Linda Welch's Blog, page 2

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

 

So I finished this book today

When you find and like something new, you want to share your discovery with your friends. Right? I do. So, today I’m pointing you at a particular book because I really enjoyed it: Stories on the Go, 101 Very Short Stories by 101 Authors. The description says, ” You should be able to read each story in under five minutes — on your desktop computer, laptop, or tablet at home or in the office, but also on your smartphone, on the go, while you are commuting or waiting at a coffee shop for your significant other to arrive.” Great, I thought. A book I won’t mind picking up, putting down, because I can get to the end of a story in seconds.

But I had a hard time putting it down. I found it addictive. No story is over 1,00 words so a very quick read, tiny samples of one-hundred-and-one authors’ unique styles of story telling. Each time I finished one, I told myself I’d squeeze in just one more, or two, or three, before I headed for bed. I ended up reading into the early hours of the morning.

Not every little tale rocked my world, but many grabbed me by the heart and twisted, or tickled my funny bone, or made me really think. When I reached the end of the book, I wanted more. There are stories by authors already well known to me, such as Hugh Howey’s A Father’s Fist and John L. Monk’s delightfully slutty parody Trixy Chestity goes to England (Chapter 7). Dee Gabbledon’s Outlandisher was a delicious surprise. You’ve never heard of Dee Gabbledon? If you’re an Outlander fan, you’re in for a treat.

And I discovered many authors new to me and will definitely be checking out their books: Sheryl Fawcett (The Man Across the Room,) Bob Summer (Words) and Carol Kean (The Tipper)  to name only a few.

The book is free for Kindle and Nook so if you’re looking for an effortless reading experience, download Stories on the Go. See if you can put it down or, like me, become an addict.

 

A Holiday gift for fans of Whisperings Paranormal Mystery

My holiday gift for Whisperings fans, The Midnight Choir, a Whisperings short story, is free on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, iTunes, Kobo, Scribd and Inktera. Hopefully, it will soon also be free on International Amazon sites. This little story was first published here on my web site, but the new version includes additional material. I hope you enjoy it.

Time has rushed by so quickly. The end of another year, when people look back and reflect on what the year brought into their lives. As  for me, the body is getting old and has forced me to acknowledge it has limitations, but the brain still works. I have family. I have friends who have stuck by me for years and new friends I’ve met online and in person. I can picture events which still make me smile when I remember them. As for the writing – as always it’s been fun, exasperating, stressful, tiring, and exhilarating.

On the writing side, Baelfleur, the sequel to Downside Rain was published in November. Tiff Takes on Halloween, a Whisperings short story, was published in October. I tried it on Amazon’s Kindle Select/Kindle Unlimited as an experiment. All the KU borrows were nice but at the end of the day, being exclusive to one publishing platform doesn’t sit well with me, so the little story will also appear on Barnes and Noble, iTunes, Kobo, Scribd and Inktera when the Kindle Select period expires in January. And while I’m thinking of it, a shout out to Kindle Select staff who have always responded to my questions/problems promptly. Believe me, if you had to work with support staff at some of the other publishing platforms, you’d appreciate the guys and gals who staff Kindle Select.

I almost forgot to say – last week I reached a personal milestone with the sale of my 75,000 e-book.

In January I found out my Scottie dog Duncan has cancer. The discovery resulted in me rushing to England in April and deciding to write a seventh Whisperings Paranormal Mystery.

Why did my dog having cancer make me rush to England? And why did it prompt me to write another Whisperings book?

Well, I wanted to go to England to see my 91 year-old mum. Husband and I planned to go later in the year, but I didn’t know how long Duncan had with us. His excellent vet estimated six months to a year. I decided on chemotherapy treatment for him, but chemo destroys the immune system which meant he couldn’t be put at risk for infection by having him in a kennel while husband and I took a trip. In fact, he can’t be with other dogs at all, or have his annual immunizations and rabies shots, and we watch him carefully during walks to make sure he doesn’t get into anything he shouldn’t.

I didn’t want husband to have to deal with Duncan getting sick, and of course I wanted to be with Duncan when the time came,  so I whipped off to England earlier than planned and husband cared for Duncan while I was gone.

As for Whisperings. I said in my post To Be Or Not To Be that I didn’t know whether or not I’d write another Whisperings after A Conspiracy of Demons, and I didn’t have any plans to. But an odd thing happened when I learned Duncan has incurable cancer. I love my little dog and the news devastated me. I sat down at my computer and piled the whole thing on Tiff’s shoulders. I wrote about her discovering her Scottie Mac had cancer, her grief, and how she imagined the time to come when she would have to help him on his way.

At the end of the little piece, a bullet came out of nowhere.

I was pretty surprised. That wasn’t supposed to happen! I thought about it and before I knew it, I had an outline for Whisperings Paranormal Mystery book seven: Dark Demon Risen. I put it aside while I finished writing Baelfleur and the short stories but I’ll jump back on it after Christmas.

If you’re wondering about Duncan, he’s still with us and still going strong almost a year after the diagnosis.

So although 2014 began unhappily, it turned out to be a pretty good year. I hope 2015 brings good things, to me and to you. Happy Christmas, may the day be merry and bright, filled with love and good cheer.

 

 

BAELFLEUR: A Downside Novel.

The sequel to Downside Rain:

Two wraiths and a ghost accept a commission to deliver a message to the faceless thief who is stealing Downside’s treasures. Their journey takes them Far North to a cold, inhospitable land where humans rule and other races are shunned.

Meanwhile, a once powerful man is betrayed and his life is forfeit. With the dark angel dead, no one can help Alain Sauvageau. He is human now and only human skills can save him.

As Alain fights for his life, Rain, River and Castle close in on the thief only to discover there is more to his story than they were told. Someone will do anything to stop them finding him. But their new ally, a human Northern girl, may just tip the scales.

Last year I went through my closet and pulled out my heeled shoes to give to a charity store. Problems with my feet mean I can’t wear heels now and probably never will again. It was pretty traumatic as I looove fashionable shoes. But I couldn’t let one pair go. I’ve had them for so long they’ve taken on a sentimental value, as well as being beautiful. When I and my husband went to an event not long ago, I was damned if I’d wear flats to a fancy do! I crammed my feet into my one pair of heels and ten minutes later my poor feet were so swollen I had to hobble along barefoot, and the pain and swelling lasted for days. Sadly, that lovely pair of shoes no longer work for me.

I expect you’re asking yourself what this has to do with Baelfleur. Bear with me.

My old science fiction novel Mindbender is something like those shoes. I have a deep affection for it. Mindbender was the first novel I wrote and published. I unpublished it when I realized it needed work and have said time and again I’m going to edit and republish. And I tried, I really tried. But like those shoes it’s no longer a good fit for me. I have to love my books. I have to read them and be entertained. Although I still like some chapters, Mindbender as a whole no longer does it for me.

So Mindbender was about to be consigned to the shelf when the Muse gave me a nudge. “Some of those characters, and the theme- wouldn’t it make a perfect Downside novel?”

Now, as well as broadcasting numerous times I would republish Mindbender, I’ve also told several people that Downside Rain is a stand-alone novel. I told the Muse this. “So, you can change your mind. You creative types do it all the time. It’s your prerogative, said the Muse.

So I did.

If you read Mindbender when it was available, you may recognize three characters. I hope you enjoy their metemorphosis into what they became in Baelfleur. I also shamelessly scalped a few descriptive passages from my old Mindbender.

