Autumn's Harvest Blog Hop

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 Grand Prize Winners:

Kindle Fire Winner:

Tina B.

$50 Amazon Gift Card:

Sarah L.

Swag Pack:
Lynn Cahoon

 

                                                e-book copy of The Whisper of Time:
                                                                        Cass 

                              A big thanks to everyone who stopped by and hopped this weekend! 

Hi and welcome to the Autumn's Harvest Blog hop! Instructions for the hop said "Write a funny, entertaining, enjoyable post about autumn." Easy peezy lemon squeezy (or is that apple cider pressy?) said I. After all, autumn is a lovely season. There are colorful leaves and apples and...
      I sat down and started to write. A strange thing happened; I began to feel like a pupil in Mrs. McGillicutty's fifth grade classroom. Mrs. McG had just given us an assignment: write a theme about Autumn.  I stared at the empty blue book laid out on my desk, blue lines waiting for words. I chewed my pencil eraser.
     "Autumn? Autumn?" I thought to myself. My mind went blank and I began to panic. I stared out the window for a time. A small bird landed on the chain link fence and flitted away. Poetry! I thought. That was it! I would write a poem! A rhyming poem would impress Mrs. McG!
    I made a list: Autumn, Got em, Bought em, onion. I started to write:

There's apples in Autumn

The orchards they got em

The trees got red leaves on em

We're all out of onions

     Mrs. McG read over my shoulder and shook her head. "Ute, Ute, Ute. The orchards they got em? That isn't grammatically correct. It's barely English."

    I began to erase with my chewed down eraser, leaving skid marks and a hole where the poem used to be. I turned the page and began again. I'd use fall this time. Fall was easier to rhyme than autumn. I made a list: Fall, ball, small, tall, wall, brawl, sprawl. I could've gone  on all day. 

    Mrs. McG took off her reading glasses. "You're going to write a quatrain rhyme using fall? How very hickery dickery of you. If you're going to write a poem, write a real poem." I'd forgotten. Mrs. McG was a bit of a poetry snob. And I wasn't really in the fifth grade.

    A real poem. Okay. What do I associate with Autumn? Death. You know, short days, dead leaves on the ground, All Soul's Day.

              The end is near come, November

the last of the leaves is fallen,

withered and brown

darkness gathers

  Mrs. McG  sighed. "Did you not read the directions? They say light and funny. When did dead leaves become funny?"

     "It doesn't have to be funny," I told her. "It said entertaining."

      "Yes. Readers are always so entertained by depressed poets. Especially during a fun giveaway blog hop. "

     There's just no pleasing this woman. I turn another page. I write:

      I like the fall

the leaves and all

the trees so tall

and onions, too.

I close the book. Mrs. McGillicutty's going to give me an F. I know it.

Thanks for stopping by! Leave a comment for a chance to win an e-copy of The Whisper of Time.

click on image for more about my books

When fate offers Gwynn Powell a chance to start over, she jumps at the opportunity. Laid off and living with a husband whose gambling problem has eaten through a good part of their savings, Gwynn buys a farmhouse sight unseen, leaving both her marriage and her old home behind.
But fate has more in mind for Gwynn than just a new home. The farmhouse, tucked away in the Green Mountains of Vermont where even GPS can’t find it, is also a step back in time. And Slate Peck, the farm’s caretaker and part owner, is tied to Gwynn’s destiny in ways she never expected.

Be sure to stop by at the other hop stops. Leave comments here and at other stops for chances to win these great prizes: 

1st Grand Prize: A Kindle Fire or Nook Tablet

2nd Grand Prize: A $50 Amazon or B&N Gift Card

3rd Grand Prize: A Swag Pack that contains 10+ paperbacks, ebooks, 50+ bookmarks, cover flats, magnets, pens, coffee cozies, and more!

With one chance at each stop and over two hundred stops, that's over two hundred chances to win!! Even Mrs. McGillicutty has said I'm good at arithmetic!

