Jennifer Wilck's Blog, page 35

Beyond the Mist Blog Tour

BEYOND THE MISTLake Lanier Mysteries, book 2
by Casi McLeanGenre: Time Travel Romantic Suspense


Piper Taylor concedes she’ll never fall in love, until a treacherous storm spirals her into the arms of the handsome Nick Cramer. Unrelenting remorse over a past relationship haunts Nick, but he can’t deny the mysterious connection and hot desire Piper evokes.

The allure of a secret portal hidden beneath Atlanta’s Lake Lanier tempts him into seizing the opportunity to change his mistakes. But his time slip triggers consequences beyond his wildest dreams.

Can Piper avoid the international espionage and terrorism of 2001 New York, find Nick, and bring him home before he alters the fabric of time, or will the lovers drift forever Beyond The Mist?


A soft mist hovered over the moonlit lake, beckoning, luring him forward with the seductive enticement of a mermaid’s song. Rhythmic clatter of a distant train moaned in harmony with a symphony of cricket chirps and croaking frogs. Spellbound, Nick Cramer took a long breath and waded deeper into the murky cove. Dank air, laden with a scent of soggy earth and pine, crawled across his bare arms. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, shooting a prickle down his spine that slithered into an icy pool coiled in the pit of his stomach. He clenched his fingers into a tight fist, determined to fight through the emotion consuming him. Fear sliced through his belly like icy shards until he finally heaved, forcing rancid bile to choke into his throat.

I have to do this––he inched forward––only a few more steps and––

A sudden surge swirled around him, yanking him into a whirling vortex, where a violent blue streak dragged him deeper, deeper beneath the lake into the shadowy depths. Heart pounding, he battled against the force, twisting, thrusting toward the surface with all of his strength but, despite his muscular build, he spun like a feather in wind into oblivion. When the mist dissolved, Nick Cramer had vanished.

****

Darkness consumed him, a cyclone spinning, twisting Nick as he ripped through an endless void. His lungs burned for oxygen. He could hold his breath no longer, and relinquished his resolve, but he felt no pain. Instead, a sense of serenity encircled him as if he were floating, weightless, breathless, helpless on a cloud of warm air...then the abyss abruptly imploded. Pierced by a brilliant violet-blue light that shattered into a kaleidoscope of color, the tempest hurtled him, whirling, snaking boundlessly until he finally burst through the surface, gasping for air.

He filled his lungs to capacity, breathed in and out several times before opening his eyes to assimilate the greenish blur surrounding him. Instinctively dog-paddling to stay afloat, he stared at a rustic old wooden bench situated atop a ridge above until his head stopped swimming. He had survived the tumult that ripped his body through Lord knows what and challenged him physically and emotionally to the limits few men could endure. And for what, to end up exactly where he started?

“Noooooo.” His blood-curdling moan cut through the silence.

He slapped his hand across the water, scooping a splash that flew around him. There was nothing more he could do. He tried. He risked his life to set things right, to offset the tragic event that had haunted him for eleven years, but he always knew the chance equated to that of a snowball in hell.




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BENEATH THE LAKE
Reeling from her boyfriend’s indiscretions at a party, Lacey Montgomery escapes into the throes of a torrential storm. Her car spins out of control and hurtles into the depths of an icy, black lake. She awakens in the arms of a handsome stranger, in a place she’s never heard of—thirty-four years before she was born.

Bobby Reynolds is smitten the moment the storm-ravaged woman opens her eyes. Learning the truth about her origin does nothing to stop the passion taking root in his heart and leaves him torn between finding a way to return Lacey to her time and convincing her stay with him.

Will the couple be able to discover the key to a mysterious portal before time rips them apart? Or will their spirits wander forever through a ghost town buried beneath the lake?


Award winning author, Casi McLean, pens novels to stir the soul with romance, suspense, and a sprinkle of magic. Her writing crosses genres from ethereal, captivating shorts with eerie twist endings to believable time slips, mystical plots, and sensual romantic suspense, like Beneath The Lake, WINNER: 2016 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence for BEST Romantic Suspense.