Baelfleur is now available and I’m offering Downside Rain at a reduced price for a limited time: $0.99 in the USA and matching currency in other countries.

With Downside Rain on sale, now is a good time to visit Downside. If you like books which introduce you to another world populated by good and evil creatures of myth and legend with a difference, please check out the Downside novels. Scroll down for links to both books.

You’ll see the Whisperings Shorts are no longer here. I took them down because I intend to add more content and publish them as short stories for $0.99. Tiff Takes on Halloween is already available on Amazon. Note: they are short stories. Not novels, not novellas, not novelettes. Short stories. The Shorts will be exclusive to Amazon for the first 90 days from publication.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Downside Rain is available from Amazon stores worldwide, including: Amazon US * Amazon UK * Amazon Germany * Amazon Canada * Amazon Australia

Also available from Nook * Apple * Scribd * Page Foundry

Baelfleur is available from Amazon stores worldwide, including: Amazon US * Amazon UK * Amazon Germany * Amazon Canada * Amazon Australia

Also available from Nook * Apple * Scribd * Page Foundry

 

 

 

Road Trip (A Whisperings Short)

A lighthearted short for Jack and Dale enthusiasts.

ROAD TRIP

 

“Please,” Jack whined.

“No.”

“Pretty please, with sugar on?”

I rolled my eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you? I am not driving you to Mesquite.”

“But we haven’t heard from him in months. He didn’t return your calls. Something is wrong.”

“Not calls, Jack. I left one message three days ago.”

Jack stomped the floor. Or he would have, had he a physical body to stomp with. “Why do people have answering machines if they don’t return messages?”

I bit my lower lip in an effort to retain a modicum of patience.

Not hearing from Dale was odd. I acted as an intermediary for him and Jack, he came to Clarion every other month or so for that reason.  And in between times he liked to call and leave funny, cute little messages, ostensibly for me but actually for me to pass on to Jack. However, I could think of reasons we hadn’t heard from him.  “You know he went on a three-week cruise and cell reception on a ship is spotty. Then he stayed with a friend in the Rocky Mountains and I bet he didn’t have reception up there, either.”

“The Rocky Mountain thing was for a week. He should’ve come back two weeks ago.”

“He was having such a good time he decided to stay longer,” I offered lamely.

“The Rocky Mountains can be dangerous. Maybe a bear mauled him,” Mel suggested brightly.

“If he wanted mauling, plenty of bears are around here,” from Jack. He stuck his fingers in his mouth as if chewing them and moaned.

“He wanted a bear to maul him?” Mel asked seriously.

Jack scowled and spoke around his fingers. “Don’t be stupid.”

“But you said―”

“And you said―”

“Cut it out, guys! Jack, Mel is trying to get a rise out of you. Mel, stop it,” I all but screeched. My head hurt from Jack’s constant grizzling and he and Mel got into it far too often. They needed to get out of the house again, go on a little trip, investigate the wide world around them. “Nothing’s stopping you from going south.” And I’d suggested it when Jack first asked me to take him to Mesquite.

Jack’s voice rose aggressively. “It’d take forever.”

I wanted to chastise him, tell him not to speak to me in that tone of voice. Again, I reined in my temper. Prisoners in my house for decades, Jack and Mel could now latch onto a living person and go where they went. Although going all the way south would take time, it was possible. “Not necessarily. Planes fly to Mesquite. Tour buses go there.”

“But you could get me there by this afternoon.”

My shoulders tightened along with my jaw. “It’s not as simple as you think. It’s a six-hour drive, plus stops for a bite to eat and gas-up. Then all the way home. And I’ll have to put Mac in kennels. Who’s going to pay for it all? You?”

“Wanda can take care of Mac. She’s done it before.”

“Wanda’s on vacation.”

“Royal, then.”

“No way.” I couldn’t believe he suggested Royal care for Mac. I’d come home to find Royal with less flesh on his ankles and calves than when I left. “The final word is no, Jack. You hear me?”

Just to be contrary after my point blank refusal, my brain spilled an idea into my head. “Suppose I ask Royal to zip down there and see if Dale’s home?”

Jack came in close. “You’d do that? Do you think he’ll do it?”

“I can ask. Depends if he’s busy and what kind of mood he’s in.”

“He will!” from Mel. “He’ll do anything you want.”

Well, not anything, but Royal’s an accommodating guy.

I pushed back the kitchen chair as I stood, and went to the phone on the counter. Royal and Mike Warren were at the shooting range up in Eden. If they were still practicing, their phones would be off, but Royal could be driving back to Clarion by now. They asked me to go with them and I almost agreed. I enjoy target practice and I could escape Jack’s tirades. But I realized, in the mood he was in, Jack would come along and distracted me. Anyway, I had a heap of laundry needed dealing with.

Royal answered after two rings. “How’s it going, Sweetheart?”

“I’m fine. Did you and Mike enjoy yourselves?”

“I did.” Royal chuckled. “I think Mike’s nose is out of joint because I bested him.”

I imagined Mike’s reddish face getting redder and snorted down the phone. “You outshot him?”

“Indeed. He blamed it on the wind.”

“What wind?”

“And chickadees chirruping at the wrong time.”

“With guns blasting away, there are chickadees near enough to distract Mike?”

“And gunshot echoing off the mountains.”

“Come on! The range is almost surrounded by mountains. There are always echoes when it’s being used.”

“What can I say? With those handicaps, you can’t expect a man to shoot with accuracy.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“Ah, but I am not a man, darling.”

He had me there. I bet only another Gelpha could outshoot Royal. I remembered why I’d called him. “Say, I’m looking for a favor.”

“Anything.”

“See, I told you so!” Mel cried.

“I need to know if Dale Jericho is at home.”

“Jericho? In Mesquite?”

“That’s the one. Can you go down there? I haven’t been able to reach him and Jack’s worried.”

Royal’s tone went a little flat. “So this favor is for Jack?”

I could tell he didn’t think much of going to Southern Utah on Jack’s behalf. “No, for me, so Jack will let up on his whining. I think Dale’s still on vacation so if he isn’t home, can you do some snooping?”

“Sure. I will get back to you as soon as I can.” His enthusiasm was underwhelming.

I cringed. Now I hated having asked him. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“You do.” His voice deepened, becoming warm and lazy. “And I will collect at the soonest opportunity.”

Ah, now that sounded interesting. I smiled at the phone. “Be sure you do.”

We said goodbye and hung up. Now if I could keep my temper while Jack fretted. . . .

 

“He’s there. I saw him taking trash out.”

Bother! I’d hoped Dale hadn’t returned from his vacation. Why hadn’t he called to check up on Jack? This was the man who mourned his lost lover for over twenty years, who regularly harassed Clarion PD about Jack’s case before I put him in touch with Jack. Dale was the reason Jack never went farther than Clarion and returned to the house once a day, fearing Dale would stop by to visit and he’d miss him.

And how was I going to tell Jack.

I didn’t need to. As I replaced the handset in the cradle and turned to face the kitchen, I found Jack’s nose a mere inch away from mine. He’d listened in on the conversation and heard what Royal said. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

He pushed his fingers through his hair. “I have to know, Tiff. Please take me there.”

Confronting Dale about why he hadn’t called was the last thing I wanted. If I knew Jack and his temperament, I’d be in the middle of a lover’s tiff. And if Dale didn’t want anything more to do with Jack, my ghostly roommate would be inconsolable. I needed to talk to Dale without Jack around.

