are made, the book trailer is finished, The Legacy Series is on its way to becoming available everywhere, and The Decimus Trilogy was passing the audio quality checks. There were a few things that could have made the day better, but in a few months, they wouldn’t matter.

So I danced to the rhythmic beats and sang along with the Spanish lyrics that I didn’t know. I’ve always loved to dance, and my choice of workout would always be Zumba if given the choice. There was no shame in swinging my hips or singing into the stirring spoon because, like before, I knew that no one was watching. And why not dance when I’m happy? If you’ve ever witnessed me dance or act as goofy as I do when I’m alone, you’re special. I don’t do it for everyone.

Jared came home, drawing the attention of the dogs, but I didn’t stop my dance party for anything. We talked a little and, as predicted, he got in my way in the kitchen. Instead of pushing him aside, I grabbed his hand and started a half-hearted salsa routine. We met through ballroom dancing, and though the Latin dances weren’t his specialty, they were mine.

We laughed and danced, kissing and teasing as I finished up the last of dinner preparations. I knew it’d be moments like these that I’d remember well into my old age when I couldn’t dance with him anymore.

We sat down for dinner and watched an episode of Doctor Who – the one with David Tennant – before parting ways to do our own thing until bedtime. More writing, more book things, and more checking for emails that weren’t likely to come.

Almost masochistically, we stayed up much too late. Maybe that’s why I always have so much trouble waking up in the mornings. But when sleep came, it was fantastic, and I wondered why I leave the bed in the first place. Sleeping erased the slate, cleaned the board, voided every mistake from the previous day so I can make more in the next. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get those emails I’ve been waiting for.

Something About Sheritta #30

[image error]Q: What did you enjoy most about writing this book?

A: I enjoyed writing the Redemption Duet (The Rose and The Lion) because it taught me a lot about myself. Belle represents Anxiety and Leo represents Depression. Both, I believe, I’ve felt on at least a rudimentary level. There’s so much misconception about them and from a lot of my other posts, you should probably be able to guess that I try to clear up those misconceptions. Writing this duet forced me to look at myself, look at the mental illnesses, and all the ways that people can pull themselves out. While I hope it’s therapeutic for some to read it, it was cathartic for me to write it.

The Legacy Is Everywhere!

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That’s right! The Legacy Series is going wide! That means it will not only be available on Kindle and Amazon, but also on all the other platforms like Kobo, Nook, iBooks, and more! Check out below for the links to your digital retailer of your choice and begin this epic historical journey! Just click on the title you wanna start with and away you go!

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But wait! That’s not all! I’m also in the process of getting these above titles distributed for Audio! Yes, the first two volumes are available on Audible, but each individual title is going out to other retailers like…

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Needless to say, I’m excited! Publishing on Kindle is great, but going wide with a series of this size has been in the works for a while. It’s my hope to reach more readers and share with them the awesomeness of this historical paranormal epic!

Something About Sheritta #29

[image error]Q: Which of your novels can you imagine made into a movie?

A: I can imagine Silver Screen being made into a movie, but I don’t know if it would be nearly as exciting as my Loup-Garou Series. It’d be like another “Twilight Saga” deal, but it’s one of my best sellers, so there must be something worthy about it to be made into a movie. But honestly, I’d be terrified of handing over any of my books to a movie producer. I’d want to be involved with the process every step of the way so ensure they didn’t butcher the characters or plot. I hate when they do that to stories I adore.

The Outlaw Now Live!

It’s live! Go check out this Wild West Werewolf novel! Packed with action, feels, and thrills!

Now on Amazon!

[image error]The Wild West – 1875

Ben Myers escaped to the untamed west to find a new life away from the demons of his past. Instead, he finds himself in the middle of a conflict that his conscience won’t let him abandon. As a werewolf that can’t hide his true nature, he’s avoided by most of the folks he encounters. But one girl, desperate to find her family’s murderer, beseeches him for his help. She has no idea what he really is, and only knows that his unique talents can help her find the killer. But there’s more out on the lonely prairie than cattle rustlers and bitter natives to contend with.

When it becomes clear that this gang of outlaws are no ordinary men, Ben knows he’s in over his head. Convinced that he was the only werewolf in the wild west, he never thought he’d have to deal with a pack of his own kind who have adopted a twisted superior view of where they rank in the hierarchy of life. The only way he can bring them to justice is with the help of another older werewolf sheriff by the name of Bart Croxen, who’s been jaded and has his own beliefs about the nature of their kind. Closed in on both sides, Ben must choose what’s right and fair before a deadly shootout brings it all to a bloody end.

 

Something About Sheritta #28

[image error]Q: Do you write one book at a time or do you have several going at a time?

A: I’ve tried to write more than one book at a time and it was a nightmare. The progress was slow and I ended up getting a lot of details wrong or mixed up, such as names. So, from now on, I write one book at a time. It may be a slow way to get through my big ol’ file of “To Be Written” books, but it’s my method.