My Guest Today: Susan Roebuck

  

I'm excited to welcome friend and fellow author Susan Roebuck to my blog. A while back, Sue and I did a challenge together. The result? Two books. Here's Sue on the challenge.

The Birth of Two Books

Ute and I decided to take part in a challenge in which we had to follow these few simple rules:

• Write a story in a genre we’d never tried before;
• The story must include a firefighter and a vet;
• The main character must go to a house/building he or she has never seen before;
• There must be a neighbor called Slater;
• We mustn’t show each other our stories until they are completely finished.

Neither of us was sure that we’d actually finish the challenge but thanks to an exchange of emails that went along the lines of: “I’m 20k words in”…”I’m going to finish by the end of the month”, we did! Although, initially, we only intended to write short stories, they turned into novels and both are now published: mine’s Hewhay Hall published in April 2012 by Etopia Press and Ute’s is The Whisper Time published in September 2012 by Whispers Publishing.

You’d think we’d have written very similar stories, even though we weren’t allowed to communicate anything about our stories, except how far along we were. But Ute and I would make excellent case-studies for psychologists investigating the creative mind because we ended up with wildly different books. For a start, Ute’s is a time-travel romance (and it’s lovely – you can see my review on Amazon or GoodReads or even my blog: www.susanroebuck.com) and mine’s a dark fantasy/horror. I like reading Stephen King, and Clive Herbert but I didn’t think I could write that genre. However, readers have told me that Hewhay Hall is a “page-turner” that has them on the edge of their seats.

I don’t think there’s one single aspect of either book that’s similar. The neighbor in Hewhay Hall, Slater, is a demon whose delight is to feed on the terror of his victims – and the fact that they’re all courageous unsung heroes makes them all the more delicious to him. Ute’s neighbor in Whisper of Time is called Slate and he’s a fine figure of a hero who I wouldn’t mind meeting on any dark night!

Blurb for Hewhay Hall:

An unsung hero’s destiny–Slater’s house of horrors.

Fire-fighter Jude Elliott loses part of his leg trying to rescue a family held hostage during a terrorist attack. He journeys to mysterious Hewhay Hall, where it is told there are wondrous, magical cures. Little does Jude know that his destination is Slater The Prince of Envy’s lair where a demon resides and courageous souls are tormented… Can Jude escape Slater’s house of horrors, or will he suffer for all of eternity?

I’d thoroughly recommend a challenge like this for any authors – and I’ll always be willing to take part in one again.

 You can read more about the challenge on Sue's Blog today -Ute
Buy Hewhay Hall here 
Buy The Whisper of Time here

The Insecure Writer: Putting the Blah in Blogging

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I feel the need to share a secret: I hate blogging.

I should probably not be telling you this.  After all, it is written in the writer’s Ten Commandments: “Thou shalt have a blog.” Look it up; it’s right in between “Thou shalt not abuse adverbs” and “All of thy speech tags shall be called ‘said’.”

            Blogging, so it is writ, is one of the best ways for an author to gain fans and influence people. Write a blog and you can razzle-dazzle ‘em with your writing acumen, your rapier wit, and your broad encyclopedic knowledge of farm animals and the like.

 So blogging is on my should list. Only, each and every time I sit to write my little blog ditty, I begin to bite my fingernails to nubs. Maybe hate is the wrong word. It would be more accurate to say I dread blogging.  I dread it because most of the time I haven’t a clue what to blog about.

            I write fiction. Writing fiction is easy because I get to make stuff up. Blogging is hard because blogs are supposed to be garnered from real life. My real life is about as interesting as watching grass grow.  I mean, sure, I have my moments. Just last week I found a quarter on the sidewalk in front of the grocery store. And yesterday, a missing sock was mysteriously found attached to the bed sheet.

            But, most of the time, my life isn’t that interesting. Don’t get me wrong, I prefer my intense dramas to be imaginary and on the page. Life is much easier if you’re not living inside a Lifetime movie of the week. It makes for tough going if you’re trying to come up with a blog topic, though.

