This group has been designated for adults age 18 or older. Please sign in and confirm your date of birth in your profile so we can verify your eligibility. You may opt to make your date of birth private.
Freya Barker's Blog
June 14, 2019
10-CODE in 3 days!!
PRE-ORDER:
books2read.com/10Code
As a forty-one-year-old mother of three boys, working two jobs, Marya Berger doesn’t have the time or energy to consider a relationship. Especially after a lifetime of poor choices in the romance department. But when the disappearance of a young boy strikes a little too close to home, and a younger man she’s tried to ignore offers his help, she doesn’t stand in the way.
Single father, Dylan Barnes, the junior member of the La Plata County FBI team at thirty-three, has his focus firmly on his job and his son, Max. He’s certainly not looking to complicate his life, when he finds himself at his son’s soccer game, sitting beside the spirited brunette he can’t get out of his mind. Fate, however, appears to have different plans.
When an unspeakable crime draws the attention of the FBI, Dylan finds himself torn between his job and his instinctive need to protect Marya and her boys.
December 2, 2018
the joke's on me…
Five years of writing, four and a half publishing, averaging about twelve hours a day, seven days a week, for close to the three hundred and sixty five days each of those years is long—pouring your heart and soul into what has become a nicely profitable passion.
No pun intended and I'm still waiting for that joke to get tired…
Let me start off by saying I adore my family. All of them. I love them to pieces. I’m truly blessed.
However…
I appear to find myself the constant butt of jokes at family gatherings. Now, I grew up as the youngest of six, and I think I'm pretty well-weathered against the ribbing and teasing that inevitably is part of growing up in a large household. But the unending ridicule of something I am good at (if I say so myself), am damn proud of, and have invested a lot of time and effort in, is starting to wear a little thin.
Hey, I can handle a good ribbing or two—hell, we all do it, have all been subjected to it—but when the same spot keeps getting poked, it eventually becomes painful.
Taking something that is important to another person—so much part of their identity—and relentlessly laugh at it, turns not only their passion, but their person into a mockery.
Perhaps it’s because sex jokes always find an appreciative audience. And even though there are others with passions—be it work or hobby—they don’t quite tickle everyone’s funny bone the way mine seems to.
Sure, I openly describe some sex scenes in my books. When I outline the inner thoughts and emotions of my characters in detail to create a believable connection, it seems silly to me to not also include those aspects of a relationship that give insight to the most intimate interactions.
That doesn't make my writing porn. It doesn’t even qualify as erotica. My stories are plot-driven, character-driven, but certainly not sex-driven.
And to be honest, to have my work, my investment, my passion, reduced to porn jokes—doesn’t do it justice.
It doesn’t do ME justice.
No pun intended and I'm still waiting for that joke to get tired…
Let me start off by saying I adore my family. All of them. I love them to pieces. I’m truly blessed.
However…
I appear to find myself the constant butt of jokes at family gatherings. Now, I grew up as the youngest of six, and I think I'm pretty well-weathered against the ribbing and teasing that inevitably is part of growing up in a large household. But the unending ridicule of something I am good at (if I say so myself), am damn proud of, and have invested a lot of time and effort in, is starting to wear a little thin.
Hey, I can handle a good ribbing or two—hell, we all do it, have all been subjected to it—but when the same spot keeps getting poked, it eventually becomes painful.
Taking something that is important to another person—so much part of their identity—and relentlessly laugh at it, turns not only their passion, but their person into a mockery.
Perhaps it’s because sex jokes always find an appreciative audience. And even though there are others with passions—be it work or hobby—they don’t quite tickle everyone’s funny bone the way mine seems to.
Sure, I openly describe some sex scenes in my books. When I outline the inner thoughts and emotions of my characters in detail to create a believable connection, it seems silly to me to not also include those aspects of a relationship that give insight to the most intimate interactions.
That doesn't make my writing porn. It doesn’t even qualify as erotica. My stories are plot-driven, character-driven, but certainly not sex-driven.
And to be honest, to have my work, my investment, my passion, reduced to porn jokes—doesn’t do it justice.
It doesn’t do ME justice.
November 1, 2018
Lullay is here!!!
