Irene Onorato's Blog, page 6
May 16, 2017
Beatrice Fishback Presents…
If you enjoyed Bethel Manor, you’re sure to like the Bethel Manor Reborn. Follow the continuing story of James Blackwell and Clair Shaw Blackwell as they travel the road of life together with a new baby to care for.
When trials come their way, will they be able to overcome them and remain strong in their faith and commitment to one another? Read Bethel Manor Reborn. You might be surprised at the outcome.
Set for release on May 29, 2017, Bethel Manor Reborn has already garnered 31 positive reviews on Amazon. Check it out and pre-order NOW:
[image error]
How I met this awesome author:
I met Beatrice Fishback through ACFW’s (American Christian Fiction Writers) online critique group and was immediately drawn to her chapters of Dying to Eat at the Pub, a cozy mystery she’d just finished writing, and is now available on all major online bookstores. I’d chuckled out loud at her prose and even shared it with my husband. In short, I fell in love with her style of writing.
[image error]
With eagerness, I asked if we could be critique partners, and we began sharing chapters of each other’s work. Our relationship was cemented by an in-person meeting in upstate New York at Pomodoro’s Italian Eatery in Catskill, New York where we ordered a 24” pepperoni pizza and did our best, unsuccessfully, to finish it off. Yes, twenty-four inches. Biggest pizza I’ve ever seen, and I’m from Bronx, New York.
[image error]
Since our meeting, Bea has written several books, with Bethel Manor Reborn being the latest in her repertoire.
Check out Bethel Manor Reborn. If you haven’t already read Bethel Manor, I suggest you buy it as well and read it first.
Beatrice Fishback has also authored several other books you may be interested in. Click on the book covers below and go to the Amazon page to read more about each book.
In short, I LOVE Bea Fishback’s writing. I think you will too.
[image error] [image error] [image error] [image error] [image error] [image error]
May 8, 2017
The Power of the Pen, Part II
[image error]
Several years ago I took a trip from Boston to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia with a connecting flight in London. The first plane landed in London around seven in the morning, right on schedule. I had put a lot of effort into making sure I wouldn’t have a lengthy layover at the airport and was happy that my next flight would leave in about two hours.
[image error]
However, as I dragged my bag to another terminal for the connection, I was notified that the flight from London to Malaysia would be delayed. The counter clerk couldn’t tell me how long the delay would be and didn’t have a reason for it. She gave me two meal tickets, redeemable at any restaurant in the airport, and told me to keep a close watch on the departure board for further flight information.
[image error]
My anticipated two-hour wait turned into eleven. Weary passengers started to board the plane at six in the evening. Like automatons, we filed into our seats and settled in for the flight.
[image error]
I enjoyed my few weeks in Malaysia and flew back home without incident or delay. But as days went by, I started to stew over that delay in London. No apologies, no explanation. To the airline, we were human cargo. At least, that’s how it felt to me. The obligatory meal tickets we were given had done little to relieve the stress and aggravation of the lengthy delay.
I wrote to the airline to voice my complaint and used a formula that had worked for me in the past:
Tell the company what I like about their service. If I’d used them many times, tell them I’ve been a loyal customer.
Politely voice my complaint.
Suggest a remedy. Tell the company what they can do to satisfy my grievance and restore my faith in their service.
In a nutshell, I told the airline that I’d flown with them many times without incident and had been pleased with their service. Next, I voiced my complaint about the delay and that we were never given a reason for it. For the grand finale, I suggested that since the delay had cost me nine additional hours of what precious little vacation time my employer had given me, that it would be nice if they gave me a free round-trip voucher good for any flight in the United States to help with my next vacation.
[image error]
Guess what? It didn’t take long before I received the voucher I’d asked for. Even I was surprised. It had been a long shot to ask for that much compensation, but I was downright pleased about the outcome.
Sometimes it’s true that you have not because you ask not.
Follow me on Facebook and Twitter
Find me on Goodreads and Amazon Author Page
May 2, 2017
The Power of the Pen
[image error]
Generators hummed all around us as my husband and I stood in the dark watching the storm from under the carport of the house we’d recently moved into. We’d lost power along with 140+ other houses in a long, narrow swatch of our neighborhood, while two blocks on either side of us streetlights burned bright and light shone from people’s windows. Later, we would learn from our neighbors that power outages were a common occurrence, and that multiple complaints had been lodged with the power company to no avail.