            I will no doubt continue to slog forth on my blogging journey, continue to try and find interesting topics that will wow my blog visitors. Next week, I’m planning a blog on how finding change on the sidewalk can add up to cup a coffee in no time. Hope you’ll stop by!

In the Comfy Chair

I'm sitting in Elin Gregory's comfy chair today. Pull up your own comfy chair and join me for awhile!

Insecure Writer: OMG it's in print!

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I worry about many things—the health and well being of my family, running out of money and having to live in a refrigerator box, whether or not the tiny spot on my wrist is a bug bite or something that will require amputation.  This week I have something new to worry about; my romantic comedy P-Town Queen has been released.  P-Town is meant to be funny. Writing funny means taking risks—the biggest risk being that others will view me as crazy.

            To write well, be it comedy or something more serious, you need to push boundaries. You need to ride hard and fast into uncharted territory with little thought to what the mailman or the barista at Starbucks will think of you. That’s not always easy to do. In the confines of your writer’s garret, locked away from the world, you can manage it. But then the wonderful terrible thing happens: you get published. All those words come out of the dark garret into the light. You’ve been exposed. The mailman and the barista will know you're just a few bucks and fender bender from complete lunacy. You feel like you have to change your name and address.

From now on, if anyone asks, I’m Mary Smith. 

For more writer insecurity, please visit  Insecure Writer's Support Group

Double Trouble at Roses of Prose

I'm at Roses of Prose today blogging about openings. Come say hello!

Meet me in the Vineyard and we'll blow up a whale

I'm at The Writer's Vineyard today, blogging about the whale blow up in P-Town Queen. Come on over and say hello. Just don't forget your hard hat.

The Insecure Writer: I'm Good Enough, I'm Smart Enough and Doggone It.....

I'm channeling Stuart Smalley today. You remember Stuart, the Al Franken character from Saturday Night Live who sat in front of the mirror and did affirmations?

My mirror image is tired of me. "I'm a writer," I tell her. "I'm a good writer. I'm funny. I can be profound. And darn it all, readers love me."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she says. "You're a writer. Yada, yada, yada. Stop staring at me and go write something already."

"Write something? Like, now?"

"Why not now?"

"Well...I'm not being visited by the muse."

"Not the muse thing again. What happened to 'just do it'?"

 "I don't know if I can. I mean, have you seen what I've written lately? It looks like somebody threw up on it. It makes no sense. The sentences don't go together. The spelling, well we all know I can't spell. It's dull as yesterday's socks. And the words, when I read them out loud they sound like the drill at the dentist's office. It'll never match up to the last book. Now, that was a good book. This..."

My mirror image sighs. She's got better things to do. She could be flossing her teeth. Or examining the tiny mole at her hairline. What is that thing anyway? Should we have it looked into?

I walk away. She's right. I should write already.


For more writer insecurities or to join the angst, please visit The Insecure Writer

Beanie's Interview

 Beanie MacKenzie, the main character in Blueberry Truth, is being interviewed today! Come stop by at the World Literary Cafe and say hello!

Wild Women and Friendship

Some of the Wild Women at a writing retreat in Maine in 2009

A few Sundays ago, I got together with a phenomenal group of women known collectively as the wild women. For ten years, we wrote together weekly. Writing was the cornerstone of our little circle, but we were so much more than writers who wrote together.  Together, we were a creative force to be reckoned with, a grand and extraordinary orchestration of voices.

I was the group’s unlikely workshop leader, a woman who needed to spill words to the page and thought that maybe, just maybe, there would be joy in spilling out words with likeminded people. The group was formed and, oh, there was joy. There was joy and laughter and a tear or two. Out of joy and laughter and tears, friendships grew. I have been blessed beyond blessed to have these incredible, diverse and intelligent women in my life. Women who create. Women who are true to themselves.