LuLLaY by Freya BarkerIT'S LIVE!!! Dive into "LuLLaY" now!
An early Happy Christmas to you!
Some of us can’t wait for that day to get here, and others would rather bypass the holiday altogether.
For Tana and Matt, the season may have different meanings, but they both want to make it home in time for the holidays!
I adore love stories that involve a child or children. It seems to add a touch of reality that deepens the storyline, and makes it feel true to life.
I hope you love precocious little Flynn, her mommy and her “Man”, as much as I did writing them.
xox
Freya B.
Available on all platforms: books2read.com/Lullay
View all my reviewsPURCHASE
March 30, 2018
Just like that...
My father died on April 29th last year.
Oddly, it was the same date and time his father had died decades earlier.
Papa’s death was not unexpected, we jokingly called him Lazarus, because he cheated death many, many times before. One of his biggest fears around growing old was becoming demented, and he always said he wouldn’t live past seventy-four.
When his time finally came, he was ninety years old and already far lost to us as a result of dementia.
For Mama, it meant a certain relief. For many years she cared for my father, missing out on a lot of things she might have enjoyed. And especially those last few years took a toll on her.
Our hope, after Papa died, was that Mama, even at almost ninety-two, would finally be able to pursue some of the things she still wanted to do. After all, she was still strong in mind and body.
My son married in June of last year, here in Canada, and my mother was present to celebrate with the whole family. She stayed for seven weeks, spent her time visiting with her ‘Canadian’ kids and catching up with a few of her brothers living here.
She did develop a few health problems—a herniated disk in her spine, a persistent sinusitis, a loss of taste—mostly painful or annoying, but nothing life-threatening. That is, until she was hit with a massive heart attack early December.
No one saw that one coming, not even the doctor she’d visited with that morning. Within two days my sister and I were standing beside her hospital bed.
Recovery wasn’t easy since her heart muscle had been severely damaged, but it was supposed to be possible to rehabilitate some.
I stayed after she came home right before Christmas, to look after her and make sure all was in place for her to stay in her own house. She was weak, short of breath and unable to do much of anything for herself. Not the mother I was used to, for sure. Help would come daily, to help her wash and change for the night. A struggle for my mother, who was not in the habit of accepting assistance of any kind, she’d always been utterly self-sufficient. We had been warned she wouldn’t be bouncing back, but that any improvement would be slow in coming. Still, after six weeks I returned home, hopeful she would continue to get a little better day by day.
A week later my mother was back in the hospital. My sister and I were on a flight back to Holland within hours of getting that call. The news we received from the cardiologist when we arrived was not good. The damage to the heart had been even more complex and severe than initially suspected, and Mama was in heart failure.
The news shocked us all.
Including Mama who, in contrast to my father, always expected to surpass her mother’s final age of one hundred and three years old. It appeared she wouldn’t make that. She wasn’t likely to have more than maybe a few weeks left.
Terminal—a word with great finality, and one that my mother would use quite a bit in the weeks to follow.
Mama was very clear in her wishes, from the moment she realized she was that close to the end.
The first thing she did after the doctor left the room was grab my sister’s hand and mine, and gave us each one of her and Papa’s wedding rings. “These are for you to have now.”
In the next days she outlined her own funeral in great detail, from the red blouse she was to wear in the casket to the cantaloupe she wanted us to add to the fruit salad at the reception to follow the service. She thought of everything.
Once home from the hospital—she was adamant she wanted to come home to die—we called in the medical team. We met with home care, family doctor and palliative care to have a clear plan in place for the days, maybe weeks, to come.
Next on her agenda was canceling any pending appointments in person, apologizing to whomever she had on the phone for perhaps making them uncomfortable with the news she was dying.
“I’m sorry, this may not be a pleasant conversation, but I won’t be able to make my appointment—it would appear I am terminal.” She would say this almost light-heartedly, causing a snicker or two from the peanut gallery.
It may sound bizarre, but my mother had a phenomenal sense of humor which seemed to come alive in those last weeks. Despite the grave circumstances, we laughed a ton.
