It's Fall!

by Jean C. Gordon

Do you what September is? September is National Chicken Month. Thank you Little Gray, Yellow, Brown, and Yellow Spot for posing.

It's also the beginning of Fall, my favorite season. My birthday is in September. Our wedding anniversary is in September. It’s still warm in the Northeast, but not sweltering hot as August often is. We have the beautiful fall foliage. And school starts. I was enough of a geek that I always looked forward to going back to school.

Which brings me to a question: Does the season a book is set in influence your book choices? Aside from holiday-month books — I love holiday books — I never gave much thought to the season in which a book was set, either in my reading or my writing, until ninth book, Small-Town Mom. And the season only came to my attention when we were at the cover stage. The story takes place in the dead of a frigid Adirondack Mountains winter. But the book came out in June, and initially, the cover had no snow and looked like spring, not winter. The dusting of snow was added to bring it into season.

With the books I've written since then, I've thought about when it will be published and tried to mesh the story's season with the publication season (or close). And, just for fun, I checked the seasons my books are set in. Four are set in the fall, one in the winter, and the rest in the summer.

Blooming Friendships

By Sandra Wilkins

          Finding friends can be a tricky business.  You have to dip your toes into those murky waters of the unknown and decide if it’s safe to jump in.  You have to see if the other person has your type of warped sense of humor or you have to decide if they’re the more serious type.  After much splashing about, I’ve found that the creative types—writers, musicians, and artists—are more prone to see the world the way I do.  But, that certainly doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate other types of people.  The world would be a dull place if that was the case.  I believe the more friends you have, the prettier life is. 

          Writing and home educating my daughters are solitary endeavors.  Sure, there are those occasional outings so I can hawk my wares or “socialize” my kids so they won’t be too weird, but basically I’m at it on my own.  Research, creativity, writing and teaching are all pretty much up to me. 

          Friends and a helpful spouse can lighten your burdens or bring humor into your life.  I think that’s why all of the stories I’ve written center around friendships.  A true friend is there for the good times and the bad.  For example, I’m an excellent listener, but sometimes I need to express myself, too.  A good friend should be able to do both.

          It was only after several years of solitude and a bout with depression that I realized how lonely I was.  Thankfully someone suggested I reach out for help and another person listened and joked with me in the following years when I needed it most.  I trust they know how much I appreciate them.  I also hope I have been able to return the favor to them.  My life is so different now.  Joy, sunshine, and optimism are back in my vocabulary even when the occasional gray day slides past. 

          Robin Williams’ tragic death struck me particularly hard.  I didn’t know the man, but I admired his brilliance.  His light will no longer shine for the rest of us.  The ripple of anyone’s death is felt by more people than the deceased could ever imagine—whether they are famous or not. 

          If you suspect someone you know is hurting beyond those blue days, befriend them.  Ask them if they need to talk.  It’s amazing how verbalizing and getting all those dark thoughts out of your head can brighten your life.  If it seems like they’re in a deep dungeon they can’t climb out of, encourage them to seek professional help.  It really does lift that midnight cloak off of a person’s soul.  Depression doesn’t have to be a permanent situation.  Most importantly, if you are the person who just can’t get past the profound sadness, don’t be afraid to ask for help.  You’ve been on your own long enough.    

          My desire is that we can help each other to stand upright, side by side, and support one another in friendship—whether it’s with old or new acquaintances.  So, instead of letting the weeds of indifference or jealousy choke out the beauty in a field of wildflowers, let’s all bloom together.  The gorgeous hues and shapes can open in their own unique way.  After all, it’s more spectacular together.

            Sandra Wilkins is busy writing another series while home educating her two daughters.  Ada’s Heart, Rose’s Hope and Gwen’s Honor are her first three published wholesome historical romances.  Go to www.sandrawilkins.com to find out more about her and her books.  

What I Did on Summer Vacation...in 1972

posted by Jayne Ormerod

The “educational” tag is SO over rated.  Especially when it comes to summer vacations.  My parents (a self-employed business man and an elementary school teacher) made it their mission to make sure we learned something over the summer break.  So while my friends were water skiing on Lake Michigan or riding donkeys down to bottom of the Grand Canyon or hanging out with Mickey & Minnie, my family was marching through the Smithsonian in DC or traipsing along the Freedom Trail in Boston or sitting/snoozing through historical lectures in the City of Brotherly Love. 

Did I have VA-CAY Envy?  You bet I did!