Then I had it, although I loathed talking Royal into another mad dash to Mesquite.

“I can ask Royal to zip me to Mesquite,” I suggested reluctantly.

“Only if I come with you,” Jack said.

Damn. “Can you keep hold of me while Royal speeds down there? He’s awful fast.”

“How fast?”

“Think a speeding car times three.”

“I don’t know,” he said hesitantly.

“I’d hate to come off somewhere between here and Mesquite,” Mel said.

“He’ll go as the crow flies,” from Jack. “We could end up in the middle of the desert.”

“With the buffalo,” Mel added inanely.

Jack fisted his hands. “Then you have to take me there. I want to hear Dale’s lame excuses for myself and you can tell him what I think of them.”

Drat. If I’d stuck to my guns when I refused to take him, I wouldn’t be in this pickle. But I first raised his hopes then sent them plummeting when Royal found Dale at home. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to stand his pleading, and his sulks, and the leaden atmosphere when he came in the room. He may be dead, but he has the presence of a living guy and would use it on me.

So I folded.

 

There’s a lot of stunning scenery between Clarion and Mesquite, but I’ve driven there quite a few times so the surrounding countryside didn’t distract me from my foul mood. I caved.  I could only blame myself. But knowing it didn’t cheer me.

Mac was with Janie at her kennels, much to his disgust, and we three merry travelers headed for Southern Utah.

Mel folded her arms on the open rear window frame and rested her chin on them, but the wind didn’t blow her hair into worse disarray than it already was, it didn’t make her eyes tear up. Jack head-banged to the music, even when it wasn’t a head-banging tune.

We drove into Mesquite at six in the evening.

I clenched the driving wheel as we idled at a light and reluctance swamped me. If this ended badly, life with Jack would be intolerable. Poor guy, if Dale wanted nothing more to do with him he’d be miserable, a broken man.

If I was more of a dedicated driver, I could head right back to Clarion after we discovered what was up with Dale. But I dreaded the thought of the long drive home again, mostly in the dark, so I’d booked a room at Holiday Inn Express. Its rates are reasonable and the beds are okay. We could leave early and be home by lunchtime.

Mesquite has three big casinos – Virgin River, Eureka, and CasaBlanca – and the smaller Stateline. You can find slot machines in just about every establishment, even in the one large supermarket. There are a few gas stations and fast food restaurants, one or two gift shops, golf courses and a lot of housing. Condos, apartment blocks, gated communities, some truly stunning mansions, and street after street lined with small homes with stucco walls and clay-tile roofs. It’s a town for retirees who like to drop a few coins in the slots and people who enjoy golfing, hiking, cycling and horseback riding. Roasting hot in the summer, temperatures in late fall, winter and early spring are ideal. The terrain is red rock and dessert. At first glance it’s not a pretty town but it grows on you. I could imagine having a small home here to escape the snow and biting cold of a Clarion winter.

At the motel, Jack gave me enough time to open the door and sling my overnight bag on the bed, then he started in on me again.

“I’m tired, Jack.”

“Why?” asked Mel. “Apart from stopping for lunch you sat in the car.”

“Driving is tiring. And I’m hungry.”

“You can grab something to eat on the way back from Dale’s,” said Jack.

My entire body slumped. “You won’t give me a moment’s peace till we talk to Dale. Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

With Jack and Mel clinging to me again, we went back to my Jeep. I climbed in the driver’s seat and they slid off to sit next to me. To me, they looked squashed together, but almost blending one into the other didn’t bother them.

Rooting in the glove box, I found the piece of paper with Dale’s address and punched it into the GPS.

 

Formerly a New York City attorney, Dale Jericho is a wealthy man. His fancy three-story house with white walls and an orange-colored, clay-tiled roof sat on a bluff which must provide a marvelous view of Mesquite and beyond. My Jeep idled at the bottom of the winding road which branched off to other equally impressive homes.

Jack looked up at the house. “I wouldn’t mind living there.”

“Why don’t you,” Mel suggested.

After a minute, Jack’s chin dropped and his shoulders slumped, and I guessed what went through his mind. Living with Dale would be rare fun at first, watching his daily routines, tagging along on errands and social outings, but as time passed being with him but unseen, unheard, unfelt, would break Jack’s heart.

If Dale didn’t break it in the next few minutes anyway.

Before I continued up the road, I laid down the rules. “I’m not going to tell Dale you’re with me, not at first.”

“Why ever not?”

“So she can see the lay of the land, what he’s up to,” Mel said. “Then you can bust his balls.”

Exactly. I nodded at Mel, then drove up the hill.

A circular driveway fronted the house. Stone columns supported a high porch over the impressive entrance. I got out of the car with Jack and Mel clinging to my aura and went to the front door. I rang the bell and heard it echoing inside the house.

Several minutes passed before Dale opened the door a crack. He looked back over his shoulder. “You stay there, honey.”

Jack went very still, looking more frozen than usual. “Honey?”

“I don’t want to have to tie you up again.”

“Oh my dear god. He has a boyfriend and they’re into BDSM.”

Dale finally looked at me. “Tiff? This is a surprise,” he said hesitantly. “Give me a minute.” And he shut the door.

He opened it again a moment later and rattled off: “I’ve been meaning to call but I’ve only been home three days and haven’t had a minute to myself.”

“You don’t say,” Jack muttered

“I did try to call to let you know I’d be passing through, but you didn’t answer your phone,” I said.

“I was probably out or taking a nap. Nights are hell – I can’t get more than a couple of hours sleep at a time.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Jack growled.

“Can we . . . I come in,” I asked and hoped Dale hadn’t caught my almost faux pas.

“Sure,” he said with obvious reluctance. He opened the door wider.

Dale is a tall, slim, good-looking man in his mid-fifties with rugged features, his brown hair speckled with gray on sideburns and where it recedes at his temples. He led us through a hall with a towering ceiling, into a living room which looked as if Martha Stewart had personally designed it, not a throw pillow or framed photo or piece of art out of place.

I heard a clatter deeper in the house. It seemed to come from behind the door in the back wall. Dale flinched.

“So that’s where he’s hiding his boy toy.” Jack let go of me. He managed one step, and stopped. “No!”

Jack and Mel need human transportation to get from location to location, but once inside a building they can move freely. Not here, apparently. The only reason I could think of was Dale was sending out strong vibes he wanted us to stay right here.

“You have company,” I said.

“No. Yes. Kind of.” Dale’s face crunched up as another clatter came from behind the door.

Time to get this over with. I headed for the door, Jack catching me as I passed.

“Ah, Tiff.” Dale tried to get ahead of me.

I kept going. “I’m sorry, Dale. I know I’m taking liberties but I have a good reason.”

He almost reached the door. “You don’t want to go in there!”

“But I do.” I shoved past him and pushed the door open.

For a moment I stood in the doorway with my mouth open, then I couldn’t decide whether to hold my nose, get down on my knees or burst out laughing.

Dale didn’t have a lover in here. He was embarrassed I’d see his kitchen in a mess, and messy it was. It looked like the man hadn’t picked up or washed a dish in weeks. An upturned bowl lay under the table, another near the backdoor. A small brown lump sat in a porridge of kibble and water. It smelled. So did the puddle near the fridge.

