C. Lee McKenzie's Blog, page 7
July 26, 2024
Happy Pub Day to "Because No One Noticed." E-book out now!
Today is the day! My new YA/Teen fiction novel Because No One Noticed is officially out in ebook format. Fire up those e-readers and get your copy today!
The paperback version will come later, but for now, I want to say thank you to everyone who has supported me on this journey to publication, especially the publishing team at Evernight Teen.
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A little about the book.
Five juniors at Las Animas High have a long history together. They love, dislike, or tolerate each other depending on the day. Occupied with class assignments, career choices, family disharmony, and the usual teen turbulence, none of them thinks seriously of the danger lurking in their near future or how fragile and temporary life is.
Inspired by real-life tragedy, the story unfolds in alternating points of view as the characters explore the resilience of their hearts and their ability to rebuild their lives after a shattering tragedy.
If you do read Because No One Noticed, please do let me know what you think. Leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or wherever you review books.
Thank you for your support and happy publication day to my new book!
Thanks for reading C. Lee McKenzie Books! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
July 17, 2024
I Did It!
In the midst of all this U. S. political turmoil, the continuing wars in Ukraine and Gaza, and long days of heat advisories, I turned off the news and “played” with making a new logo for myself.
Trivial…unimportant in the scheme of things. I know. I know.
However, by working on this project I managed to survive another week without going mad, so I’m not apologetic.
What do you think? This red circle with black text was the one most people liked (with reservations). So I revamped it, using their suggestions.
Another item of business that I tried to fix this week was the pop-up at the beginning of any Substack post I published. I didn't know that was happening since I don’t see what readers see. I hope I’ve changed the settings to stop those things. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know. I dislike pop-ups as much as I dislike blue food. I don’t want pop-ups on posts I publish, and I don’t want blue food on my plate. Just in case you wanted to send me a blue frosted cupcake.
Because No One Noticed— @Evernight Teen’s Editors Pick—arrives July 26. You can pre-order on Amazon . B& N . KoboJuly 2, 2024
Something New This Way Comes
As it happens, I’m re-reading Something Wicked This Way Comes by Bradbury, so I couldn’t help but “play” with that title to announce my new book.
It’s titled Because No One Noticed and I should have a pre-order link soon. Here’s how the story begins. I hope it entices you to read more.
Saturday, The Day Of
Sirens slice through the early September morning silence. It’s only eight-thirty, and already Saturday has switched from a calm first day of fall to one charged with danger. The sounds speed down the highway where accidents happen most of the time, then veer into the center of the small town of Las Animas.
Fire trucks, police cars, and EMT vans converge on the town’s lone strip mall in a crescendo of ear-splitting shrieks until the parking lot is a solid din.
People who’d planned on a late start shove bed covers aside and peer out windows. Those already savoring their morning coffee set down their cups and go onto front porches. Early joggers stop, cocking their heads to determine where those emergency vehicles are headed.
Clifford Mott’s boss grumbles as he opens the convenience store door, and the full force of the noise shatters the last shred of his good humor. The man’s beginning to regret hiring the slow-witted high school dropout who called in sick and pulled him from his girlfriend’s very warm and lovely bed. He’d fire the jerk if anything like this happened again.
In seventeen-year-old Lula Banes’s house, her father—the General—sits at the kitchen table, folding the Wall Street Journal in half and trying to ignore the annoying noise. Upstairs in her bedroom, Lucille, his wife, pulls out earplugs from her nightstand, and, stuffing them into her ears, buries her head under the silk-covered pillow.
Win Knight’s father is in what Las Animas town dwellers refer to as Knight’s Castle. He and his latest girlfriend have spent the night together. Kate’s there, too. The housekeeper sets aside the skillet of sizzling bacon to turn on the local news.
Marty Skolinski’s dad, on his way to open the hardware store, slows the car to peer at the crowd gathered on the street. The sirens have stopped, but the emergency lights still flash like a manic light show. He shakes his head, frowning, but then drives on because he has a sale this weekend, and customers will want in by 9:00 AM.
