Chele Pedersen Smith's Blog, page 2

Confessions of an Inner Writing Genie

Have you ever had to craft your own obituary?
When you go to school for a writing degree, sometimes you have to write the oddest things.

When I first started college at age 19, I majored in Communications so I took Newswriting and the required English composition. I also joined the campus newspaper for fun.

In Newswriting, it turned out we could get extra credit if we wrote pieces for the school paper. Score! I was already in. But turned out he didn't count feature writing, only black & white news reporting. I was bummed. But it didn't diminish the Chronicle beats I had, especially covering two soap opera stars appearing for a campus event!

In news class we eventually got to the dreaded topic of obits. I decided no way was I going to the Pearly Gates in a normal, ordinary fashion. I wasn't going to write my own fate with something that could really happen in everyday life. So, bouncing off my obsession with my dream place, Australia, I typed away at my demise--from a koala bear bite!

Now this didn't go over well with my straight-news-block-inverted-pyramid professor. And I felt bad for the poor guy sitting in front who read it aloud when we had to swap papers!

After scoring a C in this class, I later learned that my prof was a former magazine writer! What the what--No fair! That's creative feature writing right there, and what I kept trying to turn boring news blocks into.

When I returned to college recently in middle-age and was nominated for journalism by my English 102 professor, I was honored, but also on the fence. First, I made the cut into my goal program-- dental hygiene-- for the semester after next, and TWO, I was worried my creativity would get snuffed out by in those strait-laced news formats. But after talking to the journalism professor, who was my favorite from a previous summer English class, she assured me there was plenty of room for feature writing.

That last semester before dental began, the idea of taking a writing course sparked excitement. It hadn't occurred to me before that I could take creative writing for fun-- in college! I only had a computer pre-req that semester, so I weighed the idea of journalism vs creative writing and found myself drawn to the more freeing side. Turns out I found my word-genie mothership! Professor V and her writing prompts was so ingenious, while some were downright challenging. It was a place I felt at home.
I was sad when my pre-req path ended and my journey-- and whole purpose of going back to school in the first place-- was about to begin.
I also had to put away my spy romance, Behind Frenemy Lines. I'd been working on it between semester breaks since I started college in 2014. I had just tied up all the loose ends and wanted to dive into editing, revising, and detailing, I did not want to study teeth, even though I loved them too.

After a week in the dental hygiene program, my restless writing soul wanted to escape and so -- I did! But now what? All my hard work was wasted deep in science requirements! I considered my back up--Health Information Management which took all the same pre-requisites, but the medial billing program was completely online. Hmm, not my strong suit, but looking back, maybe I should've given it a go anyway. It did however spark a what if-- and it's blossomed into my newest rom-com, which is almost done. So, stay tuned for that!

Well, after meeting with advisors and musing over majors, I decided to let writing win. I landed back into Communications where I began some thirty years before. Now here I was again, at 53. That first semester, I took both journalism and creative writing 2. And Professor Goldstein kept her word. Journalism covered more than just those Whos, Wheres, Whats, Whens and Hows.

Magically, the Communications degree branched off into concentrations--and voila--I graduating in 2019 with a liberal arts degree in Professional Writing!

I even took Journalism 2, because it was an independent study and fit in with missing the first two weeks of class due to a rare cruise opportunity with Aunt Linda in 2018.

As a J2 student, I was assistant editor of the school paper and better yet, turned out there was a fun NYC media conference where we stayed in the posh Marquis hotel right on Times Square!

We had plenty of down time that long weekend so the editor Brianna, Prof Goldstein, her friend Sheila, and I went out to dinner one night, and climbed the spiraling stairs in awe of Strand Bookstore. The next day after seminars, Bri and I meandered to MOMA, on the way grabbing a slice of pizza, then happened upon NBC 30 Rock and Magnolia Bakery cupcakes. To further serendipity, Modern Museum of Art had the original Van Gogh's Starry Night (plus lots of famous works) and was FREE Friday! Oh, and Brianna just happened to be wearing her Starry Night socks!
Later that night, I saw the fabulous musical, Margaritaville, in our hotel for just $50.
(To my delight, it was equal parts dialogue.)

In a small way, this Big Apple weekend fulfilled another author fantasy-- a writer living large in NYC.

Oh, and my husband is thinking our next vacation might be Australia, once the world is back to normal again. I'm excited and a tad nervous--guess I better not pet any koalas.

What dreams have come true for you?

A Path of Blessed Breadcrumbs

Have you found your miracle, yet? Just take a look and listen around. Sometimes you'll need a magnifying glass while other times the faithful fluke falls from the sky and hits you in the face.

I collect awe-inspiring experiences in a jar--by writing about them! When my dad called from Heaven a month after he died, I freaked--mostly in a good way. I knew it was too remarkable not to share. Thank you, Jesus, for patching him through!

And that is how The Pearly Gates Phone Company burst forth. It's comprised of other mini-miracles--33 crazy coincidences, just- in- time rescues and answered prayers, a precious unrequited crush, dream messages, forever and furever love, loss, and laughable moments. Open to signs, I believe if we keep our senses alert, God grants us clues. They might not be as dramatic as a lightning bolt, but isn't it the little things that have the greatest impact?

The same is true for opportunities. Want to accomplish a life-long dream, travel, or dabble in a new career? Look for keys that open doors. It could be anything from an obvious offer to getting your pinky toe in the door, but take it!

Pounce on stepping stones. Leap at chances!
I always mused about being a wedding photographer. So when my brother got married in 1996, as the family shutterbug fanatic, I professionally presented myself and voila--I was the lovebirds' official memento maker. I borrowed a great book from the library and did the same when photo ops came my way after my friend, Lynn, asked me to shoot her son's wedding and later, her niece's Bat Mitzvah!