Less funny were the conversations, both by phone and in person, with loved ones she wanted to say goodbye to. Those were difficult to witness. Especially when one of my two brothers, who traveled from Canada as well, had to return home to tend to his patients. That goodbye was extremely painful.
The rest of us spent some wonderful times with Mama, watching her beloved Olympic Games. In particular speed skating, where the Dutch cleaned house, to her great joy. In between she would reminisce about her days as a teacher, a time in her life she really enjoyed. Many anecdotes from her long and interesting life were regaled, often to our great hilarity.
But she didn’t miss a single race, and watched it all, from the opening to the closing ceremonies.
By the end of the weekend, Mama was clearly deteriorating, and the palliative team was called in to help keep her comfortable. We moved her bed into the living room in front of the French doors, yet she still insisted on getting out of bed in the morning and would spend the day napping and chatting in her recliner.
On Tuesday evening she called us from her bed, wanting to say goodnight to all of us. That was the first real sign.
Wednesday morning she didn’t feel like coming out of bed, so we sat with her as she slept. When the family doctor came in for a visit, she popped up like a Jack-in-the-box and told him “I’m still here and I’m doing fine!” It made my sister and me laugh. But just minutes after he left, she grabbed our hands and told us “I’ve had a good life.” She asked us not to leave her alone. Then she turned to my brother and told him she couldn’t fight it anymore.
Mama rolled on her side in bed with the warm sun on her back, closed her eyes, and didn’t speak again.
Thirty-two hours later, still lying in exactly the same position, she puffed out her last shallow breath. We never left her side.
My mother didn’t have years she had planned on. She didn’t get to do all the things she’d hoped for. My mother was an incredible person, and I missed her the minute she left us.
But Mama left this life exactly the way she’d envisioned; in her own home, surrounded by her things, and held by her loving children.
And just like that, in the span of only 10 months, my parents are gone.
Oddly, it was the same date and time his father had died decades earlier.
Papa’s death was not unexpected, we jokingly called him Lazarus, because he cheated death many, many times before. One of his biggest fears around growing old was becoming demented, and he always said he wouldn’t live past seventy-four.
When his time finally came, he was ninety years old and already far lost to us as a result of dementia.
For Mama, it meant a certain relief. For many years she cared for my father, missing out on a lot of things she might have enjoyed. And especially those last few years took a toll on her.
Our hope, after Papa died, was that Mama, even at almost ninety-two, would finally be able to pursue some of the things she still wanted to do. After all, she was still strong in mind and body.
My son married in June of last year, here in Canada, and my mother was present to celebrate with the whole family. She stayed for seven weeks, spent her time visiting with her ‘Canadian’ kids and catching up with a few of her brothers living here.
She did develop a few health problems—a herniated disk in her spine, a persistent sinusitis, a loss of taste—mostly painful or annoying, but nothing life-threatening. That is, until she was hit with a massive heart attack early December.
No one saw that one coming, not even the doctor she’d visited with that morning. Within two days my sister and I were standing beside her hospital bed.
Recovery wasn’t easy since her heart muscle had been severely damaged, but it was supposed to be possible to rehabilitate some.
I stayed after she came home right before Christmas, to look after her and make sure all was in place for her to stay in her own house. She was weak, short of breath and unable to do much of anything for herself. Not the mother I was used to, for sure. Help would come daily, to help her wash and change for the night. A struggle for my mother, who was not in the habit of accepting assistance of any kind, she’d always been utterly self-sufficient. We had been warned she wouldn’t be bouncing back, but that any improvement would be slow in coming. Still, after six weeks I returned home, hopeful she would continue to get a little better day by day.
A week later my mother was back in the hospital. My sister and I were on a flight back to Holland within hours of getting that call. The news we received from the cardiologist when we arrived was not good. The damage to the heart had been even more complex and severe than initially suspected, and Mama was in heart failure.
The news shocked us all.
Including Mama who, in contrast to my father, always expected to surpass her mother’s final age of one hundred and three years old. It appeared she wouldn’t make that. She wasn’t likely to have more than maybe a few weeks left.
Terminal—a word with great finality, and one that my mother would use quite a bit in the weeks to follow.