Both Dina Strong and her cousin Brittany left their house early, freeing up two slots for the one shower in the crowded home. Dina’s parents, her aunt, and her uncle will have to vie for bathroom time. Each of them looks forward to those extra few minutes alone with soap and hot water. Anticipation of this small luxury keeps them too occupied to pay much attention to the noise coming from the street.
In the old upscale section of town, Blossom Henley’s mother is just finishing her morning shower, but she still hears the blaring horns and screeching sirens. She hopes someone hasn’t been hurt, but from the sounds, something serious is happening. She turns off the water and grips the safety bar. The night her husband was killed in a car crash, she’d heard sirens and never thought they had anything to do with her. She’d been so wrong. Now whenever she hears sirens, they almost stop her heart with dread.
Soon everyone in Las Animas will know what has happened in that strip mall at the Saturday morning hangout called Blendz and Moore. In the future, whenever sirens wail, they’ll halt whatever they are doing, remember this morning, and share that heart-stopping dread with Blossom Henley’s mother.
If you’d like give this new book a shout out on your social media, I’d really appreciate the help. You can email me at cleemckenzieATgmailDOTcom or let me know in the comments for this post, and I’ll send whatever promo you’d like.
And now for other important stuff!
We have some exciting new features that you won’t want to miss. The first Mondays will still have Member Services, but look what’s coming on those other Mondays!
Review Swap
Interview Swap
Writing Buddy Linkup
Our X (Twitter) handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.
The awesome co-hosts for the July 3 posting of the IWSG are JS Pailly, Rebecca Douglass, Pat Garcia, Louise-Fundy Blue, and Natalie Aguirre!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
Remember, the question is optional!
What are your favorite writing processing (e.g. Word, Scrivener, yWriter, Dabble), writing apps, software, and tools? Why do you recommend them? And which one is your all time favorite that you cannot live without and use daily or at least whenever you write?
I’m a Neanderthal, I guess because I only use my word processing program on Apple. If that’s not available I resort to pen/pencil and paper. I know. I know. What’s next, Lee, a quill and parchment?
Quote of the Month:
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June 12, 2024
I Need Help
This year I decided to dump my WordPress website. I was spending hours and a considerable amount of $$$ trying to make it behave and trying to make it secure from hackers. While I knew I’d have a lot to do to make the switch, I felt the effort would be worth it.
Now I’m working on creating a new look that will completely separate me from the old one.
I’m starting with my logo.
The old one’s at the top. Below are the two that I’m considering. I’m not a graphic artist, and I’m not a marketing whiz, but I thought one of these might work.
What’s your take? The first one or the second? Or should I start over?
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June 5, 2024
Welcoming June!
It’s a busy month ahead for me. I’ve just received the first edits on my next book, and I haven’t done all I need to on my last two publications, Rattlesnake and Shattered. I could use a clone.
I could also use more reviews, but getting those takes more time. It’s an endless cycle of write, submit, edit, and promote. Then repeat. I love this cycle, even though it wears me out because it’s the only way I know of to get better at doing any of what’s required. I suppose all writers are in the same boat, so if you’re one of those, you understand exactly what I mean.
Reviewer:
Rattlesnake is a captivating blend of suspense, mystery, and forbidden love. Set in the Nevada desert in both modern times and the silver mining era of the 1800s, it weaves suspense, mystery, and supernatural intrigue into a compelling narrative.
Reviewer: Libby Brown won my heart and so did her best friend, Harley. I understood how terrible it was for Libby after her fall on the slopes, and I wanted her to find a way to put her life back together. It was gratifying to read her slow, but sure progress back to skiing and so much more.
What I liked about this story was that while there was some romance, that wasn't the focus. There was a mystery that I really loved, and was surprised by. Then there was the interaction with all of the characters that was so great. All of this combined to make for a super read.
I recommend this book because it's honest, and it's entertaining at the same time.
I’m posting my answer to the question on the #IWSG homepage, so I hope you’ll visit and leave a comment there as well as here.
Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!
Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time - and return comments. This group is all about connecting! Be sure to link to this page and display the badge in your post. And please be sure your avatar links back to your blog! Otherwise, when you leave a comment, people can't find you to comment back.
Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!
Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.