I meandered the same library when I lost a dental job in 2004 and found a rogue UConn pharmacy tech pamphlet splayed on top of a cabinet. It lead me to 12-week class and new career--one in which I've returned to last summer.

Embrace serendipity! It's how my middle-aged cousin and I met our long-time teen idol, Donny Osmond, after-hours in Worcester 2016! Well, us and about a dozen other grown groupies. Swooning, I went in for a hug, surprising myself. He held on just as tight. Giddy, suddenly I was thirteen again! This remarkable moment wouldn't have happened if a set of small venue/early evening conditions hadn't aligned perfectly and I'm grateful God gave me the gumption to carry out the idea the clues dangled.

I always wanted a degree for a personal achievement, so after reluctantly relocating to another state for my husband's job, the close proximity of a community college was the needed nudge, even though I dreaded taking math again! But guess what? I survived and did well, graduating last May with a liberal arts degree in professional writing. If I hadn't left my comfort zone, I probably wouldn't have noticed the blessings awaiting discovery.

Last year, I also set up my own little whirlwind book tour! The courageous plunge of asking led to a Barnes and Noble book signing, and then another! Luckily, the store in my area loves supporting local authors! Who would've thunk it? And thanks to a barber friend, her spying paid off alerting me to other events at libraries, a craft shop, and town festivals, while I kept my peepers peeled and jumped on a post about a weekly farmers market and a fun, fall pumpkin festival! 2019 was quite the year for my author life and I'm extremely thankful!

Another miracle in itself occurred when my "winning ticket" of all writing dreams was finally drawn--getting into Guideposts Magazine! My hummingbird happenstance appears in the June/July 2019 issue! After twenty years of cranking out and submitting spiritual nonfiction to no avail and plenty of rejection letters, the timing was all in God's hands!
I uploaded the story--and many others--three years prior so I wasn't even trying when the editor called! I had already included it in my book. The surreal reality of a lifelong dream coming true still has me pinching myself and giving thanks to the Lord!

If you have the magazine or go to Guideposts.org, you can find the version, "Faith with Feathers" in the "What Prayer Can Do" section online under May 2019.

With God's help, we can make life successes happen, big or small. Just like His miracles. Have you had any lately?

Tickled Pink

I've always loved Erma Bombeck. My mom was a fan in the 70s so as a teen, I saw her stacks on the end table and devoured them too. Her humorous style inadvertently seeped into my own like some sort of osmosis.

So when I was stocking up for a long flight in 2005, I spotted Life's a Stitch: The Best of Contemporary Women's Humor in a bookstore. I knew I had to have it. It's packed to the seams with comedic bits, flash fiction and longer pieces, comic sketches, and cartoon panels. My favorite comic strip, For Better or For Worse by Lynn Johnston, even makes a few appearances!

What a hoot revisiting Bombeck's work again as well as the other clever contributions. I wish we were bombarded more by Erma --there's only one piece and sadly it's a shame we lost her too soon--but it's a riot discovering other authors and comedy writers like Delia Ephron, Amy Krouse Rosenthal, Kathy Najimy, Anna Quindlen, Yeardley Smith, Judith Viorst, Cathy Guisewite, Marta Kauffman and a plethora of others.

A compilation from the 90s, the sections are divided into the life cycles, stages, and mood swings we ladies go through as well as poking fun at the fellas, but underneath the laughs shine a touching caboodle of truth.

I especially liked the "Travel Diary" of Iceland by M Sweeney Lawless, where each dark, cold day runs into the next in a satirical account of the same ole same ole, and there's one called "Bullwinkle," by Susan B. Murray where her mother's sex ed drawings of a uterus look suspiciously like Bullwinkle while the bunched up male parts resemble a subway map of the New York City boroughs.

I also got a kick out of the Totally Bitchin' Babes chapter with "The Montana Nine," by Christine Lavin, who has several pieces in the book. During a hotel gig, Lavin had a run-in with this wise gang of feisty senior citizens out on their annual Girls Trip. The results are motivating.

I also chuckled at a chapter called, The Estrogen Files which contains the side-splitting bit, "Rosebud," by Jane Read Martin. Written as a sitcom, the snappy dialogue leads to a genius punchline! Be careful what you dish to friends on the pedicure thrones. The Korean nail ladies lingo is a hilarious echo during the convo.

As a fellow female writer and humor fan, this book is a valuable find on my shelf. Embracing my femme fatale--and funny side--has me jonesing for the honor of such inclusion in an anthology someday.

As much as I love this book, seven years after owning "Life's a Stitch," I forgot about this gem until we moved and joyfully rediscovered the hidden treasure while unpacking. I read every tale cover-to-cover this time, well, in random order, but when initially perusing the pages, I read only a few selections that piqued my interest.

Now, here it is seven years later once more, and I just joined a women's writer's Facebook group. Suddenly this book flashed into my mind. Seems celebrating the sisterhood is a seven year itch kind of thing, so I'm diving in yet again.

My Qrazy Qwerty Quests

There's nostalgia for a writer having survived the typewriter jungle. First the heavy hunt-and-peck pounding of metal keys on the non-electrics, muddling amok setting margins and tabs, blindly learning the keyboard in fear of making a mistake or booby-trapping a finger.

And boy, did I goof plenty, mending errors with the painted precision of liquid Wite-Out, blowing it dry and waiting to resume my alphabet fury, or the careful aligning of correction tape, anything to avoid yanking out the whole works and winding up from scratch.

In junior high, I'd pedal to the Navy housing library, a pack of typing paper somehow clamped down in the basket with school work and stories. The lone manual model awaited with aura aglow, sitting royally on its throne. Somehow always available, no line waiting, I'd scoot in and the delightful yet agonizing tap dance would begin.

