C.D. Hersh's Blog, page 29
November 6, 2023
Tell Again Tuesday Life Changing Experiences
How Books Can Change LivesBy Jim Dempsey
There’s a section in Craig Silvey’s Jasper Jones that has stayed with me ever since I read it. The main character, Charlie, uses a racial slur at the dinner table. It’s clear he doesn’t know what the word means. To enlighten him, his father comes to him later “with a stack of books… It felt important, and it was clear to me that he thought it was significant too.” The books were by Southern writers: Welty, Faulkner, Harper Lee, Flannery O’Connor and a dozen or so by Mark Twain.
Those books changed young Charlie. He gained a different perspective on the world just through reading those books. That’s how powerful reading can be.
But that’s . . .
For the rest of the blog go to:
November 2, 2023
Friday Feature Sharing Excerpts
Often, we are asked what is our favorite book or author. 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.
We hope you enjoyed this look into some of our favorite lines from our books and maybe got interested to follow along with the story.
Putting words and stories on paper is second nature to the husband and wife co-authors whose pen name is C.D. Hersh. They’ve written separately since they were teenagers and discovered their unique, collaborative abilities in the mid-90s while co-authoring a number of dramas, six which have been produced in Ohio, where they live. Their interactive Christmas production had five seasonal runs in their hometown and has been sold in Virginia, California, and Ohio. As high school sweethearts, Catherine and Donald believe in true love and happily ever after. Which is why they write it!
The first four books of our paranormal romance series entitled The Turning Stone Chronicles Series page are available on Amazon. Our standalone novella, Can’t Stop The Music, is in the Soul Mate Tree collection with twelve other authors from various genres.
October 31, 2023
Wednesday Special Spotlight First Books …First Loves
First Books … First Loves
While rummaging through some file cabinets the other day I came across a worn notebook containing my first novel, written when I was in high school. As one might suspect, it is a romance—an angst-ridden story about a young girl who falls in love, marries, and lives happily ever after with the movie star teen idol she adores. Compared to my books today this is a poorly written book, but, hey, I was a teenager. It’s so bad, in fact, I won’t let anyone read it.
As I looked through that book I began thinking about the other stories I had written in my youth and the subjects I had chosen for school papers. The ones that stood out in my memory were the romance novel, which I kept; a short story called Bloody Buttons, about a witch; an outer space story featuring aliens; and a school paper on an Aztec myth about a magical feather.
Notice a theme here? Romance, supernatural elements, magic, and fantasy—the backbone of paranormal romances which my husband and I write. Wondering if my discovery about my basic writing affinities held true for my husband, too, I questioned him about his teenage manuscripts. His reply was as a teen he was too busy with sports to write, but he did have some old school papers, mostly about running and sports.
Since he hadn’t written much as a teen I asked, “So what did you read when you were younger?”
He pointed at the bookshelves on his wall displaying his childhood reading collections of Tom Swift (science fiction/fantasy), The Hardy Boy mystery series and Sherlock Holmes. Not exactly in the paranormal realm but science fiction could be considered in the ball park, and there’s usually a mystery of some sort to be unraveled in our books. A quick scan of his bookshelves revealed another set of fantasy/alternate-world series, written more for men, but definitely in the paranormal genre. If I could see his current e-library I know it would show scads of romance and paranormal romance. The books he has penned as an adult include a Sherlock Holmes story and a time travel adventure—both still within the realm of his early reading interests.
I found it remarkable that over the years our taste in home furnishings has changed. We started out Colonial and Country and ended up Southwest. My taste in jewelry went from gold to silver and turquoise. We used to window shop in the malls, and buy at Goodwill. Now we go antiquing. Rock and Roll gave way to Country music. Jeeps and sports cars moved over for more luxurious vehicles, although Donald is still longing for a Camaro. Apartments gave way to houses, and patios lined with flowerpots grew into a huge garden.