“I don’t have a moment to myself,” Dale wailed. “I can’t leave him alone for an instant. I’m so tired I want to cry.”

“Oh my.”

“How did he manage it?” Dale flung out a hand to indicate the mess. “We weren’t speaking for more than a couple of minutes.” He bent over. “You bad boy,” he said sternly, then cooed, “Daddy’s bad, bad, bad little boy.”

In the middle of the kitchen, tongue lolling, sat the cutest little black pup.

“I don’t believe it,” Jack whispered. “How could he?”

Not only had Dale got himself a dog, it was a Scottish terrier, a little MacKlutzy wannabe.

“You’d rather he had a lover?” Mel asked.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“MacDuff. It’s not as if I meant to get a dog. Pauline’s Scottie had a litter and she hadn’t found a home for him yet,” Dale said.

I grinned. “You were so reluctant to take him, you hung on in Colorado till he was eight weeks old and able to leave his mommy.”

“I know,” Dale said with a sigh. “But look at him. Have you seen anything cuter?”

Jack’s whispering voice all but exploded in a roar. “Traitor!”

MacDuff eyed Jack. His head tipped on one side as if considering what he saw. Then his ears went back flat on his skull, a snarl lifted one side of his mouth, and he charged.

“Attaboy,” I said.

 

 

Road Trip

A lighthearted short for Jack and Dale enthusiasts.

ROAD TRIP

 

“Please,” Jack whined.

“No.”

“Pretty please, with sugar on?”

I rolled my eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you? I am not driving you to Mesquite.”

“But we haven’t heard from him in months. He didn’t return your calls. Something is wrong.”

“Not calls, Jack. I left one message three days ago.”

Jack stomped the floor. Or he would have, had he a physical body to stomp with. “Why do people have answering machines if they don’t return messages?”

I bit my lower lip in an effort to retain a modicum of patience.

Not hearing from Dale was odd. I acted as an intermediary for him and Jack, he came to Clarion every other month or so for that reason.  And in between times he liked to call and leave funny, cute little messages, ostensibly for me but actually for me to pass on to Jack. However, I could think of reasons we hadn’t heard from him.  “You know he went on a three-week cruise and cell reception on a ship is spotty. Then he stayed with a friend in the Rocky Mountains and I bet he didn’t have reception up there, either.”

“The Rocky Mountain thing was for a week. He should’ve come back two weeks ago.”

“He was having such a good time he decided to stay longer,” I offered lamely.

“The Rocky Mountains can be dangerous. Maybe a bear mauled him,” Mel suggested brightly.

“If he wanted mauling, plenty of bears are around here,” from Jack. He stuck his fingers in his mouth as if chewing them and moaned.

“He wanted a bear to maul him?” Mel asked seriously.

Jack scowled and spoke around his fingers. “Don’t be stupid.”

“But you said―”

“And you said―”

“Cut it out, guys! Jack, Mel is trying to get a rise out of you. Mel, stop it,” I all but screeched. My head hurt from Jack’s constant grizzling and he and Mel got into it far too often. They needed to get out of the house again, go on a little trip, investigate the wide world around them. “Nothing’s stopping you from going south.” And I’d suggested it when Jack first asked me to take him to Mesquite.

Jack’s voice rose aggressively. “It’d take forever.”

I wanted to chastise him, tell him not to speak to me in that tone of voice. Again, I reined in my temper. Prisoners in my house for decades, Jack and Mel could now latch onto a living person and go where they went. Although going all the way south would take time, it was possible. “Not necessarily. Planes fly to Mesquite. Tour buses go there.”

“But you could get me there by this afternoon.”

My shoulders tightened along with my jaw. “It’s not as simple as you think. It’s a six-hour drive, plus stops for a bite to eat and gas-up. Then all the way home. And I’ll have to put Mac in kennels. Who’s going to pay for it all? You?”

“Wanda can take care of Mac. She’s done it before.”

“Wanda’s on vacation.”

“Royal, then.”

“No way.” I couldn’t believe he suggested Royal care for Mac. I’d come home to find Royal with less flesh on his ankles and calves than when I left. “The final word is no, Jack. You hear me?”

Just to be contrary after my point blank refusal, my brain spilled an idea into my head. “Suppose I ask Royal to zip down there and see if Dale’s home?”

Jack came in close. “You’d do that? Do you think he’ll do it?”

“I can ask. Depends if he’s busy and what kind of mood he’s in.”

“He will!” from Mel. “He’ll do anything you want.”

Well, not anything, but Royal’s an accommodating guy.

I pushed back the kitchen chair as I stood, and went to the phone on the counter. Royal and Mike Warren were at the shooting range up in Eden. If they were still practicing, their phones would be off, but Royal could be driving back to Clarion by now. They asked me to go with them and I almost agreed. I enjoy target practice and I could escape Jack’s tirades. But I realized, in the mood he was in, Jack would come along and distracted me. Anyway, I had a heap of laundry needed dealing with.

Royal answered after two rings. “How’s it going, Sweetheart?”

“I’m fine. Did you and Mike enjoy yourselves?”

“I did.” Royal chuckled. “I think Mike’s nose is out of joint because I bested him.”

I imagined Mike’s reddish face getting redder and snorted down the phone. “You outshot him?”

“Indeed. He blamed it on the wind.”

“What wind?”

“And chickadees chirruping at the wrong time.”

“With guns blasting away, there are chickadees near enough to distract Mike?”

“And gunshot echoing off the mountains.”

“Come on! The range is almost surrounded by mountains. There are always echoes when it’s being used.”

“What can I say? With those handicaps, you can’t expect a man to shoot with accuracy.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“Ah, but I am not a man, darling.”

He had me there. I bet only another Gelpha could outshoot Royal. I remembered why I’d called him. “Say, I’m looking for a favor.”

“Anything.”

“See, I told you so!” Mel cried.

“I need to know if Dale Jericho is at home.”

“Jericho? In Mesquite?”

“That’s the one. Can you go down there? I haven’t been able to reach him and Jack’s worried.”

Royal’s tone went a little flat. “So this favor is for Jack?”

I could tell he didn’t think much of going to Southern Utah on Jack’s behalf. “No, for me, so Jack will let up on his whining. I think Dale’s still on vacation so if he isn’t home, can you do some snooping?”

“Sure. I will get back to you as soon as I can.” His enthusiasm was underwhelming.

I cringed. Now I hated having asked him. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“You do.” His voice deepened, becoming warm and lazy. “And I will collect at the soonest opportunity.”

Ah, now that sounded interesting. I smiled at the phone. “Be sure you do.”

We said goodbye and hung up. Now if I could keep my temper while Jack fretted. . . .

 

“He’s there. I saw him taking trash out.”

Bother! I’d hoped Dale hadn’t returned from his vacation. Why hadn’t he called to check up on Jack? This was the man who mourned his lost lover for over twenty years, who regularly harassed Clarion PD about Jack’s case before I put him in touch with Jack. Dale was the reason Jack never went farther than Clarion and returned to the house once a day, fearing Dale would stop by to visit and he’d miss him.

And how was I going to tell Jack.

I didn’t need to. As I replaced the handset in the cradle and turned to face the kitchen, I found Jack’s nose a mere inch away from mine. He’d listened in on the conversation and heard what Royal said. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

He pushed his fingers through his hair. “I have to know, Tiff. Please take me there.”