Casi's powerful memoir, Wingless Butterfly: Healing The Broken Child Within, shares an inspirational message of courage, tenacity, and hope, and displays her unique ability to excel in nonfiction and self-help as well as fiction. Known for enchanting stories with magical description, McLean entices readers in nonfiction as well with fascinating hooks to hold them captive in storylines they can't put down.

Her romance entwines strong, believable heroines with delicious hot heroes to tempt the deepest desires then fans the flames, sweeping readers into their innermost romantic fantasies. Ms. McLean weaves exceptional romantic mystery with suspenseful settings and lovable characters you'll devour. You'll see, hear, and feel the magical eeriness of one fateful night. You'll swear her time travel could happen, be mystified by her other worldly images, and feel heat of romantic suspense, but most of all you'll want more.

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The Car Place

I spent part of the morning at the car place. Again. No, we don’t have problems with our cars. Most times, I’m there for routine maintenance. But with three cars and me the only person with the time to take them, I spend a lot of my time in car places.This time, I was at the dealer. A different dealer than usual—not next to the homemade ice cream place that tempts me no matter how early it is. They greeted me and led me inside, took down some information, and pointed me in the direction of the waiting area.As I stood behind the closed door, I prepared myself for my usual car place waiting room experience:TV blaring to some weird court TV reality show, with judges who always make me wonder…about a lot of things, or a game show where people dress up as chickens;Stale coffee;An endless parade of people who somehow manage to arrive after me and leave before me even though I’ve made an appointment;The car person who always finds something extra that needs to be done.
With a deep breath, I entered.The TV was on, as expected, but it was turned to Kelly & Ryan. Compared to the usual programs, this is a huge improvement;There was a quiet room, where you can sit and avoid the noise. By the time I realized, someone else was already in there, but next time, it’s MINE;I don’t know about their coffee, but there were BAGELS! And cream cheese! Again, I was too shocked to actually eat them, but they made me forget all about my coffee;I was in and out in twenty-five minutes;They did what I asked, and only what I asked and they took my coupon.
It was a lot better than I expected. I haven’t worked up the courage to steal the remote, yet, but with the quiet room, I might not have to. And I’m still not a fan of car places. But they were friendly and fast and I’m already home, with the rest of my day available to me.
Now they just need a homemade ice cream place next door...

Welcome Bernard LoPinto

Please welcome Bernard LoPinto, talking about his writing journey.
A Statement About My WritingBy Bernard LoPinto
About 50 years ago, I started believing I could be a writer.  That is until I showed a sample of my work to someone whose opinion I trusted, one of my college instructors.  She took two days to read my short story and then beat it with a three-pound hammer.  After pummeling me for what seemed like an entire day—about fifteen minutes in real time—she asked, “Do you have anything to say?”I didn’t know how to answer.  Did I have anything to say?  I didn’t know.  What was I supposed to say?  Should I write about the war in Viet Nam, which, at the time, was tearing this country apart?  How about the intergenerational polarization that was also a feature of the sixties, or the British Invasion, or the sexual revolution?  I asked myself—more than once—what do I have to say?  Then I figured it out.  Nothing.  I had nothing to say.  As a nineteen-year-old suburban kid with nothing much going on besides my sexual prime, I hadn’t lived enough to have anything to say.  I just didn’t know it at the time.  So I decided that this writing thing was too deep for me and turned to simply finishing college, which for me was about all I could handle.  Life hadn’t happened to me yet.Then life happened.  Career, marriage, kids.  It all happened, and it was all too busy for me to write about.  I kept a journal sporadically, and I began to think that I actually understood the craft of writing.  But I was too busy getting my family by to give any thought to the old question: Did I have anything to say?  Then some things happened that gave me something to say.Looking for the one best way, I turned to the life of faith, committing everything to building a strict moral compass that would get my family through any storm.  I quit my job and we left our home, moving wife, kids, the dog and cat hundreds of miles to work with people sure to save the world for Jesus.  I became a minister, dedicating every waking hour—and every available dollar—to a check-your-brains-at-the-door religion.  We were on the true path.  Then it all went bad.When I finally came to understand the lies, abuse, and betrayal that had been the subtext of the life of faith I thought I was living, I had no way to get a handle on what had happened to a decade of my life.  That’s when I turned back to writing.  Now I had something to say, and I used fiction to say it.  I had found my moral universe.  Every writer works from his or her moral universe.  Dickens, whose anger makes him my favorite author, wrote of the immorality of a society that exploits children in Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, and Great Expectations.  A crime writer’s moral universe might be simply, “Crime doesn’t pay,” or “No one is above the law.”  In Ayn Rand’s moral universe, the actualization of the ego is the highest good.  Whether or not we agree with an author’s theme is not important.  What is important is that the author expresses that theme in a way the reader understands and that it’s universal.


