Raeshell Rozet's Blog: My Writing Journal

New Release Giveaway!

Very Unusual Jade: A Nerdy Paranormal Romance

My new book, Very Unusual Jade, will be released on July 1, 2025! It's already available for preorder on Amazon!

To celebrate, I've started a Goodreads Giveaway that you can enter until July 2, 2025, for a chance to win a free e-book! I'll be giving away 100 kindle copies of Very Unusual Jade.

Very Unusual Jade is the first book in the Jade and the Underworld Series. It is set in the same town as the Spirit and the Wolfman Series, so there will be some surprise crossovers between these two series. You'll have to read carefully to uncover them all.

Tropes:
Best friends to lovers
Small town romance
Second chance at love
Vampires and werewolves
Nerds in love
Twists and surprises

Here's the blurb:

Jade thought she could leave the past behind—her nerdy quirks, her hopeless crush on her best friend, and the unsettling ability to know things she shouldn’t.

Turns out, she was wrong.

Back in her hometown of Touchstone, Jade finds herself once again drawn to the best friend she never stopped loving. But this time, she suspects the feelings might not be so one-sided. A second chance at love is within reach—until her unusual gift tells her something far more sinister is watching her.

A mysterious newcomer has arrived, and Jade’s instincts scream that he’s not human. When people start disappearing, she’s certain he’s responsible. But proving it might cost her everything—the romance she’s waited years for, the friendships she cherishes, and even her own life.

Will embracing her strange ability doom her happiness? Or is her “weirdness” the only thing that can save the people she loves?

Very Unusual Jade is a nerdy paranormal romance full of supernatural intrigue, surprises, and fated love.

Spirit and the Werewolves

Spirit and the Werewolves (the last book in the Spirit and the Wolfman Series) is now available for pre-order on Amazon! It will be released on June 5, 2024!

Here's a copy of the blurb:

Spirit’s daughter has been kidnapped by her enemies and whisked away to the Otherworld. Spirit will risk everything to save her. But is she powerful enough to defeat the First Descendants?

Spirit faces impossible odds, but nothing will stop her from getting her daughter back!

In this last book in the Spirit and the Wolfman Series, all secrets will be revealed, and archenemies will become unlikely allies. Together, Spirit and her friends will journey to the Otherworld where they will face monsters, black magic, and a bloodthirsty pack of werewolves. As with all of the books in this series, surprises are to be expected!

If you’re looking for fated love, monsters, and a nail-biting ending, you’ll love Spirit and the Werewolves. Buy Spirit and the Werewolves today and discover whether Spirit and her Wolfman find their happily ever after.

I can't wait to share this book with you! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I've already started working on a new series! It will be another paranormal romance filled with monsters, romance, and fated love.

Thank you for sharing this journey with me!

The Black Cat (A Haunted House Story with a Touch of Romance)

I love Halloween. I get giddy with excitement in October. For me, Halloween represents a time where imagination runs rampant. We watch scary movies, read creepy stories, and visit monster mazes. We dress up in crazy costumes. We enjoy playing pretend because we know that none of it is real.

But I dare say there is a creepy crawly thought in the back of my mind, that thinks, or perhaps knows, reality may be more devious than it seems.

The following short story dabbles with that very improbable possibility.

I love cats, especially black ones with bright green eyes, which happens to be exactly the way I would describe Mr. Whiskers. He’s a stray cat, and like many stray cats, he has a knack for finding kind souls, like Thelma, to feed him.

This story happened not long ago, a few days before Halloween. How did I hear about it? Rumors, of course, the way all bad news travels fast and wide in a small town. And since there are so many small towns in this world, it may have even happened in your neck of the woods. But I digress. The story goes something like this, as seen through the eyes of Thelma herself…

“No, no, no! Don’t go in there!” I watch helplessly as the black cat enters the Anderson house.

With an open can of cat food in my left hand and a spoon in my right, I stare at the empty residence, the infamous, neighborhood haunted house. Dread, pure dread, drizzles down from my brain to my feet. I don’t want to go in there.

I wish I could rewind time.

It all happened so fast! Mr. Whiskers (my name for the black cat) was frightened by a husky running loose on the street. The cat and I were in the midst of our nightly routine. Mr. Whiskers meowing at my door for his second can of cat food for the day. I dutifully opened my door with dinner in hand, when the husky came out of nowhere.

There was a flurry of a chase, a crazy lady screaming at the top of her lungs (me), and the chaos ended with Mr. Whiskers jumping into the Anderson house through a broken window.

I feel like crying. I’ve really come to love that cat.

Damn, Edgar! I’ve begged him to let me keep Mr. Whiskers. More than anything, I want to bring him inside to live with us. We don’t have children of our own. Edgar refuses to, says he likes his peace and quiet when he comes home. We’ve been married for ten years. Ten very long, dog years.

Edgar wasn’t always a jerk. When we first met, he was very romantic. He’d buy me flowers every Sunday just to make me smile. Edgar was the one who first talked of having children. In fact, that’s how he proposed. He said he wanted to have a long, beautiful life together in a house filled with the laughter of children.

Now, he won’t even let me adopt a cat.

But Edgar isn’t home tonight. He’s out of town on business. I planned to bring Mr. Whiskers inside the house for the weekend. On Monday, I’m taking him to live with Mrs. Wilson. She’s a sweet woman in her late seventies, who has agreed to let Mr. Whiskers live with her until we can find him a forever home.

I only wish his forever home would be with me.

Why did Mr. Whiskers have to go inside that house?

The Anderson house is legendary for its bad luck. I’m not one for superstitions. But I do believe in statistics. Numbers are pretty straightforward, unlike people.

This creepy, old Victorian home has been abandoned for the past five years with good reason. As far as anyone remembers, no couple has remained together longer than six months after moving in. Sometimes, they split up right away, within the first twenty-four hours. Other times, all seems to be going well until unexpected tragedy strikes. But no one makes it a day after six months.

It doesn’t always end in death, although small town gossip claims it has quite often. Edgar and I witnessed what you could say was an attempted murder with the last owners, Mr. and Mrs. Baxter. When Mrs. Baxter found out about Mr. Baxter having another secret family on the other side of town, she chased him around the house in her bathrobe, taking swings at him with a meat cleaver.