We have continually evolved in almost every aspect of our lives, sometimes even making 180 degree turns. But one thing hasn’t changed. We still love books, and we still love the genres we cut our reading and writing teeth on. Romance, fantasy, paranormal, and science fiction claim a big part of the bookshelves in our home, both paper and ebooks.
I guess what they say is true—write what you know … and write what you love.
What’s the earliest book you remember writing and reading? Are you still writing and reading in that genre?
October 30, 2023
Tell Again Tuesday The Dreaded Letter
Writing Tools: What Does Getting A Rejection Mean?By Susan Hanniford Crowley
Everyone once in a while I chance upon someone on social media who received a rejection of their manuscript. It could even be a “no” when their manuscript was held up several months with a “maybe.”
Don’t shed a tear over a rejection. Put it in your rejection file so you can show the tax people, if necessary, that you are indeed a working writer.
Here’s the truth about rejections: . . .
For the rest of the blog go to:October 26, 2023
Friday Feature Halloween
Most people think of Halloween as a holiday for trick or treating, dressing up in costumes, a time for ghouls, ghosts and monsters to roam, a celebration of the harvest, or an excuse to have a really scary party.
In reality Halloween has its roots in four religious holidays, three that deal with death:
• The celebration of the Celtic Druidic holiday Samhain
• The celebration of the pre-Christian Roman goddess Pomona
• The Roman festival of Feralai
• And Christianity’s All Hallow’s Eve, also called All Saints’ Eve
Samhain, celebrated on October 31st, marked the end of summer and the beginning of winter for the Celts. Druid priests performed ceremonies in honor of their sun god Baal, whom they thanked for the harvest and asked for support to battle the coming winter. They also believed that the veil between the world of the living and the dead was opened during the celebration of Samhain, and the souls of the dead roamed the earth. The ghosts were believed to play tricks on the living and cause supernatural events to happen, the origins of today’s belief that ghosts and ghouls roam freely on Halloween evening.
The Roman celebrations honoring the goddess Pomora and the festival of Feriala were also held in late October. Pomora was the goddess of fruits and trees. The use of these fruits for fortune telling stems back to her celebration. The feast of Feriala honored the dead, much like the Celts’ Samhain festival.
The Christian festival of All Hallow’s Eve is a celebration honoring the dead saints and martyrs of the church.
When the Romans conquered the Celts their autumn festivals and the Celts autumn festivals were combined until the Romans decided too many of their Roman citizens were adopting the Celtic religion. Rome’s answer to this problem was to ban the Druidic religion and kill its priests. However, the Romans could not wipe out the old Celtic beliefs and many people continued to keep the traditions alive.
When the Christians came into power they, too, wanted to do away with the very popular, old pagan rites. So, the church moved their feast of the saints (which was held in May) to November 1st , and later to October 31st, in an attempt to absorb the ingrained Samhain traditions and rites into a Christian holiday. By doing so they hoped to hold onto their new followers by allowing them to celebrate a festival on a date they had long held sacred. Once they had established the new Christian festival the church tried to discourage the old practices in favor of more Christian ones, but, like the Romans, they were not successful.
Using Christian holidays to absorb pagan ones was a tactic the church used often. Elements of pagan celebrations can be found in Valentine’s Day, Easter and Christmas celebrations. Over the years, most of the pagan holiday traditions in these celebrations were christianized. Not so with Halloween. Both the Roman Catholic Church and the Puritan founding fathers of America, who banned the celebration in the New World, could not christianize this pagan holiday.
It’s no wonder that Christianity hasn’t been able to overcome the pagan elements of Halloween. Celebrating all that death seems to be a perfect transition into one scary holiday. Ghosts, ghouls, and all things magical keep Halloween’s roots firmly planted in the otherworld that many people are drawn to…and you have to admit, they are perfect elements for stirring up for a wild paranormal tale.
While not normally thought of as a romantic holiday, Halloween has its share of divination traditions for finding true love. Since this is a website of romance authors, we would be remiss not to include some of this holiday’s romantic folklore in this article.
• Insert a plain ring, a coin, and other charms in a fruitcake, known as a barmbrack (báirín breac), before baking. The one who gets the ring in their slice of cake will find true love in the following year.
