C.D. Hersh's Blog, page 2
October 16, 2025
Friday Feature Talking Animals
If you had the ability to talk to your pet, would you? Most people would probably jump on board and say YES! Some maybe not so on board. It all depends on the person and their relationship with animals. In Lost and Found, the first book of my teen psychic mystery series, Mysterious Tales from Fairy Falls, I introduce Meagan Walsh, a fifteen-year-old rebel without a cause. She has the ability to communicate with animals telepathically. However, she’d buried this psychic gift after her mother died tragically in an auto accident and was only stirred to use it when confronted with a crusty shelter cat named Whiskey.
Fairy Falls was bores-ville from the get-go. Then the animals started talking.
The Fairy Falls Animal Shelter is in trouble. Money trouble. It’s up to an old calico cat named Whiskey—a shelter cat who has mastered the skill of observation—to find a new human pack leader so that their home will be saved. With the help of Nobel, the leader of the shelter dogs, the animals set out to use the ancient skill of telepathy to contact any human who bothers to listen to them. Unfortunately for fifteen-year-old Meagan Walsh, she hears them, loud and clear.
Forced to live with her Aunt Izzy in the safe and quiet town of Fairy Falls, Meagan is caught stealing and is sentenced to do community hours at the animal shelter where her aunt works. Realizing Meagan can hear her, Whiskey realizes that Meagan just might have the pack leader qualities necessary to save the animals. Avoiding Whiskey and the rest of shelter animals becomes impossible for Meagan, so she finally gives in and promises to help them. Meagan, along with her newfound friends, Reid Robertson and Natalie Knight, discover that someone in Fairy Falls is not only out to destroy the shelter, but the animals as well. Can Meagan convince her aunt and co-workers that the animals are in danger? If she fails, then all the animals’ voices will be silenced forever.
Excerpt:
Beep, beep, the front door sounded again. Sighing, Whiskey lifted a back leg in the middle of the hallway and proceeded to groom herself. She heard a familiar voice. The Kind One is here. Good. I’ll get my litter box done first. She stopped grooming and instantly regretted the extra mess she’d made. Then Whiskey heard another voice. This one belonged to a human who was younger and female, yet there was a rough edge to her voice, like she had just swallowed a handful of litter. Curious, Whiskey sauntered over to the reception area, jumped on the grey chair that waited there for her, and proceeded to do what she did best—observe.
“Stop whining about it, Meagan, or suck it up, as you would say. You’re doing these hours and there’s no getting out of it.”
“Isn’t there a child labour law on this?” the younger human asked.
“You’re not being paid.”
“Okay, isn’t this considered some kind of abuse, then?”
The Kind One smiled. “Only if I feed you to Mary Jane.”
“Mary…who?”
Whiskey snorted in laughter, but to a human, it would sound more like a strangled meow. The Kind One jumped and turned around. She giggled, and then moved to scratch Whiskey under the chin. “Good morning, Whiskey-girl. I hope you didn’t leave too much of a mess for me this morning.”
The girl’s face twitched. “That cat is named after booze? Nice.”
“She was found near the liquor store,” the Kind One said, smiling. “It seemed appropriate.”
Whiskey sneezed, causing her collar bells to jingle, and purred to appease the Kind One. She was Whiskey’s favourite human and she didn’t like it when the felines of the shelter made more of a mess than usual for her to clean up. However, last night, a full moon had graced the skies. Tempers were higher at this time of the month, so it wasn’t unusual to find upturned litter boxes, vomit in the cages, or clumps of fur all over the floor. The pull and power the moon had over animals was out of their control, so when it waned, things got calmer, and their home was kept cleaner.
“Mary Jane is our pit bull,” the Kind One was saying. “She’s the last one left in the shelter since the government banned the breed. I wish we could find her a suitable home. I think she’s going a bit bonkers being in the shelter twenty-four seven.”
The girl’s mouth fell open. “I don’t do dogs.”
The Kind One shrugged. “Fine. There are over seventy cats that need attention and care. I’m sure you won’t be bored.”
The girl frowned. “I don’t do cats, either. I’m…I’m allergic.”
“Oh, haven’t you heard, my dear? There are pills for that,” the Kind One said, laughing. “Go into my car’s glove compartment and grab a couple of allergy pills, and then get your lily-white butt back here so you can help me start cleaning.”