Edgar called the cops. Mrs. Baxter got in a few good chops before the police arrived. After they were hauled away by ambulance and police car, we never saw the Baxters again.

Like I said, it’s not always as dramatic as the Baxters. Many times, the couples simply get divorced and go their separate ways.

But here’s the kicker. No one ever comes back to get their stuff. They refuse to ever enter the house again. Rumors say that many claim to have seen things that shouldn’t have been there. Haunted. Most say the house is haunted, riddled with vengeful ghosts.

The universal truth is that all are frightened by whatever they saw. They leave everything behind. Someone else, a hired junk removal service, usually does the unwanted job of clearing out the place for the new owner. No one ever came to take away the Baxter’s belongings, so as far as I know, all their stuff is still there.

Oh, why did Mr. Whiskers have to run in there! I hope the Anderson house makes an exception for a middle-aged woman trying to save a cat. Maybe it will let the curse slide just this once?

Edgar would snicker at me if he was here. He certainly wouldn’t help. No, he’d definitely make fun of me and call me stupid.

Lately, he’s been working out at the gym, losing weight, buying fancy clothes, and criticizing the extra twenty pounds I’ve packed on since our wedding day. He’s been working late hours and coming home in the middle of the night. He barely talks to me, except to wake me up to heat up his dinner.

I take a deep breath. Armed with my can of cat food, I approach the front door. It’s probably locked, especially since I haven’t seen anyone enter for years. But still, I try my luck and turn the doorknob.

To my surprise, and frank horror, it opens easily.

My courage abandons me. I don’t care if the rumors about this house are just an urban legend. Numbers don’t lie.

“Meow,” Mr. Whiskers calls out to me.

Without thinking, I step inside. Think Dracula’s lair and you’ll be able to envision the foyer and cascading staircase I see before me. I would have never guessed that the interior would be so dramatic. Yes, it’s a large, two-story Victorian home on the outside, so I shouldn’t be surprised that it could house such a grand entrance. But still, given this modern era and the modest homes on the rest of the street, I’m taken back. I can see why the Baxters were willing to buy this house, even despite its tainted past.

The furniture is modern and not as elaborate as the bones of the house. My hands are shaking badly, but I manage to use my cell phone light so I can look around. There is a living room off to one side with couches and a flat screen TV mounted on the wall. On the other side of the foyer is the entrance to the kitchen.

I have a terrible feeling that I’m trespassing where I shouldn’t be and consider that perhaps it might be best to leave Mr. Whiskers here for the night. I can search for him in the morning when I can see better. As if reading my thoughts and answering with a resounding no, I hear the front door slam shut behind me.

Electrified with fear, I turn around, fully expecting to see an ax murderer or gruesome ghost. But no one is there, which makes me feel better in one way and worse in another. I race to the door and try to open it. But it won’t budge. The doorknob won’t turn. I pull on it, hit it, curse at it, but nothing works.

I’m tempted to break a window. I don’t care if someone discovers I’ve trespassed or accuses me of breaking in. I just want out! Before I can grab a heavy object, Mr. Whiskers meows and rubs my pant leg.

I look down. His big green eyes look up at me. Tears stream down my face. I’m trapped. I don’t believe in ghosts or things that go bump in the night, but my gut tells me something is terribly wrong with this house.

“Mr. Whiskers, what should I do?” I ask him in desperation. “I’m so scared,” I confess to the cat.

It’s silly, talking to a cat. I’m pathetic. If Edgar was here, he’d tell me I was a damn fool.

“You should be afraid,” I hear a male voice answer back, as I watch Mr. Whiskers stretch and grow. I am both horrified and mesmerized. His shape contorts and changes from a black cat into a man dressed in an expensive black suit.

So, this is what insanity feels like, I tell myself. I’ve lost my freaking mind! I drop the can of cat food and hear it clang on the floor.

“Now, that’s unfortunate,” the man laments as he looks at the splattered cat food. He shakes his head, “I love that flavor. What a pity!”

“You’re not real!” I shout at him, taking a step backward.

“Oh no, I’m very real, Thelma. But I understand your confusion,” he tilts his head to the side and smiles in an effort to communicate empathy. His green eyes are stunning. They are no longer catlike but are gorgeous and spellbinding contrasted with his dark hair and black suit. He begins to slowly move about the foyer and continues on, “I rarely reveal myself to anyone. Most find the revelation a bit unsettling. But for you, my dearest Thelma, I’ve decided to make an exception.”

I’m trembling with fear. But at the same time, I can’t stop myself from looking at him. He’s so handsome! His dark silky black hair, athletic build, and the way he moves with grace and confidence. He smiles at me in a way that makes me think he finds me attractive too.

Fear has short-circuited my brain. I’ve lost my marbles and created some kind of weird fantasy where Mr. Whiskers becomes the sexiest man alive.

“As I was saying, you’re right to be afraid,” the man reiterates. His words reflexively cause me to take a step backward.

“Oh, no, you are in no danger from me. In fact, I’m the only thing here you should not be afraid of. But you can feel it, can’t you? There is danger all around you. That unsettling feeling that nothing is as it should be, and that although you’re not sure what it is, you can feel something sinister closing in,” his words freeze me where I stand. I should back away, given that he is moving towards me.

“What should I be afraid of?” I ask, feeling both frightened and curious of what answer Mr. Whiskers might give.

“This house collects secrets, as all haunted places do. It attracts those who have something to hide, something terrible that must be revealed. Secrecy feeds on shame, fear, and other things of the shadow world. And this house has been gathering such things for centuries. So much so, that the hair on the arms raise the minute you walk through the door, although most would deny it. But trust my words, many bad things have been collected here,” Mr. Whiskers warns.

“What are you?” I ask.

Mr. Whiskers moves in even closer, his face close enough so that his breath warms mine. He looks at me with his bright green eyes, “A friend who is afraid for you.” He smiles to show his sincerity, and although I should be terrified, who could resist such a handsome face?

“What should I be afraid of?” I probe further.

“Not trusting me. If you suspend your disbelief and do exactly as I say when I tell you to, then you might leave this place alive. But if you don’t, well, I shudder to think of the consequences,” he shakes his head to exaggerate his sentiment.