[image error]
After living in the house for several years, we’d experienced many power outages and had joined the ranks of generator owners. Some outages lasted hours, some days. All the while, the streets circling our strip of darkness stayed bright and cheerful.
[image error]I was sitting at my computer one day when I decided something had to be done. But what? Then, a bright idea hit me. If the power company didn’t care, surely there had to be a regulating governmental agency that could help motivate them to do something about our situation.
With a little research, I found the government office that regulated utilities and exchanged several letters with them via email. Not long after that, the power company replaced several major lines that serviced our neighborhood. We haven’t had a power outage since.
I’ve had several other successes wielding the power of the pen—once when an insurance company sent me in circles for a year, refusing to pay for a surgical procedure, and another time when they wouldn’t pay for a prescription. In both instances, a letter to the commissioner of insurance did the trick. The insurance company suddenly realized their “mistake,” honored their obligations and paid the bills immediately.
A written appeal to a higher authority can help remedy situations like those I’ve mentioned above. Or, on a softer note, a card tucked in a bouquet of flowers that expresses love or appreciation can brighten someone’s day. And who doesn’t love getting a hand-written letter from a friend or loved one?
[image error]
The pen is mighty, and with it you have the power to move mountains.
It was a dark well lit and air conditioned stormy night…
Click HERE to follow me on Facebook, and HERE to follow me on Twitter.
Click HERE to check out my books on Amazon.
April 4, 2017
Think Big, But Start Small
[image error]
My youngest son, Jesse, then eleven or so, was elated when we bought him an inexpensive paint set and an eight-by-ten mounted canvas. He couldn’t wait to get started on a project that would hold a place of preeminence on our living room wall.
We had often watched Bob Ross, an artist on PBS, who painted land and seascapes from start to finish, all within half-hour weekly segments, and made the endeavor look like a piece of cake. Everything looked simple. I’m sure that other viewers, like us, said to themselves, “I could do that!”
I asked Jesse, “So, what would you like to paint for your first project?”
[image error]
His reply? “I think I’ll start with something simple, like painting the Mona Lisa.”
What could I say? If Bob Ross could paint a beautiful vista in less than thirty minutes, who was I to say that Jesse couldn’t paint the Mona Lisa, a rather blah looking woman, if you ask me, over the course of a few days, a week, a month, or however long it took?
I said, “Have at it,” and left the artist to himself.
[image error]A few days later, Jesse was ready for the unveiling of his masterpiece.
Instead of the Mona Lisa, which he deemed just a tad too complicated, he had decided he’d use a box of Ritz Crackers as his model, and painted it instead.
Yeah, Ritz Crackers. Sorry, Mona.
It was rudimentary at best, but totally recognizable as a Ritz Cracker box. Sorta.
We can all laugh at the story. It is kind of funny how the vision devolved from the lofty, Louvre-worthy Mona Lisa to a lowly box of Ritz Crackers. But in reality, how many of us are guilty of rushing things? Things for which we might have a pound of talent, but not an ounce of training or preparation. Things that, if we’d just waited, studied, and truly gotten a grasp on, would have blossomed into something beautiful and extraordinary.
Whether your art is painting, drawing, sculpting, singing, dancing, or writing, you need to educate yourself in the craft. Study from the greats. See what made them successful. Model yourselves after them. See what the current trends are for bringing your masterpiece into the public eye.
Is the Mona Lisa beyond your abilities? Draw the Ritz Cracker box instead. Paint the Coca-Cola logo, or sketch Captain Crunch. Write a short story or a poem about the place you lived as a child. Paint the living room walls, then one bedroom at a time. After that, paint the eaves, fascia boards, and shutters of your house.
Start anywhere. But START. Think big, but start small. Bite off small, manageable tasks. Master those, then go on to bigger, better, badder things.
Make your world come alive with your art. Even if you never make a red cent with it.
[image error]
If you’ve enjoyed this blog, you may enjoy my inspirational romance novels. Check me out at AMAZON.COM.
March 23, 2017
The Art of the Kiss
The art of the kiss
[image error]
Every romance novel you’ve ever read, with few exceptions, starts out with several things in common. The couple meets. There is an undeniable attraction. Eventually, there’s a first kiss; an important kiss that sets the tone for the rest of the hero and heroine’s relationship.