BLURBIt’s 2026 and the United States has fallen under the sway of an oppressive government where all citizens’ rights have been stripped, Red shirt platoons patrol; the streets, and people die for voicing opinions. Into this chaos step Sid and Annie Winthrop. The elderly couple set out on a journey of revenge against the Red Shirts who murdered their son.
Red Shirt members Victor and Brooklyn have devoted their young lives to the cause of the president in protecting the nation.  When attacks on their home town leave dozens of Red Shirts dead, Victor must help his superiors find the vigilante.
At their darkest moment, each couple finds a common bond in their suffering and must decide where their loyalties lie.

EXCERPT
The next morning, despite his patched knee, Sid went out, pretending to shop for bread, listening for anyone talking about the carnage of last night. He came home, threw the bread on the table, and hurried into the bedroom, Annie following closely behind.“Did you have any trouble?” she asked.Sid sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands together the way he did when he had a riddle he couldn’t figure out. Annie sat down next to him, and he put his arm around her. “No problem, babe. It’s just that there are so many of them. They’re all over downtown, at least one squad on every block. They’re even on the side streets. One group is a few blocks away, coming in this direction. That’s why I hurried home.”“But you’ve dealt with clowns like these before.”Sid let go of Annie and started pacing. “Not like these. Half of them, I’ve never seen before. They have gold leaf on their helmets and gold braid on their shirts. Their bearing is different. They’re tougher, but we found that out last night. The troopers were searching people. I must’ve looked too old to cause trouble because they let me pass. If they hadn’t, if they had frisked me, I’d have been done.” He pulled the .45 out of its holster under his coat and placed it on the bed.“Are you going to go out tonight?”“Not after last night. I don’t want to do that again.”“I never expected things to go like this. Those kids don’t know what they’re doing; they’re Rowson’s pawns, and I killed four or five with the car.” Annie wrung her hands. “I’ve hated them for so long, but seeing them go down last night… Is it hard for you, too? I mean after Vietnam and the police force? Do you ever get used to it?”“I never have, and I hope you never do. When it stops bothering you, you’ll have lost a big piece of yourself.” Sid pulled Annie back into his arms. “I don’t like it, but we started down this road, and there’s no turning back. With the heat on us like this, let’s lay low for a while.”When starting on a journey of revenge, first dig two graves. Or in our case, three.
Bernard LoPinto draws inspiration for his stories from his years in ministry and prisons, and creates a reality where the lines between good and bad, right and wrong, are easily blurred. He and his wife, Jeanne, live in Northeastern Pennsylvania.

Gratitude

Writing is a solitary endeavor. No matter how much I network, ultimately, it’s me and my computer. And if I want to get anything done, I need to sit in solitude and write. So it’s tough to get over letdowns, because I start to think I’m the only one who could possibly be going through whatever it is I’m going through.
That’s why having some good writing friends is essential. They know exactly how I feel when I get a bad review—and whether or not that bad review means anything. They understand writing block because they get it also—and they know when to sympathize or offer concrete ways of blasting through it. They know the struggles I face marketing—and they can help me evaluate exactly what I’m doing and how to make something more successful.
And they also get that hearing voices in your head is not necessarily a crazy thing. J

So this is a thank you to all of my writing friends—actual or virtual, old or new. Whether it’s a kind email, a funny meme, a breakfast (J) or an online pat on the back—you all make a huge difference.