Confronting Dale about why he hadn’t called was the last thing I wanted. If I knew Jack and his temperament, I’d be in the middle of a lover’s tiff. And if Dale didn’t want anything more to do with Jack, my ghostly roommate would be inconsolable. I needed to talk to Dale without Jack around.

Then I had it, although I loathed talking Royal into another mad dash to Mesquite.

“I can ask Royal to zip me to Mesquite,” I suggested reluctantly.

“Only if I come with you,” Jack said.

Damn. “Can you keep hold of me while Royal speeds down there? He’s awful fast.”

“How fast?”

“Think a speeding car times three.”

“I don’t know,” he said hesitantly.

“I’d hate to come off somewhere between here and Mesquite,” Mel said.

“He’ll go as the crow flies,” from Jack. “We could end up in the middle of the desert.”

“With the buffalo,” Mel added inanely.

Jack fisted his hands. “Then you have to take me there. I want to hear Dale’s lame excuses for myself and you can tell him what I think of them.”

Drat. If I’d stuck to my guns when I refused to take him, I wouldn’t be in this pickle. But I first raised his hopes then sent them plummeting when Royal found Dale at home. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to stand his pleading, and his sulks, and the leaden atmosphere when he came in the room. He may be dead, but he has the presence of a living guy and would use it on me.

So I folded.

 

There’s a lot of stunning scenery between Clarion and Mesquite, but I’ve driven there quite a few times so the surrounding countryside didn’t distract me from my foul mood. I caved.  I could only blame myself. But knowing it didn’t cheer me.

Mac was with Janie at her kennels, much to his disgust, and we three merry travelers headed for Southern Utah.

Mel folded her arms on the open rear window frame and rested her chin on them, but the wind didn’t blow her hair into worse disarray than it already was, it didn’t make her eyes tear up. Jack head-banged to the music, even when it wasn’t a head-banging tune.

We drove into Mesquite at six in the evening.

I clenched the driving wheel as we idled at a light and reluctance swamped me. If this ended badly, life with Jack would be intolerable. Poor guy, if Dale wanted nothing more to do with him he’d be miserable, a broken man.

If I was more of a dedicated driver, I could head right back to Clarion after we discovered what was up with Dale. But I dreaded the thought of the long drive home again, mostly in the dark, so I’d booked a room at Holiday Inn Express. Its rates are reasonable and the beds are okay. We could leave early and be home by lunchtime.

Mesquite has three big casinos – Virgin River, Eureka, and CasaBlanca – and the smaller Stateline. You can find slot machines in just about every establishment, even in the one large supermarket. There are a few gas stations and fast food restaurants, one or two gift shops, golf courses and a lot of housing. Condos, apartment blocks, gated communities, some truly stunning mansions, and street after street lined with small homes with stucco walls and clay-tile roofs. It’s a town for retirees who like to drop a few coins in the slots and people who enjoy golfing, hiking, cycling and horseback riding. Roasting hot in the summer, temperatures in late fall, winter and early spring are ideal. The terrain is red rock and dessert. At first glance it’s not a pretty town but it grows on you. I could imagine having a small home here to escape the snow and biting cold of a Clarion winter.

At the motel, Jack gave me enough time to open the door and sling my overnight bag on the bed, then he started in on me again.

“I’m tired, Jack.”

“Why?” asked Mel. “Apart from stopping for lunch you sat in the car.”

“Driving is tiring. And I’m hungry.”

“You can grab something to eat on the way back from Dale’s,” said Jack.

My entire body slumped. “You won’t give me a moment’s peace till we talk to Dale. Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

With Jack and Mel clinging to me again, we went back to my Jeep. I climbed in the driver’s seat and they slid off to sit next to me. To me, they looked squashed together, but almost blending one into the other didn’t bother them.

Rooting in the glove box, I found the piece of paper with Dale’s address and punched it into the GPS.

 

Formerly a New York City attorney, Dale Jericho is a wealthy man. His fancy three-story house with white walls and an orange-colored, clay-tiled roof sat on a bluff which must provide a marvelous view of Mesquite and beyond. My Jeep idled at the bottom of the winding road which branched off to other equally impressive homes.

Jack looked up at the house. “I wouldn’t mind living there.”

“Why don’t you,” Mel suggested.

After a minute, Jack’s chin dropped and his shoulders slumped, and I guessed what went through his mind. Living with Dale would be rare fun at first, watching his daily routines, tagging along on errands and social outings, but as time passed being with him but unseen, unheard, unfelt, would break Jack’s heart.

If Dale didn’t break it in the next few minutes anyway.

Before I continued up the road, I laid down the rules. “I’m not going to tell Dale you’re with me, not at first.”

“Why ever not?”

“So she can see the lay of the land, what he’s up to,” Mel said. “Then you can bust his balls.”

Exactly. I nodded at Mel, then drove up the hill.

A circular driveway fronted the house. Stone columns supported a high porch over the impressive entrance. I got out of the car with Jack and Mel clinging to my aura and went to the front door. I rang the bell and heard it echoing inside the house.

Several minutes passed before Dale opened the door a crack. He looked back over his shoulder. “You stay there, honey.”

Jack went very still, looking more frozen than usual. “Honey?”

“I don’t want to have to tie you up again.”

“Oh my dear god. He has a boyfriend and they’re into BDSM.”

Dale finally looked at me. “Tiff? This is a surprise,” he said hesitantly. “Give me a minute.” And he shut the door.

He opened it again a moment later and rattled off: “I’ve been meaning to call but I’ve only been home three days and haven’t had a minute to myself.”

“You don’t say,” Jack muttered

“I did try to call to let you know I’d be passing through, but you didn’t answer your phone,” I said.

“I was probably out or taking a nap. Nights are hell – I can’t get more than a couple of hours sleep at a time.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Jack growled.

“Can we . . . I come in,” I asked and hoped Dale hadn’t caught my almost faux pas.

“Sure,” he said with obvious reluctance. He opened the door wider.

Dale is a tall, slim, good-looking man in his mid-fifties with rugged features, his brown hair speckled with gray on sideburns and where it recedes at his temples. He led us through a hall with a towering ceiling, into a living room which looked as if Martha Stewart had personally designed it, not a throw pillow or framed photo or piece of art out of place.

I heard a clatter deeper in the house. It seemed to come from behind the door in the back wall. Dale flinched.

“So that’s where he’s hiding his boy toy.” Jack let go of me. He managed one step, and stopped. “No!”

Jack and Mel need human transportation to get from location to location, but once inside a building they can move freely. Not here, apparently. The only reason I could think of was Dale was sending out strong vibes he wanted us to stay right here.

“You have company,” I said.

“No. Yes. Kind of.” Dale’s face crunched up as another clatter came from behind the door.

Time to get this over with. I headed for the door, Jack catching me as I passed.

“Ah, Tiff.” Dale tried to get ahead of me.

I kept going. “I’m sorry, Dale. I know I’m taking liberties but I have a good reason.”

He almost reached the door. “You don’t want to go in there!”

“But I do.” I shoved past him and pushed the door open.

For a moment I stood in the doorway with my mouth open, then I couldn’t decide whether to hold my nose, get down on my knees or burst out laughing.

Dale didn’t have a lover in here. He was embarrassed I’d see his kitchen in a mess, and messy it was. It looked like the man hadn’t picked up or washed a dish in weeks. An upturned bowl lay under the table, another near the backdoor. A small brown lump sat in a porridge of kibble and water. It smelled. So did the puddle near the fridge.