Mama was very clear in her wishes, from the moment she realized she was that close to the end.
The first thing she did after the doctor left the room was grab my sister’s hand and mine, and gave us each one of her and Papa’s wedding rings. “These are for you to have now.”
In the next days she outlined her own funeral in great detail, from the red blouse she was to wear in the casket to the cantaloupe she wanted us to add to the fruit salad at the reception to follow the service. She thought of everything.
Once home from the hospital—she was adamant she wanted to come home to die—we called in the medical team. We met with home care, family doctor and palliative care to have a clear plan in place for the days, maybe weeks, to come.
Next on her agenda was canceling any pending appointments in person, apologizing to whomever she had on the phone for perhaps making them uncomfortable with the news she was dying.
“I’m sorry, this may not be a pleasant conversation, but I won’t be able to make my appointment—it would appear I am terminal.” She would say this almost light-heartedly, causing a snicker or two from the peanut gallery.
It may sound bizarre, but my mother had a phenomenal sense of humor which seemed to come alive in those last weeks. Despite the grave circumstances, we laughed a ton.
Less funny were the conversations, both by phone and in person, with loved ones she wanted to say goodbye to. Those were difficult to witness. Especially when one of my two brothers, who traveled from Canada as well, had to return home to tend to his patients. That goodbye was extremely painful.
The rest of us spent some wonderful times with Mama, watching her beloved Olympic Games. In particular speed skating, where the Dutch cleaned house, to her great joy. In between she would reminisce about her days as a teacher, a time in her life she really enjoyed. Many anecdotes from her long and interesting life were regaled, often to our great hilarity.
But she didn’t miss a single race, and watched it all, from the opening to the closing ceremonies.
By the end of the weekend, Mama was clearly deteriorating, and the palliative team was called in to help keep her comfortable. We moved her bed into the living room in front of the French doors, yet she still insisted on getting out of bed in the morning and would spend the day napping and chatting in her recliner.
On Tuesday evening she called us from her bed, wanting to say goodnight to all of us. That was the first real sign.
Wednesday morning she didn’t feel like coming out of bed, so we sat with her as she slept. When the family doctor came in for a visit, she popped up like a Jack-in-the-box and told him “I’m still here and I’m doing fine!” It made my sister and me laugh. But just minutes after he left, she grabbed our hands and told us “I’ve had a good life.” She asked us not to leave her alone. Then she turned to my brother and told him she couldn’t fight it anymore.
Mama rolled on her side in bed with the warm sun on her back, closed her eyes, and didn’t speak again.
Thirty-two hours later, still lying in exactly the same position, she puffed out her last shallow breath. We never left her side.
My mother didn’t have years she had planned on. She didn’t get to do all the things she’d hoped for. My mother was an incredible person, and I missed her the minute she left us.
But Mama left this life exactly the way she’d envisioned; in her own home, surrounded by her things, and held by her loving children.
And just like that, in the span of only 10 months, my parents are gone.
October 16, 2017
Snapshot FREEBIES!!!!
This week a few exciting things are happening with the Snapshot series!!
Because Wednesday is release day for the 3rd book (2nd full novel) in the series: IDEAL IMAGE, I've decided to list the first two — both SHUTTER SPEED and FREEZE FRAME — FREE!!!!!
Make sure you download both these books because this sale will not last long!!!
SHUTTER SPEED FREEZE FRAME
Because Wednesday is release day for the 3rd book (2nd full novel) in the series: IDEAL IMAGE, I've decided to list the first two — both SHUTTER SPEED and FREEZE FRAME — FREE!!!!!
Make sure you download both these books because this sale will not last long!!!
SHUTTER SPEED FREEZE FRAME
October 4, 2017
Interview by Stephanie from That's Novel and Stephanie's Book Report!!
This was a fun, casual chat with wonderful Stephanie Phillips, wearer of many hats; That's Novel, Stephanie's Book Reports and SBR Media Agency,
A bit about me, about my books, writing in general, child birth, hair care, travel, audio books, hockey, camera aversion, drama and marketing. As you can see, everything but the kitchen sink.
Enjoy!
