D.E. Haggerty's Blog, page 59
December 23, 2016
The ways in which Christmas does NOT differ no matter where you are #FridayFunDay #Christmas #Humor
There is a ton of animosity towards people who are different than ourselves at the moment. And I get it. The world is a scary place. One day this week the Russian ambassador in Turkey was murdered and just a short time thereafter someone drove a truck into a Christmas market in Berlin. Scary! I consistently have to remind myself that we’re all human and there are bad people in every ethnicity, religion, and cultural group.
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Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. The hubby is arriving from Istanbul in the morning and we will be spending the evening watching Doctor Zhivago (if I can find our DVD) and eating and drinking. That’s our Christmas Eve tradition – if we happen to be in the same place for Christmas Eve, which is not a given for us. I thought I’d do a fun post on how certain Christmas traditions are the same no matter where in the world you are. You don’t even have to be Christian to celebrate. As my Turkish tailor told me, he lives in the Netherlands so they do some type of celebrating with their Christian friends.
The run-up to the holidays is always exhausting. Personally, I can never turn down an invitation to do holiday drinks.
The grocery store is way too busy and you can’t find what you want because there’s someone frozen in the aisle just where you need to be staring at a recipe as if it holds the answers to all the world’s mysteries. Good luck with that.
Although there’s always a traditional dish, the grocery store ads are always trying to promote some new ‘traditional’ meat or non-meat to try. Someone needs to buy the marketing department a dictionary because I’m pretty sure they don’t understand what the word traditional means.
There’s always a warm alcoholic drink. It doesn’t matter how warm the location in which you find yourself is, there will be a warm beverage. Probably with cinnamon. I love cinnamon.
Too much alcohol. There’s always an abundance of drinking. Don’t count on nieces and nephews understanding the difference between dry and sweet red wine. Be sure to bring a marker and write your name on your bottle of wine to avoid any confusion.
Everyone eats too much. Doesn’t matter whether it’s ham, turkey, or that weird fish thing they have going on in Slovakia. I always thought it was a rumor that the carp lived in the bathtub, but I’ve met people who grew up with that tradition finding it anything but weird that a big ass fish is in the bathtub around the holidays. I’m strangely relieved I don’t have a bathtub.
Everyone has that weird relative. Whether they fart during dinner and pretend it’s no big deal or get falling down drunk and hit on someone’s husband, there’s always that one relative who no one dares to uninvite.
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Happy Holidays folks! I’m off to the grocery store where I’ll probably buy enough alcohol to get me through the festive season but forget food for breakfast. Who needs breakfast anyway?
December 21, 2016
Keeping personal and private separate #WriterWednesday #AmWriting
Last week I wrote about how I believe it’s necessary to keep your author platform politically neutral (you can read the post here). That is just a small – albeit important – aspect of keeping your writing life apart from your personal life. Although I agree that allowing readers glimpses into your personal life is a great way to increase your fan base and connect with readers, I’m a big believer in keeping business business and private private. Let’s not forget that being a writer is a business, after all. (Even if you don’t make that much or any money from it.) There are two very specific ways in which a lot of indie writers are failing to keep the separation.
[image error]Facebook. We can argue all day and night whether Facebook is effective in selling books. I’m not going to get into that here. If you are going to be involved with Facebook as a writer, you need set up an author page. Let me repeat that: Do not use your personal Facebook profile as your author platform! There’s nothing worse than spamming your so-called friends with book promos. Trust me, your friends don’t appreciate it. When I’m promoting authors on my Readsalot blog, I make sure to tag their author page on Facebook. You can’t do that if their so-called author page is actually a personal profile. That’s a lost promotion opportunity right there. Many authors who only have a personal profile send friend requests to their readers. Do you really want your readers knowing everything about you?
[image error]Twitter. Twitter is a bit trickier. I admit I only have one twitter account. I actually can’t imagine having more than one account to deal with. I try to keep my own tweets either book or writing related. I also tweet humorous things that happen to me. I write humor and I hope that by showing my followers how funny I can be in a tweet, they’ll be tempted to try one of my books. On a personal level, I follow others who are involved in causes I believe in. I just don’t re-tweet anything unless it can be considered politically neutral. Where that line is, is difficult to detect. For example, as a woman, I’m a big believer in education for girls. Some may say this is a political agenda. There are thousands more causes that straddle that same line.
The obvious exception to the above is if your writing is autobiographical. In that event, you are opening up your entire life and who knows where the division between private and business is? No matter what you decide to do remember that everything you put online is out there for anyone and everyone to discover for-freaking-ever.