Luckily in 1980/81, my stepdad bought my mother an electric version; mellow yellow with a hum as smooth as its softer-touch keys. I'm grateful for the upgrade, especially since we moved across Orlando far from the land of library. With this new "technology," we still needed the old school correction tools, now adding a cool, circular eraser wearing a gladiator brush to the collection.

The sole reason Mom got the contraption was to crank up her mad skills when she re-entered the job force. As a teen, I was honored when she asked for my humble, hand-scrawled story booklets for practice; it like offering paper nectar to the Greek typing gods.

As Mom got her zip back, a few of my stories shone with a professional glean, but better still, it meant she recognized my passionate hobby, and in turn, acknowledged that the writer in me existed! Her hand in these literary purses make them all the more precious today. I wish she could've seen the millennial steppingstones that made my dreams come true.

I'm almost ashamed to say I nearly took over Mom's machine in high school, {and beyond} keeping it on my bedroom desk-- where ironically, she sat transforming my work as I perched on my bed. So she must've approved the takeover.
During my turn at the keys, as I voluntarily polished schoolwork to the next level, the perfectionist in me awoke, spinning with OCD. The hard work paid off, but in a way, it also became a weapon for self-competition, especially for a TV script scene in journalism.
When Mr. Jones wrote, "Be neater please!" on my sloppy handwritten character chart, it irked me.
Miffed, I muttered, "Well, I'll show him" and I did, as well as myself-- by painstakingly tapping out tricky pages (and re-dos) of camera directions mingling with dialogue and action.
Hello A+ and Galaxy O'Jordan, who I created for the role and then pulled forward in 2014 to star in my spy romance, Behind Frenemy Lines.

It was on Mom's sunflower set that my writing emerged and matured. At 19 or 20, I saw Romancing the Stone's fictitious writer [Kathleen Turner] typing as she thought out loud. An epiphany hit:

That's what real writers do!

So I stopped scribbling and began typing as I went. (Also a great remedy for ink stains and hand cramps!)
But how daunting staring at the blank scroll and extracting words deep inside my muse's soul. There were lots of false starts and balled up paper, but it became a second nature habit amazingly fast. Now with the ease of a computer, it's how I write books today!
(along with idea journals, messy envelope jotting, and Post It notes.)

At 21, I banged out my first manuscript --and got my first rejection! "No" after "no," I persevered, licking my wounds and manila mailers as I sent it off to every YA market I could find. Shortly after, I married a Navy man and moved away, but thanks to forwarding addresses, I kept up the quest briefly before taking a break.

Two years as a newlywed, Sears finally granted us our first credit card in '88, and our pioneer purchase was----an electric typewriter!
It was another thrill in feeling like a real writer. Gray and compact, the boxy plastic model was quieter and lighter than my mother's. It fit fabulously in its fold-up case, complete with a handle, perfect for portability and setting up on our kitchen table.

Amid various jobs, I continued flinging off stories, gaining more rejections under my belt. but I kept my little gems. They shined just for me--until 2018, when I dusted off my folder and revised and lengthened the fantasy tale, Parlor Game which appears in my time-twisting book, The Epochracy Files.
A few years later, I revised and lengthened it and now shines on its own with a beautiful cover.

Punching my timecard along with the keys, I paid my dues. The typewriter tribulations make computer use even sweeter--but it was an acquired taste. Somehow, I skipped the era of word processors and leapt into the early 90s windowless world of DOS. But reveling in the rewards of computer ease wasn't easy. The deliciousness had to marinate, first heaving myself over frustrating hurdles. Every new technology is a hair-pulling innovation, testing marriages and catapulting cerebral levels, finally squeezing binary brain juice into a cup. Once mastered, we can drink and soak it all in!

Thankfully, the QWERTY keyboard survived the metamorphosis, even if the # number/pound sign changed its name and became a demanding little diva.

But isn't technology a sort of Schrodinger's cat, a yin and yang of old and new mixed with love and hate? It cannot exist without the other. Yet while basking in appreciation and relief of the newfangled conveniences, a faded part of me still yearns for yesteryear.

When I dig up old stories and essays from my dresser drawer, I'm amazed at how well the typing appears. Except for the bad habit of riding too long on bald ink ribbons, there's hardly any typos.
Remarkable! I know I was far from perfect. In fact, typing classes were torturous Mount Everests! As my own worst critic, even I'm impressed when I examine my work, making the extra effort worth it. But I'm baffled. How was this possible?

Was survival mode stringing typers through the time tunnel? Did not having the safety net of a delete button, an infinite paperless screen, and the ease of 'cut and paste' scare us skillful? Did knowing we pretty much had one shot to get it right force us to walk the tightrope without looking down? Or aghast-- did all those dreadful typing drills actually pay off? (Shhh! Don't tell the teachers.)

My refreshed futuristic time capsule/diary mystery, Chronicle of the Century was one of the original booklets my mother typed back then called The Diary of Janet Marsh. Taking place in a peculiar, troubled world of 2078, a school assembly cracks open a crate from a century past. As the principals pull out a few trinkets, an ancient clunky typewriter is among them. I was happy to conjure up the secret longing in my heart with this passage. I think Principal Rehtom says it best:

“Yes, the ribbon is dull and it takes some muscle to pound a key, but ah, it is nostalgic,” Mrs. Rehtom waxed. "What a feeling it is to shake hands with the past. There’s something about the sound—tap and punch, tap and punch—and the bell when the carriage returns—oh, it’s like a heartbeat to the stories of another time.”

Did you travel through the typewriter time machine too? Do you hold a fondness for these old word makers?