I nod to give my consent. Mr. Whiskers smiles back and gently takes my hand into his. He holds it so tenderly that I almost tear up. When was the last time Edgar held my hand like this? Did he ever treat me this way? I can’t even remember.

“Follow me,” Mr. Whiskers says as he leads me through the kitchen and stops in front of a closed door.

My guess is this door will lead us to the basement.

It’s never good to go into a basement. If I’ve learned anything from watching scary movies, whatever you find in a creepy basement, you later wish you hadn’t.

Mr. Whiskers opens the door, and still holding my hand, leads me down the steps.

I start to hear things moving upstairs, heavy footsteps, loud shrieks, and furniture moving about. I gasp. My body freezes.

Mr. Whiskers leans in close and whispers into my ear, “Never mind the noises upstairs. Those ghosts are not relevant to you. They are playing out past secrets, such is the nightly routine in a haunted house. They have nothing to do with us. What you need to pay attention to are the things down here, my dearest Thelma.”

Terror, complete terror, would be the correct feeling right now, the only logical feeling. But hearing him say “dearest Thelma” starts my heart racing in a different way. That’s how love starved I am after ten years with Edgar! A cat who turns into a man in a haunted house, where I will most likely die as I go down into the basement, says “dearest” and my heart goes pitter patter.

Then again, those green eyes, that smile, and a perfect body! Most women would be tempted to follow him anywhere.

We reach the bottom of the steps, and the lights come on. Frightened, I grab onto Mr. Whiskers. He puts his arm around me, “I’m here. Whatever you see, it will not hurt you as long as you follow my lead. I’ve brought you down here to show you something. Something the house inhabitants want you to see.”

“How do you know what the ghosts want?” I ask, pushing myself away from him.

“Cats and ghosts communicate regularly. We often do it to protect the ones we love. The ones who feed us,” he laughs as he playfully taps my nose with his fingertip. “I came across these ghosts because I was following someone. Let me show you what I found.”

Even as a man, Mr. Whiskers moves in a manner that is smooth and graceful. He lifts a couple of loose tiles from the floor and motions for me to look at what is hidden underneath. I walk through the basement. It appears to be a handyman’s workshop with a work bench and shelves. But there are so many unfinished projects, such as a chair with three legs, a broken mirror, and a doll house that is half finished. I’m guessing no one stays here long enough to complete whatever they’ve started.

“Don’t touch anything,” Mr. Whiskers warns. “Leave nothing of yourself behind, not even your fingerprints. I, myself, have no fingerprints, so I have nothing to fear.” After reciting his strict instructions, Mr. Whiskers shows me what was carefully hidden away.

Driver’s licenses. There are so many of them! I see the face of one woman after another, as Mr. Whiskers displays each picture in the pile.

“I don’t understand,” I tell him. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Serial killers like to keep souvenirs,” Mr. Whiskers answers.

“Serial killer?” I echo back.

“Yep, look Thelma! See how many there are! This represents decades of work,” he shows me picture after picture. “There are over a hundred. It’s unbelievable!” Mr. Whisker’s voice is full of sorrow. He feels the same way I do. How could anyone do something so horrible!

“Are you sure they’re dead? Couldn’t the licenses just be stolen?” I ask.

Mr. Whiskers shakes his head, “This house attracts secrets, those who keep secrets, and those who wish to expose what is hidden. The Anderson house has attracted many liars over the years, some who are unfaithful and dishonest, like Mr. Baxter. You remember him, right?” I nod yes to show that I do. Mr. Whiskers continues on, “Well, unfortunately, this house also attracts murderers. And the one we have here is very prolific,” Mr. Whiskers showcases the cards to further prove his assessment.

“But who is he?” I ask.

“Oh, my dearest, Thelma, who do you know that comes home late? That insists on showering right away because he just got back from the gym. Who is unkind and lacks empathy? Living next door to an abandoned house that the neighborhood is terrified of provides a convenient place to hide souvenirs, don’t you think?”

“Are you saying that Edgar did this?” My voice comes out louder than I expect, and I immediately cover my mouth with my hands. Perhaps as a futile attempt to take them back.

“Shhh!” Mr. Whiskers places his finger in front of his mouth. He whispers, “He’s here. The ghosts say that he’s upstairs, and he’s headed this way. We have to hide.”

Mr. Whiskers grabs my hand. He leads us behind a row of unpacked boxes that are stacked high enough to keep us hidden. There is a gap between the boxes that allows us to watch Edgar as he walks down the basement steps. He’s whistling a happy tune, which makes my skin crawl. I catch Mr. Whiskers rolling his eyes in disgust.

Edgar grabs a black bag and begins packing it with supplies. He grabs duct tape, rope, black gloves, a large knife, a brown bottle, and a white washcloth. I’m dumbfounded. He’s like a stranger. Edgar can be a real ass. But a serial killer? Who the hell have I been living with, sharing a bed with?

Terror pulses through me. He’s getting ready to murder someone. Tonight, he’ll add another driver’s license to his collection. I have to stop him! Even if I die trying, I can’t let him kill another woman!

As if reading my mind, Mr. Whiskers lightly pats my head with his hand. I look up into his green eyes, and he nods in a way that calms me. In the next moment, taking my hand in his, he leads me away from our hiding spot.

Edgar’s eyes widen as he sees us step out from behind the boxes. For an awkward second, I’m not able to speak. I shake my head in disbelief. He’s holding the black bag, neatly packed with all the tools he’ll need to murder someone tonight. Edgar doesn’t look guilty or ashamed. He looks surprised and angry.

“What are you doing here? Who is he?” Edgar’s loud voice fills the room. He sounds indignant. Like we’re the ones doing something wrong.

“I came to find Mr. Whiskers. He jumped through a broken window. What are you doing, Edgar? The bag, the things you put in the bag! What are they for?” My voice sounds shaky and scared. I’m crying. My cheeks are wet with tears.

Edgar looks at me with disgust, “You and your stupid cat! You better hope I don’t find him. If I do, I’m taking him straight to the pound where they’ll kill him. I’m sick and tired of hearing you talk about that damn cat. And who’s this guy? Why are you here with my wife?” Edgar’s mean gaze settles on Mr. Whiskers.

“I wanted to show her what you’re up to. I thought she had a right to know the real you,” Mr. Whiskers answers in a voice that is so calm, he sounds almost bored.