But here’s a little secret I never told anyone…there was one “educational” vacation I enjoyed very much--the one to Williamsburg, Virginia in 1972. The beauty of the “living museum” in Colonial Williamsburg allows visitors to experience what life in the 1600s America was like by doing some of the tasks required for existence 400 years ago.  For example, my sister and I carded wool then spun it into yarn, used a printing press to make our own little newspaper, watched blacksmiths pound iron into hooks, and enjoyed horse-drawn carriage rides along the cobble stone streets.  (There’s something SO soothing about the sound of hooves clacking against the stone in measured cadence. Be still my heart.) Oh yeah, and we got put in "jail."  (In Colonial times, people would throw garbage--and worse--at people sentenced to time in the stocks.  Fortunately this was not part of my experience!) 

My one complaint?  The heat!  Southern summers are not for the faint of heart!  And those poor women who had to wear those heavy hoop-skirts and caps!  How did they do that?  I was practically melting myself, and I had on a sleeveless shirt, shorts and (as any well-dressed kid in the 70s had…) white Keds.

What I needed was a dip in the ocean.  I’d seen the signs for Virginia Beach.  Beach meant ocean.  Ah,  cool, refreshing water.

I asked.  I begged.  I got down on one knee and pleaded, “Please, please PLEASE!  Let’s go to the beach and cool off!  Please! Please! Please!”

“It’s four hours away,” my parents said. “That would make for a much longer drive home, too. It would take two days then Dad would have to take another day off work.”

I accepted that, as young children of the 70s did, not because I respected my elders but because I didn’t have the World Wide Web at my finger tips to prove otherwise. 

Fast forward twenty years when my military husband and I made the move from San Diego, CA to Norfolk, VA via Ohio.  That equated to nine days on the road, driving and eating fast food, with a three day layover in Ohio to visit family.  On our way south to Virginia we stopped at the Williamsburg exit to fill up on gas.  My parent’s voices echoed in my head, “Four hours away.”  At that point I honestly didn’t have four more hours of travel in me.  I suggested to my husband we find a hotel for the night.

“Why?” he asked.  “We’re only an hour away.”

<<insert sound of screeching record here…>>

“An hour?” I asked.

“Yup,” he said.

Needless to say, my first phone call to my parents once we got settled in our new home (this was in the days before cell phones, or trust me, the call would have been made there and then!)  “Hey Mom and Dad, did you know that Virginia Beach is less than an hour’s drive from colonial Williamsburg?”

Silence.

They’d known.

And then it occurred to me, Virginia Beach may have been fun and refreshing, but it did not push the “educational” button.

After living in the Coastal Virginia area on and off for the past 30 years and spending hours bike riding on the boardwalk or picnicking on the beach, licking an ice cream cone while watching tourists frolic at the water’s edge, I’ve learned that there’s something about being near that water is good for what’ ails ya.  The light is different, the sound of the crashing waves is relaxing, the smell of the salt water is refreshing.  It restores one’s soul.  I feel better after a day at the beach.  Probably not smarter, but then as I’ve said before, that “educational” tag  is SO overrated. 

Are Your Windows the Windows to Your Soul?

by Victoria M. Johnson

I used to take my windows for granted. They were just the square glass fixtures in every room of our house. Sometimes I even remembered to give them a good scrub to help maintain their luster. But recently a neighbor friend came over for coffee and she remarked about the nice "view" from the living room windows. 

"You have the same view," I said. She lived next door, after all.

"But it's brighter and more cheerful from in here," she replied, glancing out wistfully at the rows of garbage cans we all put out for collection the next day.

She clearly was seeing something different than what I was seeing. I pressed for an explanation. "What's different about it?"

"Your windows are much larger, I think. And your flowers frame the bottom so nicely. Maybe the sun hits your house at a different angle or something," she said.

None of those perceptions were true. Our windows were the same size. She had blooming flowers under her windows, too. And the sun certainly didn't shine brighter on our house. After my neighbor left, I thought about her windows in her living room.

Hers had blinds that she sometimes kept shut and she had lovely, but heavy, curtains that hung at each side of her windows. I suppose those choices would make them appear smaller and would block sunshine from coming in. They hindered her looking out and I wondered if they also affected her mood.

It occurred to me that perhaps our windows are doing more than we realize. 

Is it possible we're unknowingly blaring out to the whole world our temperament, our personalities, and quirks? Are we also influencing our personalities? Let me know if you think I'm way off base. But first, take a look below and see if any of these "windows" fit you.

This European window has no barriers to the outside world. Everything and anything comes in: sunrays, scents and noise, insects; and things going on inside may be seen or heard out. I imagine a free spirit would adore these windows.

These windows let the sun shine in. They're ideal for looking out at nature, children playing in the yard, and seeing what's beyond the walls of your house. A woman comfortable with others looking back, seeing a bit of her inner world would like these windows.

This room looks most like my neighbor's. It's elegant and formal with inviting windowseats. But not much is visible unless you're sitting in the windowseat. This arrangement encourages a contemplative personality to sit and think.