• You can divine your future spouse by peeling an apple in one long strip. Toss the peel over your shoulder. The peel will land in the shape of the first letter of your future spouse’s name.
• Unmarried women should sit in a darkened room and gaze into a mirror on Halloween night and the face of their future husband will appear in the mirror. But beware. If you are destined to die before marriage a skull will appear instead of the face of your intended.
• Name nutshells after prospective love interests and place them near a fire. If they burn steady it indicates true love. If they crack or pop or fly off the hearth your prospective love interests are only a passing fancy. Another version of this divination involved throwing two hazelnuts, named for two different suitors, into the fire. The nut that burns steadily is the suitor who will be true. The nut that bursts will be the one who will be unfaithful.
• Bobbing for apples is a traditional game used for fortune-telling on Halloween. (Bet you didn’t know that when you had your head in the barrel with some boy, or girl.) The first person to pluck an apple from the water without using their hands will be the first to marry. If a bobber catches an apple on the first try it means he or she will experience true love. If it takes many tries they will be fickle in their romantic endeavors.
• Water was often used for divination. To determine someone’s romantic fate, fill four bowls with water. Place soap in one, pebbles in another, clear water in the third, and leave the fourth bowl empty. Ask blindfolded guests to stick a hand in one of the bowls. If they choose the bowl with the clear water they will have a happy marriage. Soapy water foretells widowhood, the pebbles predict a life of hard work, and the empty bowl represents a single, happy life.
• Another popular, and dangerous, activity practiced when young women wore long dresses, was jumping over lit candles. If a woman made it over all the lit candles without extinguishing them she would be married before the year passed. Every candle her long skirt blew out meant another year without a husband.
Do you have a romantic divination you’ve practiced on Halloween or another time? Share with us in the comments.
The first four books of our paranormal romance series entitled The Turning Stone Chronicles Series page are available on Amazon. Our standalone novella, Can’t Stop The Music, is in the Soul Mate Tree collection with twelve other authors from various genres.
October 24, 2023
Wednesday Special Spotlight Eating Well
“Well, dog-gone,” my father replied when I told him my research on the subject revealed that hickories and pecans are in the same family of trees, and that pecans grow as far northeast as Southern Ohio, our original stomping grounds. While hickories grow in abundance there, neither my father nor I could recall seeing a tree giving forth pecan nuts in our area. It was also news to us that Native Americans were responsible for naming both of the trees. The word “hickory” is said to have come from the Algonquian Indian word “pawcohiccora,” while “pacane,” or “paccan,” or “pakan,” meaning “a nut so hard it has to be cracked with a stone,” evolved into “pecan.”
If we were sons and daughters of Nashville, Memphis, Dallas, New Orleans, and other warm places along the “Pecan Belt,” we would be familiar with the resumé of pecans—we would know, for instance, that pecan trees can grow to be one hundred feet tall and live to be one thousand years old—quite a bit taller and much older than hickories. Now that’s a lot of nuts! In addition, after peanuts, which aren’t tree-nuts at all, pecans are the most popular nuts in North America. In fact, the United States produces over eighty percent of the world’s crop of this indigenous commodity. This is true even though along with electricity, automobiles, airplanes, telephones and countless other good things from North America, with the help of humankind, pecan trees eventually set root in other places around the globe such as Australia, Brazil, China, Israel, Mexico, Peru, and South Africa.
Along with many other firsts credited to him, Thomas Jefferson, the third president of the United States, is recognized as the person who introduced the pecan to areas east of the Mississippi Valley, its native ground. Having discovered them during a trip to the area, he carried some nuts and seedlings back to his home in Virginia. He also introduced them to his friend, fellow Virginian, and first president of their homeland, George Washington. Thereafter, both of the gentlemen grew the trees on their plantations, an enterprise that spread to the southern states of the country. Subsequent to the Civil War, Union soldiers transported the seedlings and nuts to the north, which increased the regard for the buttery-flavored nut even further. It was a black-slave-gardener named “Antoine,” at Louisiana’s Oak Alley plantation, however, who was responsible for developing the first cultivar of the tree. In 1876, it was dubbed, “Centennial,” in commemoration of the one-hundredth anniversary of the founding of the United States. Since then, in deference to the people who fostered them originally, many of the current, five-hundred cultivars of the plant have been named for Native American tribes including “Cheyenne,” “Kiowa,” “Sioux,” “Choctaw,” and “Creek.”