Read an excerpt of Final Mend by @angelaswriter #romanticsuspense
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Final Mend
Angela Smith
Romantic Suspense
Date Published: June 23, 2014
Publisher: Crimson Romance
A recovering alcoholic, Jake Inman has found a new, healthier addiction: training for his successful triathlon career. But when his manager is murdered and beloved goddaughter kidnapped, another obsession takes hold: doing whatever it takes to find Brandon’s killer and keep Amy safe. Jake turns to a private investigator for help in solving the case, and though he finds temptation in her whiskey-colored eyes, he knows he must resist his attraction, or risk losing his heart.
After a devastating case, Winona Wall has turned her back on her skills as a private investigator, preferring a quiet life as a part-time bartender. That is, until Jake storms into the bar, demanding her help in tracking his missing godchild. Unable to resist Jake’s charm, she reluctantly agrees. But even after Amy is found unharmed, Jake insists Amy’s mother was more involved with her kidnapping than the police suspect. When the situation takes a turn for the worse, Winona must trust her instincts in order to save them all—and avoid falling in love.
Grab a copy!
Amazon ~ Barnes and Noble ~ Kobo ~ iBooks
~ Excerpt ~
The Jeep bounced along the road, up steep mountain slopes, as rain fell in sheets. Winona gasped as the Jeep slid through slick channels of mud, but Jake managed to hold it tight. The roads were spongy, absorbing water, then wringing it out in a collection of goo.
She imagined water gushing around her. Imagined falling to their death. Being sucked into the earth by sludge. The sky had turned dark, merciless, and she couldn’t see a damn thing but the Jeep lights soaking an otherwise indistinguishable trail. The wind clamored across the ragtop as if it wasn’t even attached.
“We’re almost there,” Jake had assured her several times as she clenched the grab handle. They had made it past the public roads just fine, and she felt this trail was way worse than he’d described. “It feels worse than it is,” he continued. “I’ve traveled this road hundreds of times.”
“We should wait for backup.” She checked her phone yet again but had no service. She couldn’t call Garret to find out what was going on at his end, and none of her texts was going through. As a private investigator, she’d done many stupid things alone. This ranked top of her list.
She opened the glove compartment. Searched under the seats, behind the seats.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking to see if Chayton has any ammo or guns in his Jeep. Knowing my brother, he doesn’t.”
Her arsenal consisted of the .380 she’d hidden in her pants and the 9mm she kept in her purse. She’d feel much better if she had an assault rifle as backup, or at least her shotgun. Not that she could handle any more than two at a time anyway, if she was lucky to handle more than one.
Jake cracked his knuckles. “The only ammo I need is right here.”
Winona settled in her seat and faced him. He continued to peer out the window as the heavy downpour seemed to crack the Jeep’s ragtop. But the Jeep held steady. “Really, Jake?”
“Yep. That and adrenaline.”
“So your fists, your arms, will help you dodge bullets? You don’t think that whoever we meet at this cabin won’t have their adrenaline? You know we could be heading into a trap, right?”
“You think I care about that right now? All I care about is my little girl.”
“How do we know she’s even there? Lillian could be lying to you. Setting you up. If she had anything to do with Brandon’s murder, anything at all, then—”
“You didn’t have to come!”
“We can’t just go in there without a plan.”
“I have a plan.”
“We don’t even know who’s there. How many are there. If Amy is even there.”
“I know that cabin like the back of my hand. We’re close, and I’m damn sure not stopping or turning around.”
She squared her shoulders, digging in her purse for the 9mm. She checked the clip and handed it to him.
“Do you at least know how to shoot?”
“Are you kidding me, Winona?”
“No, I’m not kidding you. If it comes down to it, can you shoot a living, breathing human being if he’s threatening your life or those you love?”
“Maybe you’re a tough street chick who carries a couple of guns everywhere she goes. I can picture you with an AK on your back and a belt of bullets strapped around your chest. But I can hold my own. I might not be a cop, but I’m probably a better marksman than most. I was four years old when I shot my dad’s rifle for the first time. I grew up around hunting and fishing, spitting and shooting.”
“Hunting is a lot different than killing a person.”
“And you would know better than me how?”
“Well, I’ve never had to kill anyone. Most of my PI work didn’t involve danger.”
Jake glanced at her. Shadows deepened the hard lines of his face, making him appear lethal. But the last time a friend had helped in an investigation, he’d ended up dead.
In many ways Jake reminded her of Naomi’s ex, Caleb. Caleb had become addicted to alcohol, ruined his relationship with Naomi, and Winona had befriended him when he came to Montana to try to win Naomi back. He was trying to change, trying to get better, when he was shot outside the police station by the cronies who wanted to kill Garret.
Caleb had died because of quick and irrational decisions. At the time, she had been holed up safely with her mother and she knew it was nobody’s fault. But she knew they hadn’t thought things through, and she worried the same thing was about to happen again.