“What are you talking about? We’ve been married for ten years. Of course, she knows the real me! What kind of lies have you been filling her dumb head with?” Edgar takes a step towards us. His hands are balled into tight fists.

“I’ve been showing her things. She watched you pack your little black bag. And your souvenirs, we were just looking at them,” Mr. Whiskers points to the floor at the pile of driver’s licenses.

Edgar looks at then pile and then directly into my eyes. The intensity of his stare is uncomfortable. I would have never guessed he was a killer. But his actions tonight, coming to this house alone instead of being away on business, whistling as he came down the stairs, packing duct tape and rope, and the cold look in his eyes, tell me one thing. Edgar did it. He murdered over a hundred women.

I don’t have a poker face. Edgar is fully aware that I know what he did.

“I wish you hadn’t come here tonight,” Edgar tells me as he pulls the knife out of his bag. “Stupid, stupid, Thelma, you shouldn’t have followed that damn cat. Now, you know too much. I can’t let you leave.” Edgar shrugs his shoulders as if to say, what else can he do?

“Oh, I don’t think Thelma will have any trouble leaving. They’re willing to let her go,” Mr. Whiskers smiles at Edgar. It’s a chilling smile. The kind of delight that a cat gets from playing with a mouse.

“They? Who’s they?” Edgar asks. “It’s just us. Unless you’re trying to imply that the police are outside, which is a really pathetic bluff. Seriously, Thelma, where did you find this loser?”

“Oh no, not the police. You’re right. No one is coming to rescue you. But as for being alone, you’re dead wrong,” Mr. Whisker puts his arm around me. “They’ve been waiting for you. All of them have been waiting for you.”

The lights flicker. Mr. Whiskers pull me closer to him. I skip a breath. The temperature in the room takes a quick nosedive. The dead women are with us. There are over a hundred ghosts in the basement. We are tightly packed together. I can feel one standing next to me shoulder to shoulder. I wrap my arms around Mr. Whiskers and hold on to him for dear life. Terrified if I don’t, the ghosts will drag me away.

The ghosts are dressed in clothes that represent each decade back to the 1990s. They look similar to one another. Each has long dark brown hair and blue eyes, which happens to be how I look. I could easily be their sister. Every ghost has multiple stab wounds. It’s painful to look at how much they suffered! All of them have their bloody arms stretched out towards Edgar.

Edgar stumbles backward in shock and finds himself in the arms of a ghost. She wraps herself around him with her long, stringy hair hanging over his shoulders. He screams as more of them grab him. Their faces press tightly against his as he tries to pull away but can’t.

“Get off me! Get off me!” He screams wildly as he tries to push against the angry ghosts grabbing at him. “Thelma, help me! Help me! I can explain everything. Don’t leave me with them!”

I shudder seeing Edgar being pulled down to the ground screaming. I can only imagine what will happen next. As if reading my mind, and not wanting me to see the answer, Mr. Whiskers starts to lead me towards the steps. He keeps me cocooned in his arms, protecting me from the ghosts around us. He quietly moves us away from the horror show. Edgar’s screams become louder, and I suspect that parts of him are being ripped off, by the wretched high pitch shrills I hear. But I don’t dare look to confirm that I’m right.

I don’t argue with Mr. Whiskers as we walk up the steps. Something inside me knows better than to interfere with what’s happening in that basement, Edgar’s day of reckoning. Instinctively, I follow Mr. Whiskers in silence, knowing that if I don’t, the ghosts will turn on me as well.

We reach the top of the stairs, and Mr. Whiskers closes the basement door. He leads me out of the kitchen and into the foyer, creating a little distance between us and the grisly scene we just witnessed.

I cry in Mr. Whiskers arms. He holds me, and strangely enough I feel safe, although I probably shouldn’t.

I’m not ready to leave the Anderson house. Somehow, I know the ghosts won’t hurt me. If they wanted to hurt me, I’d be dead already. But the minute I step outside that front door, all of this will become real. Edgar is never coming out of that basement.

What will I do next? How can I ever explain what happened here tonight without sounding crazy?

I was married to a serial killer who died in a haunted house, torn apart by a horde of angry ghosts. No one will ever believe me.

“Are you ready to leave, Thelma?” Mr. Whiskers ask.

“I don’t know what I can tell people once they notice Edgar’s gone,” I answer.

“You don’t have to worry about that. It’s already been taken care of,” Mr. Whiskers lightly touches the side of my face. I look into his brilliant green eyes. He smiles, and I feel reassured that with his help things will work out. He continues, “Do you remember the husky that chased me?”

Stunned by his unexpected question, it takes me a moment to remember how all this started. It comes back to me, the chase between Mr. Whiskers and the dog running loose.

“Yes, I remember. That’s why I followed you in here,” I reply.

“He’s a friend of mine, and he happens to be a police detective. He knows everything. A plan to cover up tonight’s events is already in place. Don’t look so surprised! The Anderson house remains standing to this day with the help of the police department. The Anderson house has a way of handling special cases that are difficult for law enforcement to deal with. In return, detectives, like my husky friend, are willing to bend the truth a little,” Mr. Whisker’s voice is soothing, even as he talks of unbelievable things.

“You said you came to the Anderson house because you were following someone. Obviously, you were following Edgar. Did you know he was a serial killer?” I ask.

“He smelled of dead women. It’s not something you can wash away, not even with a hundred baths. Such heinous acts mark a person with a foul stench. I was worried for your safety,” Mr. Whiskers confesses.

“Thank you,” I can’t even look at him as I say the words. How do you thank someone that has saved you from a monster?

“Let’s get you out of here,” Mr. Whiskers replies as he moves us to the front door, which opens on its own as we approach. “The ghosts wanted you to see Edgar for who he truly was so that you wouldn’t mourn him for too long. They see you as a fellow victim that might still be saved. It gives them some peace knowing that he will no longer be able to harm you or anyone else.”

We step outside the Anderson house, and I breathe in the fresh night air.

“I don’t want to go back to my house. Everything there will remind me of Edgar and what happened tonight. I’m scared to be alone,” I confess.

“You never have to be alone again. Let me take care of you, the way you take care of me. I have a house by the lake. I’ll cook dinner, while you put your feet up and drink a fine wine. And if you find that you like living with me, then you never have to leave,” Mr. Whiskers offers.