I haven’t always been true to myself. For years, I tried to mold myself into an image of perfect women: the nice girl became the good wife and  mother. Of course, I was far from perfect.  I knew all along that perfection was a myth and yet I clung to it. I clung so hard that I forgot to listen to the cool, still voice inside of me. The voice that had always whispered a single word in my ear: create.  It wasn’t a word I trusted. I had no real life connections to those who called themselves artists. From afar, they seemed a strange and self-indulgent bunch.  And yet, as I kept trying on the titles- Artist, Writer,Poet- I found they fit me well. As I began to write, I grew to be more and more comfortable inside my skin.

In the company of wild women, I can just be. This is a great gift. There are no hard and fast expectations, there is no need to act a certain way or to impress. If I tell them I feel like lying down and crying on occasion, they will answer yes, we know that feeling. If I tell them what made me laugh aloud the other day, they will laugh and share their own funny stories. The joys, the sorrows that are mine are also theirs. Each of us knows what it is like to love and to lose and pick yourself up again. We know how difficult it can be to say to the world: “Here I am, take me or leave me, but please don’t try to change me.”

We no longer meet as a workshop, each having stepped forward into the next part of her life. But we still get together now and again. And so we were on that Sunday, women of a certain age now, each with our own stories to tell. If I were queen of the world, I’d bestow good life and happiness to everyone. Most of all, I would bestow friends like these, the wild women.

At Champagne Blog

 Want to know more about writing funny? Or get a snippet of my upcoming release P-town Queen?
Come join at Champagne Books Blog today!

Six Sentence Sunday

My first offering for Six Sentence Sunday come from P-town Queen, which is coming to Champagne Books next June.


The hero, Marco, catches his first glimpse of the heroine:

Had you asked before the minute when the redhead walked past, I would have said the whole thunderbolt thing was a myth; that no man on earth had, to my knowledge and experience, ever been struck that way. I would have kept on believing that, too, but the redhead looked at me with these big brown eyes. Her hair was wavy and the sun played on it like you’d want to write a poem about it. And then she smiled this smile like she’d known me all my life and Jesus, God I was hit by it. The thunderbolt. No kidding. 

For more Six Sentence Snippets visit: Six Sentence Sunday

Sweet Saturday Sample

Over the next few weeks, I thought I'd share some hero meets heroine moments. This one is from my work in progress. It's still under construction and the scaffolding hasn't been removed. It's a romantic comedy, the working title is "Searching for Superman"

She marched down the driveway, ready to tell the Castle Creature just what she thought of abhorrently tardy behavior, when out of the van jumped superman.

      He didn’t look so much like superman as a man dressed for a Halloween party. He was too short for a super hero, for one, only a few inches taller than Stephanie. He was more wiry than muscular. He was cute, though, he had a full head of light brown curly hair and nice eyes. Not blue, like Christopher Reeve’s had been, but hazel. The eyes were looking right at her.

       “Spellman?” he asked. When Stephanie didn’t answer, he smiled apologetically. “The GPS in the Van isn’t working. And this development is a maze. I felt like I was in an episode of Lost. In which I was really lost.  I figured I’d eventually run out of gas and Jane would have to put out an APB.”  He looked at Stephanie with those hemlock eyes again. “Sorry.”

      “You are not supposed to be Superman.”

      “What?” Superman went to the Van and drew a paper off the seat. “I’m sure. Yup. Says right here. Superman.”

      Stephanie took the paper from him and crumbled it. “You are supposed to be Cinderella.”

      “No.” Superman looked at her with a combination of horror and confusion. “Cinderella?”

      “It’s a princess party. So you better have Cinderella in that van of yours.”

      “It’s not my van. And, no, I don’t have Cinderella hiding under the backseat.” He gave her a no-harm-no-foul sort of shrug. “Let me call Jane.”

      Stephanie waved her cell phone at him. “What do you suppose I’ve been doing for the last hour? “

      “Okay, okay. She’s probably... let me go back to the shop see what I can do.”