“I don’t have a moment to myself,” Dale wailed. “I can’t leave him alone for an instant. I’m so tired I want to cry.”

“Oh my.”

“How did he manage it?” Dale flung out a hand to indicate the mess. “We weren’t speaking for more than a couple of minutes.” He bent over. “You bad boy,” he said sternly, then cooed, “Daddy’s bad, bad, bad little boy.”

In the middle of the kitchen, tongue lolling, sat the cutest little black pup.

“I don’t believe it,” Jack whispered. “How could he?”

Not only had Dale got himself a dog, it was a Scottish terrier, a little MacKlutzy wannabe.

“You’d rather he had a lover?” Mel asked.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“MacDuff. It’s not as if I meant to get a dog. Pauline’s Scottie had a litter and she hadn’t found a home for him yet,” Dale said.

I grinned. “You were so reluctant to take him, you hung on in Colorado till he was eight weeks old and able to leave his mommy.”

“I know,” Dale said with a sigh. “But look at him. Have you seen anything cuter?”

Jack’s whispering voice all but exploded in a roar. “Traitor!”

MacDuff eyed Jack. His head tipped on one side as if considering what he saw. Then his ears went back flat on his skull, a snarl lifted one side of his mouth, and he charged.

“Attaboy,” I said.

 

 

Apocalypse, Trolls and Bounty Hunters

R. Mac Wheeler and Molly

In four years I published eight books and contributed to several anthologies. That’s pretty good for me. I know writers who are single parents holding down two jobs, who wait until their kids are asleep and write into the early hours. I know writers who have gone through life-threatening illnesses, medical emergencies and personal trauma and didn’t stop writing. I know writers who publish a new book every two or three months. I wish I could be like them. I am not a fast writer and as I get older I want to make time for other things I enjoy, so I do.

I admire the aforementioned authors for their hard work and dedication, which, in my usual rambling way, brings me to my guest, R. Mac Wheeler, who has published twenty-four books in a little over two and a quarter years. Although he completed his first book quite some time ago, he wrote and published the last seven in the past two years, a little over three months per book.

 

Linda: Hello, Mac. Thanks for stopping by. Congratulations on publishing your twenty-fourth novel!

 

Mac: Thank you. To clarify, I started writing in 1987 and ended up with my first novel (which I subsequently split into a three-book series) and sixteen others. In 2011 I made the decision to self-publish. Took me almost three years to get sixteen of those published, and I wrote an additional seven novels in the last two years.

 

Linda: It’s an accomplishment any way you look at it. I wish I had your literary stamina. Let’s start with an easy question. You live in South Florida with your wife and dogs. Who runs the household?

 

Mac: Ha ha. Like I’m going to answer that one. “Oh, honey, does this make me look fat?”

 

Linda: It wasn’t a trick question.

 

Mac: Really? Then it’s . . . who rules your household?

 

Linda: The dog.

 

 

Linda: So, Mac, when did you decide you wanted to be a writer?

 

Mac: Sitting at a traffic light one day on my way to work, my door flung open and an ogre ripped me out of my car. I knew he was an ogre just like that. You can’t miss the tusks and snout. He dragged me along on this epic journey to secure peace for his warlock and witch friends. Oh, the stories I could tell about the dragons we came across. We survived many near death experiences that changed me – in a dark way, let me tell you. We became – ”

 

Linda: Seriously?

 

Mac: Would I lie to you? I suppose you’d rather I said I wrote my first story in fifth grade, which really jazzed me. Creative Writing and Journalism in High School began to gel the dream. But after an interview with the local paper and realizing writing didn’t pay, I changed my major in college to Computer Science. I didn’t start writing again until I reached the empty nest stage. There. Satisfied?

 

Linda: So your ogre friends, and others, inspired you to write fantasy. And you went on to write fiction in a range of genres, right?

 

Mac: And non-fiction, such as brain surgery and rocket science. But since I don’t know much at all about those things, I make up lies about my neighbors and their late night séances, my ogre and elf friends, and such. Actually much of what I write about is the bare-butt truth, cross my heart. I just change the names to protect the guilty.

 

Linda: Next question: Do you come up with a plot and stick to it, or follow the Muse?

 

Mac: During a trip to Black Lake, I met a wizard who went by the name of The Muse. He was a cranky, smell troll, though, and I wouldn’t follow him out of a blizzard.

 

Linda: Mac! Ten or maybe even twenty people are going to drop by to listen to us! This is a serious blog and you’d better get with the program here.

 

Mac: I typically come up with the character first, mull and cogitate over him/her for weeks, and the character starts to tell me about his/her life, and it turns into a story.

 

Linda: I can barely hear you. Are you sulking?

 

Mac:  No.

 

Linda: You are sulking.

 

Mac: I’VE DRIVEN MOTORCYCLES LIKE AN IDIOT, SHOT LOTS OF GUNS, RIDDEN HELICOPTERS, JUMPED OUT OF PLANES, RAPPELLED DOWN CLIFFS, EXPLORED MINE SHAFTS, SKIED, KAYAKED – ALL WITHOUT A NET. REAL DRAGON-SLAYING MEN – LIKE ME – DON’T SULK.

 

Linda: Now you’re shouting. What would your wife think if she knew you shouted at an old lady, huh?

 

Mac: You’re older than old.

 

Linda: Yes, old enough to be your mother. In fact, one of my sons is your age.

 

Mac: Sorry.

 

Linda: What is your problem, Mac?

 

Mac: It’s that word you keep using: serious. I used it in a novel once but had to take it out. It didn’t make sense.

 

Linda: How much time do you dedicate to writing per day:

 

Mac: After walking the pups every morning, it’s all writing until I break at 5:30 to prepare dinner for my wife, we watch the news, and I treat myself after that with my reading time.

 

Linda: What do you read? Who are your favorite authors?

 

Mac: I read the back of the cereal box every morning. Tony the Tiger has interesting things to say.

 

Linda: Mac – ”

 

Mac: AND . . . I don’t think a writer can write without reading. Reading creates the artistic fodder of stories and characters. I’ve expanded the breadth of my interests in the last few years.

 

Linda: What is the most surprising thing you discovered during the publishing process?

 

Mac: After a couple of Kerr’s jars of shine, the print on the back of the cereal box gets fuzzy.

 

 

Linda: Okay, let’s get this moving. Mr. Wheeler, what is the most difficult part about writing for you?

 

Mac: Getting the right edge on my quill. Aggravating as all get out how quickly those things get rubbed to a stub and you have to start all over again. I mean, really. Can’t they develop a better method for getting ideas on parchment?

 

Linda: So, using quill and parchment, you managed to publish 24 books in just over two years, five in the past eighteen months?

 

Mac: Plus I had surgery on both knees and shoulders and moved across the continent.

 

Linda: What made you self-publish instead of going the trad route?

 

Mac: If I’d found an agent, been published, and felt appropriately treated, I probably never would have. But I read how crappy writers get treated by the big houses, get screwed around by agents and small pubs, and stopped querying.

 

Linda: What is the most surprising thing you discovered about the publishing process?

 

Mac: I can’t say I’ve been surprised. I’ve stepped conservatively. I’ve focused inwardly, not worrying about the publishing and selling, but working on my craft, creating a bookshelf of assets that will support me one day maybe, when I get that lift that propels my writing into the spotlight.