I don’t know how it’s possible. But he looks even more handsome in the moonlight.

Edgar is gone. It will take time for me to accept everything that happened here tonight. I imagine that it will be a while before I’m ready to step into a new normal.

But who knows? Maybe I’ve found my forever home?

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe, so you can stay up to date on all my latest stories.

If you’re looking for a paranormal romance with monsters, twists, and fated love, check out my Spirit and the Wolfman Series!

Do You Know What Your Strengths Are?

I write fantasy romance novels, so of course, my stories are make-believe. But my inspiration for my stories often come from ideas I discover while reading nonfiction. My latest favorite read is Marcus Buckingham's, Love and Work. It was a fascinating, eye-opening read, that was chockful of intriguing insights. Honestly, I can't recommend this book enough.

I have a degree in Developmental Psychology, so I'm drawn to books that delve into why people do what they do and how things might work better if we take a different perspective. Marcus Buckingham does a brilliant job at exploring both ideas.

The key takeaway, if I can choose only one to give you as a teaser to read this book for yourself, is his definition of a strength. According to Marcus Buckingham, "A strength is what strengthens you." It's not necessarily what you're good at, and more surprising, just because your good at something doesn't make it a strength. As he often points out, if you're great at something but it depletes you, it's actually a weakness. He also clarifies that we are the only ones who can decide what strengthens us, and that these strengths are something that we are born with.

For example, I once worked as an online math tutor. I did quite well at it. I always had great reviews from my supervisor. But although I was good at my job, I was drained at the end of every shift. I had the energy of a slug. It's not a strength. Why? Because math bores me. It always has. Although I'm naturally good at math, it's a weakness. It depletes me.

On the other hand, I love to create fictional characters and write fantasy stories. I feel energetic just thinking about what my characters will do next. Creating something new strengthens me and boosts my ability to get through the day with extra motivation. According to Marcus Buckingham, I'd be right to label creating fictional stories a strength of mine.

In my Spirit and the Wolfman Series, an underlying theme is acceptance of who we are, our innate strengths and abilities, and using whatever we have in the service of love. The characters struggle with this self-acceptance, and given that they're monsters, this is understandable. But I think some of us, maybe not all but definitely some, are taught to be afraid of our strengths. Maybe they didn't fit the norm? Or perhaps, it wasn't seen as useful? And very likely, at the time, our quirks were misunderstood and often dismissed as inconvenient, unimportant, or worse yet, a weakness. And like the monsters in my books, we see ourselves as flawed. Changing that perception is the first step to using the gifts we've been given.

Whether monsters or real human beings, I think we are at our best and most generous when we lean into our strengths and trust that our inner guidance system (the innate knowledge of what makes us feel strong and energetic) is working.

If you're interested in learning more about how to recognize your strengths, I highly encourage you to read Love and Work by Marcus Buckingham. This author also worked with Don Clifton who created the Clifton Strengths Test by Gallup, which is also a great way to discover your top strengths. I took the test myself and have learned a lot from the experience. I feel at my strongest when I'm learning, writing, and consuming (and appreciating) fictional stories whether in the form of a movie, fantasy series on Netflix, or gripping book. I think of myself as a "Story Cookie Monster." Like the character on Sesame Street that I watched as a kid.

What are your strengths? Can you name them in less than 5 seconds? If not, maybe it's time to investigate what makes you special and how you can use that to enhance your life.

Please subscribe to the blog. I'd love to hear your thoughts about strengths in the comments. Thank you for reading!

**In case you haven’t read my Spirit and the Wolfman Series, the first three books are available on Amazon. I’m currently working on Book #4, the final book in the series. If you enjoy monsters, romance, complex characters, and fated love, this series is written especially for you.**

Atypical Hero

I have a confession to make, and what I’m about to reveal probably goes against popular opinion. I recently watched “FUBAR,” a new series on Netflix, and found myself a little unhappy with it.

It was entertaining, and I did watch it all the way through. I could give several reasons why it is a good show. It was funny, clever, and I will most likely watch Season Two. That said, the characters weren’t really my cup of tea. Except for one supporting character, Carter, who is played by Jay Baruchel.

I often found myself fast forwarding to track Carter’s journey through the story. A rather strange behavior seeing that he had a relatively small part to play. Finally, catching myself in the act of once again, skipping through most of the show, curious only about Carter’s fate, I began to ask that all important question, “Why?”

After a two second soul search, the answer was obvious. I didn’t give a damn about the rest of the characters.

Carter is more nerd than athlete. He’s a good guy with a kind heart. Unfortunately, he’s mixed in with a morally questionable crowd (think badass spies who lie and kill to save the world). For the most part, I didn’t really mind the rest of the characters doing bad things with good intentions until it seemed to impact poor Carter. Then I could care less about the lot of them. I just kept watching hoping that Carter would be okay.

So, I was slightly disenchanted with my FUBAR experience. But something good did come of it. This show did inspire me to rewatch an old, favorite movie of mine, “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” which also stars Jay Baruchel. In this 2010 movie, Jay Baruchel plays Dave Stutler.

The character Jay Baruchel plays in “FUBAR” and the one he plays in the “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” are very similar. Both are smart, nerdy, and kindhearted. The biggest difference between the two roles is that in “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” Dave Stutler is the hero.

I don’t want to give away too many spoilers, even though the movie has been out for over a decade. If you haven’t seen it yet, I’d recommend checking it out! But what I love about this movie is that Dave Stutler doesn’t have to transform into a badass to save the day. He literally doubles down on his nerdiness and compassion, and that winning combination gives him the strength he needs to get the job done. It is what others (and most of society) see as a weakness that is truly Dave’s superpower.

Most of all, I love and respect that Dave can still treat others with respect and loyalty while battling the bad guys. This is a hero that I can learn from.

It makes me rethink what I consider to be my own personal strengths and weaknesses. I recently took the Clifton Strengths test from Gallup and found my number one strength is Empathy (which is probably why I resonate so deeply with Dave Stutler and was upset with how Carter was being treated).

As I write my books, I’m always exploring a deeper theme underneath the external plot. Working on the final book in the Spirit and the Wolfman Series (Book 4), I’ve been playing with this idea of unconditional acceptance of oneself, regardless of what society might value, and finding the way to be heroic with whatever we’re given.