“If my life or the life of anyone I care about is in danger, I will shoot. If you threatened Amy, I’d shoot you.” Jake patted her on the leg before returning his hands to the wheel. “You worry too much. Stop worrying.” He turned off the lights and drove.
“What are you doing?” Winona squinted through the gray. It shouldn’t be dark yet, but the unrelenting skies held the sun hostage.
Jake pulled under a tree and shut off the engine.
“I think it’s best if we walk the rest of the way.”
“Walk? I didn’t exactly bring my hiking gear.”
Jake glanced down at her tennis shoes. “Those will have to do.”
~ About the Author ~
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Angela Smith is a Texas native and was dubbed most likely to write a novel during her senior year in high school since she always had her nose stuck in a book. Although high school was decades ago, the dream began when her mom read ‘Brer Rabbit’ to her and her sister so often they could recite it back to each other before ever learning to read. Research is one of her favorite parts of piecing together a story, and she loves creating new characters. Angela started with writing romantic suspense and is branching into other genres, but she hasn’t been able to write one yet where falling in love doesn’t come into play. She works as a certified paralegal and office manager at her local District Attorney’s office and spends her free time with her husband and the animals on her small farm. Although life in general keeps her very busy, her passion for writing and getting the stories out of her head tends to make her restless if she isn’t following what some people call her destiny.
Contact Information
Website ~ Facebook ~ Twitter ~ Blog ~ Pinterest ~ Goodreads
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December 19, 2016
Plotter or Pantser? How I go about writing a novel #amwriting #MondayBlogs
Since I wrote the first chapter in a new manuscript today (Whoo Hoo!), I thought I’d answer a question I hear often. Friends, fellow authors, readers, and family regularly ask how I write. One word at a time? That’s not really the answer they’re looking for. Do I use a special computer program? Or do I write with pen and paper? Am I a plotter or panster?
The first question is easy to answer. I use good ‘ol fashioned Microsoft word. Yes, I’ve heard of all those writer programs: final draft, StoryMill, Celtx, Scrivener, yWriter. But I’ve never actually checked them out. As a recovering lawyer, I’m intimately acquainted with Microsoft Word. In fact, we once had a computer geek come to our firm and give a lecture about Word in which it turned out the lawyers knew more about the program than the geek did. True Story. So, yeah, I’ll stick with Word. There’s enough new technology I constantly have to learn. I’m not adding a writing program to that never-ending pile.
I don’t[image error] only write with my computer, though. I’m absolutely positively addicted to my notebooks. For each novel I write, I have a journal. The journal contains notes on ideas, lists of characters, and a chapter outline. I also put notes on any research I perform in there as well as ideas for red herrings and plot devices.
The journal I choose must ‘fit’ the book I’m writing as well. I just started a romantic comedy about a woman who is overweight and doesn’t see her own beauty. This is the notebook I chose:
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Plotter or pantser is another question I often hear. I’ll admit I didn’t even know what a pantser was the first time this question was posed. Can I just blame that on working in Dutch for the past decade? No? Bummer. Anyway, I find this question hard to answer. Because I’m both. On the one hand, I plot out my mysteries – who’s the bad guy, the red herrings, etc. On the other hand, I always listen to my characters and they often take me in a direction I wasn’t expecting. So sometimes I have to cross out pages in my lovely notebooks and start again.
That’s it. There’s no magic formula to writing. At least I haven’t found one yet! Let me know if you do find it
December 17, 2016
Read an excerpt of The Game That Never Ends #romantic action from @AjijicDavid
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The Game That Never Ends
David Adamson Harper
Romantic Action, Drama
Date Published: October 2016
In 1953 Sandy and Alex meet and fall in love in Adelaide, South Australia. She comes from a wealthy Catholic family and he is the son of a shopkeeper and an Anglican. Her mother has marriage plans for her and takes Alex to Italy to keep them apart. He goes to Oxford University where he achieves great success in cricket and rugby football. For the next seven years their love has to overcome many conflicts and is sorely tested by a tragic event and her Catholicism. In 1961 now working in San Francisco and believing Alex lost to him forever, Sandy falls in love and marries Kate but Alex, now finally free of her marriage, returns to him plunging his life into chaos. Will he be able to bring an end to this never ending game?
Grab a copy!
~ Excerpt ~
She woke me up in the morning at eight saying their group was departing at ten and I should leave before anyone saw me. The Italians knew she was married to Paolo but in true Italian style would never say anything about last night, but it was probably best not to be seen together in the morning. I was getting dressed when she picked up my jacket to hand it to me and she noticed there was something heavy in the pocket.
“She said. “Oh there’s something here in the pocket.”
I had totally forgotten about it but her hand went in and brought out Eva’s watch.