 

Linda: What is the most difficult part of writing?

 

Mac: Finding enough hours in the day to get the character’s story typed. My characters don’t like me to interrupt the flow for things like eating and sleeping.

 

Linda: Thank you! I’m glad you’ve finally decided to take this interview seriously.

 

Mac: No! That word again! I can’t hear you. Na na na na na na.

 

Linda: Mac, I know you . . .  Mac? Where are you going? I haven’t finished.

 

Well, that didn’t turn out as I anticipated.

 

Mac actually is serious about his writing and his books offer a variety to choose from. Action-packed adventures. Stories written from the perspective of strong female characters who kick butt and carry guns. What he calls Dude Lit (the Seeker series.) Family sagas (the Shadow series.) Mac spins tales around rich, gritty characters with a lot of baggage, who he puts through more grief than they can handle. His tone leans toward the sarcastic, passive aggressive. He writes speculative fiction, fantasy, sci-fi, suspense and paranormal with a twist. You can find his books at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Check out Mac’s website and his Blog where he also publishes his photography. If you drop Mac a note (links on his Website and Blog) he’ll send you a free copy of New Order Apocalypse!

 

 

April in England.

Ah, England in the spring, blue skies, the sun shining, the perfect temperature. The fine weather didn’t last, but the first week was marvelous. You think you know all the colors of green grass and foliage, until you go to England. Apart from a few new houses, designed to blend in with ancient homes and gardens in rustic villages, little Rushall Village and nearby Upavon haven’t changed for decades. If you read Demon on a Distant Shore, you may be able to picture the area. Little Barrow is based on Rushall and Upavon combined, although I must stress the characters and businesses in the stories are fictional, not based on local villagers. But, anyway, this post is not about my books, or writing, or publishing – so if that’s what you want to see, read no farther – it’s about my recent trip to England. As a British citizen and legal USA resident I am lucky to belong to two countries, both of which I love. But there’s something special about revisiting the home of your birth when your childhood memories of there are happy.

The first 11 days with Mum in Rushall were bittersweet. I saw firsthand that the everyday household tasks we breeze through are terribly difficult for her now. She rarely let me help her. “I have to do this myself,” she’d say. “I don’t usually have anyone here to do it for me.” But I did become the chief dishwasher and potato masher and she let me mow the grass and vacuum the living room floor. We took the little local bus to Pewsey, Devizes and Marlborough, and otherwise just sat around talking and dozing – she due to age, I due to jet lag. I walked the path to Chilton Village several times, because it’s beautiful and I needed the exercise. I wish I could have stayed with her longer, or forever.

After a lovely time with Mum, it was off to stay with my sister in Newbury, and no more lazing around. My first full day there, we went to London to meet up with niece Cath, and my friend author Carol Townsend. We took a bus from Paddington to the Brick Land district. Fascinating place. Artists are given free rein in many of the more modern areas and we spotted weird and wonderful artwork all over the place. If you go there, look up as well as all around, or you will miss stuff on rooftops and along walls. We slowly made our way through the old East End, wandering along Dickensian streets too narrow for modern traffic, to our destination: the Spitalfields Markets. My niece first took us into a building where vendors had set up stalls selling glorious, hot food from all over the world. The temptation to sample everything was almost overwhelming, but not wanting to spoil our lunch, I heroically passed it by. We were in Spitalfields Old Market and it was incredible. I have never seen such an eclectic assortment of beautiful merchandise and, yes, more food stalls . . . drool. The Spitalfields New Market is in a big, modern complex of shops and restaurants and although the merchandise was fabulous, it didn’t have the Old Market’s ambience. We were surprised by a living statue so good I didn’t know what he was until he moved and startled a passerby. We ate at a Greek restaurant where all four of us discovered Greek cuisine is much more than souvlaki and dolmades. Thank you, dear niece, for a terrific day in London.

It had been a long day when sister and I got home, and we went out again for supper. The next day it rained just as we got to the old Newtown Road Cemetery with its gothic angels and stones. It pretty much rained for the rest of my visit. England still hasn’t recovered from all that flooding and even where it looks fine, the ground must be waterlogged because a light rain caused flooded roads and roadsides. At the railway station, water bubbled up from a drain in the middle of the road and the station entrance on one side had to be closed. Being stout Englishwomen, we ignored the rain and went into town for supper. Monday was a long wander around Newbury – including lunch and supper.

Tuesday was a nostalgic visit to the tiny village of Herriard in search of my nan and grandad’s old home, and I found that what I remembered from my childhood days was far from accurate. I had a picture in my mind, of walking from the church, down the road a little way, and there was the farmhouse. Nope. We walked for MILES till we found it. The place has been vastly altered by successive owners and renovations to the rear makes it look like a different house altogether. We knocked on the door and asked to take photos of the outside anyway, and the very nice owners invited us in. The inside, although also remodeled, still retains its old-fashioned charm, but the huge kitchen I remember is in fact very small and narrow. The copper boiler Nan used for laundry is still inside the house. The hand pump is still out back. Then we tromped MILES more in search of another home of theirs, and think we found it. Then MILES more to the local pub for lunch. It seemed like an upscale kind of place where we were asked if we had a reservation. A reservation, in a country pub, for lunch! What is the world coming to? For all that, they forgot to put the cheese and bacon on my steak burger. Shame on them. We stopped in Basingstoke on the way back. Having failed to find a gift for my hubby, we were sure to find something in the gigantic mall. Nope. I ended up taking him a Mr. Tom candy bar. Well, his name is Tom. Wednesday was a morning in town and afternoon packing my suitcase and relaxing. My sister saw me off to London on the 8:29 train from Newbury.

I did have a little kerfuffle with the man in the station’s ticket office. I pre-purchased my ticket online and accidentally deleted the confirmation e-mail, which included the confirmation number. In the past, I’ve just had to give them my credit card, they pop it in their machine and my booking magically appears, but now they want the confirmation number. I didn’t have it. I didn’t get my ticket. Had to buy another one. Bah humbug.

Thank God the station is near her house! I was exhausted and my feet hurt so much. I have plantar faciitis in my feet which makes walking any distance difficult and painful. As it is, I can only wear Crocs and not be crippled. No more beautiful shoes for me, but at least Crocs now make some really cute styles. All that walking around cities, towns and country lanes hurt something awful and my feet looked like they belonged to a hippo at the end of each day. They still haven’t recovered and I’ve been home three days.

I had a great visit, although at times I felt like a stranger in a strange land. People in the States and in England often comment on the fact I still have an English accent after all my years here. When in England, my English accent gets stronger. Perversely, the accent can lead to confusion. I don’t always remember which version of a word to use unless I have time to think about it – imagine the looks I get when I ask a waiter for the check, not the bill. People think I’m English and expect me to know what everything is called and how it works – even my sister, who should know better. There’s a whole lot I don’t know, but I’m expected to and get the “stupid old lady” look when I have to ask, especially when traveling. A few trips back my friend Carol stymied me when she said she’d get me an Oyster Card to use in London, and my sister said she had to pop out to top up her Key Card. I don’t know the latest English slang or about current events on most people’s minds. And nowadays, hardly any merchant will accept a non-British credit card, because theirs have identity chips embedded, which ours do not, and when I offer it (just in case) I get a “you should know” pitying look.