You knew this was coming. Cat ladies, you know who you are, a home isn't a home without a cat lounging in your window. The window stays closed for practical reasons but you take pleasure in seeing your companion enjoying the weather and goings-on outside. 

Okay, let's face it, some people put up a brick wall both figuratively and literally. Would you say this house belongs to someone who wants to be left alone or someone who's busy and rarely home? I suppose it depends on if these blinds are ever opened. Either way if I were the neighbor I wouldn't stop over for a cup of coffee unless specifically invited.

Did I mention the ambience of my friend's living room fit her personality? She's private, formal, and reflective, among many other nice traits. What are your windows saying about you?

Victoria M. Johnson knew by the time she was ten that she wanted to be a writer.  She loves telling stories and she's happiest when creating new characters and new plots.  Avalon Books and Montlake Romance published Victoria's fiction debut, The Doctor’s Dilemma, (A 2012 Bookseller’s Best double finalist).  Her other fiction book is a collection of romance short stories titled, The Substitute Bride. She is also the writer and director of four short films and two micro documentaries.   Visit Victoria's website at http://VictoriaMJohnson.com for inspiration and tips and find her Amazon author page or connect with her on Pinterest and Twitter.

Shredding Words With Sofie Couch, (Well, Kinda)

Okay, I'm not so much “Shredding Words” as carefully cutting and snipping around them while simultaneously talking about novel characters.

The book I'm mangling today was actually meant to be mangled. It's an old, early 1900s magazine. Sadly, there is just this one page left in a box of ephemera at the family antique mall. In it, I found this little guy, “Brother Bob”. Apparently, Bob’s entire family appeared sequentially in this particular vintage magazine. And this child was just so stylin’! Check out those cute little togs Brother Bob is sporting.

There is also something very zen about cutting out these little characters, which it makes all the more a pity that most of our children will never know the joy of paper dolls.

And while I was snipping out "Brother Bob" and his togs, I started thinking about how paper dolls - building them, dressing them, playing with them, is similar to building a character in a novel. You snip away at a composite – a stereotype. All written characters begin flat, like “Brother Bob”.

Then the writer begins to flesh him out. 

For example, did you know that Bob is a little rapscallion? (Yes, I said rapscallion.) He’s the youngest child in my novel, KEEPING UP WITH MR. JONES. He has a penchant for collecting dead animals. It’s a worry for his mother, but what she doesn’t know is that his real goal in life is to be a veterinarian. That dead bird in his pocket is research – a secret that he will share with the only male figure in his life – Mr. Jones.

So check it out! And the next time you’re in an antique shop, check out some vintage magazines and don’t be afraid to bring your scissors. J

Holiday? Huh?

by Janis Susan May/Janis Patterson

By the time you read this, the Labor Day holiday will be over, and I say thank Goodness!

Whoever started the canard that Holidays were for a holiday, a respite from work? I work harder on a designated Holiday than just about any other day. Like this last weekend – THE EGYPTIAN FILE officially released on the 30^th, so there was all the attendant announcement publicity to do.

A digression - WHY does each book/readers site have different rules on publicity? Different days; different things accepted. Some will accept a post any day; some allow them only on certain days or on one specific day. Some will take only a simple announcement; some want everything – blurb, excerpt, links, cover, websites, everything but your blood type. Some take links, some don't. Some take cover shots, some don't. Some want blurbs, some don't. Some want excerpts, some don't. All seem to want something different in the subject line. Why don't they get together and make one set of rules for all that will be easier for writers and readers both?

Back to holidays. As I said, doing the basic release announcements takes a great deal of time and attention. Plus, The Husband is home, which at the least means more cooking. Plus, we're redoing the garage. The actual hammer-and-nails remodeling is done (thank Goodness, and before there was physical violence) but now we must clean out our various storage rooms and decide what to keep and what to give away. Worse yet, it seems that we each regard our own stuff as precious (mine is mostly antiques, by the way) and the other's as simply stuff, or worse, junk.

My head had barely lifted off the pillow on Saturday before The Husband began prattling about Let's Work On The Garage This Weekend. (When he asked me early in the summer what I wanted for my birthday, I told him two whole weeks in which he neither said nor wrote the word 'garage.' Instead I got a trip to Vegas and a huge kunzite ring. Sigh.) Of course, we were to start working right after I fixed breakfast. Normally cooked breakfasts are reserved for Sundays.

It's late summer in Texas, and ten minutes after dawn the sky is on 'Broil.' Needless to say, our garage is not air-conditioned. Neither are the storage rooms, and neither is our ancient but still (barely) running pickup. I keep telling myself I'd be paying money to use a sauna in some health club to be just as hot. It doesn't help.