The girl moaned. She pulled at the oversized pink scrub top she wore as if protesting the Kind One’s orders, and then opened the door to go outside. Beep, beep.
“Well, Whiskey, shall we get this party started?”
Whiskey meowed, and then stretched before getting down off the chair. She ran straight to the door and let out a long-winded meow. She wanted out so she could roll on the driveway to loosen any fur the Loud One had not purged from her. Two beeps accompanied her departure. Whiskey heard a car door slam and looked across the lot. The young girl had a white stick stuck in her mouth and was heading for the side of the building, near to the dog runs. Whiskey watched as she snuck behind the lone shed and sat down.
Interesting, she thought. I wonder if the Kind One trusts her?
Whiskey decided to observe this young human. Carefully, she skulked over to the tall grass that was never cut and pushed her way through it. Closer, closer, closer she got, until she was about a stone’s throw away. The dogs were barking like the lunatics they were. Louis was in the run closest to the forest that backed onto the building, while a new dog, a Lab mix, she guessed, was in the middle. The run next to the driveway had always been reserved for Mary Jane. Whiskey glanced back at the girl who was sucking on her white glowing stick. Whiskey sniffed, and then sneezed. Her bells tinkled. Poison, she thought, pawing her face to dissipate the stench.
“Who’s that?” the girl asked, quickly removing the white stick from her mouth.
Whiskey sneezed again, sounding off her bells as she jumped out of the long grass. She gave the young human a long look of disdain, like one a cat might make while having the squirts in a litter box.
“Oh, it’s just you,” the girl mumbled, and then resumed sucking on her white glowing stick.
Silly, stupid human, Whiskey thought. She turned to saunter away.
“I’m not silly, and I’m certainly not stupid,” the girl responded nastily.
Whiskey froze and then sat down. She turned her head around to watch the girl blow smoke out of her mouth. Her long legs were stretched out in front of her, and she seemed relatively relaxed. Whiskey shook her head. Had she imagined it? Did this girl really pick up her thoughts? This was a real conundrum. No human had ever come as close as this one to understanding her; to actually communicating with her. The exception, of course, had been the Kind One’s instinct to know when a cat was ill and take care of the matter, but instinct was instinct and this was something more.
“What’s the matter, Whiskey?” the girl asked, sucking on the white stick once more before rubbing it into the ground. She blew out ringlets of smoke. “Cat got your tongue?”
Lost and Found Buy Links:
PANDAMONIUM PUBLISHING HOUSE ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀
Sharon Ledwith is the author of the middle-grade/young adult time travel adventure
series, THE LAST TIMEKEEPERS, and the award-winning teen psychic mystery
series, MYSTERIOUS TALES FROM FAIRY FALLS. When not writing, reading, researching, or revising, she enjoys anything arcane, ancient mysteries, and single malt scotch. Sharon lives a serene, yet busy life in a southern tourist region of Ontario, Canada, with her spoiled hubby, and two shiny red e-bikes.
Learn more about Sharon Ledwith on her WEBSITE and BLOG. Look up her AMAZON
AUTHOR page for a list of current books. Stay connected on FACEBOOK, TWITTER, PINTEREST, LINKEDIN, INSTAGRAM, and GOODREADS.
BONUS: Download the free PDF short story The Terrible, Mighty Crystal HERE
October 14, 2025
Wednesday Special Spotlight Sharing Excerpts
Often, we are asked what our favorite book or author is. As writers there is another favorite that we have and that is certain sections of the books we have written. These favorite sections or excerpts become the lines shared to promote interest in the book. Today we thought we’d share some of our favorite lines from our paranormal romance series, The Turning Stone Chronicles
Each of these books is a standalone in that there is a HEA in each. However, you will understand the continuing characters and their relationships if you start with the first book in the series.
With that said we will start our excerpts with the first book, The Promised One.
Tucking his gift under her arm, she started to leave.
“Hey.” He pointed at the other gifts. “Aren’t you going to add yours?”
“Nope. I’ll give it to you later, when we’re alone.”
“Ooh. Something special. Mineral or animal?” His right eyebrow raised, his smile growing.
Alexi laughed. “Just embarrassing.”