No overview of pecans would be complete without including pralines, the nutty confection originated in France using almonds rather than pecans. Stories abound regarding its appearance in the French cuisine. One account is that Clement Lassagne, chef of Marshal du Plesses-Praslin (1598-1675) concocted it after watching children in his kitchen nibbling on almonds and caramel. Or, it might have happened when one of his young and clumsy apprentices knocked over a container of almonds into a vat of cooking caramel. The most popular version involves Marshal du Plessis-Praslin himself. A notorious ladies man, he is purported to have asked Lassagne to develop an alluring treat for his paramours, which he presented to them in decorative little packets. For a time, the treat was referred to as “praslin,” after the lascivious gentleman, but evolved into “praline,”
Brought to Louisiana by French settlers, chefs in New Orleans eventually substituted pecans for almonds and added cream to the French praline recipe. The basic “Big Easy” recipe for this Creole treat comprises pecans, brown sugar, white sugar, cream, and butter added to either rum, vanilla, chocolate, coconut, or peanut butter. Pronounced “prah-leen” in Louisiana, it is “pray-leen” to the rest of us, but regardless of the way one pronounces it, it is a Southern delicacy. Having always been sold on the streets of New Orleans, passers-by are lured to the Vieux Carré-stalls of praline vendors by the mouth-watering aroma, as well as the Creole call, “Belles Pralines,” “Belles Pralines!”
Pecans are rich in protein, vitamins and minerals. Clinical research has found that eating about a handful of plain pecans each day may help lower cholesterol as effectively as designated medications. They also are said to promote neurological health as well as delay age-related muscle-nerve degeneration. If you have a hankering for baked-goods, but want to avoid the unhealthy ingredients in traditional recipes, the following is a tasty and healthy substitute. It is also a better choice for people sensitive to gluten. This recipe batter can be used for baking basic bread, pancakes, crackers, crepes and cupcakes, but add maple syrup or Stevia to sweeten the batter.
The recipe normally substitutes almond flour for flours made from grains. I have found that by adding garbanzo/fava bean flour to the almond flour, a smoother and finer batter is the result. It also calms the rather strong flavor of almond flour. Cranberries are featured in this recipe, but any berry or fruit, will do.
Healthy Berry-Pecan Muffins
T opping
1 tbsp. (15 ml) ground cinnamon
2 tbsp. (25 ml) maple syrup
1 tbsp. (15 ml) unsalted butter
Combine ingredients in a small bowl and mix well.
Muffin Batter
2 ½ cups (625 ml) almond & garbanzo/fava flour mixture
1 cup (250 ml) chopped pecans
¼ tsp. (1 ml) salt
½ tsp. (2 ml) baking soda
1 tsp. (5ml) ground cinnamon
Combine the following ingredients in a separate bowl.
2 eggs
½ cup (125 ml) Yogurt
½ cup (125 ml) maple syrup
1 ½ cups (375 ml) cranberries, or berries or fruit of choice
Preheat the oven to 325° (160°C).
Line a muffin tin with large baking cups
Combine the wet ingredients in another bowl and pour into the first bowl of the dry ingredients. Mix well. Add enough water to make the batter about the consistency of toothpaste. Evenly fill each baking cup with the batter and drizzle the topping over each one. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes.)
This is a good day for baking a delicious treat, and what can be better than baking with pecans and fruit? A delightful breakfast, snack, or dessert of Healthy Berry-Pecan Muffins and a cup of coffee awaits you. To soothe your tummy further, add a pinch of baking soda to your coffee grounds upon brewing. It cuts down on coffee’s acid. I do it! I like it! It works!