The awesome co-hosts for the June 5 posting of the IWSG are Liza at Middle Passages, Shannon Lawrence, Melissa Maygrove, and Olga Godim!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
Remember, the question is optional!
In this constantly evolving industry, what kind of offering/service do you think the IWSG should consider offering to members?
I love this question, and I look forward to reading what the #IWSG members will suggest.
This Month’s Quote:“You don't start out writing good stuff. You start out writing crap and thinking it's good stuff, and then gradually you get better at it. That's why I say one of the most valuable traits is persistence.” —Octavia E. Butler
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May 16, 2024
The Long and Short of It
I can’t always work on novel-length projects. Sometimes I need to have something short in process. I love to read short stories and while writing them is challenging, I enjoy wrestling them onto the page.
Here’s one. I call it Tsantsa.
Tsantsa
By C. Lee McKenzie
“Matt,” his mom called. “UPS just dropped off another package from Jack.”
A package from his cousin meant some kind of stuffed critter had arrived. Matt's room already looked like a natural history museum for the wild parts of the world.
Last year he got a miniature grinning crocodile from the Amazon. Mom hated it. When Jack followed up the next month with stuffed blow fish from the South Pacific, she used the word, banned, three times—all about Jack.
Matt entered the kitchen and his mom held out a shoebox-sized parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Here. I'm late for my appointment." She hurried down the hall. "I’m praying this isn’t another you-know-what.”
The return address read "Mrs. R. Bradley, Roanoak, Virginia" It had been postmarked a week ago.
Who was Mrs. R. Bradley? Matt wondered.
He read the address label. "To: Matthew Kehoe."
He shook the package. Nothing rattled. He ripped it open and removed the lid. Inside, was what looked like layers of tree bark.
His mother hurried into the kitchen, rummaging in her purse. “I have to be downtown in ten minutes. Where did those keys go?” She started to sweep aside the wrapping Matt had tossed on the counter, but then noticed the address label. “This wasn’t from Jack. It was for him.” She peered into the box. “You shouldn’t have opened it.”
“It was addressed to me.”
“No." She held out the wrapping and pointed to the c/o in front of his name. "I didn't see that." She shook her head. “Just put it away. I don’t want to know what’s inside that . . . piece of tree.” She fished the car keys from her purse. “I’ve got to go.”
Matt lifted the bark free of the packing and peeled it back. He held it up to get a better look and immediately dropped it back into the box. His palms stung and his heart froze inside his chest. It was an ugly doll’s head with long, dark hair, inky blue-black skin, and slits for eyes. Like its mouth, they’d been stitched together with thin cord.
He stuffed it back into the box. His mom would go ballistic if she saw that thing. He considered stowing it in the garage, but what if it was something valuable? Jack was always on about how important each of his “finds” was to an anthropologist. Matt decided to store it under his bed until Friday when his mom vacuumed. Then he’d find a better spot.
At the dinner table that night his mother didn’t talk about the package until his dad asked if anyone had heard from, as he put it, “that globe-trotting nephew of mine.”
“Jack got a package today,” his mother said. “Matt opened it thinking it was for him.”
“What was it?” His dad buttered a piece of bread. “More stuffed reptiles?”
“No.” Matt scooped a spoonful of corn into his mouth. Having that head hidden under his bed had made him uneasy all day. As the day ended, he became edgier.
“Something wrong?” his dad asked.
Matt shook his head and gulped down his milk.
That night, he took his time brushing his teeth. Then he folded his clothes, instead of doing his usual strip and toss. He couldn’t stall anymore, but he wasn’t climbing into bed with that thing underneath it. He pulled out the box. Turning on the overhead lights, he set it on his desk.
How could he be scared by an ugly blue doll’s head? Jack would laugh at him and say something like, “Get a grip, Matt. It’s only a good luck charm.”
He lifted the lid and reached inside, but when he touched the wrapping, his fingertips felt like they were on fire. He yanked his hands back and grabbed a pencil. Holding it by the eraser end, he peeled away the layers of bark.
The eyes stared up at him. He fell against his bedroom wall, knocking his desk chair over. His body shook. His scalp drew tight and his throat burned like it did before he threw up.