It is the author’s job to get this initial smooch just right. And, with the help of a popular Internet star, I hope to show you what goes through the author’s mind before their fictional hero and heroine lock lips for the very first time.
The Internet star I’m speaking of is April, a fifteen-year-old giraffe who is expecting a calf any day at the Animal Adventure Park in Harpursville, NY. This will be the fifth calf for April, and the first for Oliver, her five-year-old mate. (Uh-oh. Does this make April a cougar?) A live-feed camera lets visitors view the April’s every move, and several of my Facebook friends seem enthralled with monitoring the long-necked expectant mother.
So, without further ado, here are some things an inspirational romance author like me considers when formulating that first kiss…
[image error]
Here, whether initiated by the hero or heroine, the invitation for the kiss is waaay too forward. Eyes closed, neck extended, the tongue… Whoa, Nellie. Nix that idea.
[image error]
Next we have the lips-only kiss. If anyone is going to “practice” this one, it’s going be the heroine. We’ll call her April. April figures tonight’s the night the hero will finally kiss her. So, a little rehearsal is in order.
[image error]
But what if the hero is a bit more passionate. Or, maybe he’s the aggressive type. What kind of kiss then? April steps up her game and gets a little feistier with her “practice” kiss.
Any way you look at it, the author has to describe that first kiss in a way that will make the reader feel that she is there, feeling the winter wind, the summer breeze, or the grass underneath her toes as the hero delivers what can henceforth never be a “first” again.
Therein lies the daunting task of a romance writer.
November 7, 2016
Dying to Eat at the Pub
Dying to Eat at the Pub
A Jim and Dotty Weathervane Cozy Mystery
by Beatrice Fishback
Dying to Eat at the Pub , is set in a small English village adjacent to a U.S. military base. It’s the perfect place for Americans Jim and Dotty Weathervane’s leisurely life after Jim’s retirement from the U.S. armed forces. This backdrop of mixed cultures is ripe for misunderstandings and perhaps even murder.
Join the gregarious Dotty and her husband Jim, along with a slew of locals who try their hand at solving two deaths: one an American ex-serviceman and the other a beautiful woman named Amy.
ON SALE NOW! Click HERE for more information on purchasing.
Connect with Bea:
twitter.com/BeaFishback
https://www.facebook.com/bea.fishback
https://www.facebook.com/Beasattitudes
October 30, 2016
PTSD and the Forever War
[image error]For as long as I could remember, my WWII veteran father worked the 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift and slept during the day. My parent’s bedroom was right next to mine, and I derived great comfort from hearing my father snoring in a sound sleep. I say I derived great comfort from it because there were times that the sounds I heard coming from his room broke my heart and made me cry.
[image error]Sleep often brought nightmares that transported my father back to the battlefields of Europe. On countless occasions, I heard him calling out in German, “Halt! Hände hoch!” (Halt, hands up) or shouting other things I didn’t understand. He would thrash around in bed, breathing hard as if running or fighting. Sometimes he cried out in French.
Pain. Fear. Bravery. Anger. I could almost feel the emotional strain of war, the angst of uncertainty, and the will to survive. Most heart wrenching of all was when he would weep uncontrollably and repeat his buddy’s name over and over, then sob even more.
I knew that story well. His friend and battle buddy had been shot in the back. The bullet twisted through his body and spilled his entrails out his belly. The man died on my father’s lap while my father cried, “Why? Oh, God, why?”
My father fought a forever war. Thankfully, in recent years we’ve learned to recognize the symptoms of PTSD and actually do something to help those who are affected by it. If you’re reading this and you have a friend or loved one who is fighting their own forever war, please encourage them to get help.
Today would have been my father’s 98th birthday. In his honor, I would like to salute a few family members who have served in the armed forces and let them know how much I love them and appreciate their service:
My husband – group picture, third man from the left, and my brother Tommy.
Thank you for visiting today. If you enjoyed this article, you may also be interested in my next novel, More Than a Soldier. It’s a heartwarming story about Hank Fleming, a former spec. ops soldier who suffers from PTSD, but finds a way to leave the pain of the past behind and find peace of heart.