This is a good day for baking a delicious treat, and what can be better than baking with pecans and fruit? A delightful breakfast, snack, or dessert of Healthy Berry-Pecan Muffins and a cup of coffee awaits you. To soothe your tummy further, add a pinch of baking soda to your coffee grounds upon brewing. It cuts down on coffee’s acid. I do it! I like it! It works!
Was it chance or destiny’s hand behind a man and a woman’s curious encounter at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas? The cards fold, their hearts open, and a match strikes, flames that sizzle their hearts and souls. Can they have the moon and the stars, too? Or is she too dangerous? Is he? Can their love withstand betrayal?! Can it endure murder?! Amid the seductions of Las Vegas, Nevada and an idyllic coffee plantation on Hawai’i’s Big Island, a sextet of opposites converge within a shared fate: a glamorous movie-star courting distractions from her troubled past; her shell-shocked bodyguards clutching handholds out of their hardscrabble lives; a dropout Hawaiian nuclear physicist gambling his way back home; a Navajo rancher seeking cleansing for harming Mother Earth; and from its lofty perch, the Hawaiian’s guardian spirit conjured as his pet raven, conducting this symphony of soul odysseys.
A reader says, “I loved this book. I got lost in the realism and all that was going on, and it made me feel like I was watching a movie instead of reading a book. If you want to be left breathless in a sea of a million emotions, buy this book. It will captivate your senses on every level. I highly recommend, A CHANCE AT THE MOON.”
“Give me a ticket to Las Vegas, a big stack of poker chips at a table lucky as gold—oh, and a copy of A CHANCE AT THE MOON to refuel me when I fold.” Tina Griffith, multi-award-winning author of THE ELUSIVE MR. VELUCCI
AMAZON BUY LINK
Multi-award-winning author and artist Linda Lee Greene describes her life as a telescope that when trained on her past reveals how each piece of it, whether good or bad or in-between, was necessary in the unfoldment of her fine art and literary paths.
Greene moved from farm-girl to city-girl; dance instructor to wife, mother, and homemaker; divorcee to single-working-mom and adult-college-student; and interior designer to multi-award-winning artist and author, essayist, and blogger. It was decades of challenging life experiences and debilitating, chronic illness that gave birth to her dormant flair for art and writing. Greene was three days shy of her fifty-seventh birthday when her creative spirit took a hold of her.
She found her way to her lonely easel soon thereafter. Since then, Greene has accepted commissions and displayed her artwork in shows and galleries in and around the USA. She is also a member of artist and writer associations.
October 23, 2023
Tell Again Tuesday Who’s in charge of the story?
Writers – Attention Seeking Minor Characters – Blessing or a Curse?By Lucy Mitchell
Currently rolling my eyes at a minor character who has ideas well above his station.
There’s nothing worse than trying to write a scene and being distracted by some minor character who believes you made a big mistake when the casting for main character roles was being undertaken.
Some minor characters are . . .
For the rest of the blog go to:October 19, 2023
Friday Feature The Cassowary: Why We Should Care
It’s estimated that nearly 500 animal species have become extinct since the beginning of the 20th century. Among them the Passenger Pigeon, Japanese Sea Lion, Western Black Rhinoceros, Golden Toad, Caribbean Monk Seal, and Mexican Grizzly Bear, now gone forever.
And yet, for most of us, the absence of these creatures makes no difference in our daily lives. Perhaps that’s why some people roll their eyes when they hear about saving the tiny Snail Darter or the Polar Bear or the Gray Wolf.
But what if a creature existed that could change lives with its passing? And I mean change in a big way.
Meet the cassowary.
I first became aware of the giant, Australian bird that vaguely resembles an ostrich, but which sports a fabulously-colored keratin casque, while walking in the Daintree Rainforest – a UNESCO site like the Great Barrier Reef over which it hovers – that has one of the most complex ecosystems on Earth, hosting species whose ancestors date back 110 million years.