After he'd choked down the sour taste, he grabbed the lid and clamped it on top.
When he could breathe, he slid the box to the back of the highest shelf in his closet.
Before he climbed between the sheets he opened the door into the hall like he used to do when he was little. Even then Matt couldn’t sleep. The vision of those eyes, wouldn't go away. What had Mrs. R. Bradley in Virginia sent Jack?
The next morning, Matt dragged himself to breakfast. Yawning and grumpy, he mashed his cereal under the milk but ate very little of it. His stomach ached. His head hurt. He cupped both hands over his eyes and leaned his elbows on the table.
“Are you sick?” His mother put her hand on his forehead. “You’re clammy.” She pulled out the kitchen emergency kit, shook the thermometer and stuck it under Matt’s tongue.
His dad entered, carrying the morning paper and mail. “What’s all this?”
“Matt’s sick. I may have to take him to the doctor.” She read the thermometer. “102.”
Dad sorted the mail. “Hey, It’s a letter from Jack for you, Matt.”
“I’m going to bed.” Matt picked up his letter and shuffled to his room. He’d never felt this sick before. He fell across his bed, too exhausted to open Jack’s letter, and slept.
Running. A dark jungle. Footsteps behind him, coming closer. Closer. A hand grasped the back of his neck.
Matt shot up in bed.
“Good heavens,” his mother cried. She stood at the side of his bed. “We’re to see the doctor at four.”
He fell back against the pillows. For the first time, he looked forward to seeing the doctor. Next to him was Jack’s letter. He ripped it open.
"Matt, I’m having something sent to you that’s not for your collection. Keep it safe until I come home next week. I’ve been in the field and didn’t have another address to give Mrs. Bradley who wanted to send it right away. Leave it wrapped. Your mom's already pissed at me, and that package will make her hate me more. Tell my aunt I won’t bring more lizards or snakes when I come. Promise. Jack.
Matt read the postmark. Jack had mailed this letter before Mrs. Bradley mailed the package. The letter should have arrived before that head. Why wasn’t Jack already here?
That afternoon the doctor prescribed rest and fluids, the same as he had when Matt had the flu which meant the doctor didn’t have a clue what was wrong with him. Matt had to find Jack. He had to get rid of that package. And he had to do both ASAP.
He opened his email. Jack didn’t use email much, but he had an address he checked occasionally. Matt typed an urgent message. "Where are you? The package came. Opened it by mistake. Doll’s head you got from that Bradley person makes me want to puke. Matt."
He clicked Send. The computer went online, sent his message, and downloaded an email from Jack.
"Delayed in Ecuador, Matt. Was in the field doing research and stumbled on something. It’s the tsantsa making you sick. Keep away from it! I didn’t know it was dangerous until now. I have to get it back here to Ecuador. Keep this between us. Don’t want Aunt Nancy throwing me out when I arrive. Love, Jack.
p.s. Don’t look at it after sundown."
“Too late,” Matt said. He typed. "Hurry up. And what the heck is a tsantsa?
A wave of nausea washed through him. Trying to decide if he should head to the bathroom, he pushed up from his desk and fell into bed. He tried to stay awake, but his eyes grew heavy and soon sleep pulled him into its dark self, into the . . .
jungle. That hand gripped him from behind and threw him to the ground. Matt rolled onto his back and held his arms over his head. A figure straddled him. A knife held high. The face twisted and terrible, the mouth . . . stitched closed.
Matt bolted up from his bed, shaking.
Grabbing a blanket he walked to the guest bedroom and curled into a ball. “Hurry up, Jack,” Matt whispered into the pillow before he fell into a dreamless sleep.
By the second day after he’d moved from his room, he felt great. He felt even better when Jack called from the airport. He’d be there in half an hour.
When his cousin’s taxi arrived Matt ran to the curb. Jack, his blond hair tied at the back of his head with his usual bright red string, gave Matt his bear hug greeting.
“Wait for me,” Jack told the driver. Then to Matt, “Are you okay?”
Matt nodded.
“Where is it?”
“My closet.” Matt led the way, but stood in the hall as Jack retrieved the box.
“I can’t stay,” Jack said. “I’m booked on the next flight to Ecuador.”