Learning to Cry at Movies

Since most of us are tucked into our "quarantine routine" and watching more Netflix, Amazon Prime, cable, and such, I need to confess: I'm an emotional chicken. There. I said it. I’d rather laugh than cry, but sometimes they cross streams like when I watched the hilarious episode of "The Goldbergs" as Barry attempted umpteenth sculptures of his girlfriend, each one more hideous than before. My daughter walked in from school and witnessed me convulsed in tears and giggles, gasping for breath, pointing at the T.V. for explanation. The reservoir has to leak out some how. It’s healthy—and necessary! I probably should cry more often because doesn’t it feel great afterward?

The problem is I feel too much and as a writer, it's a good thing--after all, my books have the feels-- but as a spectator not so much. Watching the news, certain commercials, movies or T.V. in mixed company--no way!!
(Even puppies and kittens on "Too Cute!" finding their forever home give me pangs for their mama.)

I love Pixar, but they sure know how to get us, don't they? Plunging an arrow into our souls, wringing us out to dry. I can muster through most of their creations, but I still have trouble staying in the room at the end of "Toy Story 3," but hey, I'm getting better and lasting longer. And it's probably no surprise "Inside Out" is not on my list of favorites. As a seasoned Navy brat, memories flooded back when Riley got weepy introducing herself as the new girl. I nearly lost it myself. And I admit to wanting to flick the blue girl off the screen (she was so annoying!) but as Joy points out, we can't have happiness without sadness.

Crying isn't anything to be ashamed of --except for me. There's no lady-like sniffles or a lone tear running prettily down my cheek. No. I full out ugly cry and sound like a wailing moose. Is there a mute button for that?

My sobbing stigma goes back to early 80s in high school when I was watching "The Thornbirds" in our den-- alone. My stepdad happened to walk through just as a sad part sprung tears and he teased me because of it. Nothing mean or hurtful, just joking around, but ever since, I plugged the public dam on cinematic waterworks.

So, the avoidance began. Internal picket signs immediately protest red flags. No dog flicks, especially golden retrievers! Losing our old guy seven years ago was the worst, so no, not touching that. Not even in private.
Ditto cranked to the max for big rescue themes, no matter how powerful and beautiful God's message is. A pounding heart, tightening throat, anxiety teetering me off my seat, my body will do anything to avoid the river cascading down my face. It's just too much for me. I know others enjoy it, and they are lucky, but those are the type of stories I'd rather avoid--or on rare occasions read alone, hiding someplace safe with my box of Puffs Plus,

The same goes for terminally ill teens/young adults/best friends-- no matter how cute and funny the rest of the movie looks. I fell for that in "Beaches", "Steel Magnolias" and "Phenomenon", and the "emotional ninjas hacked my heart to pieces. It's one thing going in knowing a tear-jerker is lurking, but when a movie is toted as a "Feel Good of the Year" and a character is plucked off out of nowhere, No Thanks! I just can't handle it. Ahem, "Pay it Forward," I'm talking to you for that gut-ripping 2001 surprise. : (

So when my teen daughter begged me to take her to "The Fault in My Stars" a couple years ago, I was like "No way." But then it did look inviting and I like John Green's writing, so I thought, "What the heck. We're supposed to face our fears! I can get through this! It's only a movie. It's fake, and mostly funny and I"ll push through the tears if one of them dies. Everyone else will be misty too so who cares, right?"

The tickets were bought. No turning back now, So we settled in with popcorn and drinks. My daughter cries easily. She has a sensitivity issue and has always just let the tears flowed, even in school. I envy her this freedom! As we chuckled at the screen, I knew she didn't have any inhibitions, but I had an uneasy shield up, waiting for the sad shoe to drop, As the cute couple flirted and took steps to make their dreams come true, I began to relax-- a little--but plot twist! The characters were sick but here they were braver than me taking chances out in the world and all I had to do was survive watching a darn good film!

As the end neared, of course the lip trembling heartache hit the screen, but not in the way I expected. But who likes predictability?
I exhaled to control my breathing, loosening my throat, shaking off the switch, but the tears came anyway--and that crazy sobbing sound. But whew...short lived, and someone in the audience clapped at the end, which derailed the tears into a snorting laugh-hybrid.

Slowly I am braving emotional subjects. We returned for John Green's "Paper Towns" and we had a good time. Me, half-guarded waiting for a tragedy to strike, but happily none did! Last spring, {April 2019} I finally ordered and cracked open "The Shack" after my Aunt Linda nudged me a thousand times, ever since the 90s, I think. : ) I am so glad I did. Only one part made me cry and I sure loved how they depicted hanging out with Jesus in his casual friendliness, carpentering away on a precious surprise. Now I wonder if I could handle the movie...

Maybe once theaters open again, I will don my Rocky boxing gloves and tackle more watery-eyed numbers. They say charity starts at home, so yesterday, thanks to my friend Lisa's recommendation, my heart melted for the 2000 rom-com, "Return to Me." But I must confess I scurried past the brief sad part and the rest was endearingly funny.

So here's hoping everyone is staying safe, healthy, and treasuring down time. Let's pop some corn and do some surfing-- hanging ten remote-style. Just don't lose your tissues.

img src=https://www.pinterest.com/pin/5255842..." height="100"
Are you braver than I am? Do you cry at movies? What kind of films do you like?

Heated Debate

Most winters in my early Connecticut childhood in the late '60s, living in chilly three-family apartment houses chipped with lead paint, a radiator hissed. Keeping us toasty, the dingy-white stand-alone stood bunched like an accordion, a business-like observer with folded arms steaming strategically in every room.

These ugly eyesores gifted warm welcomes, a surprising contrast to the graceful glass knobs granting entry to beds, closets, and bath. Yet the gleaming facets would soon reflect something haunting, and to this day, crystal-clear door turners creep me out.