“The cassowary is extremely important,” our guide explained. “Without the bird, the forest would not exist.”
Daintree is primordial. Giant strangler figs crawl across the forest floor. Dappled sunlight sneaks though a thick green canopy. Massive ferns sprout from leaf-littered soil. The outside world is muted, and the sight of a dinosaur might not seem strange.
I learned the cassowary is a one-bird master gardener, a creature that combs the forest floor eating fallen fruits, even gobbling up plants that are toxic to other creatures. The bird consumes up to 150 different types of fruits. The existence of 70 to 100 plant species depends on the cassowary pooping out their seeds in a pile of protective, compost-like dung, the smell of which repels seed predators. The cassowary is a “keystone” species, which means a species on which others in an ecosystem largely depend, one that, if removed, would cause the ecosystem to change drastically.
So, no cassowary, no rainforest. But there’s more. Below Daintree are mangroves, a mucky area rich in bio-matter that filters down from the forest. All types of young creatures – crabs, jellyfish, snappers, jacks, red drums, sea trout, tarpon, sea bass, and even juvenile sharks – thrive in the protection of the fertile water of the mangroves.
Offshore, the Great Barrier Reef follows Australia’s eastern coast. There, too, the nutrients from the forest help feed the tiny creatures that build the reefs. This fertilizer promotes the growth of phytoplankton which nourishes the zooplankton on which the coral polyps dine. Without this sustenance the coral dies, losing the ability to protect the shoreline from waves, storms, and flooding, which leads to loss of human life and property.
Also consider that roughly 25% of the world’s fish species spend part of their lives on the reefs. If the Great Barrier Reef dies – note that half of the more than 1,400-mile structure has already perished – vast fisheries could collapse leading to starvation that could ultimately affect billions of people.
Which brings me back to the cassowary. It’s estimated that only 12,000 to 15,000 of the birds remain in the wild. Loss of habitat is decreasing their numbers, as are attacks by dogs. Another problem is humans driving too fast.
Why should we care?
I think the cassowary is but one example of the interconnectedness of life. Perhaps that’s something we should think about.
Please allow me to offer you a glimpse at my latest women’s fiction novel for you reading pleasure.
The past and present collide when a tenacious reporter seeks information on an eleventh century magician…and uncovers more than she bargained for.
In 1939, archaeologists uncovered a tomb at the Northern Arizona site called Ridge Ruin. The man, bedecked in fine turquoise jewelry and intricate beadwork, was surrounded by wooden swords with handles carved into animal hooves and human hands. The Hopi workers stepped back from the grave, knowing what the Moochiwimi sticks meant. This man, buried nine-hundred years earlier, was a magician.
Former television journalist Kate Butler hangs on to her investigative reporting career by writing freelance magazine articles. Her research on The Magician shows he bore some European facial characteristics and physical qualities that made him different from the people who buried him. Her quest to discover The Magician’s origin carries her back to a time when the high desert world was shattered by the birth of a volcano and into the present-day dangers of archaeological looting where black market sales of antiquities can lead to murder.
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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.
October 17, 2023
Wednesday Spotlight H is for HOMEMADE GOODNESS
There is a lot of debate about the origin of hummus; whether it’s Greek, Egyptian, or Lebanese. It is thought to have originated in Lebanon and traveled all over the Middle Eastern regions. This unique food has been prepared for hundreds of years and is well-loved around the world.
So, what is hummus? Hummus is a bean dip made primarily by blending cooked chickpeas, tahini (a creamy sesame seed paste), garlic, lemon juice, extra virgin olive oil, and seasonings. Once you make it at home, I promise you will never return to store bought.
There are wonderful foods you can dip into hummus. They include broccoli, carrot and celery sticks, cauliflower, cukes, pita chips, pretzels, radishes, and any other crunchy veggie. Let your imagination soar.