“What is that?” Matt pointed at the box.
“A Jivaro warrior took the head of a relative and transformed it into a tsantsa. That's taboo—the worse kind.”
“Huh?”
“A tsantsa is a human head taken in battle and transformed into . . .” Jack rubbed his eyes. “It’s a shrunken head.”
“A guy’s head?” Bile rose into Matt’s throat with the vision of the blue skin, the stitched eyes and mouth.
Jack nodded. “I’m returning it to the disgraced tribe. I’m hoping that will end the need for revenge. Mr. Bradley, the last collector who owned it, died the day after he received it. When I researched the others, they’d all died within a short time after the head arrived. It was only after I’d given Mrs. Bradley your address that I discovered this. I never would have involved you, if I’d known about the curse.”
"Curse," Matt repeated with a shiver.
“Can I borrow your duffle bag?” Jack asked.
Matt grabbed his Yankees bag from the corner of his closet, the one with his name and address inked into the canvass.
Jack set the box inside. “I’ll email and let you know what happens. See you at spring break. Promise.”
Matt stood at the curb as the taxi drove away. He hated seeing Jack leave, but he was glad the box and its icky contents were gone.
That Monday, Matt returned to doing homework and going to bed early. Dull. Dull. Dull. Jack’s emails never came. Matt’s emails to Jack remained unanswered. No letters came, either. Then two months after Jack’s visit, the doorbell rang one Saturday morning and Matt answered it. A delivery man, holding a Yankees’ duffle bag, stood on the porch.
Matt stared at the bag with his name and address inked onto the side. A tiny trickle of sweat started at his hairline and trailed down his neck. What had Jack sent him?
“Returning a bag to Matt Kehoe."
Matt’s hand shook as took the bag. Maybe Jack was returning it. Maybe he was sending something to make up for that head.
It took a while before he could unzip the top, but when he did, he found the same box he’d gotten over two months ago. This time he didn’t open it. He picked it up and carried it outside where he grabbed a shovel and dug into the ground. Dropping the bag, box and all, into the small hole, he buried it.
“What’s this?” His dad asked coming from the garage and pointing to the freshly turned dirt.
“Something Jack sent. Mom won’t want it in the house.”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Matt.” Dad clutched a letter and tears spilled down his cheeks. “Jack’s . . . been killed.” His dad handed Matt the letter.
The letter, the dank smell of their backyard dirt . . . all swept around him like a funnel cloud that snatched him into its center.
He didn't remember falling onto the freshly dug earth, but when he woke up, he was in the living room with his parents staring down at him, their faces filled with worry.
His mom patted his arm. “I’m sorry, Matt. I know how much you loved Jack.” Her eyes were red from crying.
His dad helped him up and sat beside him on the couch. “We’ll have a small memorial service, since—”
His dad didn’t have to finish. Matt understood. The letter from the university had explained what happened to Jack. There was no body to bury. “Our investigation failed to locate . . . dangerous Jivaro territory . . . Extremely, saddened . . . .”
That night after he was sure his parents were asleep Matt returned to the mound of earth in the backyard. He dug away the dirt until the shovel struck something soft. He reached down and lifted his bag from its grave. Then he wiped the dirt from the zipper and pulled the tab. It opened a bit. Another pull and his bag gaped, revealing the box.
The moon cast a white light over Matt’s trembling hands as he retrieved the box and set it on the ground beside him.
His dad’s words filled his head. ‘We’ll have a memorial service since. . . .’
Matt removed the lid.
Under the moonlight, lay a dark blue head, eyes and mouth stitched closed, its blond hair neatly tied with a red string.
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April 30, 2024
Writer Derailed
When I started to write for publication, I created a lot of short stories before I was derailed into writing novels. These short stories were… for want of a better word, short. With only a few pages, I could tell a story. However, as I soon found out, the short story is deceptively easy. You have a lot of work to do to make them compelling.
I discovered six tips that helped me craft those short pieces:
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start and maintain an appropriate pace
keep the number of characters small
give the reader someone to root for
create conflict
suggest, but don’t develop backstory
appeal to all the senses.
And now for the #IWSG question of the month.
Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!
Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time - and return comments. This group is all about connecting! Be sure to link to this page and display the badge in your post. And please be sure your avatar links back to your blog! Otherwise, when you leave a comment, people can't find you to comment back.
The awesome co-hosts for the May 1 posting of the IWSG are Victoria Marie Lees, Kim Lajevardi, Nancy Gideon, and Cathrina Constantine!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
May 1 question - How do you deal with distractions when you are writing? Do they derail you?
Honestly, I sometimes welcome those distractions. Of course, that’s when I’m having trouble getting words down and the story is not going anywhere. I find that after a few moments of thinking about something else, I can return to writing and it’s easy to find my way through the scene I’ve been stuck on.
On the other hand, if I’m really into the story and there’s a ping announcing a killer deal on tuna fish, I’m not quite as welcoming. When this kind of interruption happens, I often wonder if the story would have taken a different route, or if the character might have lived instead of jumping off that cliff, or if the house would have gone up in flames instead of collapsing during an earthquake. I’ll never know, and that bothers me a lot. My solution to remaining uninterrupted is simple. I put my computer on Do Not Disturb during writing time, and I silence my phone.
I’ll be interested in reading what others say about this month’s question.
Quote of the Month: “A short story is a love affair, a novel is a marriage. A short story is a photograph; a novel is a film.” Lorrie Moore, author
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April 24, 2024
Giveaway Alert
This is an extra bit of contact this month because Rattlesnake (my latest Evernight Teen book) is getting some attention from N.N. Light’s Book Heaven in their spotlight this month.
AND…I don’t want you to miss the $20. Giveaway that’s connected with this attention. Here’s the link for you to enter. Wishing you luck. Buy books! Or something that you absolutely adore if you win. And please let me know if you do win. https://www.nnlightsbookheaven.com/po...
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April 18, 2024
It's About Focus
There’s nothing better than a story to make a point and keep it in your memory. Here’s one about focus that I carry around in my head. It helps on days I’m scattered and think I have too much to do and no time to do it in.
Once there was a famous archery master that young people flocked to. Each one’s goal was to be the best archer in the village. The first student came equipped with an expensive bow and arrows. When he stood ready to aim at the target, the master asked him, “Tell me what you see.”
The student gazed around him and said, “The blue sky with four white clouds, the—”
“Take your bow and arrows and leave,” the master said, walking away.
A second student, having heard how the first one had been sent home without a single lesson, arrived with a hand-hewn bow and the straightest arrows the village could supply. He took his place and waited as the master approached.
“Tell me what you see,” the master said.
“There’s a sturdy oak supporting the target and—”
“Take your bow and arrows and leave,” the master said, walking away.
When the third student arrived fully equipped with a fine bow and arrows, it was common knowledge that the master might refuse to teach anyone how to become the best archer in the village.
Still, the student took his place in front of the target and waited.
“Tell me what you see,” the master said.
The student stared at the target, knowing dismissal by the master might come in the next moment.
“I see a red dot.”
The master nodded. “Welcome, Best Archer in the village.”
Once in a while, I confess to reading some of my reviews. Of course, I like the ones that say nice things about my books. But sometimes I find one that is so well written that I think this person should be writing books of their own. Here’s one I found this morning for Rattlesnake, my latest book. BTW I do not know this reviewer.
I'm an ardent fan of C. Lee McKenzie's work, and this book solidified her place as one of my all-time favorite authors.
Delving into a story tinged with supernatural elements was an irresistible pull for me, and I must say, I was completely riveted from start to finish. McKenzie's prose possesses an enchanting quality that effortlessly draws you in, compelling you to keep turning page after page.
Within this tale, you'll uncover a captivating blend of suspense, mystery, and a forbidden love that adds an enthralling layer to the narrative. One of the standout aspects is McKenzie's adept portrayal of Catherine, a ghost suspended between the realms of the living and the dead. Her depiction of Catherine's pathos, confusion, and poignant loneliness is so vividly rendered that you'll find yourself longing to offer comfort, if only touch were possible.