A bit about me, about my books, writing in general, child birth, hair care, travel, audio books, hockey, camera aversion, drama and marketing. As you can see, everything but the kitchen sink.
Enjoy!
September 19, 2017
NOT QUITE SURE WHERE I FIT.......
I've had some disappointments recently.
A few doors slammed in my face, and some that just don't seem to want to open for me.
And that has me considering who I am marketing to… who am I writing for?
Someone like me, truthfully, but what does that mean?
A mature woman who's had her ups and downs in life and took them on the chin. A middle-aged girl with some grit, who hasn't run out of hopes and dreams yet. A smart lady (and I use that term loosely) whose confidence grows with every year she ages, and whose fuck you finger gets a daily work out.
That's who I write for.
And I don't even do it on purpose.
I don't plan, I write off the cuff.
It’s funny; I’m always in awe of authors who are able to plan their stories ahead in great detail and firm outlines. I wish I could do that, be a structured person like that.
But I’m not.
I’m what is considered to be a pantser.
Flying by the seat of my pants; all day—every day.
I literally have to ‘feel’ my stories out. It often starts with the people. I’ll mull for weeks on an imaginary character, creating context and traits in my mind. Contemplating how that ‘person’ would react, given certain circumstances. What they would do, how they would feel. Then I start imagining a plot that would bring that character, with those traits and that background, to life.
Their response and reaction to challenges they face in the story, is as new and surprising to me as it is to them. We learn what makes them tick, together. Perhaps that’s why my stories aren’t always action packed from beginning to end, because life doesn’t really work like that. Even at the height of conflict and controversy, there are lulls. Times where the mundane becomes the focus, as it does in life.
It’s all (mostly) imagination, but bringing in a touch of reality here and there, even in the middle of my fictional world, is important to me.
It keeps me, and I hope my readers, grounded.
But I guess it also makes my stories a bit unpredictable and unconventional.
Much like life…
So yeah, I'm not sure where I fit in the grand scope of things.
But to be honest, I think not fitting in and instead creating my own groove, may fit me better.
A few doors slammed in my face, and some that just don't seem to want to open for me.
And that has me considering who I am marketing to… who am I writing for?
Someone like me, truthfully, but what does that mean?
A mature woman who's had her ups and downs in life and took them on the chin. A middle-aged girl with some grit, who hasn't run out of hopes and dreams yet. A smart lady (and I use that term loosely) whose confidence grows with every year she ages, and whose fuck you finger gets a daily work out.
That's who I write for.
And I don't even do it on purpose.
I don't plan, I write off the cuff.
It’s funny; I’m always in awe of authors who are able to plan their stories ahead in great detail and firm outlines. I wish I could do that, be a structured person like that.
But I’m not.
I’m what is considered to be a pantser.
Flying by the seat of my pants; all day—every day.
I literally have to ‘feel’ my stories out. It often starts with the people. I’ll mull for weeks on an imaginary character, creating context and traits in my mind. Contemplating how that ‘person’ would react, given certain circumstances. What they would do, how they would feel. Then I start imagining a plot that would bring that character, with those traits and that background, to life.
Their response and reaction to challenges they face in the story, is as new and surprising to me as it is to them. We learn what makes them tick, together. Perhaps that’s why my stories aren’t always action packed from beginning to end, because life doesn’t really work like that. Even at the height of conflict and controversy, there are lulls. Times where the mundane becomes the focus, as it does in life.
It’s all (mostly) imagination, but bringing in a touch of reality here and there, even in the middle of my fictional world, is important to me.
It keeps me, and I hope my readers, grounded.
But I guess it also makes my stories a bit unpredictable and unconventional.
Much like life…
So yeah, I'm not sure where I fit in the grand scope of things.
But to be honest, I think not fitting in and instead creating my own groove, may fit me better.
June 30, 2017
═══• ✰✰SUMMER SALE - 50% OFF✰✰•═══
The Portland ME Series By Freya Barker
Books 1-4
Available on all platforms
On Sale $1.99 each!!
For the month of July!
With over 300 combined
5 - ✰✰✰✰✰ reviews
Grab From Dust today and get swept away by real life characters that will keep you turning pages until the very last The End.