Stella’s Easy Hummus
5-6 tbsp. freshly squeezed lemon juice
1½ tsp. sea salt
2 lg garlic cloves, finely minced or grated
⅔ cup Tahini
6-8 tbsp. ice water
3 cups of cooked (pre-soaked overnight) chickpeas or 30 oz canned chickpeas
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
1 pinch black pepper
paprika and freshly chopped parsley for garnish
In a food processor – combine 5 tablespoons lemon juice, salt, and garlic. Pulse to combine then let it rest for a few minutes.
Add Tahini and blend until thick and smooth, scraping down the bowl as needed with a spatula.
Add ice water 1 tablespoon at a time with the blender running. Stop and scrape down the bowl as needed.
Drain the chickpeas then pour them into the food processor along with the olive oil and pepper. Blend until completely smooth, about 5 minutes. Scrape down the bowl a couple of times. Add more ice water to reach your desired consistency.
Season to taste with more salt and lemon juice if needed.
To Serve – transfer to a serving bowl, sprinkle the top with paprika and sprinkle parsley.
Enjoy!
A jaded CEO. A fiercely focused ballerina. A love that defies all society’s rules.
SoHo,
1962
JJ Morris, successful CEO, leads a secret double life, playing saxophone to his heart’s
content in his hole-in-the-wall dive bar. Yet he can’t escape the feeling he’s slowly petrifying into just another jaded millionaire.
Then a gorgeous blonde steps into his bar and shakes up his world. Certain this fierce
little swan of a woman is exactly what’s missing in his life, he maps out a plan to wed her by Christmas. With or without his snobby mother’s approval.
Most women would be thrilled to learn that the tall, handsome bar musician is, in fact, a wealthy prince charming. Verochka Osipoff is less than impressed. She’s focused on becoming a prima ballerina, and everything hinges on her next audition. She can’t afford distractions, especially a rich playboy slumming it in SoHo.
Yet the heat of their attraction melts Verochka’s heart like warm chocolate. But JJ’s world is a cold, glittering nest of vipers. And their venom could destroy their love song before the first movement ends.
EXCERPT
The sound of a saxophone halted her steps. That deep, velvety voice grabbed her by her throat, and refused to let go. Holding her breath, mesmerized, Verochka stopped, then pivoted. Where did it come from? Straining her ears, she looked around, searching the almost empty street. Guided by her hearing, she glanced at the closed doors on her right. The Broome Street Bar.
Inside, the sax murmured its enchanting tale, sad, and touching, and heartbreaking.
Mon Dieu! What must one feel to play like that?
Verochka closed her eyes and swayed to the music. Her arms by their own volition lifted and moved in a lazy,
unhurried wave. She visualized the dance in her mind, something slow and sensual. Strange, but she never paid attention to jazz before. Then again, she was never partial to any music except classical.
To her there was nothing and no one compared to Tchaikovsky. But the soulful notes of that sax fascinated her as
much as the famous opening theme from Swan Lake. When the sound trailed off, she felt almost bereft. She craved to hear more. Will the musician play again? Oh, she hopped so. She’d wait for it.
Outside? On the sidewalk at almost ten at night?
Unwise, not to mention quite dangerous. Granted, this spot in SoHo was not prone to crime. But still. A young woman alone was bound to attract some attention. Verochka looked at the closed door of the bar, biting her lip.
To go inside, or continue on her way? The wisest thing to do, of course, was to turn around, and go home, to her tiny apartment. It was late. She must rest before her wake-up call at 5:30 AM. All morning classes of Madame Valeska started at precisely 6 AM, and God forbid if any of the dancers were late even by a minute. The wrath of her teacher definitely equaled to her worldwide fame as a former principal dancer of The Royal Ballet.
Tired after the long day of classes and rehearsals, then cleaning the premises, Verochka barely kept upright. She hated her after- hours janitorial obligations, but promise was a promise. And Verochka Osipoff never broke her word.
No matter how spent she was, each and every evening, after all the dancers went home, and the school was closed, she headed to the closet for a broom and a bucket. At first, she didn’t mind it at all. It was an arrangement made in heaven. An eighteen-year-old orphan from France, determined to reach her dream, Verochka arrived at the doors of the famous New York ballet school with nothing but fifty dollars to her name and a small satchel that belonged to her father.