Welcome Jean Grant

Writers feel inspired everywhere. It may be from daydreaming, my most common culprit, or from travels, daily living, personal stories, and drives along scenic roads or during the morning commute. Sometimes subconsciously we weave parts of our own life story into our books.My mother passed away when I was 25. Although I’ve been blessed with an amazing mother-in-law and motherly aunts, I lack the ability to call my mom to ask her questions about parenting or when I need to ask about her family’s medical history or to just chat, seeking a comforting shoulder. My heroine in A Hundred Kisses, Deirdre MacCoinneach, has suffered the same fate, except her mother died when she was a child and Deirdre has a special ability to sense the lifebloods – the emotions and auras – of those around her. She lives in a time where women with such ability are thought to be witches. Her father is no help, for he carries his own memories and scars of losing his soulmate.So what’s a determined lass to do? Well, seek answers from a long lost aunt on a distant, mystical Scottish isle of course. Deirdre refuses to let life’s misgivings get in the way of happiness. Perhaps there she can reconnect with her kin and find the piece that has been missing in her life. There, she can embrace her gift. There, she can feel her mother’s spirit once again.Likewise, what’s this writer gal to do? Well, of course, dedicate my first novel to my mother. A poet and artist herself, I know she’d be proud…for her spirit lives on in me and my writing.
Blurb:
1296Two wedding nights. Two dead husbands.Deirdre MacCoinneach wishes to understand her unusual ability to sense others’ lifeblood energies…and vows to discover if her gift killed the men she married. Her father’s search for a new and unsuspecting suitor for Deirdre becomes complicated when rumors of witchcraft abound.Under the façade of a trader, Alasdair Montgomerie travels to Uist with pivotal information for a Claimant seeking the Scottish throne. A ruthless baron hunts him and a dark past haunts him, leaving little room for alliances with a Highland laird or his tempting daughter.Awestruck when she realizes that her unlikely travel companion is the man from her visions, a man whose thickly veiled emotions are buried beneath his burning lifeblood, Deirdre wonders if he, too, will die in her bed if she follows her father’s orders. Amidst magic, superstition, and ghosts of the past, Alasdair and Deirdre find themselves falling together in a web of secrets and the curse of a hundred kisses…
Excerpt:
She sensed no colors in the murky, lifeless water, and it was freeing. All breath escaped her. Muted visions passed before her eyes—her mother, her father, Gordon, and Cortland. Just a moment longer, she thought…Suddenly, a burst of warm light invaded her thoughts as air filled her lungs. Red-hot hands burned her shoulders and ripped her from her icy grave. She breathed life into her body. She coughed, gagging on the change.Muffled words yelled at her.Oh, God, so hot. His fingers were like hot pokers. Her head pounded as she slowly returned to the present. Heat radiated from her rescuer. Somebody had pulled her from the water.“Wh—?”“Hush, lass. You nearly drowned.”His voice was as soothing as a warm cup of goat’s milk on a winter’s day. A red-hot glow emanated from his body. Never before had she felt such a strong lifeblood, and it nearly burned her. She struggled in his arms to get free. She blinked, only seeing a blurry form before her. “Release me!”She splashed and wriggled, and he did as told. She clambered to the shoreline. Numb and shaken, she began to dress. It wasn’t easy as she fumbled with slick fingers to put dry clothes over wet skin. She instantly regretted her naked swim. She pulled on her long-sleeved white chemise first.She faced the forest, away from her rescuer. He quietly splashed to shore. His lifeblood burned into her back. He wasn’t far behind, but he stopped. She refused to look at him until she was fully clothed, not out of embarrassment of her nudity, but for what had just happened. He released a groan and mumbled under his breath about wet boots. His voice was not one of her father’s soldiers.When she put the last garment on, her brown wool work kirtle, she squeezed out her sopping hair and swept her hands through the knotty mess. She fastened her belt and tied the lacings up the front of the kirtle. Blood returned to her fingertips, and she regained her composure. Belated awareness struck her, and she leaned down and searched through her bag for her dagger. She spun around.She gasped as she saw the man sitting on the stone-covered shoreline, his wet boots off. Confusion and the hint of a scowl filled his strong-featured face. She staggered back, caught her heel on a stone, and fell, dropping the dagger. Dirt and pebbles stuck to her wet hands and feet, and she instinctively scrambled away from him.His glower, iridescent dark blue eyes, and disheveled black hair were not unfamiliar. Staring at her was the man she had seen in her dream—it was the man from the wood.Buy Links:
Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/Hundred-Kisses-Jean-M-Grant/dp/1509214410  Links on TWRP: E-book: http://catalog.thewildrosepress.com/all-titles/5014-a-hundred-kisses.htmlPaperback: http://catalog.thewildrosepress.com/paperback-books/5070-a-hundred-kisses-paperback.html
Bio:
Jean M. Grant is an author, former scientist, education director, and mom. Her niche in fiction is romance and women’s fiction. She also enjoys writing non-fiction articles for family-oriented and travel magazines and is seeking publication of an autism-angle children’s picture book series. Jean spends her free time tending to her flower gardens, tackling the biggest mountains in New England, and advocating for autism awareness. She is currently writing the prequel for A Hundred Kisses.Contact links:
Website: http://www.jeanmgrant.comTwitter: @JeanGrant05Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jeanmgrantauthor/