“For you or for me?”
“I’m not telling.”
Sidling close to her, he backed her against the wall. “Come on. Just a hint,” he said, a purr in his tone as he placed his hand on the wall next to her shoulder and moved into her personal space with the ease of a lover. One of his famous melt-the-girl looks smoldered in his gaze. The golden flecks in his green eyes lit up like fireworks. Hot fireworks.
Enjoying his closeness and the raw sensuality emanating from him, she lingered for a minute, then slowly moved away. Standing this close she could get burned, and she wasn’t ready to play with fire . . . not yet. She shook her head. “Not a chance.”
He crossed his arms, obviously irked that she hadn’t succumbed.
“My irresistible charms work on everyone else. Why not you?”
Oh, if you only knew. She had to fight to resist him. She flashed him a smile. “Because I’m special. And I’m your partner. Keeping your back safe is more important than getting you on your back.”
He laughed, a deep, throaty, and utterly sexy sound.
She locked her knees to keep from melting into a puddle.
“I like the sound of that.”
Of course you would. She felt her face flame.
Now for the second book, Blood Brothers, excerpt.
Sylvia Jordan Riley winced as Falhman dug into her shoulder and extracted a bullet. He dropped the bullet into the trash and swabbed the wound. “You want to tell me how you got injured?” he asked as he reached for the needle to stitch the gaping hole.
“Chasing Promised Ones.” And the man who murdered my ex-husband.
“I hope it was worth this.”
“It was.” She’d torn Baron’s killer to shreds, but that wasn’t the best part of her news. “I’ve found someone who shifted with me by using the power from my ring.”
Falhman stopped stitching and stared intently at Sylvia, his eyes glittering with undisguised interest. “Is he a rogue shifter?”
“I don’t think he’s any kind of shifter. He seemed startled when the shift occurred.”
“A non-shifter who can use the ring without the incantation? What’s his name?”
“Temple. Rhys Temple. There’s only one problem.” Sylvia paused then continued, “He’s in love with Baron Jordan’s niece, Alexi.”
“I thought that whole family was dead.”
“She’s the last one left, and I think she’s on track as a Promised One.”
Falhman went back to stitching Sylvia’s skin with practiced ease. “Get rid of her and get him. If we can control someone with that kind of power, we can control the world.”
Sylvia looked at her superior. He made it sound simple. Kill Alexi Jordan and lure Rhys to the dark side. Piece of cake? Not if a Jordan was involved. From her recent dealings with Alexi, she knew there would be one heck of a fight if she tried to take her man.
The third book in the series, Son of the Moonless Night, has some new characters but continues the underlying story. Here’s the excerpt:
A head of lettuce and a grapefruit escaped from the paper grocery sack as Katrina leaned sideways on tippy toes to get the topmost lock. The vegetables rolled across the small concrete patio at the bottom of the stairway well and stopped against a leg of the wrought iron café table. Whispering an expletive, she pushed the door open and placed her purse and grocery sack on the entryway table just inside the door. Then she swiveled to get the runaway vegetables.
A very pleasant and interesting sight greeted her. A pair of dark trousers caressed a toned posterior of the man bending over to retrieve her vegetables. She fought to rein in the path her mind started down. Been too long, Katrina, she said to herself as the vision straightened and turned around.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “I thought you had gone inside.”
The way he held the vegetables out in front of him made her wonder what his hands would feel like if he held her breasts in that manner.
“Hello? Are you awake?”
“Ah, ah,” Katrina sputtered as she focused on his face to get her mind out of the gutter.
“Okay. Awake, but not here yet.” The corner of his lips started to rise.
“You,” she breathed when she recognized him. “Where’s my grandmother’s afghan and my Cleveland Brown’s hoodie?”
“Nice to see you, too, and thank you, I’m feeling fine.”
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “If you hadn’t run off I’d have known you were okay.”
The smile inched up the side of his cheek, lighting his electric blue eyes. “You worried about me. How sweet.”
“Sweet, my patootie. I just . . . You could have bled . . . Oh, crap. Where’s my stuff?”
He took another step closer to her. The deep blue ring around his amazing eyes seemed to darken.
She leaned back from him.