After her initial shock faded, the formidable Madame Valeska, the owner of the school, ordered Verochka to change into her leotards, and dance.
Her final verdict delivered in a grumbling voice was like a heavenly music to Verochka’s ears.
“You have a potential, Miss Osipoff. I’ll take a chance on you, and let you stay for a probationary period of three months. After that, we’ll see.”
Verochka’s elation was huge, but temporary. The school was obscenely expensive. No way she was able to afford the tuition. There was a stipend, but applying for it took only God knew how long, with no guarantee that it will be granted in the end.
On top of it, she was a foreigner, all alone in the strange country, and barely able to speak English.
Madame Valeska, quickly assessing the situation— more accurately, feeling sorry for her— offered Verochka a deal: the education in exchange for cleaning services. A tiny room in the attic as a temporary place to live was added to that offer. To Verochka, it was like a Christmas gift she could never have dreamt about.
Overwhelmed, moved to tears, Verochka grabbed the opportunity with both hands. After a while, she got her stipend for the gifted and unprivileged students, thanks to Madame Valeska’s help, and was able to cover most of her tuition.
The convenience of living on the premises saved her the expense of a rent, and occasional participation in corps de ballet’s performances made everything else manageable. She didn’t need a lot of food, as her extremely strict diet fell mostly into yogurt and fruit category. As to clothes— she learned at her dancing parents knee the skill to mend tears and repair pointe shoes.
Two years later, Verochka was still living in the attic, and still mopped the floors, and cleaned the premises. But it didn’t matter. Her main goal to become a prima ballerina of The Royal Ballet took the precedence over everything else.
Ambitious? Maybe. But, as her father always said, you must dream big. Otherwise, what was the point? So, she dreamed big, and worked like a woman possessed in order to reach that dream. She was content, and happy, and along the way, fell in love with New York, her new home. Her only home. She learned English, and became quite fluent in it, even though her accent stubbornly refused to be erased.
Of course, she missed
France, and Paris, and small street cafes, and long strolls along the Seine. Oh,
the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sprinkled with powdered sugar beignets!
Sometimes, she could smell them in her dreams.
But most of all, she missed her parents. She was sure they were looking at her from heaven, smiling, proud of her accomplishments.
Her occasional nostalgia was usually sweet, and short, like a children’s lullaby.
But not tonight.
After finishing her duties, Verochka was ambushed by a sadness so huge, she almost doubled down with it. Suffocated in the large empty building that housed the ballet school, she was lonely, isolated, until she couldn’t bear another minute longer locked inside. Hence, her impromptu evening walk that brought her in the middle of SoHo, to the Broome Street Bar.
The plaintive sounds of sax reached her ears again.
Oh, yes, please.
Listening to those seductive low rumbles, she wondered about the player.
Who was he? Or was it a she? Why was that melody so sad, so sorrowful?
Available at BOOKStoREAD, AMAZON, and GOOGLE PLAY BOOKS.
Stella May is the penname for Marina Sardarova who has a fascinating history you should read on her website.
Stella writes fantasy romance as well as time travel romance. She is the author of ‘Till Time Do Us Part, Book 1 in her Upon a Time series, and the stand-alone book Rhapsody in Dreams. Love and family are two cornerstones of her stories and life. Stella’s books are available in e-book and paperback through all major vendors.
When not writing, Stella enjoys classical music, reading, and long walks along the ocean with her husband. She lives in Jacksonville, Florida with her husband Leo of 25 years and their son George. They are her two best friends and are all partners in their family business.Follow Stella on her website and blog. Stay connected on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest.
October 16, 2023
Tell Again Tuesday The first line of a novel
Promise WordsBy Donald Maass
Are you a people watcher? Silly question. This is a blog site for fiction writers. As people pass by, you undoubtedly imagine who they are. What they’re up to. The story that will follow. That’s how your mind works. Am I wrong? Probably not.
Now, everyone forms impressions of passersby. For most people . . .
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