The Victorian ornate handle aversion is likely tied to the hide-and-seek apartment hunts, especially after the incident about to unfold. Perhaps it's the spooky shells of vacant houses, warped wood, echoing eras and the scent of ghostly cats and hardships past, or the eerie logic of a preschooler the season we didn't have enough heat.

My folks pleaded with the elderly landlady upstairs.
"Please," I'm sure they said. "Please turn it up. We have a baby and a three-year-old."

Most landlords-- and laws-- would agree it was crucial we didn't freeze. I'm not sure of the adult reasons why, if payment was an issue on either end, or if the thing was broken, or if the pleas escalated into angry demands, but the cranky fuel queen refused to budge.

In the meantime, Mom likely bundled us up in sweatshirts, flannel footsy sleepers, and coats. We probably slept snug under an igloo of blankets because we somehow survived unscathed.

But in the heat of the thermostatic battle, the landlady died!

As I wove myself below the knees of my parents and aunts, the shocking tidbits floated down as a stretcher took the lady away. And even though I hadn't yet gone to school or grasped death, I summed up the situation in black and white, blurting out to anyone who asked,

"She died because she didn't give us any heat!"

The grownups laughed, thinking this was adorable; I imagine it was a cross between a chuckle and an appalling gasp with hands over their mouths. Maybe some even thought I was smart. In my new budding-- albeit naive-- wisdom, it was obvious. God punished her for being stingy.

It's still a mystery how I knew of a 'fire and brimstone' deity at my age, one who doled out harsh deals for bad deeds. We didn't go to church and I wasn't formally educated yet. Was it television, books, or was I so fresh from Heaven, I knew this innately? : )

What a remarkable leap of thinking for a little tyke--a child new to the world recognizing "good versus bad" and calling people out on it! It's the basis of most stories and a way for kids to sort through the confusing universe we live in, learning what is expected of them, and where they stand. I wish I had that childlike confidence back--the innocent ease of being yourself, saying whatever is on your mind, not worrying what others will think.

Antique glass doorknobs still give me the shivers, especially when we creaked up a narrow staircase in an empty 1800s half-converted farm house for sale a few years back. But one thing that's evolved is a relationship with a fair and forgiving God; one who loves us so much, no matter what, He sent his cool, laid-back son, Jesus, to die for us so we will never be alone, gifting us an everlasting life.

Regardless, we should always be kind to one another, and not withhold basic human needs. In addition, we can keep someone warm with a smile, loving word, and friendship over coffee or hot chocolate--or hey, why not both?

Deck the Halls with a Decadent Murder Mystery

Sugar and spice sleuthing by Dunbarton's legacy good-girl Alicia Dunbar-Mallory, leads to a case of too many cooks when a diva TV chef gets knocked down a few pegs--permanently-- during a gingerbread competition in Gingerbread to Die For by Valerie Tate.

But who would kill charming cuisine queen Davina Dove in the idyllic town of Dunbarton, Ontario?

That's what killer-instinct mayor Wright wants to know, and since nothing is as it appears in " reality" television, Wright, aka "Dragon Lady" demands that Alicia and her lawyer husband, Chris, figure it out before the town's "Hallmark reputation" is marred with yet another manslaughter.

Alicia's plate is full taking care of her horses, a lost pup, co-coordinating the gingerbread gala, and worrying about hosting an upcoming Christmas feast, but she's daunted more by roasting her first turkey (--same here!--) than solving the case, so the spitfire snoop sets up her "murder board" and casually cross-examines the contestants and crew amid starry-eyed fangirling. With all the backstage drama that had been going on, anyone is suspect--even Alicia's mother who has entered her self-proclaimed, "gingerbread to die for!"

I read this during a Christmas trip and was delighted to see the town's gossip chain, "The Silver Hair Brigade," make an appearance, probably as happy as Chris devouring his favorite finger sandwiches as he and Alicia take in all the details the ladies spill at high tea. The posse of old gals are a hoot, dressed as assorted Agatha Christie actresses and they never miss a trick or the whereabouts of anyone meandering Dunbarton. What a fun brood! I can just picture them with their colorful descriptions. And their comical, nosy ways always come in handy for Alicia's accidental mysteries, which show no signs of stopping even though it's the holiday season. And that's a good thing because Tate's cozy whodunits are a joy to read, especially at Christmastime, but no matter what time of year.

Pajama Page Party Palooza

My heartstrings are bookmarks. I wax nostalgia and get emotionally attached to covers and certain books, especially the ones binding me to my kids. I recently bought (and then won a signed copy!) of A Halloween Party by Tina Ruiz because I love Halloween and cute children's books to boot. Ruiz's delightful story and Ishika Sharma's adorable animations remind me of the good ole days of snuggling up with my kids and our favorite picks.

We loved "Big Pumpkin" by Erica Silverman with its rhythmic "we pulled and we tugged and we pulled" as a witch, bat, mummy, ghost, and a vampire takes turns trying to budge a stubbornly huge pumpkin out of the ground. Oddly, my toddler girl was obsessed with a cool pop-up book her grandfather sent called "Skeleton Closet," by Steven Guarnaccia, which was both creepy and funny, and did not hold up long with each repeated peek-a-BOO.