Without taking his eyes off her, he nodded to a brightly colored gift bag on the ground beside the door. “I got blood on the afghan so I had it cleaned. It wasn’t badly stained. The blood came out. The hoodie’s a different story. I couldn’t salvage it, so I bought a replacement.” Balancing the vegetables in one hand he lifted the gift bag to her. “Forgiven? Please?”
Book four, The Mercenary and the Shifters, gets more characters involved in the struggle. Here’s the excerpt:
Mike Corritore wheeled up the circular drive of the impressive house on Lakeshore Road and cut the engine on his motorcycle. After a quick glance around, he shouldered the bags containing his clothes, ammo, pump shotgun, and talwar sword. Then he headed for the carved front door. The doorbell echoed inside indicating the mansion had a cavernous entry hall. He searched the entrance stoop for security cameras and found none.
What the heck had he gotten himself into? A rich bitch, with no security on her home, mixed up with a bad syndicate spelled major trouble. With this chintzy level of security, it would take more time than he originally anticipated to make her house and business secure.
After a couple of minutes, the door opened.
“Can I help you?” asked an attractive redhead.
“I’m Mike Corritore. Here to see Fiona Kayler. Will you tell her I’ve arrived?”
The redhead looked him over, then braced her legs shoulder width apart and crossed her arms over her curvy bust. “Do you have identification, Mr. Corritore?”
Mike returned her once-over. Her porcelain complexion blushed pink at his bold examination, and she tossed her mane of wavy, mahogany hair defiantly.
Damn, she was gorgeous.
If she thought her insolent pose enough to keep him, or intruders out, she’d better reconsider.
“Hugh sent me.” He stepped forward but she blocked him.
“A driver’s license for your very expensive motorcycle will suffice,” she said, wiggling her fingers at him. When he didn’t comply, she stepped back and reached to the side of the door.
The distinct cachung of a gun cocking sent him flying to the right of the doorway.
“Identification, Mr. Corritore. Please,” she said as she leveled a pistol at him.
Mike dug in his rear pants’ pocket. “Hugh lied,” he said as he held out his driver’s license. “You don’t need protection.”
After inspecting his identification, she lowered her weapon and waved him inside. “For my business, Mr. Corritore. I’m capable of protecting my home, but I can’t draw my gun just anywhere.”
“You should get a conceal and carry license,” Mike said as he entered.
She put the safety on the gun and stashed the weapon in the table beside the front door.
“I take it you’re not the help,” he said, glancing around the entry hall.
She held out her hand. “Fiona Kayler. Nice to meet you, Mr. Corritore.”
“Mike,” he said, taking her hand. Her palm, warm and soft, told him she lived a life of leisure. But her strong grip screamed, No patsy. He held her hand a bit longer than he should have. She wriggled free and waved him to the left.
“Ladies first.”
With a nod, she led him toward a sumptuously decorated room. He followed, his eyes taking in the soft curves of her rear as she sashayed across the marble-tiled floor. Mike’s body reacted to the seductive wiggle of her bottom. She walked as sexy as she looked.
Keep your mind on the job, Corritore. He shifted his gaze away from temptation, searching the ceiling and corners of the entry for security cameras. If she had them, they were well hidden.
The measured click of her high heels on the hard marble tile floor disappeared as they stepped on the thick, white carpet of the living room. This room appeared cozier than the entry. A huge gold, gilt-edged mirror hung over the fireplace reflecting the scene outside the oversized plate-glass window.
She motioned to a seat beside the fireplace. Mike chose a location less exposed to the exterior, where he could watch the entrance to the room. Fiona dragged a side chair across the room to where he sat, positioning it at a right angle to his seat. Two vertical furrows appeared in the carpeting, bisecting their shoe impressions and the vacuumed paths in the thick fibers. Apparently, she didn’t use this room much.
“So, Ms. Kayler—”
“Fiona,” she corrected.
“Fiona, exactly what do you need me to do?” As he said the words, he had a lurid vision of what he’d like to do to this lovely woman. He shook it off. She was Hugh’s friend and in trouble. He had no business screwing around with damsels in distress. They were needy. The last thing he wanted.
“A couple of years ago I had a problem with smugglers. They brought in some hazardous materials which got me in trouble with Homeland Security and the FBI. They cleared me, but my business took a pretty big hit. To keep things afloat, I’ve had to get in bed with some rough characters recently.”