She looked at me strangely. “It’s a ladies watch. Why do you have a ladies watch in your pocket?”
I tried to look nonchalant. “Oh, it’s Eva’s. She gave it to me when Göran gave her a new watch as a birthday present. I’ll give it back to her in the office on Monday.”
“But why did she give it to you?”
I stammered a little. “Well… well, I was sitting next to her when she took it off.”
I saw the disbelief growing in her face and I had a flash back to the Darlene’s gold chain incident in Naples.
“Don’t lie to me Sandy. She gave it to you because you were going to take her home and sleep with her, weren’t you?”
I shook my head. “No, no.”
“You’re lying Sandy. You were going to have her last night until I came along. How inconvenient for you, but then you had me instead. Is she better than me Sandy? How long have you been sleeping with her?”
“Alex, I did not lie to you. I’ve never had sex with her.”
She was completely furious now. “Just a month ago you promised me you would wait for me and marry me when I am free. Is that a lie too?”
“Alex please calm down.”
In answer she hurled Eva’s watch at my face, hitting me on the forehead. I caught it as it bounced off me.
This was too much and I lost my temper. “Alex I did not lie to you but my God how long do you expect me to wait for you? How long will you remain married to Paolo and expect me to stay celibate while wait for you to pop up occasionally? You tell me you don’t sleep with him and I believe you, but when I told you I have never slept with Eva you don’t believe me. If you don’t trust me then maybe we should forget the whole thing. It’s a crazy situation anyway.”
I had gone too far and instantly regretted it.
She burst into a torrent of tears. I went to her but she pushed me away and said “just go”. I put on my jacket, slipped the watch into my pocket and walked out. I could feel blood trickling down my nose and put my handkerchief over the cut in my forehead.
I stayed in my hotel room and drowsed through all of Sunday. I went over the whole scenario, over and over again. I wished I could take it all back. I shouldn’t have reacted angrily to her charges. I would have slept with Eva so she was partially right but I had not lied when I said I had never slept with her. But poor Alex had all the stress of a loveless marriage and her secret. I knew she loved me and I could understand her being upset when she saw me dancing romantically with another woman. But where does that leave us now? By dinner time I had decided that I should wait for her to contact me again. She knew I had another year at Oxford. Despite everything I was still in love with her.
On Monday morning I went straight to Göran’s office. He looked up smiling at me as I walked in. Then he saw the small elastoplast on my forehead.
“Oh no Sandy, please don’t tell me she hit you.”
I pulled Eva’s watch out of my pocket and placed it on his desk.
“She found it in my pocket and threw it at me.”
He felt its weight. “My God Sandy, what a woman. Adrian had told me about her and she was exactly as he described her. Adrian and Pete call her the movie star. Did you know that? What a beauty and she’s violent too. What a combination. You are a lucky man.”
“Well I’m not so lucky now. I think she’s finished with me this time.”
Göran looked upset. “Oh no and it’s entirely my fault because I set you up with Eva.”
I told him it was not his fault and that our relationship was very complicated but I was sure she would come back. I wasn’t really sure but I didn’t want Göran feeling guilty about it.
Except for this one incident I had a wonderful summer in Stockholm. I’d met Mr. Axel Persson, Göran’s father, and he seemed interested in me. Perhaps that would lead to other opportunities. Had cricket opened another door?
~ About the Author ~
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David Adamson Harper started his working life as a British naval officer serving out of the Hong Kong station, which became the backdrop for his first novel KWANGCHOW. After leaving the navy he joined the management program at Grace Line in New York and spent many years in Panama and San Francisco. He then joined United States Line as a senior executive and ran their South Asia Division from Bombay and later the Africa Division stationed in Durban, South Africa. He returned to San Francisco where he ended his career as a maritime consultant to major west coast ocean carriers. Wherever he went he was always involved in the game of rugby football and was a referee for many years. On retiring he moved to Mexico to become a full time writer. He and wife Susan live in a village on the north shore of beautiful LakeChapala at 5000 feet in the Sierra Madre Mountains. THE GAME THAT NEVER ENDS is his third novel and follows the critically successful HOW TEDDY TOOK PANAMA.
Contact Links
Website ~ Twitter ~ Promo Link
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Spotlight on Stuart Larner, author of The car: a sonnet sequence #poetry
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The Car: a sonnet sequence with illustrations
Author: Stuart Larner
Genre: Poetry
Published: 27th September 2016
Synopsis:
A sequence of twenty-eight illustrated Shakespearean sonnets describing the human condition in terms of the mechanical components of a motor car. An owner’s workshop manual for servicing your life.
Revised edition, now including illustrations and revised text, of a sonnet sequence which first appeared without illustrations in 1995.
Grab a copy now!