      He turned to get back into the van. Stephanie gave his cape a tug. “You are not leaving. You can’t leave. There are twenty five children terrorizing my sister’s house and you have got to stop them.”

Thanks for stopping by.

Check out more Sweet Saturday Samples here.

Sweet Saturday Samples

This is a new venture for me! I thought I'd share a bit of Blueberry Truth.
Check out all  of the samples at:Sweet Saturday Samples

Here at school, we’re having a summer bash. There’s watermelon, lawn games, and face painting. When the governor’s wife stopped by a few months ago, we managed to impress her with our hard work and dedication. So much so, the governor’s office has donated a bouncy bounce for our bash.

The bouncy is a huge hit. Simon has found something he likes better than swings. I let him spend most of the afternoon bouncing, but it’s bus time now. “Mom will be waiting.” I’ve already got Jared at the ready. I’m pretty sure Simon’s going to pitch a fit. Sure enough, we have to go in after him. And here’s another change in Blue. A month ago, she would have pitched right along with him. Now she stands and waits for me to finish. Jared and I manage to escort Simon to his bus. It’s hot, and I’m already thinking Blue and I will stop at Schlossman’s on the way home for cold cokes. I’m about to bring this up to Blue when Chandra finds me and asks if I’ve got a minute.

Chandra and I go up to my empty classroom. Jared has agreed to wait with Blue. I can see her from the window. She’s on the swings, pumping her legs hard and laughing with Jared, looking so much like any happy little girl that I tear up.

“She’s doing well.”

“We have our moments. But, yes, she’s doing great. With a little luck, she might be ready for a regular school come fall.” In the wildest and most hopeful of my dreams, we send her to St. Mark’s, Mac and I sign adoption papers, and she’s ours. These are things I don’t voice aloud. Not even to Mac.

“I hate to admit this, but I was wrong. You and Mac are the best thing that’s ever happened to that child.”

“She’s worth it.” A creepy premonition follows. And I know without Chandra saying anything. I know. “Her mother.” I’m afraid of the possibility.

“She’s back.”

I watch Blue jump from the swing, a blur of little girl. I’m always amazed at the elasticity in the kids I teach, at how they’re able to come back, time and again, from the worst of circumstances. It’s one of the reasons I stay here. Of course, they can never be entirely fixed. Some scars never go away. All of them strong, though. They manage to go on. Blue Crowley is strongest of the strong. For months, I’ve watched her climb out of darkness. I’ve listened to her cry for her mother. I’ve listened and waited and watched. And just when there’s a respite, just when it seems she might be able to move on, it gets all turned upside down.

“We can’t tell Blue.”

“Beanie.”

“No, Chandra. Look at her. We can’t send her back there. We can’t. It isn’t fair.”

“Blue’s mother wants another chance. It’s her kid.”

“She gave birth to her. So what? When Blue wakes up at 2 a.m. so paralyzed by fear she can’t move, I’m the one who goes to her. I’m the one who lays in bed with her until she goes back to sleep.”

Chandra watches out the window, not looking at me. “Knowing that doesn’t change the facts. Blue has a right to her mother. And Blue’s mother has a right to her child.”

“No. She has no right. She threw that right away when she left Blue to be abused. She discarded her kid, treated her like some beat-up old recliner. And now she wants her back? No.”

“She’s cleaned up her act. Five months of rehab. She’s clean. She’s trying, Beanie. We have to help her. You’d agree with me if this weren’t about Blue. You know you would.”

I have no answer. Because this isn’t about some other kid. This is about Blue. My Blue. I don’t want to give her up. My Blue. Though she would give me up in a second. She’d leave me for her mother, no questions asked. That’s what hurts the most. “How long?”

“I don’t know. DSS is still doing intake. She’s going to fight for her, Beanie. You should know that.”

Her words start to sink in. I have to let go, and I don’t have a chance.

Blueberry Truth is available through   Etopia Press, at  Amazon 

and through most other e-book distributors.