At the phrase get in bed with Mike cocked his eyebrow at her.
“Not literally,” she amended quickly, as a dusky pink blush crept over her pale complexion. “I need my security beefed up, so I don’t have a replay of two years ago.”
“Any good security company could upgrade you.”
“I also need someone I can trust implicitly. Hugh vouched for you, and I trust Hugh.”
“We should start with your home security. I didn’t see surveillance cameras at the door.”
“My home is perfectly safe. It’s my business I’m concerned about.”
Fiona crossed her arms over her chest, her body language closing off to further suggestions. Mike followed her motions. As he did, he spotted a red dot on her chest. The dot wiggled.
“Get down!” Mike shouted as he dove for Fiona.
They hit the floor as the pottery on the raised fireplace hearth exploded, sending shards across the room. Mike shoved Fiona behind the nearest chair then scrambled across the rug to the blown-out window. Removing his gun from his back-of-the-waist holster, he peered over the windowsill. Seeing no one in the driveway, he swiveled around to check on Fiona. The red laser point danced around the room, searching for a target.
Unfortunately, our books are currently out of print. We are working, as much as life permits, on getting second editions released,
October 13, 2025
Tell Again Tuesday Story Ideas
The Simmering Pots of StoryBy Barbara O’Neal
Where do books come from? People ask this all the time, and if you’re like me, the answer is rarely linear.
I imagine a stove crowded with simmering pots—some half-forgotten, some bubbling with scent—each one holding fragments of character, setting, image, and emotion. Now and then, a whiff rises from one, something fragrant and insistent, and I know it’s time to bring it forward and feed it with focus.
Sometimes it’s something I’ve lived. Sometimes it’s something someone else longs for. And occasionally, a book starts with both—like this one did.
A while back, I asked readers . . .
For the rest of the blog go to:October 9, 2025
Friday Feature October 13 is National Language English Day
While hunting for an October blog idea we came across the National English Language Day. This special day not only commemorates the day in 1362 when the British Parliament was opened the first time by a speech in English, rather than French. The day also celebrates the universality, uniqueness, and the evolvement of the English language over the centuries.
Now the most common language in the world, English was brought to Britain by Anglo-Saxon migrants in the 5th-7th centuries. From those humble beginnings the language has grown by leaps and bounds, incorporating words from other languages, words and concepts developed as new inventions, medicines and progress of industry, technology and medical discoveries developed. Consumer marketing also contributed to the growth of English adding words like: Cheerios, Sugar Pops, Grapenuts, Mars Bars and Snickers.
One of our favorite new-word categories includes imaginative writers like William Shakespeare, a brilliant actor, playwright and poet, who lived in the late 1500s to early 1600s. Shakespeare is credited with coining, inventing and popularizing 1,700 words in the English language. Among those are: bedroom, downstairs, eyeball, gossip, hurry, jaded, kissing (one of our favorites for romance books and in general), rant, yelping, and zany. Green-eyed monster is one of Catherine’s favorite Shakespearian innovative phrases.
Shakespeare created these words by adapting existing words, adding prefixes or suffixes, combining words, or “borrowing” words from other languages. He sometimes changed nouns into verbs. For instance the noun “elbow” became a verb. Today everyone knows what it means to “elbow” someone.
Our adaptation of English, which isn’t as common in other languages, is one of the things that has allowed English to grow so rapidly, often making it hard to keep up with the newest trendy words. This adaptability has made English unique and the most recognizable language on earth.
“How recognizable?”, you ask.
Ethologue, a research center for language intelligence, a primary official source for speaker data, estimates that around 1.53 billion people speak English, either as their mother tongue or as a second language. That’s enough people to make English the most common language in the world.
So, this October 13 celebrate English! Look up some of the unique words of the Bard. Thumb through the 250,000 words in and Oxford Dictionary. Read Shakespeare or Jane Eyre, then a bit of Fan Fiction or Sci-Fi to see how English has blossomed and grown, or just hang around an old beatnik or teen and see if you can figure out what new words the people of their eras invented.
Last, but not least, write a poem or story and incorporate some of the “borrowed” words from other languages, using the invented words on the list below, or be like the Bard and create your own words.