The reading cuddles began with my son's chunky baby books and other assorted titles I'll mention later, but most notably his love for Thomas the Tank Engine when he was two. But Family Reading night really took off in kindergarten when he was learning to read. "Go Dog Go" by P.D. Eastman and "Put me in the Zoo" by Robert Lopshire were his first solo flights!
My kids are eight years apart so my daughter was born into an established library of love, She learned her colors quickly at age two with Veggie Tales "Junior's Colors," and her reading launch at five was Dr. Seuss' "Ten Apples up on Top." She kept checking it out of the classroom library even though we owned a copy.
We were drawn to "Clifford" and "The Berenstain Bears", which just recently my "kids" swore were the "Bernsteen" Bears.
Then there was "Goodnight Gorilla" with the animals sneaking into the zookeeper's house at night. The drawings of more and more people peeping out their windows each time cracked us up! I introduced Mrs. Piggle Wiggle from my childhood with her crazy cures for misbehaved young'ins. And our top go-to for awhile was "Mickey's Haunted House." After reading it night after night, I began to go rogue, ad-libbing the stories to shake things up. That's when things got even more hilarious! So much for settling them down.

In elementary school, my son was a nut for "The Magic School Bus" series by Joanna Cole and my daughter enjoyed the "Ramona" books by Beverly Cleary, which I was excited to read to her. I've been a long time Cleary fan ever since my 4th grade teacher read several to us. So I just had to have her hear "The Mouse and the Motorcycle" and others which started it all.

Even through middle school, the kids and I bonded with our book friends. My son would rotate in his school novels, "The Giver," and "Roll of Thunder, Hear my Cry," (was this cheating?) while my daughter, still in younger grades, especially liked "Geronimo Stilton" tales complete with his cheesy puns, and then a little later, the "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" series. When it became just us, I mixed in "Are you There God, It's Me, Margaret" and my other Judy Blume and Paula Danziger gems as well as a book that fascinated me as a teen, "From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankenweiler," a story about two siblings protesting family injustice by running away to the Metropolitan Museum of Art whereupon they stumble onto a Michelangelo mystery. (Somehow the paperback survived the many moves of my life)--
In 9th grade, my daughter shared her chilling YA novels of Mary Downing Hahn that she discovered in 6th grade. One particular, "The Doll in the Garden," spooked me more than it did her.

Despite our bond with bedtime stories, neither of my kids turned out to be hungry page-turners, but I'm delighted my son likes to write creatively and over the summer was pleasantly surprised my daughter wanted to read --and enjoyed--one of my books--the teen time capsule mystery, "Chronicle of the Century! I was also thrilled she rediscovered Mary Downing Hahn titles she hadn't yet read when I won a B&N book spree from a college writing award.

I'm glad I'm inadvertently influencing book love since my girl often is my right-hand gal at local author events. She's an accomplice at hunting down my old YA treasures at library used book sales--mostly we've unearthed a bunch of Nancy Drews I never read--and during an author gathering/signing at the Townsend Library in June, she found and devoured fellow local writer Kate Spofford's teen book, The Art Kids.

It had been several years since we had a PJ book party, so when "A Halloween Party," arrived this October, I half-joked, "Family Reading time" and my daughter and I cozied up with this fun find. As an art student, she admired the illustrations and I treasured our tradition. Nice to know our reading routine doesn't have to get shelved completely. I wonder what I book I can cajole next.

*What are some of your cherished childhood 'good reads'?

Maybe I'm Crazy, but the Word "No" Made me a Better Writer

Rejected writer. That was the name of my first blog. My daughter, Maizie, set it up for me ironically on Tumblr and we laughed. Upon thinking about it, really dissecting what it meant, I decided to own it. It defines me. It made me the writer I am today.

I’ve been writing since third grade if you count my very first booklet about a comical rainy day. Inspired by Grandmom’s gift of stationery supplies, I was intrigued by the hole punch and strung a stack of paper together with yarn.

In sixth grade, my friend Debby and I collaborated and were astonished to win the school’s hobby contest with our stapled April and Cherry “booklets.” After all, our friend Annette had her big, shiny motorcycle there! Besides writing, Debby had quite a drawing talent, especially horses. I still think of her and wish we could reconnect.

In eighth grade, I began a Sherri Whitman teen mystery series I wrote even past high school. Ideas formed in history class one day, based on a few words on the board. For one, Richmond, Virginia--and Bam!-- I had the setting even though I had never stepped foot there.
(Not until I happened to meet my Navy husband and we visited his family there often! Talk about writing your destiny.)

During junior high, friends would devour my Sherri books as soon as I set down the pen, sometimes chapter by chapter on the bus ride home. Thankfully one gal served as a brilliant editor and corrected my grammar mistakes; you know like “could of” instead of “could’ve.” Those lessons still stick with me today.

in 2011, I dug out the Sherri series during a hurricane power outage. Maizie was twelve and she got a kick out of them too. She wants me to publish those next, which is fitting because a more mature installment of those mysteries was my first ever submission in 1986, At the fragile, impressionable age of twenty-one,
it also spurred my first set of rejections.

"Too short."
"More like a novelette,"
"Not what we are looking for."
Bruised but not knocked down, I lengthen the story and submitted to as many teen/young adult publishing houses I could find.

Scholastic was the only one to give constructive critique beyond a form letter, even tossing in two young-adult paperbacks to read as examples! I'm awed and grateful they took me seriously. I've always loved ordering from their catalog sheets at school, and since their gracious reply to my manuscript, they've been even more dear to my heart, especially as a mom. I enjoyed sharing my kiddos' enthusiasm for book fairs and manned a few shifts.

I can’t help but think if I hadn’t received constant refusals from publishers and periodicals over the last thirty years, I never would've had the desire to improve my craft-- and certainly my book, The Pearly Gates Phone Company wouldn’t exist!
I thank God for self-publishing and high school alum, Mary, who paved the way and showed me the ropes. She became my literary lifeboat.