The introduction of Jonah, a teenage newcomer to the town of Rattlesnake, immediately pulls you into a world brimming with both potential and danger. The town lives up to its foreboding name, harboring inhabitants like the menacing store owner, Boone, and his troubled son, aptly named Snake. Amidst this atmospheric setting, Jonah's spirited aunt and quick-witted sister, Allie, contribute to the captivating dynamics of the relocated family.
Notably, the abandoned gold mine on their property serves as a catalyst for unraveling secrets buried deep in the past—a mystery entwined with Catherine's existence and a long-unsolved murder.
As Jonah and his sister navigate the enigmatic world of spirits, they quickly realize that engaging with a ghost isn't merely a stroll into history but an entrance into a perilous realm fraught with danger.
This book is an absolute page-turner, effortlessly gripping your attention with each chapter. If you're seeking a tale that seamlessly weaves suspense, mystery, and supernatural intrigue into a compelling narrative, then this book is an absolute must-buy. Trust me, you'll find yourself completely absorbed, just as I was, glued to the enthralling story that unfolds with every turn of the page.
I received a free copy of this book via Evernight Teen and am voluntarily leaving a review.
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April 3, 2024
A First Wednesday Post
The Cover Sheet for my next book is done and sent. The edits from the publisher should be coming in a few weeks. These usually take a couple of rounds before we say, “It’s a wrap!”
The best part of this stage in the publishing process is getting the cover art. That is always exciting. There’s something about seeing another person’s idea about my story in a different medium. Most of the time the artist gets it in the first or second round. I only had trouble communicating what I thought would work best one time. Then I made a HUGE mistake and didn’t pay attention to the artist. I’ve regretted this cover ever since the book came out, and it was all my fault. The story is solid, but the cover is not. :-)
He’s not guilty, but can he prove it?
Excerpt: Like Dad always said, almost everyone in Polk owed their land, their houses, the clothes they wore to a dark-green thistle called the artichoke. The mild winters and cool, foggy summers produced the biggest and best of those thorny vegetables.
The Sturgeses’ farm stretched along the edge of the highway and down to the cliffs that sheered straight to the beach below. Devon slowed at the Artichokes sign and turned down a dirt road. On either side of him, plants leafed out and were topped with green globes of layered artichokes that poked their heads up to the sky like small armadillos.
About half a mile later, the roof of a barn jutted above the vegetation. In a few more yards, he made out the house next to it. A couple of trucks were parked in front. Two men stood next to them. One man wore a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, the other a baseball cap.
Devon slowed and then braked to a stop. Would he get the chance to talk to Bobby and not have another run-in with that family? He thought about backing out when a horn honked behind him. He looked up to find the camouflage Jeep nosed against the rear of his Mustang.
An army of artichoke plants on each side of him wasn’t going to let him escape across the fields. JD didn’t budge behind. The only way was forward.
How true, Devon thought as he put the car into gear and pulled up in front of the house.
The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time - and return comments. This group is all about connecting! Be sure to link to this page and display the badge in your post. And please be sure your avatar links back to your blog! Otherwise, when you leave a comment, people can't find you to comment back.
Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!
Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.
The awesome co-hosts for the April 3 posting of the IWSG are Janet Alcorn, T. Powell Coltrin, Natalie Aguirre, and Pat Garcia!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
Remember, the question is optional!
April 3 question - How long have you been blogging? (Or on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram?) What do you like about it and how has it changed?
My publisher made me do it! It was 2009 and my first book, Sliding on the Edge, came out. Before I knew it, my publisher had set up a Facebook page and insisted I create a webpage. I didn’t take easily to blogging or FB (later Instagram/TicToc? Hell no). I’m a fairly private person, so putting things online about myself felt very uncomfortable….still does. Also, I’m not good at trying to make people look in my direction with Buy My Book over and over. I’ve been published 25 times (this includes anthologies with short stories and a lot of children’s online stories in Stories for Children and Crow Toes Quarterly), so I’m still online, but still reluctant to be here. I see myself as a failed promoter, but I’ve stopped fretting about it. Quoting from Gone With The Wind, “Frankly…I don’t give a damn!” :-)
Quote of the Month: "Failure is success in progress." Einstein (Maybe I’ll see if he was right.)
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