The world of the English language is all around you, explore it and the share this blog with a friend.
Thanks for stopping by, and Happy National English Day!Partial list of “borrowed” words from other languages:
French: ballet, entrepreneur, cuisine, adventure
Spanish: hurricane, tomato, avocado, taco, potato
Hindi: guru, shampoo, bungalow, pundit
Japanese: tsunami, karaoke, tycoon, sushi
Arabic: alcohol, algebra, sultan, zenith, safari, lemon
German: wanderlust, kindergarten, rucksack, hamburger
Aztec: chocolate, chili, coyote
Indigenous American Indians: moccasin, chipmunk, hominy, toboggan
Dutch: skipper, cookie, dollar
Greek: metropolis, theatre, philosophy
October 8, 2025
Wednesday Special Spotlight Three #Tips to Locate “Telling” #Writing
We’ve all heard the admonition “Show, don’t tell.” When we show we are producing better writing that will capture our readers. Showing, instead of telling, lets editors and agents see you are not an amateur.
In spite of hearing the phrase over and over, many writers don’t know how to recognize “telling” writing. Writing that tells analyzes, generalizes, editorializes and summarizes instead of making the writing interactive and sensory for the reader. Naturally, there will be some generalizations and summarization in your writing, but you need to make sure these elements are in the minority, not the majority of your book. You need to show what’s happening so the reader can create in her own mind the picture you, the writer, want to share.
To locate telling writing look for:• Passive sentences. Often passive sentences, especially those with the word was in them, are a tip-off you might be telling instead of showing. The sentence Sally was angry, is telling. Sally’s lips drew down into a thin, taut line, her jaw working side to side, shows us Sally’s anger. We can deduce from the picture that is painted how Sally feels because we know that look.
• Passages that have very little sensory information. You can tell us the woman smelled good, was sexy, and she knew it, or you can show it by saying John turned to watch her as she strolled between the restaurant tables, her hips swaying like a belly dancer in slow motion. As she neared she tossed her hair behind her shoulder, casting the scent of violets and vanilla in waves toward him. The fragrance made him salivate. Her perfectly manicured nails trailed along his shoulder as she passed by. He shuddered under her touch and she smiled as he looked up at her. Here we know what the woman smells like, how she walks, how John reacts to her and how she reacts to him. Much stronger than just saying she was sexy.
• “LY” adverbs. ‘LY” adverbs rob sentences of conciseness and force, making your writing weak. Which sounds stronger? The man yelled loudly or The man roared, the sound drowning out the radio. The dog’s tail wagged happily or The dog’s tail wagged in time to his barks as he bounded around the room. The taxi drove very slowly down the street, or The taxi crept at a snail’s pace down the street.
Get the picture? By adding active verbs, sensory information and using fewer “LY” adverbs, you are showing the reader a snapshot of what’s happening.
Here are a few telling phrases. Choose one, or two if you’re ambitious, and see if you can come up with a better picture.
• skinny lunatic• fanatical nun
• old paper
• disgruntled employee.
• frazzled mother.
Share in the comments what you’ve come up with so everyone can see what you created.
October 6, 2025
Tell Again Tuesday Manuscript revisions
10 Things That Helped Me Revise My Draft NovelBy Lucy Mitchell Author
On Friday, I finished revising my latest draft novel. I think this novel has added a few more grey hairs and definitely a new wrinkle or two. I have now sent it to someone important (will tell you more in September – high-pitched squeal), and I can start writing my next book, which is desperate to get my attention.
I wanted to document the things that have helped me get through the revision of my draft novel, because it hasn’t been easy and I need some sympathy….
This book was planned out last year, and . . .
For the rest of the blog go to:October 2, 2025
Friday Feature What to Do About Doing Nothing to Do
So, I found myself in a rather precarious situation.
One day, recently, I had nothing to do. Not a thing. Even the house was relatively clean, and the laundry put away. There was nothing more I could do for the garden, which was on its way to the summer desert-char season, where all things green are reduced to sticks and straw. I could find no new reporters, bloggers, reviewers, or book clubs to pitch my novel to. There was nothing to edit or update. No e-mails to return or query letters to revise. And, gosh, with school out for the summer, there were no teenagers to supervise, unless you count my youngest son, who’s twenty and thinks he’s all grown up and doesn’t need my guidance anymore.