Teasers:
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Image courtesy of https://www.iha.com/gite-self-catering-charming-house-san-migeul-de-cozumel_49895
‘The Car’ asks, and tries to answer, these kinds of questions:
If the arc across the sparking plug’s gap is an indication of love, can love’s bright spark be cultivated like the ignition timing management system?
What can be learnt about human relationships by studying the phenomenon of clutch judder?
Can we discern our path in life by the way we drive at night, and by how we use indicators, windscreen wipers and washers, and the horn?
Does automatic transmission mean our modern society has learnt to leave decisions to a box?
What does the differential bearing assembly have to say about the working of the parliamentary system?
Does studying suspension and damper arrangements have guidelines for child-rearing?
Can the process of tyre wear and braking systems inform therapy for addiction?
Is human depression treatable by learning from the fuel gauge mechanism, the radiator, and the battery?
Is there life after death in a scrap yard?
Excerpt:
Sonnet 2 . Checking One Out
Counting houses, the one with fading bloom.
A quaint style, I praise their decoration:
Lying, “I like the way you’ve done this room!
Let’s see the car.” Guarded expectation.
On the dash the normal pen, mints and cloth,
A small unleaded furry animal.
Inside seems strange, their car scent makes me cough.
Well-spruced today, but some days not at all.
The driver’s view is for another’s eyes.
His legs are long, the seat sticks on a bone.
The mirror’s odd, my twisting body tries
To change his world, sit in it as my own.
Model same as mine, the same things were spent,
Yet, in the same ways, had grown different.
Author bio:
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Stuart Larner is a chartered psychologist. As Mental Health Expert, he ran an advice column for XL for Men Magazine. He has published international articles and poems in magazines and newspapers, as well as in scientific journals. He has been involved in scriptwriting and directing productions at the Edinburgh Fringe. Stuart published Scarborough Modern Sea Songs; an ebook in verse “Jack Daw and the Cat”; and an enovel about cricket entitled “Guile and Spin”. With Rosie Larner he co-wrote : “Hope: Stories from a Women’s Refuge.”
Author links:
http://stuartlarner.blogspot.com/
http://slarner5.wixsite.com/hope
Unexpected Argentina #Vacation #Travel #Bucketlist
Argentina wasn’t on my bucket list of places to visit. And it’s a long list. Somehow, we ended up there anyway. How? We are in the extremely fortunate position of being able to travel business class for a reduced rate with Lufthansa, but that only applies to direct flights from Germany with Lufthansa and not a partner airline. So when my hubby was told he needed to take a vacation, I naturally looked up all direct flights from Lufthansa from Frankfurt and came up with a short list of places we had yet to visit. It was a short list because I eliminated anything in the U.S. This was vacation after all!
Basically, it came down to Panama, Argentina, or Singapore. Panama sounded interesting, but there were problems with the flight times. Singapore was appealing as well but not for any visit longer than a weekend. Argentina it is, then! After our 9-day visit, I’m ready to recommend the country to anyone and everyone. In addition to great food, friendly people, interesting and somewhat heartbreaking history, and beautiful nature, there were some surprises as well. Here are the five most surprising things I discovered about Argentina:
[image error]Artsy. Buenos Aires is artsy, artsy, artsy. In addition to art museums and galleries, art is literally everywhere – even the bus stops are decorated! And there are wall murals everywhere. The murals are reminiscent of Diego Rivera (who features in The Lacuna from Barbara Kingsolver, which you should definitely read if you haven’t already). There are even some quirky statutes sprinkled around the city.
[image error]Beer, beer, beer. Being a wine lover (and somewhat of a wine snob), I was well aware of Argentina’s wine reputation before our visit. I had no idea that there was such a beer culture. Of course, the mass-produced beer was good, but the real gem was the microbreweries. We stumbled upon several bars that had their own brew. Typically, we could choose from a white, dark or amber beer. I love me some amber beer!
Gravel roads. Much to my surprise, we found ourselves in the Andes for three days during our trip. We decided to rent a car and check out the local villages (and wine production!). The rental car didn’t look brand-spanking-new as expected with a rental car. I shrugged. Whatever. We soon discovered why the car was full of dents. The vast majority of roads in the Northern Andes region were unpaved! But those views? Man, those views made the bumpy ride worth it!
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[image error]Time travel. We happened to be in Buenos Aires when we discovered that the annual Gaucho festival was happening in San Antonio de Areco – an hour bus ride from the city. Naturally, we planned our entire vacation to ensure we could attend. The town itself was cute and there was some awesome locally brewed beer, but the most interesting aspect of the festival was the lack of safety measures. No, that sounds wrong. There were safety measures: police and some fencing. But it wasn’t what we’ve become – unfortunately – accustomed to in the West. The Argentinians were assuming we would use our common sense to keep ourselves safe. You know, take responsibility for ourselves.