The End of Summer

This is a big week for me.
It’s the first week without The Princess and I’m adjusting to being a family of three (actually, since Banana Girl is at band camp, I’m not sure the adjustment has begun). I’m trying not to text my requests and nags too much, and I’m trying to let her initiate the contact, even though I really, really, really want to know what’s going on. Walking by her room is jarring—not only is she not in it, but it’s CLEAN! Between the emptying and organizing I made her do before she left, and the vacuuming and dusting the cleaning ladies did as soon as she left, it doesn’t look like her room. I almost miss the One Direction cardboard cutout. Someone left this on the road in front of my house. Every time I see it, I wonder where the kid is, kind of like every time I walk by her room, I wonder where The Princess is. Sigh.
I have a book releasing on Friday. In the Moment is a standalone (not part of a series) and I can’t wait for people to read it! It’s not my first book release, but it’s just as exciting as if it were. I’ll be on social media all day promoting and celebrating, so stop by and visit me. https://catalog.thewildrosepress.com/...
I’m hosting a Facebook party on Friday as part of my celebration with lots of other authors. Feel free to pop in, say hello and win some books and gift cards.
And, I just signed a contract for the second book in my Serendipity series (Addicted to Love was the first book)! I filled out the manuscript information form, which goes to my editor and lets her know to begin her first round of edits on the manuscript. That means I should be getting her edits in about a week. I also filled out the cover art form with my vision for the cover. I’m hoping it will closely resemble Addicted to Love, since it’s a series and I’d like all the books in the series to look cohesive. Based on the timing, I anticipate the new book, Five Minutes to Love, to release in the late winter/early spring (barring unforeseen circumstances).

So, we’ll see how everything plays out. Enjoy the end of your summer!

Please Welcome K.K. Weil!