In the 70s and 80s, I wrote short stories in high school. One became the futuristic time capsule mystery Chronicle of the Century-- and in 1981, my ruthless yet klutzy, insecure agent, Galaxy O'Jordan from Behind Frenemy Lines emerged from 11th grade Journalism class when we had to create characters and the last scene of a T.V. script about Russian and American spies.

A bit later in 86-88, despite the naysayers of the magazine world, I’d churned out a few for Redbook's Short Story contests as well, but never won. However, keeping the stories has a prize in itself. One called "Parlor Game" is featured in my book of time-twisting tales, The Epochracy Files--When Edison Jones is immersed in his fantasy books, he finds himself at a party he rather not attend...and stumbles upon an innovative amusement. But he must play wisely, for his life depends on it!

When my kids were born in the 90s, I began writing holiday newsletters, keeping my tools sharpened with family antics. More fervently in the early 2000s, my writing took a turn when I was bent on crafting creative nonfiction for a certain periodical about blessings and amazing coincidences. I’d snail mail the manuscripts, hold my breath, then receive the letdown via a polite form letter stapled to my story. I learned to dread those bulky self-addressed suckers.

The first short I mailed in was my 2000 submission, “Point of Sail,” then called “Smooth Sailing,” a mind-blowing result from my first stab at prayer at age twelve--despite my grouchy pre-teen mood and unfair circumstance.
My next attempt was a 2002 primitive, long and complicated edition of my dad's call from Heaven, which left me flabbergasted and was so remarkable, it was hard to tell in a condensed version. It's the main story in my book of the same name--and appears in Chapter 10 as: “The Pearly Gates Phone Company,” then called “Hello from Hippie Heaven.”
After each no, I’d bum out, take a break and live life, but whenever inspiration hit, I’d bang out the next spiritual short, pray, fingers crossed, and submit again. It was a continuous loop, a very slow vicious circle.
Einstein said the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Well then, I must be crazy.

But hey, maybe I'm onto something, because a few years ago my rejections bumped up to first class. I received two handwritten notes! Maybe because of better revisions. Rejection ignites the fire to improve. It fuels defiance. In 2014, an editor’s scribbling followed a fresher, tighter remake of “Hippie Heaven”, then called “A Call from Heaven.”

“I like it,” he said. “But it’s more of an essay. Do you have anything different?”

Boy, did I! Having just finished writing an earlier version of the wacky empty-nester tale, “The Pancake Parable” (then called “Spatula Story,”) a comic-tragedy when an old, beloved gizmo breaks, I polished it up and sent it out immediately. It was quirky. It couldn’t get any more different than that. I had a good feeling about this one.

Except... another fat bundle arrived with a sprawled note attached, this one a bit harder to decipher. I love how the guy even added a self-depreciating whack at his own penmanship. : )
My cousin Stacie helped me break the code:

“I like it, but still sounds more like an essay,” his hieroglyphics said this time. “I don’t see a deeper meaning and how it can help readers.”

Hmm, a deeper meaning? Maybe dads view the empty-nest differently. His comments revved up another round of revisions. I added a fresher style and more dialogue, but what about that depth he wanted? Suddenly I was lit with an epiphany and it became the glue. Now I can’t even fathom the story without it. I mailed off the new version right away but never heard a thing. I read somewhere later that writers should not send a revised piece back to an editor unless solicited. Oops, rookie mistake, I guess.

Regardless of the sound of crickets, I felt so close now I could almost smell the ink hot off the printing press.
Still, something bothered me. What was I doing wrong? My work seemed similar to their story style. I’ve been an avid fan for thirty years, but the frustration of not being good enough made me mad. I chucked the latest issue across the room, tempted to cancel my subscription. I felt guilty for acting like a brat, yet something kept me connected.
I took a break. Since I was already enrolled in college working toward a degree, I signed up for a creative writing class just for fun and focused my attention elsewhere.

Now ironically, this magazine is known for Norman Vincent Peale's motto, "the power of positive thinking," and it must really be ginormously powerful because I could never quite give up! I polished up “The Call from Heaven” and tightened it with a vise, giving it more life with additional dialogue. At last, the perfect whimsical name came to me. After submitting the solo story of “The Pearly Gates Phone Company” online to their spin-off magazine, an editor called! Within an hour!
He was very interested. He was going to pitch it at the next meeting. I soared! This was it, the BIG TIME! I swirled around the kitchen. The Editor would let me know in three weeks.

Except... he did not. Emailing him, I discovered the truth. They didn’t want stories dealing with death. Really, like now all of a sudden? No fair!

“Do you have any lighthearted miracles in 150 words or less?” the online editor asked instead. “Something like your pinwheels spinning without wind and your "heavenly" stamped bank receipt, only not death related.”

Hmmm. I reached deep into my thinking cap and wrote a blurb, whittling down as much as possible. Interestingly, it’s a very challenging yet great writing exercise. I launched my tasty morsel into his writing space only to get shot down. Again. I went back to the drawing board and after each, “Sorry, it’s not what I’m looking for,” decided to take a break for a while. It was frustrating not being able to please these publications. Besides, I had lots of homework to do.

Yet, every so often, I’d carve out more. “SOS-” when a plea for help comes true. “Eviction Notice--have you ever kicked the devil to the curb?” “God loves a Fearful/Cheerful Giver--are you skeptical of scams or do you give freely? ” and “Hummingbird Hangout,--a huge miracle of small proportions!” Soon these filled my document list, but they just didn’t have the wow factor he was looking for.
I wanted to scream, “Take the Pearly Gates, it’s the best one. You liked it before!” But by this time he wasn't answering my emails.

I was beginning to believe those memes on Facebook; you know the ones saying something like, “When you knock on a door, and it doesn’t open, it’s not yours.”