What are your strengths? Do you have a weakness that might be a strength in disguise?

I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Fantasy Books and Psychology

One of my favorite writers is Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes. She wrote the best-selling book, “Women Who Run with the Wolves.” Not only is she a brilliant writer, but she’s also a psychologist. Dr. Estes shares myths and fairytales and then uses the stories as a means to examine real life. To ask the big questions. The ones that stump us.

My bachelor’s degree is in Developmental Psychology. And like Dr. Estes, I’ve always been fascinated with stories and people. I remember being six years old and finding a psychology book. It was love at first sight. Reading came easy to me, so even at that age, I was able to start studying and appreciating the complexity of human nature.

My books are my archive of the lessons I’ve learned either through my own experiences or by observing the experiences of others. Like fairytales, I use characters and fantastical settings to illustrate things I don’t want to forget. Didn’t we all learn the danger of talking to a stranger from reading Little Red Riding Hood?

I write my books with the same intention. Hopefully, I create stories with enough emotion and drama that the themes stay with the reader (and me) even after the story is finished. At least, that’s my goal.

My form of preparatory research for writing my books is to devour psychology books in the early morning, while I eat my oatmeal and drink my tea. This is where I get my ideas.

If you read my Spirit and the Wolfman Series closely, you might notice that one character is a narcissist. I don’t want to give any spoilers, so I won’t mention which one. I’ve read many books about narcissism, and unfortunately, have had experiences with one in real life. Part of the motivation of writing that character was to create a reminder of what a narcissist looks like, so I can run the other way if I see one again.

I’m taking a new direction with my blog. I’d like to share more behind the scenes thoughts I have about the psychology woven within my fantasy books.

Also, I’ll be talking about the shows and stories I love to watch and read, and more importantly, what I learn from them. I’m an addict of Asian Fantasy (currently binge- watching k-drama Hotel Del Luna on Netflix). As for reading, I’m working my way through “Love and Work” by Marcus Buckingham. I'll be sharing my thoughts about these and other books/shows in the future.

Please subscribe to the blog and share the journey with me! I’d love to hear your thoughts.

What important life lessons have you learned from a story?

How Do You Handle Fear?

"To live in integrity, place fear in one hand and your purpose in life in the other. Hold on to purpose and toss fear away. It was never yours to keep."

This quote is from my journal writing this morning. Most of the material for my books come from my morning journal.

I free write about life and curious thoughts that cross my mind. Then I create fictional stories with monsters and flawed characters who struggle just like the rest of us. Admittedly, their problems are on a grander scale and the stakes are higher, but their issues are very much like the ones we face in ordinary human life.

Fear. It is the one thing that can stop a hero from living out his destiny. And I think fear stops many of us from going after what we feel we’re meant to do. I know fear has thwarted me from publishing my books for at least a few decades.

Here’s my take on it. Fear likes to hog the spotlight. It will do anything it can to monopolize your attention. If there is something you are meant to do in life, and fear is blocking you from it, then maybe it’s time to shift your attention. Let go of fear and grab on to the life you want with both hands.

Do you write in a journal? What have you learned? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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Hero's Journey...Again?

"Life is a spiral drilling down to the core of each of us. What we are meant to be, our purpose in life, is simply to accept ourselves the way we are and share our gifts."
--from my writing journal, R.Rozet

Before working on my books each day (current work-in-progress is Book #4 in the Spirit and the Wolfman Series), I spend time writing in my personal journal. It helps to prime the writing pump and explore my inner terrain. The above quote is what popped out of my head and onto the page this morning.

Maybe you can relate to this?

I feel like a frequent traveler on the archetypal hero’s journey, with many bumps, bruises, and lessons learned along the way. And I was wondering why?

We live in a world with so much noise and advice that we often lose sight of who we are, and that more importantly, who we are is enough. We look outside ourselves to figure out how to get ahead, be successful, and be happy.

We go on the hero’s journey, climb the mountain, and see clearly for a moment but are quickly enticed away by a new horizon with promises that if we only buy this, be like this person, or have this career life will be better. We forget what we learn.

And so, life takes us on another quest, another hero’s journey, to teach us, once again, what we keep forgetting.

Each book I write is an autobiographical allegory complete with monsters and grey characters. I think of them as fairy tales, illustrated with gothic touches and romance to hold my attention, so I will remember (for a time at least or whenever I reread them), the lessons life has taught me. I share my books and hope that the stories might do the same for others.

Are you on a hero’s journey? Is this your first adventure or have you traveled this familiar road more than once? What have you learned? What gifts have you brought back to share?

Thanks for reading! Please subscribe to the blog if you’d like to see more from my writing journal and updates on future book releases.

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linktr.ee/raeshellrozet

Urban Legend: Halloween Salsa Night

This story was inspired by my own night travels. About ten years back, I used to live in a small town. I fell in love with Salsa dancing, and the nearest club was an hour away. So, for years I’d make the drive alone, often returning home on the dark, lonely road in the early morning hours.

But one night, I forgot to fill up my gas tank. I had so much fun dancing; I didn’t even notice that my gas tank was perilously close to empty until I saw the low fuel light turn on. I was a good thirty minutes away from home, and I’ve never understood, even until this day, how I made it home safely coasting on fumes.

I’ve often wondered. What would have happened if I had not been so lucky?

So, I’d like to tell you a story about another woman. She happens to come from a small town like me, or perhaps even the same small town, and her and I are a lot alike. After all, we both love to dance. And sometimes, we can be a little reckless. But unlike me, she is at a club listening to DJ Max.

“It happened at a club not far from here on Halloween night,” DJ Max looks at the lot of us hanging around outside drinking.

The live band is playing, so DJ Max is taking a break before it’s his turn to entertain us again. He’s been in this dancing scene longer than most of us, for almost thirty years now. Dancing has been good to him. He’s charming, friendly, and the women adore him.

I settle in with my drink to listen to him talk. I have an hour-long drive home tonight, so I’m drinking a soda. My best friend, Suzie, was supposed to make the drive with me, but she’s sick with the stomach flu. Halloween only happens once a year, so I decided to make the drive solo. Plus, I had already bought my costume, a 1920s red flapper dress with fringes that look fantastic when I spin.