It was…quite frankly…frightening.
I know what you’re thinking. In the inimitable words of Mrs. Blue, when she first faces Forrest from her porch, “What are you crazy or just plain stupid?”
Now, as a teacher, I don’t use the word stupid. Five letters, yes, but, in the classroom, it’s lumped in with the dastardly four-letter variety. Still, when I tried to explain the cause of my anxiety to a friend, he looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Stupid, indeed.
I went online and, because I had nothing else to do, I took what was billed as the 7 Minute Anxiety Test. I agreed or disagreed with all sorts of statements on a link called the Calm Clinic: I have sweaty or cold, clammy hands. I am afraid of crowds, being left alone, the dark, strangers, or traffic. I am able to relax.
That last one gave me pause. Even when I go on vacation, it takes me a few days to stop searching for a purpose, to find that sweet spot where I can take a nap or crack a mindless novel in the middle of the afternoon without guilt. The test results showed that I’d scored a 25 out of 100 on the Anxiety Scale: Apparently, my case was nothing more than mild.
Still, why the trepidation when I’m not under pressure? I put on my Sherlock deerstalker cap and, since I had nothing else to do, I gave it a good think. I ruminated on the fact that I have spent perhaps an inordinate amount of time being insanely busy. Sometimes, I flash back to my newsroom days, where the frantic preparation for the next show could, at any moment, be wrenched in a new direction, necessitating the tossing of the previous plan moments before going live on the air. (I still have nightmares about not being prepared when the red camera light blinks on.)
When I first became a teacher, my panic at those relatively short TV segments seemed silly when faced with the proposition of five hours each day staring down children in the classroom, who glared back, waiting. I felt like an animal in the zoo. I used to be a server in a restaurant in Washington, D.C. where very busy people wanted their food “Right now!” As a sports official, decisions must be instantaneous. There’s no, “Let me think about this and get back to you,” allowed when it’s time to throw a flag or keep it neatly tucked in your belt.
And then, I paused. Everyone is busy. Our world dictates that we run from one responsibility to another with crushing regularity. Busy defines us. And, clearly, I’m not the only one who feels a bit queasy when things slow down. More than half of Americans – 55% – responding to an on-line survey admitted to leaving vacation time unused in 2015, which totaled 658 million days.
Perhaps we’re just out of practice in regard to relaxing. Like anything else, one must train to become adept at a skill. One can’t just jump in without extensive repetition and expect to excel. So, I’ll solve my free-time anxiety problem by devising a plan, creating coherent steps in order to discern the proper route to relaxation, and then…
You know, all this thinking is making me sleepy. Maybe, I’ll take a nap and ponder the problem later.
Here is a peek at Anne’s Historical Fiction novel based on a real soldier.
Bud Richardville is inducted into the Army as the United States prepares for the invasion of Europe in 1943. A chance comment has Bud assigned to the Graves Registration Service where his unit is tasked with locating, identifying, and burying the dead. Bud ships out, leaving behind his new wife, Lorraine, a mysterious woman who has stolen his heart but whose secretive nature and shadowy past leave many unanswered questions. When Bud and his men hit the beach at Normandy, they are immediately thrust into the horrors of what working in a graves unit entails. Bud is beaten down by the gruesome demands of his job and losses in his personal life, but then he meets Eva, an optimistic soul who despite the war can see a positive future. Will Eva’s love be enough to save him?