Not long after receiving those hopeful handwritten rejections in 2014, we were visiting my husband's family for his mom's memorial service. I tried cheering up my sister-in-law. She was feeling bad for not being there the moment her mother died, even though she was about to head over and had been there all week despite a full-time job. I recited the sentence from “Pearly Gates” about how guilt is deceiving, convincing us we can never do enough. She and my husband agreed it was true. I related humorous funeral stories that happened when my family members died and it made them laugh. ( Those anecdotes became Chapter 18: "The Funeral Follies." )

Also during our visit, I lamented my latest publishing blows and close calls.

“I want to be a real writer, but it looks like it will never happen,” I relayed over coffee.
“You don’t have to be published to be a real writer,” my sister-in-law said, to the effect of, “You write, therefore you’re a writer.”
She was right! It was a relief to take the edge off my goal.

Besides, I was in good company. Just about every author or artist got the nopes before making it. This includes JK Rowling, my all-time favorite— Judy Blume-- and even the Beatles! According to litrejections.com, Beatrix Potter took matters into her own hands and self-published 250 copies of “The Tales of Peter Rabbit,” and that was way before computers!

Then something happened a year later that changed everything. I saw a post from a longtime friend Deedee about a new physiological thriller available on Amazon by M.P. McDonald. She credited her best friend, Mary, and I thought she was kidding because of the same last name, but the awesome news was real! I was happy for her, but suddenly the Green-eyed Monster woke up and kicked me in the pants. “That’s supposed to be your goal, dummy!”

As high school alums, I friended Mary on Facebook and found out how she did it. She told me about this new-fangled thing called an electronic book. I’m so old school, my visions of publishing went only paper deep. Now a whole new world opened up. I was antsy to try it, but the fictional novel I was working on was only half done. So I saved all the info she gave me, including tips on finding a great cover designer, too. From her sample ideas, I found Steven Novak who wows me every time.

During semester breaks I typed away on my somewhat steamy spy romance/rom-com, heavily editing and whipping up witty banter,and an unusual case with a surprising scandal. It took 3 and 1/2 years! But Mary helped me through the publishing steps when it was ready. After I uploaded the cover and pages of Behind Frenemy Lines“and saw a sample launch on the KDP preview reader for the first time, I was thrilled!

“It looks like a real book!” I gushed to Mary.
“It is a real book!” she typed back, laughing.

What an incredible feeling! Thanks to her, I started 2017 with a published dream! It’s wonderfully surreal watching an ambition materialize. I highly recommend it. It’s funny too. Not long before, I couldn’t wrap my head around an e-book, yet here I was sort of tech-savvy! Best of all, I had a George McFly moment when the paperback arrived.

Now, what about a second book? Since I had those six spiritual snippets sitting idle from editorial purgatory, I was racking up quite a collection, but did I have enough to publish them myself? I ran what I had through the revision ringer and then created a bunch more to round it out. When family and friends told me their stories, I wrote those too.

Ever since my aunt passed in 2000, I’ve wanted to write, “Planting Crayons," because we need to help children grieve creatively in their own way. I’m so glad this book jogged my memory and made it possible.

Who knows, maybe I’ll keep submitting to that magazine. It’s comforting to know it’s not my only venue. If my dream can come true, so can yours! Whatever your goal, don’t listen to downers, especially if it’s the voice in your head. Pray for guidance, pump yourself up, and take matters into your own hands. Make it happen. And if you run into rejections, look at them as reflections instead.


P.S. June/July 2019, whoa, hold the presses-- I got in! And this time I wasn’t even trying. In May, out of the blue, I received a call from a Guideposts Magazine editor.

“We want to use your hummingbird story in our ‘What Prayer Can Do’ section this summer.”

What?? I was floored --and so grateful! I had sent that in three years ago. See, it’s all in God’s timing—and perseverance. Thank you, Lord!

( My story, "Faith With Feathers" is featured in the print edition June/July 2019 and also on their website at Guideposts.org.)

Risky Business in the Desert Packs a lot of Heat!

In the fast-paced romantic thriller, Desert Terror by Lana Campbell, Rachel is a natural-born vampire with Christian beliefs relying on blood banks to survive--not humans. She's also a natural at broadcast journalism--if only she could get the TV station's pig-headed boss, Denise, to realize her talents and stop sending her to fluff events like farmers markets and taffy pulls.


But then an opportunity arises and Rachel takes the bait--covering war-torn Afghanistan! The danger is exciting, albeit worrisome, but she is sure she can handle it. The station's photographer, Joel, will be there. Plus, she has secret abilities to ensure her safety, but her wealthy, influential grandfather, Nathan Davenport, cranks up the precautions and sends his best security guard, David, to watch over her. A loner and ex-Navy Seal/ military soldier, David knows the war zone like the back of his hand, but instead of initial gratefulness, Rachel's self-reliance is wounded so they're off to a snippy start.


There's more than enemy raids and F-bombs filling the air as banter, chemistry, and sexual tension permeate the premises as Rachel conducts interviews in the midst of the Isis Crisis... All goes well until a faux pas has the trio on the run in the Middle East! Rachel is David's kick-ass sidekick--but a few problems arise now that they're suddenly rogue--the main one being her need for blood supply, and her weakness only adds to the urges she's fighting.


The realistic setting changes throughout as the trio encounters luxurious accommodations, utmost danger, and humble hospitality. While out in the broiling desert fending off hazardous situations, David and Rachel try to ward off their own heat, and each sweltering scene had me on the edge of my seat-- holding my breath and grateful for AC. The scrapes they get into are realistically crafted. (I could relate to Rachel's panic for her shades out there in the glaring sun!) With such a good read, I felt the terror as if I was there too, but luckily, gratefully, I was not. I was hiding behind the pages curled up in my favorite reading spot.