September 29, 2016
We Weep With Those Who Weep
Today is the first anniversary of the death of Jim Lindsay, my good friend Nancy’s soulmate. I hadn’t realized it had been this long until I saw her post on Facebook. A post that brought me once again to tears.
To me, it seems like yesterday that news of Jim’s terrible illness and subsequent death reached me through a series of texts from a mutual friend. But the sorrow I see in Nancy’s eyes, and the pain in her voice every time she speaks his name lets me know that to her, Jim has been gone for what seems like an eternity.
Truthfully, I didn’t know Jim very well. The first time I met him, he was living in a genuine teepee while working with my husband at a refuel outage at a nuclear plant. I found him to be an extremely fascinating man.
Jim smoked a pipe, knew how to tie all sorts of knots, live on a shoestring, and loved his wilderness cabin in Montana where he enjoyed beautiful vistas of forested mountains from his back porch. And of course, he loved Nancy.
We weep with those who weep because love binds our hearts in inexplicable ways and causes a measure of their pain to become our own. This is part of friendship, of family. Of love.
Jim Lindsay
November 24, 1951-
September 29, 2015
We celebrate your life, Jim. Thanks for sharing it with us.
September 12, 2016
The Stink Bugs of Life
My double purple trumpet flowers are by far the most beautiful feature of my little garden. This morning I thought I’d spied a rare triple bloom about to open and pushed aside two stalks of leaves and flowers to take a closer look.
Without warning, a stink bug from hell dive-bombed past my ear with a sound like that of a chinook helicopter, and another one took off, crossing my field of vision just inches from my face. Auuuggghhh, I screamed, lunatic style, then flailed my arms around my head while high-stepping it, double-time, back into the house.
It wasn’t the first time a bug had chased me from my garden. Probably won’t be the last. The shame of it is, stink bugs don’t bite or sting, and I know I shouldn’t be afraid of them.
It makes me wonder how many stink bugs I’ve allowed to come between me and things I want to enjoy?
I recently took a trip to Montana to visit a friend who lives near the Bitterroot Mountains. Nancy’s a good driver, but the fear of heights kept me from enjoying the breathtaking views as we drove the rural mountain roads through clean, fresh air and Ponderosa Pines. I’m calling STINK BUG on that fear.
Some fears I have are many years old. Like the fear of (go ahead and laugh) the dark, especially the fear of dangling my feet off the bed in the blackness of the night.
But other fears are relatively new – or at least more pronounced than they used to be. Like the fear of criticism or rejection. As a writer, I’m elated when my novels get good reviews on Amazon or Goodreads, and brought to a low place by bad or mediocre ones. This fear has no basis. My self worth isn’t determined by what other people think of me or my work. I’m throwing the STINK BUG flag on that fear.
I’m sick and tired of the myriad of unmerited fears that make me run off screaming with arms flailing and feet stomping. So from now on, when I go to the garden, I’m going to stand my ground. And if one of those darn six-legged monsters even thinks of looking at me crooked, I’m going to yell STINK BUG and keep looking for that triple bloom if it kills me.
Or, gulp… Run.
September 5, 2016
A Writer’s Fear of Plagiarism
A funny thing happened after midnight. Jim was tossing and turning, so I went to the bedroom across the hall to sleep. As I lay there, I kept thinking that maybe the song I’d written for a chapter I’d penned that day wasn’t really an original from my brain, but the lyrics from a song from the Miss Potter movie. Was I plagiarizing without realizing it? I had to find out.
I grabbed my phone and was going to research the song on YouTube, but was afraid the light from it would brighten the room and also spill out into the hallway and into Jim’s bedroom. Both our doors were open. Too lazy to get up and close the door, I sat in the bed and tossed the covers over me like a tent and listened to “When You Taught Me How to Dance” from Miss Potter. With the volume turned super-low, I strained to hear the music.
Meanwhile, in the master bedroom, Jim thought he heard music and wondered where it was coming from. So, he got up and peeked out the blinds to the backyard. Nothing. Then, he figured maybe the neighbor was playing the radio and came to my room to look out my blinds.
He said he stopped in the doorway, saw a musical, glowing mound in the middle of my bed, and almost laughed.
“What are you doing?” Jim said.
I jumped out of my skin at the sound of his voice, let out a scream, and threw off the covers — then screamed again when his dark figure stood against the backdrop of white mini blinds.
The good news? I didn’t steal the lyrics after all.