“Her name was Daisy. She was a new dancer, and this was her first Halloween Salsa Night. Daisy had to drive two hours to the Salsa club, south on the 101 Highway, taking country roads and backways,” DJ Max begins, making eye contact with each of us, to make sure we’re listening.

“I heard it was a guy named David,” Efrain interrupts.

“And it was the Pacific Coast Highway,” Pablo, a plump Salsero, blurts out before taking a swig of his beer.

“Wasn’t it north? She was headed to a club in San Francisco, right?” Maria pipes up, swishing her long curly locks with a flick of her hand, as she takes a seat next to me.

“Like I said,” DJ Max gives them an annoyed look, which seems to be enough to quiet them. “Daisy was headed south on the 101 Highway, and she didn’t care about driving alone at night, because more than anything, she wanted to dance with Fernando.”

“You mean Ricardo,” Rodrigo interjects.

“Look when you tell the story, you can call him Billy, Bob or Fred, all right. But Fernando,” DJ Max raises his voice a little louder and stares us down with a raised eyebrow, challenging anyone to interrupt again. We stay quiet. Satisfied, he continues, “was the dancer that had captured Daisy’s heart. When she danced with him all her troubles floated away. He was exciting, the best dancer in the area. When he danced, people watched. And when Daisy danced with him, she felt beautiful,” DJ Max pauses so we can let his words sink in.

I know that feeling. I feel that way about Daniel. He’s an amazing dancer and when I dance with him I feel like I’m able to move in ways I never have before. Every time I visit the club, I hope to see him. He’s sweet. Daniel always asks me for a dance, but never more than one. He dances with everyone.

“Daisy was so excited to get to the club that night she forgot to fill her gas tank before leaving town. She didn’t notice that it was only halfway full until she was miles into her drive. She shrugged it off. Daisy figured that she could always stop off to get gas on her way back,” DJ Max takes a sip of his beer. He doesn’t have to say what we all know. That is a mistake that will get her later.

I feel fidgety. I don’t exactly like hearing a Halloween story about a woman traveling alone at night. At least I breathe easier knowing my car has a full tank of gas.

“Now, Fernando was a player. There were so many women after him, even though he wasn’t the most attractive looking guy. His hair was receding and his belly expanding, but that didn’t seem to bother the ladies. Because when he danced with them, he treated them like a queen. Unfortunately, he didn’t treat them that way off the dance floor, and that made more than a few jilted women upset. In fact, one was mad enough to slash his tires, so he never made it to the club that night,” DJ Max looks at the men and shrugs. A few of them look guilty, all of them take a swig of their drink.

“Daisy was extra excited that night, because Fernando had finally noticed her the Saturday before. He had asked her if she was coming to the Halloween Salsa Night. Unbeknownst to Daisy, Fernando had asked all the women that same question. But in Daisy’s mind, it meant that Fernando would be waiting for her. She used part of her rent money to buy an expensive costume and had her hair professionally done, just for him. But, he never showed.

Daisy was the last one to leave the club, hoping to the last minute to see Fernando. She cried as she drove home and didn’t remember to fill her gas tank. It wasn’t until Daisy was deep into the back country roads that she stopped crying long enough to realize the tank was empty,” DJ Max takes a breath and shakes his head.

“Daisy never made it home. Her car ran out of gas, and cell phones don’t work well in the middle of nowhere. She tried to flag down a car, but a tired truck driver didn’t see her standing in the middle of the road, and she was struck dead,” DJ Max lifts his drink and everyone follows his lead. They take a big swig for Daisy.

“It’s said that Daisy visits the Salsa clubs on Halloween night. She’s searching for her Fernando, desperate to be in his arms twirling about the dance floor, feeling beautiful. Most of the time, she’s disappointed. At midnight, she vanishes, once again sad that Fernando never showed up. But every now and then, Daisy finds a dancer that is so talented she believes he’s Fernando. In her happiness, she’ll kiss him on his cheek. But it is the kiss of death, and her lips are as cold as ice. That’s how you know you’ve danced with Daisy,” DJ Max finishes his tale.

“Yep, my friend Joe said he danced with her last Halloween in Miami,” Michael chimes in. “She was a gorgeous blonde dressed up as Marilyn Monroe. He was pretty sad when she disappeared at midnight.” He laughs before taking a drink.

“So, follow these rules on a Halloween Salsa night,” DJ Max starts up again. We groan and laugh.

“First, never drive alone, go with friends!” He starts. I feel a chill on that one. Oh well, I’m here. What can I do?

“Second, if you have your heart set on a beautiful girl give her a kiss before taking her home,” he nods to the guys. They seem to agree.

“Third, if you meet a stranger on Halloween, check to see if they’re around after midnight,” he smiles at us. “Okay, that’s it for me. I’ve warned you. The band is singing their last song. I have to get back to work. Come on, baila! Get off your asses. It’s time to dance!”

I trail behind the group as we head back in. I watch from the doorway to see if I can find Daniel on the dance floor. So far, he hasn’t shown up, but that’s to be expected. The best dancers come a little late.

DJ Max is setting up while the band finishes their last song. The dance floor is buzzing with excitement. I watch Superman dipping a French maid. A pirate furiously spinning Cinderella. And then, I see Daniel. He’s wearing a Zorro costume.

The classic black hat and mask create an air of mystery, but his green eyes and devilish grin are a dead giveaway. He has a signature style. No one else moves like him. He captures the nuances of the music with such expression, I could watch him forever. But suddenly, I am whisked away to the dance floor by Dracula.

“Are you having fun?” Vlad the Impaler asks. I nod as he signals a right hand spin.

As I dance with Dracula, I catch glimpses of Daniel. I’ve been dancing for five years, but I’m nowhere near Daniel’s level. I’ve been practicing every day, trying to improve, hoping he’ll notice. He’s so incredibly handsome tonight dressed all in black. Just the thought of him approaching me makes my heart race. Will I ever grab his attention?

Oh, well, I decide to forget about it for now. Dracula and I are having too much fun to worry. This is Halloween night, and Daniel is here. I give into the dance and enjoy feeling alive. The music pulses through everyone and without having to say a word we all feel connected.