[image error]Mate everywhere. Of course, I knew Yerba Mate was the national drink of Argentina before arriving. But I assumed its popularity was blown out of proportion for tourist reasons. Wrong. The locals drink that stuff all the time. Instead of insulated mugs of coffee, they carry around the tools for mate drinking.
And now I want to travel back to Argentina and get to the South where the real wine production happens. And maybe to the coast to see those whales. Huh. Maybe I need to amend my bucket list.
December 15, 2016
Review of Poetry of Love by @NNP_W_Light #poetry #love #bookreview
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Title: Poetry of Love: The Engagement Year
Author: N.N. Light
Published: September 15, 2016
Genre: Poetry
~ Synopsis ~
I had been searching for love my whole life. It took the opening up of the world via technology for me to find my soulmate. Once I laid eyes on her, at the arrivals gate, I knew I was never going to let her go. The following is a collection of poems I wrote to my angel, from our first meeting up until our wedding day. I was working crazy hours as a chef and I had a long commute. I chose my commuting time to pen her a poem each day. These poems speak of our life, our challenges and our growth together…in every aspect they speak of our love. May this book give someone the courage to let their special someone know how much they care for them and how much they mean to them. Saying I love you is a gift you can give many times a day.
~ Review ~
I was worried about reading poetry in e-book form. Would the formatting work? Would it be too easy to flip through pages and not reflect upon the work? But the story behind Poetry of Love: The Engagement Year intrigued me. Don’t we all want a man to fall in love with us and write us a poem every day? There’s a short introduction with the background, but I would have liked (or perhaps I should save loved) more information. How did they initially meet? How did the second meeting come about? I’m left with lots of questions.
The poetry itself is easy to read. A sort of beginner’s guide to love poetry if you will. It won’t take you long to read through these love ‘letters’. There’s not a whole lot of struggle to the love in these poems. Probably because it’s the engagement year. Maybe we should convince the writer to give us some poems about married life and its struggles?
I recommend this book to readers who are just starting their journey in poetry or love for that matter. Grab a cup of tea and force yourself to slow down and absorb the love the writer portrays.
~ About the Author ~
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N. Light is the best-selling husband-wife writing team, commonly known as Mr. N and Mrs. N. Mrs. N. has been creating stories ever since she was little. Her grandfather remembers when she was two years old, she would stand at the top of the stairs and tell him a story filled with emotion (and in a language foreign to him) with her hands on her hips. Let’s just say she was a born storyteller.They’re blissfully happy and love all things chocolate, books, music, movies, art, sports, trains, history, cooking and baking. Their mantra is to spread the Light.Most of the time you can find them on Twitter or getting new ideas on how to spread the Light on Pinterest. They’re a proud member of ASMSG and Independent Author Network.In addition to being authors, they’re also book promoters/reviewers, social media marketers/influencers and the owners of N. N. Light Author Promotions. They both love books, have ever since they were young. Matching up books and readers is something that gives them great pleasure.
Website ~ Blog ~ Goodreads ~ Twitter ~ Pinterest ~ Bookbub ~ LinkedIn ~ Google+ ~ Triberr ~ Amazon Author Page ~ Independent Author Network ~ ASMSG
December 14, 2016
Read an excerpt of the Paradise Series from @debbrownbooks #mystery #humor
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Title: Paradise Series
Author: Deborah Brown
Publisher: Paradise Books
Pages: 626 (total in series)
Genre: Mystery/Humor
Crazy in Paradise: Dying in the middle of the summer in the Florida Keys is sweaty business. Welcome to Tarpon Cove. Madison Westin has inherited her aunt’s beachfront motel in the Florida Keys. Trouble is she’s also inherited a slew of colorful tenant’s – drunks, ex-cons, and fugitives. Only one problem: First, she has to wrestle control from a conniving lawyer and shady motel manager. With the help of her new best friend, whose motto is never leave home without your Glock, they dive into a world of blackmail, murder, and drugs.
Deception in Paradise: Madison Westin is back!! The Florida Keys are hotter than ever. With Madison’s never-say-no style she’s smarter and packing an attitude not to mention her Glock. This time, trouble rolls into Tarpon Cove in the form of Madison’s ex-husband, Jackson Devereaux, whom she hoped to never see again. His arrival brings unparalleled chaos and an uninvited corpse. Teaming up with her hot friend, Fabiana, the two women go from chasing the usual cast of misfits and weirdos to hunting down a murderer. The action turns deadly serious when they stir up a nasty enemy as they try to stay one-step ahead in a game of cat and mouse that threatens their lives.