Thanks so much for having me today, Jennifer. I’m so happy to be here!When I was thinking about a setting for Some Whisper, Some Shout, I knew I wanted to write something a little different. I’m a native New Yorker, and my other books took place in NYC. I loved writing about that setting, but for this one, I was looking for a change. I knew I wanted to make my heroine, Jolie, run a small restaurant through which she could do charity work and help the homeless. So I thought, what would be a good location for that kind of story?It didn’t take long for me to come up with the Jersey Shore. I’ve been living in New Jersey for years, and the Shore has so many fun things to offer, especially with its boardwalks. A little fast-food shop tucked into a fictitious Shore town seemed perfect. Like Jolie, I grew up on the beach (in NY though, not in NJ), so it was easy to write about her connection with and draw to the ocean.I suppose the next question would be where the idea of a creperie came from. Well, years ago, I took a wonderful trip to Paris. While I was there, I tried all different kinds of crepes in lots of places all over the city. But my absolute favorite one wasn’t in a fancy restaurant. It was from a tiny crepe truck on the side of the street. I bought a crepe from the vendor and just walked the Paris blocks, exploring, for what seemed like hours (though my delicious crepe probably only lasted seconds J). When I thought of that memory, the decision to make Jolie’s shop into a creperie was easy.
One of the most fun parts of writing Some Whisper, Some Shout was coming up with funny, silly names for the crepes. Jolie likes to wait for inspiration and then she uses a play on words for each unique crepe, like “Quiche Exclaim”, which has similar ingredients to a normal Quiche Lorraine, but she adds some spicy peppers and tabasco sauce to give it kick. I loved sprinkling the crepe names throughout the book to give it a little something extra.
BlurbDevices. Jolie’s got tons of them. Coping mechanisms that ensure she’s not falling victim to the mental illness that’s taken hold of both her brother and father. Helping the homeless gives Jolie much needed consistency. But when a stranger struts into her Jersey Shore creperie, writing cryptic songs on napkins and then disappearing, her world becomes anything but routine. Reed can play the soul out of his saxophone, but he’s hiding something. Why else would he reveal so little about himself, or plan one secluded, albeit eccentric, date after another? And what’s in that backpack he carries everywhere? Then again, with her distressed brother missing, an estranged mother returning home, and a feisty grandmother acting weirder than usual, Jolie can’t decipher whether her suspicions are valid or dangerous delusions.When inexplicable slashings of the homeless occur in her otherwise safe town, Jolie’s devices begin to fail.Excerpt:“Come here.” Reed took my arm and pulled me toward him. Then he eased my shoulders down so I was sitting in his lap, straddling him. “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?” It was such an obvious stall tactic I would have laughed if I weren’t so sad and embarrassed.
“Jolie.” He watched me and waited for me to speak with that same expression he wore the first time he spoke—as if he already understood me. It made no sense. It was impossible, but it made me want to open up to him in ways I never did with anyone else.
“You must think I’m…”
“Crazy?” He chuckled.
That word. That word that I despised, that struck my last nerve. “No, not crazy.” I stood from his lap, but he was too fast. He held my hips in place until I sat back down on him of my own accord.
“Okay, not crazy,” he said once I was back where he wanted me. “How about stunningly beautiful?” He kissed my lips tenderly.
“I’ll take that one.”
“So do you want to tell me now?”
“I thought you said I didn’t have to,” I said, but, oddly, part of me hoped he’d push.
“You don’t.” He brought his face away from mine and waited for me to lead the conversation. He wouldn’t shy away from the topic. If I didn’t want to talk about it, I’d have to change the subject. For the first time, I wanted to discuss Tristan with someone other than Mamie.
“My brother is sick.” I couldn’t look Reed in the face. Instead, I found a small chocolate stain on his shirt that he must have gotten from one of Mamie’s pastries, and traced over it with my pointer. “He’s got”—I hadn’t spoken the word in so long I didn’t know if it would still fall from my lips—“schizophrenia.” Reed sighed against my finger. “I’m so sorry, Jolie.”
“He was diagnosed at nineteen as soon as he started exhibiting symptoms. We knew what to watch for because, well, because my father had it too.”
He took my hand and brought my fingers to his lips, holding them there. I fought to keep the tears from my eyes. I’d already broken down once tonight. I didn’t plan on doing it again
Buy linksAmazon – http://Amzn.com/B072SZ67NFThe Wild Rose Press  - https://catalog.thewildrosepress.com/...
Social media links:Kkweil.comhttps://www.facebook.com/KKWeilAuthorhttps://twitter.com/kkweil.blogspot.comnovelconcepts1.blogspot.comhttps://www.instagram.com/kkweil/
Author Bio:K.K. Weil grew up in Queens, but eventually moved to New York City, the inspiration for many of her stories. Weil, who attended SUNY Albany as an undergrad and NYU as a graduate student, is also a teacher. She enjoys writing her own dramas and lives near the beach in New Jersey, where she is at work on her next novel.