I think I’ve gained ten pounds. During 17 days in England, many hours were dedicated to satisfying my food cravings. You may be thinking that’s a shallow goal, but believe me, when a bunch of British people get together the main topic of conversation is food, every single time, and we go a little crazy when we go home, consuming vast quantities of all the food we’ve missed eating. Even the basics, like eggs, cheese and milk, taste richer. And the cream – oh my gawd, every dessert needs cream, and I wish there’d been a way to bring home a deep-fried donut filled with cream and a drizzle of strawberry sauce. However, not all was as it should be. I regret to say, Mr. Brain’s Faggots are not what they once were. Mr. Brains’s – what a name for something made of offal and generally discarded bits of meat. Don’t mock – you eat hotdogs, don’t you? Faggots are now made from “cuts of pork and liver with breadcrumbs and herbs,” and are over-processed with the consistency of pate, and bland. Mum said the butcher’s or deli versions are better, but I couldn’t find any. I looked at every pub menu I passed – and there are a lot of pubs in every English town – in search of one with good old steak and kidney pie on the menu. In the end, I got a pie from the butcher and it was yummy. But the fish and chips from my favorite chippie have gone downhill. The chips were revolting and the battered cod, although still nice, just wasn’t what it used to be. I think I drove my sister crazy as I dragged her around town to fulfill my food wish list. Just to mention a few: fish and chips, steak and kidney pie, pork and egg pie, scotch eggs, haslet, Easter eggs (not the same as your American Easter eggs, my dear), sausages (not the same as your American sausages, dearie), caramelized onion chutney, English style quiche (which we used to call egg and bacon pie when I was a kiddie), custard tarts, sticky toffee pudding, honeycomb, my favorite chocolate bar Wispa Gold, Thornton’s Chocolates. The list was endless, and most of it now resides in my stomach.

And now I’m hungry so am off to eat lunch; one of the things – IMO – the USA has perfected: American style pizza.

Wherever you go and whatever you do, may the luck of the Irish be there with you.

I like stories which are a wild ride to the dark side – bloody, darkly humorous, irreverent and populated by anti-heroes who were once or never were human. One of my recent finds was John L. Monk’s novel Kick, about suicide Dan Jenkins whose after-life job is to return from the dead and hijack criminals’ bodies, and make sure they reap their just rewards. He gets to be alive again – albeit in another’s body – and if in the course of administering justice he clears out their bank accounts, spends their money and lives in luxury, so much the better.  Each successful performance earns him the right to return and do it all over again to another who needs retribution. I enjoyed the novel so much, I tracked down John on his Facebook page and website, and made his acquaintance.
What has this to do with St. Patrick’s Day? Nothing. But . . . .
I discovered John has an offbeat sense of humor I can appreciate. With his permission, and in honor of Saint Pat, here is John’s illuminating blog post which divulges the real reason for St. Patrick’s Day.

THE WAR BETWEEN IRELAND AND THE UNITED STATES.

Many years ago, before I made my millions as an independent author, I wrote freelance history for one of the largest history clearinghouses in Spokane Rhode Island. The details aren’t important, but what I’m about to say is.  Shortly before my breakthrough novel, “Kick”, while pouring through dusty old tomes and ledgers, I came across a little known episode in American history which has since been hushed up: in 1897, Ireland declared war on the United States.

The president at the time was William McKinley. Now, as everyone knows, McKinley was one of the least warmongering of the U.S. presidents, and had a kindly disposition in all things except one: everyone knew to never, ever ever, interrupt him during breakfast. The staff in the White House had even placed a sign outside the presidential dining room, reading, “Do Not Interrupt Breakfast.”

One day (a terrible day which will live in infamy), President McKinley was eating breakfast and “minding his own business” as the press reported it, when, out of nowhere, a tiny little man in a green outfit popped up — as if by magic — and stole his Lucky Charms.

The documents reveal an angry, vengeful president who immediately sent warships to blockade the small island.  Back then, Ireland was mostly cut off from the Western World. What little trade they had with anyone was centered around shamrock production — until McKinley, in his rage, had the farms destroyed in a series of devastating night raids.

The furious Irish people invaded the U.S. through a magical rainbow that spanned from Belfast to Fort Knox.  Millions of angry, red-headed Irishmen poured through, slashing and butchering their way towards Washington. McKinley was terrified.  He sent his best troops down — only to have them captured and left tied and gagged on the side of the road wearing hilarious green hats (years later, these “green berets” would learn brawling tactics from the Irish and become a mighty fighting force, but that’s another story).

When the mob got to Washington, the angriest Irishman with the reddest hair banged on the White House door, and yelled, “Come out of there you son of a bitch! You’re gonna pay for what you did to my sister’s shamrock farm!”

What happened after has been mostly lost to history.  Rumor has it McKinley was made to hand over a generous weight in gold from Fort Knox. Whatever the truth of that, there can be no doubt he was forced to declare March 17th a holiday, so that we Americans will never forget the destruction of all those shamrock farms.”

So there you have it, the truth about St. Patrick’s Day, compliments of John L. Monk. I don’t know about you, but it made me think .
Click to check out Kick and John’s website.

 

 

 

 

 

Giving it Away

When at the veterinarian’s last week, I noticed one of the receptionists/aides had a Kindle, and asked her if she liked it. She said she loved her Kindle. I said something like “my books are on Amazon.” Once we’d established I meant books I had published, not books I’d read, she brought them up on her screen and said they were a genre she enjoyed. I pointed out that Along Came a Demon is free. She downloaded it. Then, she asked why I gave away a book.

In the author communities I belong to, one topic comes up again and again, and again. Are there advantages to offering your book at no cost? As soon as the question is asked, usually before the discussion begins, a few jump in – with wailing and gnashing of teeth – with the same comments:

One: Don’t give away your art! Don’t devalue your book! You’ve worked on it for months/years, poured your heart into it! How can you give it away for nothing?

Two: Think of all the sales you’re losing!

Three: You know you’re going to get a LOT of negative reviews!

My replies to those comments are:

One: Think of it as a marketing plan. “Free” gives your book  visibility among the hundreds of thousands of e-books available online. No cost to the reader makes it more attractive and readers may be willing to take a chance on it. This may not benefit you if you have published only one book, but if you have several, particularly a series, you may gain readers. As I said to the receptionist, if readers don’t like it, all they’ve lost is a little time. If they do like it, perhaps they’ll buy the next book in the series.

Two: Nonsense! Most of the readers who download a free book do so because it is free and being free made it discoverable. A small percentage may have heard of your book and looked for it, but I bet a hefty percentage downloaded it because it cost them nothing.

Three: The naysayers are worried about one-star reviews from readers who download any free book they come across or is listed in advertising emails they are subscribed to, without reading the product description or sample, or even taking into consideration if they like or dislike the genre. Then they leave one-star reviews when they discover the book is not for them. Shying away from offering a book at no cost for fear of negative reviews is . . . well . . . silly. Priced or free, you’re going to get negative reviews, guaranteed, because one man’s meat is another man’s poison .

I am not devaluing my work by offering it free, I am hoping to attract readers who are willing to take a chance on my book, who otherwise would not have noticed it. I enjoy seeing good sales of the rest of my  books, the complimentary reviews (negative reviews get an ouch!, and a shrug.) I enjoy getting lovely emails, messages on my Facebook page, and sign ups for my new release mailing list. All these mean someone out there likes my work.

So far I’ve given away over 125,000 copies, and no one is going to persuade me it’s not a good idea.