Miss Barker has given us an absolutely beautiful raw series that celebrates the strength of the human spirit and our ability to overcome.
For a peek at the first chapter for all four books, click on the title:FROM DUSTCRUEL WATERTHROUGH FIRESTILL AIR
Portland, ME, series links below.
#PortlandMEnovels #FreyaBarker #OneClick #kindlesale
AMAZON iBOOKS NOOK KOBO GOOGLE
Portland ME series — Summer Sale
═══• ✰✰SUMMER SALE - 50% OFF✰✰•═══
The Portland ME Series
By Freya Barker
Books 1-4
Available on all platforms
On Sale $1.99 each!!
For a limited time
With over 300 combined
5 ✰✰✰✰✰ review's
Grab From Dust today and get swept away by real life characters that will keep you turning pages until the the very last The End.
Miss Barker has given us an absolutely beautiful raw series that celebrates the strength of the human spirit and our ability to overcome.
Portland, ME, series links:
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2h4b136
iBooks: http://apple.co/2hNohb9
B&N: http://bit.ly/2i95YMs
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2h4i8IZ
GooglePlay: http://bit.ly/2hTnAMV
The Portland ME Series
By Freya Barker
Books 1-4
Available on all platforms
On Sale $1.99 each!!
For a limited time
With over 300 combined
5 ✰✰✰✰✰ review's
Grab From Dust today and get swept away by real life characters that will keep you turning pages until the the very last The End.
Miss Barker has given us an absolutely beautiful raw series that celebrates the strength of the human spirit and our ability to overcome.
Portland, ME, series links:
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2h4b136
iBooks: http://apple.co/2hNohb9
B&N: http://bit.ly/2i95YMs
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2h4i8IZ
GooglePlay: http://bit.ly/2hTnAMV
March 31, 2016
Neil is coming......
Coming May 5th, the seventh and LAST book in my Cedar Tree Series; “Head Start”!
*Available for Pre-Order:
Amazon: myBook.to/HeadStart
B&N: http://bit.ly/HeadstartNook
Kobo: http://bit.ly/HeadstartKobo
iBooks: http://bit.ly/HeadStartiBooks
*BLURB:
Nowadays Kendra Schmitt puts most of her time into the new clinic in Cedar Tree. Always the responsible one in her family, she has avoided any kind of entanglement. In particular with a persistent young investigator. With her schedule a bit more predictable, she is ready to explore a personal life and concedes to what turns out to be a disastrous blind date.
Junior member of the GFI team, Neil James, has seen and experienced more than most at his age. When his team becomes part of a task force investigating a series of murders in the area, his protective instincts kick into high gear. The victims' profiles closely match that of a certain physical therapist.
Neil has been trying unsuccessfully for over a year to get closer to Kendra. Now that she might be in danger, he’s determined to break through her resistance and goes all out to win her trust.
Especially now that the killer’s focus appears to have zeroed in on Kendra.
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...
#FreyaBarker #CedarTreeSeries #HeadStart #Neiliscoming #sassyclassyandbadassy
*Available for Pre-Order:
Amazon: myBook.to/HeadStart
B&N: http://bit.ly/HeadstartNook
Kobo: http://bit.ly/HeadstartKobo
iBooks: http://bit.ly/HeadStartiBooks
*BLURB:
Nowadays Kendra Schmitt puts most of her time into the new clinic in Cedar Tree. Always the responsible one in her family, she has avoided any kind of entanglement. In particular with a persistent young investigator. With her schedule a bit more predictable, she is ready to explore a personal life and concedes to what turns out to be a disastrous blind date.
Junior member of the GFI team, Neil James, has seen and experienced more than most at his age. When his team becomes part of a task force investigating a series of murders in the area, his protective instincts kick into high gear. The victims' profiles closely match that of a certain physical therapist.
Neil has been trying unsuccessfully for over a year to get closer to Kendra. Now that she might be in danger, he’s determined to break through her resistance and goes all out to win her trust.
Especially now that the killer’s focus appears to have zeroed in on Kendra.
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...
#FreyaBarker #CedarTreeSeries #HeadStart #Neiliscoming #sassyclassyandbadassy