Trouble in Paradise: What is big news in small town Tarpon Cove? An accidental drowning or perhaps a ruthless murder? When a dead fisherman rolls up on shore, Madison cannot resist jumping into her new role as Private Investigator. But she soon discovers the people in The Cove who normally gossip about everybody’s business are unusually tight-lipped. The bad tenant radar still not working, the cottages continue to be full of riffraff. Madison gets arrested, shot at, and outsmarted. She teams up with her best friend – the Glock carrying Fabiana. Together they take on cases no other investigators would ever touch!
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There should be a law in South Florida that a person can’t die during the summer. The death of a loved one was hard enough without the added humiliation of sweat. I felt it rolling down my back, like a stream trapped by the belt of my dress with nowhere to go.
My name is Madison Elizabeth Westin, and I’m seated at the funeral of my favorite aunt, people watching, of all things. Most of the mourners looked ready for a pool party, some of them in shorts and bathing suit cover-ups. I was the only one dressed in black; even my brother wore khaki shorts.
The minister began, “We are gathered here today to give thanks for the life of Elizabeth Ruth Hart, who shared herself with us. It is in her memory we come together and, for all she meant to us, we are thankful.”
My mother had named me after her older sister. Elizabeth was like a second mother to my brother Brad and me. We spent summers with her in Florida, running and playing on the beach, building sandcastles, and she was a regular visitor to our home in South Carolina.
After five years of not seeing her, I had packed for a several-month stay and planned to spend the summer with her. That’s when I got a phone call from her lawyer telling me she had died. I still found it difficult to believe it had happened so suddenly.When I walked into the funeral home earlier, the heat had smothered me; this main room was suffocating. The air conditioning wasn’t working and it felt as though it was more than one hundred degrees. The director, Dickie Vanderbilt, had apologized for that, telling me that the central unit had gone out earlier in the day. He informed me he had all of the ceiling fans on high, which, in my opinion, were only circulating hot air.
Dickie Vanderbilt gave me the creeps. He had a slight build, pasty white skin, and long skinny fingers. When he reached out to touch my arm, I tried hard not to squirm.
I’m not a big fan of shaking hands. I find people only want to shake your hand when they can see you’re not interested. A friend suggested I perfect the dog paw shake for those who insist. I extend my hand like a paw and let it hang loose. Often times, they jerk their hand away and give me an odd stare, which makes me want to laugh every time.
The minister rambled on. I found him to be uninteresting, his speech dry. He talked about Elizabeth as though she were a stranger to him and everyone here. Apparently, Elizabeth’s jerk attorney, Tucker Davis, hadn’t given the minister any information about her. I didn’t understand why my aunt left all of the details of her funeral to Tucker. Why would she exclude the people who loved her and knew her best from having input? I wished I had one more day to walk along the beach to laugh, talk, and collect shells with her.
On Sunday, Tucker called to inform me that Elizabeth had died in her sleep from a heart attack. “The funeral is Wednesday, 1:00 p.m. at Tropical Slumber Funeral Home on Highway 1 in Tarpon Cove,” he told me.
“I want to help plan the funeral.”
“All of the arrangements have been made.” He sounded impatient, emphasizing his words. “If you want to, you can call anyone else you think should be informed.”
“My aunt would’ve wanted her family to be involved in the decision-making for her funeral. After all, my mother, brother, and I are the only family she had.”
“Elizabeth appointed me executor. She left me written instructions for everything she wanted done after her death, including her funeral.”
I didn’t believe him. Elizabeth loved us. She never would’ve excluded her family in this way, knowing how important it would be to us.
“I oversaw all of the arrangements myself. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied. If you have any other questions you can call my assistant, Ann.” He hung up the phone.
My aunt never once mentioned Tucker Davis to me or anyone else in the family. Here he was, a stranger, handling her estate.
The next day, I called the lawyer back to tell him that Elizabeth’s sister Madeline, her nephew Brad, and I, would attend. He refused to take my phone call, and I was frustrated.
“This is Madison Westin. May I speak with Tucker Davis?”
“I’m Ann, Mr. Davis’s assistant. He’s not accepting calls at this time. Can I help you with something?”
“I wanted to ask again if there was anything I could do in preparation for Elizabeth Hart’s funeral? Surely, you can understand how her family would want to be involved in any final decisions.”
“Mrs. Hart wanted Mr. Davis to make those arrangements, and he has. She didn’t indicate that she wanted anyone else involved in the planning. I can assure you he’s seen to all of the details. He worked directly with Mr. Vanderbilt at the funeral home.”
“I’ll be arriving later today. Would you tell Mr. Davis I’m available to help with anything that needs to be done? He can reach me at Elizabeth’s house.”
“Does Mr. Davis know you plan to stay in Mrs. Hart’s house?”
“I don’t need Mr. Davis’ permission. I’ve never stayed anywhere but the Cove Road house, and this trip won’t be any different. If Mr. Davis has a problem with my staying there, he can call me,” I said.