The Husband doesn't seem to understand that when I am sitting in a reasonably cool room (who can afford to keep a room truly comfortable with today's abominably astronomical electric rates?) typing on a computer that I am truly working. Believe me, I am. I have blogs to write. I have release publicity to do. I have publicity on previous releases to do. I have future releases to get ready for my formatter and cover artist. And sometime – I don't know really when – I have to write on the next book, whose deadline is galloping steadily closer.

Thank Goodness tomorrow is Tuesday and his job will once more devour The Husband for the better part of the day. Don't get me wrong – I love him, he is the most wonderful man I have ever known and I love being with him, but he does have a fixation. Garage, garage, garage... I'm even coming to hate the sound of the word. I do love being with him. I will love it even more once the garage is finished.

We did work most of the weekend and got a fair amount done. At this rate we should have the job completed just when the weather finally gets cool enough to be outside without my becoming a fountain of perspiration. I do, though, have the dreadful premonition that when that day occurs his repetitive vocabulary will evolve from 'Garage' into 'Yard.' Help me...

Holiday? Phooey.

UPDATE

My publishing blitz is still going right on schedule, somewhat to my amazement. 

My August 15 release SHADOWED LEGACY marks the tipping point of my 30 June – 30 October publishing blitz. It’s a gothic romance set in Louisiana of the 1870s. The story is about an orphaned young woman who has survived by singing in the saloons of the Western silver camps only to be ordered by her unknown and autocratic grandfather to come to his plantation. She wants to be part of a family, he has other ideas and an unknown villain has more sinister plans. It was a fun book to write.

This fortnight's release is THE EGYPTIAN FILE, a contemporary romantic adventure which takes place in my beloved Egypt. Like THE JERUSALEM CONNECTION, my 30 July release, THE EGYPTIAN FILE is a brand new book, not a backlist rerelease.

I got the idea for THE EGYPTIAN FILE during my last visit to Egypt and it would not leave me alone until I wrote it. Luckily I was blessed with the research help of two good friends, Dr. Stephen Harvey (perhaps the world's most acknowledged authority on Ahmose I) and Dr. Dirk Huyge (Director of the Belgian Archaeological Mission to El Kab). They were both most generous with their time and information, and Dr. Huyge even allowed me to add a tomb to the El Kab site – mainly because things go on in that tomb that should never go on in a real one!

THE EGYPTIAN FILE tells the story of Melissa Warrender, who is sent by a telephone call - which may or may not have come from her dead father - to retrieve a mysterious file in Cairo. Others who are willing to kill for it want the file as well, and Melissa's only ally is a handsome Cairo cabby who may not be what he seems. As they flee across Egypt they know they must translate the cryptic message in the file if they are to survive. An unimaginable treasure is at stake if they can live to find it.

Hitting the Wall

I missed last month's posting. I can't write and lose weight at the same time apparently.

Defatification is hard work, I keep it under 1600 calories and I work off 600 on the torture machine of choice - the treadmill  - and I still can only manage to lose 1/2 to 1 lb a week for a total of less than 50 in a year and a half, while my sister, Ms. Fatty Fatterstein has dropped 85 since January. Maybe I left my metabolism in heaven and she picked it up on the way here when she was born.  Being related, you would think she would give it back once she hit her goal.  But noooooooo. She looks great, I still have a tire around my middle, albeit I'm down from a truck tire to a mid-size car now. I'm aiming for one of those smart car tires by the end of summer.

Did you know that sugar free jello has 10 calories and only equals 100 calories when you eat ten of them? Those great Skinny Cow Ice Cream bars have 100 calories each.  The whole box equals 600 calories and that's equal to about how much I should eat at dinner, which with the utmost shame, but with a satisfied sweet tooth, I have done on more than one occasion.

I think I see where I'm going wrong.

My youngest son is getting engaged at the end of the year to a women whose mama is about a size 2.  I have no intention of wearing one of those mother of the groom dresses when they get married in 2016.  You know the ones - heavily beaded, brocade, jacket with matronly matching dress, the kind one buys when nothing else fits. I want a slinky one-shoulder jobbie that shows off my ink on top and my booty  -which needs to be about two sizes smaller by then -  on the bottom.

So if I kinda go away for a while again, it could mean I'm in the middle of booty-pops to a hot Adam Lambert song. I know he's gay, but once you look in those amazing eyes God blessed him with, you want to get a spatula and turn him.  Oh, sorry, that's not very PC, is it?  Apologies if I offended.

For a while anyway, at least until I get down to a size somewhere between Miss Piggy and one of those airburshed models in magazines, if I am not at the computer frantically trying to get Book 2 in my 3-book series ready for the editor, I'll be either on my Instrument of Torture walking 5 miles uphill to some exotic location that only exists in my head or in the basement rocking out to Lambert.  Feel free to join me.  Misery loves company and I have ice cream.