T-4 Days

The Princess leaves for her first year of college Friday.
Did you know we have to buy things for her? Like for her dorm room and clothing and towels and bedding and decorations? Did you?
Because I thought I did. I’ve been saying we need to go shopping since she sent her acceptance (and our deposit) via email in April. But for some reason, I, an English-speaking mother, was apparently speaking Swahili. Cool! I didn’t know I had that talent. Wonder what other hidden ones I have.
She’s been going working every day and going out with friends almost every night. I’ve suggested we take a day here or there and get some shopping done. If she was in a good mood, I was ignored.
I finally was able to convince her to do a little bit a few weeks ago—okay, the “little bit” is questionable when it comes to fitting into my car. But we still have a lot more to do. And no matter how often I suggested it, well, you know. I’m only her mother after all.
And then I started getting panicked texts from her while she was out with her friends.
Mom, we NEED to go shopping! When would you like to go?IdkHow about tonight?No, I’m going out.Tomorrow?No, I’m going out.This weekend?Stop pressuring me!
Fun times.
We’re going today, because she went with her friends and saw all the things they were buying and realized she’s going to have a heck of a time showering without anything to shower with.

Please send chocolate.

Please Welcome CJ Fosdick

Cj stopped by and let me interview her. I hope you enjoy!


What is your writing style or schedule?: I love writing a narrative with a strong heroine in lst person POV, who is self-deprecating, witty, and never afraid to risk speaking her mind. In my case, my heroines may be taller, thinner and prettier, but so far we share the red hair and brown eyes. Whether author’s realize it or not, most of us share a brain and a piece of our heart with our novel’s heroine OR we create a character that supports the fantasy we imagine we are. As for schedule, with mixed success I’m into “to do” lists to stick to any schedule.
Where do you actually write?: I write on my laptop either in a leather LR recliner or in the sunroom surrounded by natural light and windows to the wildlife world outside. (Since our barn is now empty of horses, we feed deer, turkeys, rabbits, chipmunks and birds in our wooded glade outside the sunroom.)
Do you write linearly or not?: I do. I even wrote a poetic paragraph in the beginning of The Accidental Wife about “time being linear,” which is impossible in a time travel twist.
What sort of other activities keep you from actually writing?: Besides watching the addictive daily Breaking News this year, it’s been social media and the necessity to market that runs my train off track.
Do you have support, either from family and friends or a writing group?: My retired IBM hub has been my “Tech” guy, along with occasional cheer leader support from two grown daughters.
How long does it normally take you to write a novel?:  Several months of writing, bookended by research and editing for half that time. I’m very particular about turning in a clean ms. A full year is not out of line for a novel, allowing time for shorter freelance articles as well.
Who or what are your inspirations?: Even before I met her at two Writer Conferences, the multi-talented Diana Gabaldon was my inspiration, along with a few other mystery and historical writers.
If there’s a single aspect to writing that really frustrates you, what is it?: MARKETING!!! (You and me both, CJ!)
Given unlimited resources, what would be your ideal writing environment?: A GREAT FANTASY!! No phone or TV in a casita on our acreage with a wall of bookshelves, a personal cook to bring me meals and stock a frige with beverages and brownies, a weekly maid and a masseuse, my new Amazon Echo to answer questions and stream in my music choices, and a tech manager and publicist on board to post on FB and Pinterest, answer emails and place ads and book appearances.This might give me time to WRITE more than one novel each year!
Tell me about your latest book.: The Accidental Stranger is the sequel to The Accidental Wife which had the heroine exchange places with her infamous ancestor in a time slip to 1886. She returns to the present to give birth to a child and in Book 2 she accidentally shoots a stalker who looks like her son’s 1886 father. But is he the man she thinks skipped time to rejoin her in a time twist…or a look-alike stranger with his own dark secret? Kirkus Review summarized The Accidental Stranger as “A transporting and satisfying read that offers a fanciful twist on its genre.”