“Any more messages?” Ann sniffed and, without waiting for a response, hung up on me.
About the Author
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Redhead. Long legs. There’s nothing like a strawberry-lemonade in summer. Favorite activity: Filling my pockets with seashells. An avid rule follower when eating Animal Cookies: Broken ones get eaten first, match up the rest, duplicates next, line them up favorite to not, least favorite go first. South Florida is my home, with my ungrateful rescue cats, and where Mother Nature takes out her bad attitude in the form of hurricanes.
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Read an excerpt Guardian of the Way by @DianeMoatAuthor #giveaway #ya #fantasy
Guardian of the Way by Diane Moat
It’s been two centuries since someone murdered the last Guardian of the Way, closing off this world from the many realms of magic and fae.
Cassiopeia “Cass” Wilson is an eighteen-year-old living on her own for the first time. The only magic she’s interested in is the kind that will help her pay the bills on time. Little does she know that a trip to the hospital after a fainting spell will change her life forever.
Cass soon learns she may be fae, and everything points to her being the next Guardian of the Way. There’s just one problem: whoever—or whatever—killed the last Guardian wants Cass dead too.
Cass quickly runs into problems, and an attack by djinn is just the first. But Cass joins forces with a wrath daemon, were-creatures, and fae on a quest to reach the Lighthouse—the site of the Way.
Cass soon learns about wizards desperate to keep the Way closed to serve their dark purposes, and she comes to a crossroads: will she take the test to become the new Guardian and leave her normal life behind? Or will the Way remain closed to all who need it?
Praise for Guardian of the Way
“Cass Wilson takes us right along with her in this journey, revealing a world she never knew existed, with a diverse new tribe of companions, protectors, and friends. A must read for anyone who wonders what else is out there beyond what we can see.” by C.S.
“A strong story, full of surprises. Getting there is half the fun, but is she meant for this challenging job between many worlds? Quite worth a read.” by M. Hayden
Excerpt
A massive lighthouse sits off the coast of Maine near the town of Cutler. The building has stood empty for over two-hundred years. Those who can make out the edifice view a tower of stone and paned glass unlike any other lighthouse they have ever seen. The specific dimensions are hard to determine as this structure, unlike most lighthouses, is not a single tower. Instead, it has a broader base than usual, with what appear to be turrets at the top. The construction may even consist of two buildings connected at the middle. But not many people question this odd lighthouse, or even wonder why it remains vacant.
This is because most Humans can’t actually see the Lighthouse. A few who have a drop of Fey, Were or “Other” blood may perceive an ordinary lighthouse. And some instinct guides these souls to avoid the building, though they wouldn’t be able to voice why if they were asked. True Fey, Were, Vampires, and other supernatural beings can certainly identify the building known to them as the Lighthouse, but none of them dare try to enter. Those genuine descendants know the Way is blocked, and has been for the two-hundred years the Lighthouse has stood dark.
The place has sat empty since the most recent Lighthouse Guardian died one horrible night at thepinnacle. The Guardian had only been Guardian for four-hundred years and was killed well before his time. Inside the Lighthouse lies the only permanent causeway (the “Way”) between the worlds of magic and the world of the mundane. Fey, Were, Vampires and other non-Humans, despite the barrier to journeying across from inside the Lighthouse, could still travel between these two worlds using costly magic spells—but such a trip is difficult and dangerous. The entrance to the Way closed at the time of the Guardian’s death, and neither magic nor mundane had been able to open it since.
On one late evening in particular, a large man sat under a tree just outside of Cutler, eating the stew his mate had made earlier and placed in a storage dish. The season was early fall, but already the nights had a bite to them. The man was on his third shift of watch duty in a row. He had pulled this job ten months previously and was glad the rotations were only a year long. He would be back home in Louisiana before the truly bitter winter was well underway.
The man was suddenly blinded by a light coming from the very top of the Lighthouse. The man’s reflexes were frighteningly quick, but even so he dropped his stew. Flabbergasted, he stared directly at the light for a full twenty seconds, until he no longer cared about the meal. He turned away from the brightness, and shedding his clothes, he found his legs shortening and his arms lengthening. In less than a minute, a large dark-grey Wolf shook himself once, then again. Glancing back for a final look at the Lighthouse, the Wolf began running toward the town.
He wouldn’t stop running until he was at his pack leader’s house. From there, word would spread like a virus. Everything was different now. For somewhere in this ordinary domain, two minutes before, a brand-new Guardian had been born.
Author Diane Moat
When not creating fantastical worlds of young adult fiction, Diane Moat spends her time in Tennessee as an animal rescuer and nurse. Her various rescue dogs often assist her in the creative process.
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