My song with Dracula ends. I start to leave the dance floor, but I feel someone touch my shoulder. I turn and see Daniel’s green eyes. Have they always been this green? He’s smiling. He holds out his hand to ask for a dance. I place mine in his, and off we go.

Yes, I’d know him anywhere by the way he moves. I’ve been dancing with him for five years now, just one song at each Salsa Night, but somehow it’s added up. I can follow him flawlessly. I know he can feel it too. We are completely in sync. He pulls me in closer this time. Holds me for longer. I hear him laugh. I see him smile more. Tonight is different. All my hard work has paid off. After the song ends, he doesn’t let me go. We dance another.

And another.

In fact, we dance so many songs in a row, I lose count. This is what I’ve always wanted. I wish he’d take off his mask and hat. He’s intoxicating in his Zorro costume. I’ve always had a thing for Zorro, but we feel so close tonight. I’d love to see his whole face as we dance.

“This is the last song before midnight!” DJ Max announces. I turn to look at him. He’s holding his drink in his hand. I think he’s had one too many. With a big smile, he winks at me, an inside joke for those of us who know Daisy’s story.

He plays my favorite song. Before I know it, Daniel has me flying about him. Has he ever danced this good? He surprises me with new combinations, and I love it! He pulls me close and this time he doesn’t let me go. I feel how warm he is and my heart pounds as I’m sure there is something real happening between us. I laugh, and he lets me go into crazy twists and turns about each other until the song comes to a finish.

I end up in his arms, and he leans in close. I take one last look into his green eyes before his lips touch mine.

He pulls away.

“Your lips are cold. They’re like ice,” I hear him say. I open my eyes and see him staring directly at me with a weird look on his face.

“Daniel?” I ask. He shakes his head and takes a step back. He bumps into Pablo.

“Whoa, watch it, Jacob,” Pablo teases as he puts a hand on Daniel’s shoulder to steady him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Jose. There was a beautiful girl dancing with me, and she just disappeared. Did you see where she went? She was right here wearing a red flapper’s dress,” he tells him pointing straight at me. Both men look through me as if I’m not there. I wave my hands. There’s no reaction.

Pablo looks around the room and then at me, square in the eye, and tells Daniel, “Nope. I saw a girl like that earlier when I was outside, but I don’t see her anywhere now.”

Daniel shakes his head and walks off, almost bumping into me as he passes by.

I run to the bathroom and lock myself in one of the stalls. I can’t stop trembling.

Why were they calling each other different names? Why did they pretend I wasn’t there? DJ Max’s story and Daniel dancing with me all night, did Daniel and his friends pull a prank? Did Daniel realize how much I liked him and decide to make fun of me? They’re probably out there laughing with DJ Max right now, having the best Halloween night ever.

I see a Halloween Salsa Night flyer taped to the back of the stall door. I remember how excited I was last week when I saw this advertisement. DJ Max wearing a Frankenstein costume with a Salsa band behind him. I feel so angry at him. I could scream, but something catches my eye. I take a closer look at the flyer, and I feel my hands tremble. It doesn’t say DJ Max. No, it says, “Salsa Halloween with Ghoulish DJ Gary.” Shaking, I leave the bathroom.

I walk through the club, but no one notices me. The bouncers at the door don’t even bother saying goodnight as I pass by. I just get in my car and drive. I just want to go home.

For most of the drive, I feel numb. I replay the night. The creepy story, DJ Max, Daniel, dancing, the poster, and none of it makes sense. I just keep driving.

It isn’t until I am on the quiet country road that I start to relax. It was a hoax. I wouldn’t even be surprised if they recorded it on their cell phones. Tomorrow I’ll see it posted on Facebook. Everything from the urban legend to the icy kiss, an elaborate scheme that they can use to advertise their next Salsa Halloween. I breathe easier.

I glance down at the gas tank, grateful that I filled it earlier before heading out. My heart skips a beat. It isn’t full, not even half full. The gauge is hovering right above empty.

I’ll never make it home.

I take a deep breath. Even if I didn’t dance with Daniel, didn’t I have a good time? The music and energy of everyone around me, feeling so alive. And wasn’t Zorro to die for? His green eyes and devilish smile watching my every move. So what if Daniel didn’t show up this time. There’s always next year.

Chatting with the Bad Guy

I recently released my new book, Spirit and the Phoenix (Book #3 in the Spirit and the Wolfman Series). I’ve spent the last couple of weeks relaxing and dancing in a few Salsa shows.

I’m part of an amazing dance team lead by Cristian Oviedo (12X World Champion) and Dasha Reut. My character Scarlet from my first novel, Dancing the Salsa, would be very proud of me!

But now, vacation time is over. I’m ready to dive into writing the rough draft of the fourth book in the Spirit and the Wolfman Series. I always start the same way. I ask my characters questions in my writing journal and learn all about them through their replies.

As you can see in the title of this post and the werewolf picture, I’ve decided to start with the main bad guy, Hayden. I actually know very little about him. I’ve alluded to him in Spirit and the Vampire and Spirit and the Phoenix, but I haven’t really sat down and seen life through his eyes.

So, that’s what I’m doing today. Most of my villains are grey characters. But Hayden seems to be dark grey, if I’m being generous, and almost pitch black if I’m being honest. I guess this is to be expected since he did murder his own father and most of his siblings. It is his mission in life to kill any relative he finds.

I think there is always a reason for a person’s madness, although madness is not how I would characterize Hayden. He is more of the coldblooded, calculating sort. As the oldest living Alpha male werewolf, son of the First Wolf, he is power-hungry and destroys anyone who might prove a threat. He has set a plan in motion which will bring his latest targets (victims) to his doorstep.

Hayden has a story to tell, and this morning I’ve started chatting with him. i imagine that it will be a long conversation.

That is always my first step before writing a story. I step into the mindset of each of my characters. Most of what I write in my journal will never make it into the books. But this is my favorite part of the process.

From what I’ve learned, I’m an intuitive writer, a discovery writer. The story unfolds bit by bit, page by page, and few details are known to me until I see the words appear on the page.

So, this is day one of my journey.

Thanks for reading! If you’d like to share more of my “behind the scenes” writing journey, please subscribe to this blog. To learn more about my books and join my newsletter, visit linktr.ee/raeshellrozet