Where did you get your inspiration for your books?: I love the way a time travel creates automatic suspense—ala Diana Gabaldon’s multi-genre Outlander books. I also love twisting my plotlines to surprise readers.
Do you have a favorite character and if so, who and why?: Jessica, my spunky red-haired alter-ego is my favorite character. Jess often takes me on virtual adventures and even writes some of her own dialogue!
What are you working on now?: Two projects vie for time outside of marketing. Book three in the Accidental Series bumps minor characters who lived in Ireland in the 1880’s into starring roles. The Accidental Heiress involves a long-time Irish scandal, the usual identity crisis, and a shift in the legacy of the O’Brien/Mitchell families. The Accidental Series originally grew out of an award-winning short story so I’m capitalizing on that by expanding another successful short story into a YA novella.Yet another short story, The Holdup, won an award in a London WC in 2014 and was picked for a British Anthology to be released on Amazon this fall, along with my audio version of Hot Stuff, a candy heart romance line put out by WildRose Press last year.
Bio: Born and raised in Packerland, Cj moved west to the medical mecca in Rochester, MN where her writing career bloomed with published award-winning stories and articles to her novel series inspired by Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander. Rescued horses, dogs, cats, children and one patient husband have motivated the heart of Cj’s craft. Though living on a country hilltop haven for decades, she has ventured down on occasion to climb a Jamaican waterfall, float in the Dead Sea, kiss the Blarney Stone and research settings for her next novel.
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Blurb: When Jessica Brewster inherits a mysterious teacup, she finds rubbing it transports her back to 1886, trading places with her look-alike great grandmother—wife to her ancestor’s magnetic first husband and mother to his charming young daughter. True love, a gypsy, and her ancestor’s troubled brother amp up the charade she’s playing. Is her future in the past? Her life hangs in the balance. A Golden Quill finalist and Top 10 Finisher for Author and Book in a P & E Reader’s Poll.
Excerpt:  The Accidental Wife Excerpt, a Golden Quill Finalist and Top 10 Best Romance and Best Author in P & E Poll, 2015.He rose from the chair like an old man and touched my face with both hands, feathering his fingers lightly across my forehead, into the wells of my eyes, over my nose and cheekbones, like a blind man needing to know who stood before him. I tried not to stiffen at his touch, willing myself not to blink, not to release the fresh tears that had begun to pool. He collared my throat with his long fingers and ran a thumb over my lips. “I want my wife back. Come back to me, Mitawin,” he whispered.
The word on the teacup; the hallmark of my deceit. Our eyes locked, and I felt my throat closing and my knees begin to quiver. For a few seconds his grip tightened around my throat, and I clamped my eyes shut with a fleeting thought. Yes, take my breath...end this tormenting deception. 
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Flying

We’re sitting in the airport waiting for our flight to board. It’s perfect people-watching time. There’s the older blond woman who was convinced she was going to miss her flight, because last week her flight was delayed. There’s the tattooed guy and his girlfriend, and I wonder what those tattoos mean. There’s an older woman who keeps her phone in bubble wrap in her purse.
We traveled to the gate with a pilot, who spent the bus ride buried in his phone. In fact, we rode the bus in the “do not like people” section, apparently, because the rest of the bus filled up, people were standing, and our section was wide open with plenty of seats, other than those taken up by Banana Girl, the pilot and me. Maybe it wasn’t the “do not like people” section; maybe no one wanted to sit with us?
Banana Girl has become a pro-traveler, what with flying to Europe, Israel and Florida this summer. I have become woefully behind the times, still expecting to use paper boarding passes and forgetting about the carry-on restrictions. I provide her with amusement of some sort, I suppose.
We’ll spend the next two days traveling, flying, driving and touring in a whirlwind trip. They’re places I’ve never been before, so I’m looking forward to meeting new people, trying new food (finding the best ice cream/chocolate) and getting to know different college towns. And maybe making plans to return someday soon.

Worst case, I’ll get inspiration for a new book.