Praise for Your Forgotten Sons
“Although a deftly crafted work of original fiction, “Your Forgotten Sons” by Anne Montgomery is inspired by a true story. An original and inherently interesting read from start to finish, “Your Forgotten Sons” will prove to be an immediate and enduringly appreciated pick.” Midwest Book Review
“This was a quick, riveting read that really challenged me to think differently about our servicemen and women, especially those who take on the jobs that don’t get heroically depicted in the media or news…I really highly recommend this book to anyone that is looking for a different take on American history. I left it with a newfound appreciation for the unsung heroes.” Bekah C NetGalley
“This is the truth. It’s gritty and painful and bittersweet – and true. When you think you’ve read every perspective of WWII, along comes Bud to break your heart.” Bridgett Siter Former Military Reporter
“Anne Montgomery writes a strong story and I was hooked from the first page. It had a great concept and I enjoyed that this was inspired by a true story…It was written perfectly and I was invested in the story. Anne Montgomery has a great writing style and left me wanting to read more.” – Kathryn McLeer NetGalley
Available at Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Google Books, and Kobo
Anne Montgomery has worked as a television sportscaster, newspaper and magazine writer, teacher, amateur baseball umpire, and high school football referee. She worked at WRBL‐TV in Columbus, Georgia, WROC‐TV in Rochester, New York, KTSP‐TV in Phoenix, Arizona, ESPN in Bristol, Connecticut, where she anchored the Emmy and ACE award‐winning SportsCenter, and ASPN-TV as the studio host for the NBA’s Phoenix Suns.
Montgomery has been a freelance and staff writer for six publications, writing sports, features, movie reviews, and archeological pieces.
When she can, Anne indulges in her passions: rock collecting, scuba diving, football refereeing, and playing her guitar.
Learn more about Anne Montgomery on her website and Wikipedia. Stay connected on Facebook, Linkedin, and Twitter.
September 30, 2025
Wednesday Special Spotlight Writing Tips
From an old email entitled Instructions for Life, there were 45 positive recommendations on the list meant to help make one’s life better. By turning some of the instructions upside down we created bad life advice that will keep novel characters in turmoil.
Next time things are going too smoothly with your WIP try throwing one of these in the mix.
1. Let them believe in love at first sight, but fight it like it can’t exist.2. If they make a mistake, don’t let them be too quick to acknowledge it.
3. Let them fall in love deeply, passionately, and with people they would never choose. They might get hurt, but it’s the only way to live life completely.
4. Make them fight to keep their values, but make sure they do keep them. No one loves an un-heroic hero.
5. Remember silence is sometimes the best answer and unanswered questions are always suspect.
6. Let them dredge up the past; it makes for good conflicts.
7. Let them read between the lines … a lot. Miscommunication thickens the plot.
8. Let them slowly discover that not getting what they want is sometimes the best thing that ever happened.
9. Never let them mind their own business. You can’t get in trouble that way.
10. Remember that great love and great achievements involve great risks, and make them willing to risk everything to get their goals.
Do you have a favorite trick for keeping your characters in turmoil?
September 29, 2025
Tell Again Tuesday Making copies
When the Past Surprises a Writer: Copying Documents Before PhotocopiersBy Martha Hutchens
Being a historical author comes with its pitfalls. One common problem is figuring out how people handled not-so-daily tasks in the era you’re writing about—especially when it leads you down a rabbit hole of research!
You can never predict what tiny bit of historical minutiae will have you stuck for hours—or days. In my recent book, the culprit was figuring out how to make a copy of a marriage certificate. My heroine needed to prove to her lawyer back home that she was married. Being a modern person, I naturally wrote that the lawyer requested a copy of her marriage certificate.
Then, I thought, “Wait a minute. No photocopiers back then.” . . .
For the rest of the blog go to:September 25, 2025
Friday Features #recipe from the “C” of C.D. Hersh
As the “C” of C.D. Hersh I do the cooking around the homestead. Today I thought it would be nice to share a homey meal of salmon patties. This is my mother’s recipe, and quite frankly, I love it so much that I always put a few patties aside for breakfast. I even eat them cold. As kids, and when I could eat more carbs, these were served with white rice and gravy made from the oil and pan drippings. Nowadays I choose a more carb friendly side. I know the “D” loves these and I hope you’ll enjoy them too.
MOM’S SALMON PATTIES
2 eggs, lightly beaten
½ cup finely diced onion
1 cup finely diced celery
¼ cup yellow cornmeal
1 – 2 tbsp. vegetable oil
Drain salmon, leaving bones and skin in bowl. Add eggs and veggies and mix well. Add cornmeal and mix well.
Heat oil in skillet until it shimmers. Form patties using a 2-inch diameter spoon and fry in oil until golden brown on both sides. It may take 2 batches to cook all patties and you may need to add a bit more oil as they fry. Keep patties warm in a low temperature oven while your second batch cooks.
Makes 12 patties
After the dishes are done and you’re ready to relax, find a good book to read.
